Caller of Lightning

by Eytan Kollin

  “Yes,” Ben said. “I was of the impression that none of their number were much able with magic, despite their knowledge of it. But Polly does have this power. Her aptitude seems more in line with my own—if not stronger—and she demonstrated it to me two days ago, by dealing handily with a presence that appeared to be threatening us. I have no idea who was responsible for that. The Penns? Some other player in this game, perhaps, who has not yet revealed himself? It troubles me . . . no, it vexes me not to know, Peter.” He took in a long breath.

  “It’s true I’ve never seen you this out of sorts before,” Collinson agreed. “Perhaps you should stay with me and Mary for the rest of the week. The air here would do you continued good, there is peace in the gardens, and we could devote ourselves each evening to your issues and your further education in the Royal Society’s secret work.”

  “It sounds a wonder. May I decide later?”

  “Of course. Meanwhile, I have some news for you of my own. It may ease your mind in some ways, though I suspect it will give you pause in others.”

  Ben smiled at his host’s slight formality. “Whatever it is, I welcome the diversion—every time I think I have my feet under me, these last months, something new comes along to knock me askew.”

  “This may do that. Your man King is at the home of a woman in Suffolk—of some independent means—called Widow Eversleigh. She is keen on making him a Christian and improving him by means of education.”

  Ben was dumbfounded. “Peter, to what purpose would she try and do that? King is by no means able to absorb that sort of complicated information.”

  “You subscribe to an unenlightened opinion, my friend. As a means of correcting your very base error, consider this—she has not only taught Mr. King to read and write, but also to play violin and French horn. At a beginner level, to be certain, but I am told quite credibly for the time spent.” Collinson held up a letter that had been sitting folded on his desk, and offered it to Ben. “She delights in the idea of being able to end his time of servitude to your family and transfer whatever obligation to herself.”

  “Mr. King? King learning to read?” Ben dismissed the notion. “I rather doubt it. He was a sullen boy, more prone to the physical than conversational. No, King is not the brightest candle in anyone’s chandelier.”

  “Nor is he the dimmest, Benjamin. From what I have read here, I believe he only showed you what he was willing to, which was little. In a matter of a few months he has begun learning two instruments and mastered letters. And before you protest again, this is far from the first time I have known of Africans more knowledgeable than the average Englishman on the street. Is it your place to limit what a man may become?”

  “But that is the heart of the issue, is it not?” asked Ben. “King is my slave that I gave to William, and therefore his property. But, as head of the household, is he not also my responsibility? I must protect everyone’s interests in this matter.”

  “In England he is no one’s property. You know that.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Widow Eversleigh has given some particulars that lead me to believe Mr. King ran away from a forced and abusive relationship, one that he was neither party to, agreeing to, nor able to alter himself by any means except escape.” Peter caught Ben’s eyes, and held them in his most serious gaze. “Does not that sound the slightest bit familiar to you?”

  It took Ben a moment to realize what his friend was referring to. “That is not the same situation at all,” he bridled. “I was not a slave! I was indentured to my brother by my concerned father, to prevent me from going to sea.”

  “No resemblance? You, like Mr. King, had your labor sold. You, like Mr. King, had no say in the making of the contract. You, like Mr. King, were bound to it. But because of the location of your birth and the color of your skin, you had compelling advantages. You had a date after which you would no longer be held to labor. You had the terms of your labor defined, and boundaries set upon what might be asked of you. You had a guarantee that physical harm would not be inflicted upon your body. Yet even with all these advantages—none of which Mr. King had—you still chose to run away.”

  “That is not a fair comparison, Peter. If you wish to put things on a sort of balance, I am game for that entirely. For the first, I did not run away from my contractual obligations as an indentured servant. My brother, to further his own ends, quietly discharged my apprenticeship. He didn’t wish for me to take advantage of that by running away, but what I did was completely legal. For the second, I do not allow the servants in my household to be beaten. That is not a fair thing to put on the balance on your side—it must be removed. For the third, I found a way around the limitations my brother’s jealousy placed upon me, and managed to forward my skills and my understanding even before I ran away. By contrast, it is commonly known that Africans are constituted in such a way that any serious effort expended on teaching them is wasted. That, in fact, it is a kindness we provide, giving them a chance at a civilized life.”

  “So you have allowed the legend that you ran away from your indentured servitude to run rampant, uncorrected?” Collinson looked closely at Ben, “Indeed, you may have encouraged the report yourself, if I know you. But back to the matter at hand. We must keep the point of being beaten on the balance. It is a strike against the institution of slavery. You may not have beaten him, but can you say he has not been beaten? Or that your son William has not done so, behind your back? Or that if you were to suddenly take ill and pass, Mr. King’s next owner may not beat him? We both have dear friends our age who have passed recently, and that number will only increase. Your longevity is not ensured.”

  Ben opened his mouth to start again, but Peter politely held up one hand. “I’m not done yet, Ben. As for his capacities: unlike you, King has been constrained. You and your family told him what he could do, and when he could do it, limiting his ability to gain new skills in the manner that you did. It is obvious that you have never provided your slaves the means to better themselves. Should you have the right to control any outward improvement your servants might wish to pursue? Can you claim to know what they are capable of merely because you don’t believe in expending time or resources in that direction? Is it even honestly about them, or just the fact that improving their lives would provide you no benefit?”

