by Mark J Rose
This was usually enough, and his suspicions faded rapidly for the simple reason that he felt her love. He could see the adoration in her eyes when he stood to speak at the Philadelphia gatherings. Sarah’s affection was so overwhelming, her physical presence so intoxicating; the taste of her lips drove him so mad with hunger and the blessing of her intellect so enthralled him that he vowed repeatedly never to care about her past. Only their future mattered.
Sarah slept fitfully on some nights, though, and it was after these nights of tossing and turning that she’d spend the morning writing in her diaries. She had asked him not to read them since they were merely the “trivial musings of a woman.” He had mostly kept his pledge. There were times though, when she was away, that he’d pull them from their hiding spot behind the dining room shelves.
Even knowing her as he did, he had been surprised to see half the pages filled with elaborate diagrams, pictures, and phrases connected by lines. There were representations of daily events, some names he recognized and others he didn’t. Some pages were, indeed, the thoughts of a young woman, but others belonged to a strategist or a politician. Some bordered on treason. Sarah wrote of revolution, war, and independence. She knew prominent men in far-off colonies. She knew more than seemed possible.
Two initials were common in her early scribblings, and then these initials disappeared from her writing entirely, replaced by either an empty square or an empty triangle. The square represented a man whose initials were P.F, and the triangle was someone who’s initials were M.M. Thomas learned early that M.M. was Matthew Miller, a Virginia horseman, politician, and scientist. Either as initials or shapes, Sarah always framed them similarly, obscuring much of the page around with random words and phrases. Thomas had never discussed these men with his wife, not wanting her to know that he had read her journals.
Sarah’s enthusiasm about his trip to London immediately aroused his suspicion. She had declined his last invitation, saying that living aboard a ship was not ladylike and their interests were best served with her in Pennsylvania. He had waited for her to retire from the house on the day that she asked to go to London, and then he pulled out her journal. There it was, clear as day: a picture of a ship, the word “England,” and two arrows pointing to a triangle, a square, and a pair of round eyeglasses. She expected to encounter the man he now knew to be Patrick Ferguson, Matthew Miller and Benjamin Franklin at the end of their journey. From the thick scribbles around them, it looked like she knew little else.
The first real shiver he felt, though, was on the day that she had asked him to walk through London and they had looked up to see an engraved archway that read “Ferguson Manor.” He’d said a prayer, and she had noticed. He explained his reaction by pretending he was overwhelmed by an estate undoubtedly built by angels. In truth, he suspected the entire opposite.
His second shiver was when they received the invitation to Sir Patrick Ferguson’s party. Thomas had said another prayer, and almost tore the note to pieces. He stood there for the longest time, guessing at how she had known. Thomas knew he was one American businessman among a thousand in London, hardly worth the deliberation of a prominent manufacturer. Yet there it was, an invitation to Ferguson Manor.
Thomas had chided her about her fascination with Ferguson, acting jealous, but he was nothing of the sort. He’d continue to poke for some rationale explaining her motivation to come to England and her premonition that she’d encounter Ferguson. She seemed satisfied now that they were going to the party and he recognized that singular look in her eyes when she was considering possibilities.
“There should be a few Americans there,” Thomas said. “Do you think we’ll encounter anyone we know?”
He knew she was lying when she replied, “I know not, husband.”
“I heard that Dr. Franklin is in London.”
“There is a chance he’d be invited.”
“I’m still much impressed that we’ve been invited.”
“Is it not true that this Sir Ferguson is a manufacturer?” she asked. “He must wish to attract exporters like yourself to further his business.”
Thomas held his tongue. He did not want her to know now or ever that he had read her journals. Thomas still hoped she might be telling him the truth. “Anyone else you may know?”
Sarah looked at him suspiciously, but then her expression softened. “I must tell you something. I want no secrets between us.” She fell quiet, as if deciding what to say.
“You must tell me, Wife,” he replied. He was afraid then and whispered another prayer.
“You have oft been curious how such an eminent man as Dr. Franklin began to frequent our coffee houses,” she began.
“His love for your mother is manifest to everyone.”
“But you don’t know how the friendship began.”
He looked at her anxiously and pressed his hands at his sides to keep them from shaking. “I do not.”
“He came with another man,” she explained. “Mr. Matthew Miller.”
“And what business does Miller have with us?”
“He is an intimate fellow and business partner of Dr. Franklin. He’s the one who introduced us to Dr. Franklin.”
“How did you meet Matthew Miller?”
“We came from the same place. Miller sought us out and brought Dr. Franklin. We’ve all been friends ever since.”
He took the chance to smile at her. “Friends?” Everyone knew that Anne Morris and Benjamin Franklin were parties in a passionate love affair. Thomas’s mischievous smile broke the tension.
Sarah reached out to embrace him. “Tell me at the end of this that you will still love me, no matter what.”
“What in God’s name should make me not love you?”
“I cannot tell,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Then when?” he demanded.
“I have some history with Patrick Ferguson,” she confessed.