  “Dammit, Peter. Am I on trial here?” Ben slapped a hand against his knee in frustration. “Just because we differ in opinion does not give you the right to convict me.”

  “I assume no right, Benjamin—rather, I must help you shoulder a responsibility. The institution of slavery puts us all on trial. As your friend, I must speak to your condition, and I tell you this—you have a chance to be better than you are. I must encourage you to take that chance, even if it requires making plain the worst in you.”

  Collinson watched his friend carefully.

  Ben’s hands were draped over his cane, and he rested his chin on his hands. This was not the easiest thing for him to hear. The only reason he didn’t outright reject it and leave was that over the last years he had already begun thinking about these very things, prodded by Speaker Norris and others.

  “That Mr. King pursued learning his letters, and other forms of improvement, shows capacity. That he did so without your approval—indeed, against your passive will—shows remarkable character and desire. How can you deny this man his right to further himself now that he has found a home where such efforts are welcome?”

  Ben finally looked up. “I admit that you speak compellingly. That King has found a place where he learns is amazing to me.” Ben reflected carefully before he spoke his next words. “I confess that I did not believe—no, I was not interested in cultivating these skills in my servants. That was my decision. But how can I abandon him? He is my responsibility.”

  Peter Collinson smiled, “Mr. King is in a very good home, being looked after by a kind woman who is comforted by his presence. Widow Eversleigh reports that he is strong and clever, a
nd when a man like that gets to keep all that he can earn, he starts earning a far greater amount that any lash could hope to bring out.” He held his hand up again, forestalling Ben’s automatic protest. “I know you use no lash. I know. Consider it a metaphor. Truly, Ben, you should be grateful for this rarest of opportunities.”

  “And what opportunity might that be?”

  “To experience hard evidence of your own ignorance,” Collinson said. “This is exactly the sort of circumstance you are mostly likely to benefit from, if you are to continue to improve your quality and virtue. God shows you a path and gives you an opportunity here.”

  “Always the Quaker, Peter?”

  “Always.”

  Ben knew when he was bested. Collinson had not only shown him his own ignorance, but a way through it to greater knowledge. It was exactly how Ben himself preferred to angle his machinations and arguments.

  “I accept that your side of the balance is weightier than mine, and I will take your counsel to heart. King can stay, with my blessing.”

  “I will write Widow Eversleigh tomorrow to tell her so.”

  Ben stood and stretched, full of emotions he could barely understand, let alone name.

  “May we talk about simpler things now, Mr. Collinson—like magic, and what the Penns might be up to with those journals, and why in heaven’s name you haven’t yet offered me any lemon water?”

  Montagu House

  Bloomsbury

  London, England

  June 17th

  28

  The Rarest Botanicals

  During the previous November, when Ben had believed himself well mended from his illness, both Franklins had attended a feast with the Royal Society. The affair had been formal and splendid. Unfortunately, it was closely followed by a relapse that had interrupted Ben’s participation in subsequent events. Now, at last, he had a chance to make up for lost time—in response to the letter he and Peter Collinson had penned outlining their latest occult discoveries, he had received an invitation to another gathering, this one less formal, at Montagu House in Bloomsbury. Montagu House would soon harbor the new British Museum collection (a gathering of art and artifacts rather unimaginatively to be named “the British Museum Collection at Montagu House”) and was currently undergoing renovations. Ben was particularly excited to attend because he knew that when the Royal Society met in out-of-the-way places like this, it was to discuss their non-public concern: the proliferation of magic and its theorized causes.

  The day had already been a busy one.

  In the morning Ben had gone to Rawthmell’s, one of his favorite coffee houses, to attend a gathering of William Shipley’s Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce—a group more commonly called the Premium Society, after the medals and monies it gave out to individuals who successfully met that Society’s published challenges. The gathering had included three men in particular with whom Ben made close connection, after finding that two were fellow members of the Royal Society, and that the third, an artist, had also been invited to attend this evening’s event.

  While beginning to part ways from Rawthmell’s, the four had quickly decided to share transport to Montagu House later, in order to continue their conversation. Thus Ben found himself traveling with Henry Baker, author of Employment for the Microscope, who had proven highly educated on the subject of lenses; Gustavus Brander, a naturalist and trustee of the British Museum; and William Hogarth, the artist, who was an enigma all around. Not only did he have a special invitation, but he had brought with him the same pug dog he had carried around all morning. Ben rather liked the pug, who was spirited and friendly. The little dog had spent a good portion of the day snuffling hands and collecting not-so-covert pets and table scraps from everyone he charmed.

  The main entrance to Montagu House was sealed for the renovation, so the carriage dropped the four men at a roundabout entrance to the garden front. They climbed out, and for a moment took in the sight. The house was a four-story design with two large wings flanking a smaller central manse. A long gravel walkway stretched from the roundabout to the manse, with lavish gardens on either side and a massive circular fountain in the center.

  After entering, they made their way up the grand staircase, which featured some of the most ornately beautiful paintings and decorative treatments Ben had ever seen. Not only were the walls adorned with fine scrollwork, but the ceilings themselves were painted with murals of daytime clouds and sky, so that the sun cheerily shone indoors above their heads.

  Hogarth, Ben noticed, paid no attention to this lavish display. His eye was completely committed, instead, to examining each attendee. It was if he looked at the people in the room through one of Henry Baker’s microscopes.

  Ben spotted Peter Collinson in the far corner of the room, chatting with a man who, by his dress, was also a Quaker. Ben took leave of his travel companions, promising to return. He took a glass of wine from a passing tray and was stopped twice—first by John Hadley and then by Thomas Birch, both of whom asked him to come find them later—before he finally made it to his friend’s side. On the way he was amused to see the two Quakers politely refuse the passing wine tray. Of all the vices, a nice nip to the King now and then was one he knew he could never abstain from; nor would he want to.

  Quakers, of course, did not participate in the loyal toast, having special dispensation from the Crown out of respect for their religious convictions. But having the right was not the same as social acceptability; members of the Society of Friends often avoided events such as this one, where they might be exposed to misunderstanding. Ben knew that Collinson generally disliked public parties for just that reason.

  “Thanks for coming tonight,” Ben said to him. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to tear yourself away from your gardens.”

  “Indeed,” Collinson laughed. “There was good reason to stay. I have just received the latest box of seeds from John Bartram. His drawings and descriptions of the plants they would grow into were fascinating. He always finds the most amazing specimens for me to propagate.”

  The man sitting with Collinson interrupted. “Are these medicinal varieties or merely decorative?”

  “From his descriptions, a combination.” Collinson turned towards Ben. “But I forget my manners: introductions are due. Mr. Benjamin Franklin, I have the honor of presenting Dr. John Fothergill. He is the man who supplied the treatment recommendations I passed on when you grew ill.”

  Fothergill looked Ben up and down, swiftly reading the indicators of his condition. “Mr. Franklin, have you continued the cinchona bark treatment I recommended? Your health is not something to let slide.”

  Ben pulled a face, capped by a sharp eyebrow, “I still follow your regimen, mixed with wine as you suggested. But it is really quite terrible. A glass a day is punishment, though I know not the crime I committed.”

  “Better than being ill, I am sure,” Peter observed, clapping the laughing doctor on his shoulder. “I’ll continue to grow the rarest botanicals for you, John, so long as you keep finding clever uses for my plants.”

  “All for me to be able to drink the most foul concoctions. But I do thank you, doctor. You know,” he continued, changing topics, “I met your brother Samuel in Philadelphia several years ago. He was traveling in the company of another Quaker minister, a woman named Catherine Payton.” Or Lord Sixteen, he thought to himself. Ben might have wondered if Samuel or John Fothergill were part of the Society of Numbers as well, if he had not already been informed that Miss Payton was the only Quaker in their small community.

  “I have heard good report of her,” Fothergill said, “though our acquaintance is entirely secondhand. As for Sam, he is back in England now, pursuing his good works here once again. I see him often and would be happy to convey your greeting if you wish.”

  “Please do,” said Ben.

  They heard the clinking of metal on glass from the front of the room, as George Parker—Second Earl of Macclesfield, and Pre
sident of the Royal Society—gathered everyone’s attention. He smoothed down the velvets of his maroon suit, which stretched over an expansive belly. Once he knew that every eye had turned to him, he lifted his glass and called out the loyal toast, “Gentlemen, the King!”

  “The King!” All but the Quakers raised their own glasses, returning the toast in unison, then drank.

  “The first matter at hand,” Lord Macclesfield began as the group settled, “is the taking of the roll. Call out to our secretary, Mr. Birch,” at which he nodded to a gentleman seated at a table, “so that he may enter it into a record of our proceedings.”

  In the end, fourteen Fellows and three invited guests were accounted for in rapid succession.

  “I appreciate all of you answering my special request. We have important matters to consider. But for the moment,” he said, dabbing at his brow with a white silk kerchief, “we will continue a period of open conversation as we prepare the materia for tonight’s demonstration.” With that Lord Macclesfield removed himself to attend to details, and the room’s attention was no longer required.

  “By all the—Benjamin Franklin, I’m delighted to see you here!” called out a voice resonant with a deep Scottish accent.

  Ben turned to see one of the three special guests, the Scots astronomer James Ferguson, bounding toward him with such energy that it made Ben feel older with step the man took.

  “How goes your progress with the clock, James?”

  “Oh, excellently. I believe I have improved your design to the point that it may actually work!” James laughed as he clapped Ben on the back. The astronomer was a full head taller than anyone else around, so Ben was looking up into a huge smile. “And these two fine gentlemen? Ah, Mr. Collinson!”

  Ben took care of the introductions. “You and Peter obviously know each other. The gentleman with Peter is Dr. John Fothergill, physician; and this very tall, rather Northumbrian fellow is James Ferguson—astronomer, instrument maker, and author of Astronomy Explained. You can set the world’s clocks to the tiny levers and gears this man works with.”