“History!” he exclaimed. He realized that of all the things he feared Sarah might say, the possibility that she had loved another was the most vexing.
“’Tis nothing intimate, you jealous man!”
His shoulders relaxed and his fists unclenched. “Then what?” He suddenly grinned, realizing that discovering his wife was a witch who could navigate the depths of hell would be superior to learning that she’d had relations with Ferguson.
“We…my mother and I helped Patrick Ferguson,” she said. “Long ago.”
“Helped him?”
“He was penniless and alone in Philadelphia. We took him in.”
“Why have you never confessed this?” he said, perplexed.
“I had hoped never to see Patrick Ferguson again.”
“Then why were you so keen to come to London?”
“He stole something,” she explained. “I want it back.”
“Stole?”
“Books.”
“Why are these books singular?”
“They tell the history of my family,” she replied, “and they have my father’s inventions.”
“Sir Ferguson has used this information?”
She nodded.
“For his success?”
She nodded again.
“We’ll book passage on the next ship back to America and never talk of the man again,” he proclaimed.
“These books are my property, and I will have them back.”
“And what if he won’t return them? Then what?”
“I don’t intend to ask.”
“You plan to hook them at the party?”
“Yes.”
“How do you intend this?”
“I don’t know…yet.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows and scrutinized his wife.
“I’ve bared my soul to you these last years,” she entreated him. “You think me a thief?”
“I don’t know what I think you are.”
There were tears in her eyes. “You must help me.”
“Help you?” he exclaimed. “I want
to shackle you to a ship’s hold and return you to Pennsylvania.”
“These books will be used against us and many of our allies.”
“How do you know this?”
“Please trust me,” she said, tears running down her face. “I just know.”
He studied her, hoping for some indication that she was mad, but her eyes, even red and glassy, were calculating. He wasn’t sure why, but a question formed in his mind. “Does Patrick Ferguson suspect that you will try to retrieve these books?”
“He may.”
“After all this time?”
“Maybe he has dreams,” she suggested, unsure. “He too keeps a journal,” she said, looking at her husband for some admission that he had read hers. “He draws me not as a square or a triangle, but as a diamond.”
“You are a diamond,” Thomas replied. He wiped the tear that had crawled down her cheek. “I will help you in this fool’s errand, but—“
“But what?” she asked quietly.
“You will swear verity! When we are safely back in Philadelphia, you will tell me the truth—all of it.”
“You may not believe my story.”
He took her hand, pulled her gently into the bedroom, and shut the door behind them.
Chapter 12
High Tailing
Matt had joined Jay on the quarterdeck of the Norfolk. They talked in whispers, conscious of not giving their position away to the black ship that waited for them somewhere in the fog.
“What, we’re just going to float here?” Matt asked.
“Our longboats aren’t big enough to put any sea between,” Jay replied. He was using his telescope to scan into the fog.
“We’ll just wait until they run into us?” Matt asked. He was incensed that the Norfolk crew, her Captain included, had so little imagination. The pirate ship outgunned them handily so they wouldn’t survive a cannon battle in open water. Matt had learned that the Captain planned to charge the pirate ship and force a hand-to-hand fight between the crews. Matt stood behind his pledge to the officers of the Norfolk that he’d fight, but he wasn’t going to risk his life until they had exhausted every plan to put the odds in their favor.
“If you have some lettered plan to outsmart a fifth-rate, speak it,” Jay said.
“Aye, Mr. Miller,” Pearce said as he approached them out of the fog. There was amusement on his face.
“Put your minds together,” Matt commanded.
“We’re outgunned, and she’s as quick,” Pearce said. “We’ll take a good bang at her before she’s on us if that’s what worries you. She’d be a thundering great prize for us.” Both sailors were in surprisingly good humor now that they had committed themselves to a fight.
“You don’t have some old sea-dog trick?” Matt asked.
Pearce nodded. “They’ll not expect us to come about. We’ll catch ‘em with their pants down.” Pearce waved to the sailor in the crow’s nest, who replied with the “all clear” sign. Pearce returned his attention to Matt.
“Until they blow us out of the water,” Matt said. He had trouble hiding his disappointment.
“You’re a representative of the Virginia government,” Pearce said. “You’ll be ransomed and returned to the colonies as a hostage.”
Matt gave him an icy stare. “You believe me to be a coward?”
“No,” Pearce said simply, “which is why I’m surprised that this battle vexes you so.”
Matt gazed up at the young sailor standing in the crow’s nest. He was one of the younger midshipmen, maybe fourteen years old. “Many of your crew are little more than boys.”
“We’ve our marines,” Pearce said, “and what are boys will fight like men when the time comes.”
“Try something else,” Matt said.
Jay had been listening to their conversation in silence, scrutinizing Matt and half grinning. He finally broke his silence. “Like?”
“Torpedoes, mines…a submarine,” Matt suggested.
The eighteenth-century American sailors considered him with curious, puzzled faces.
“Let me draw some pictures,” Matt explained.
Pearce looked around at the fog and back up at the crow’s nest. “Mr. Jay,” he said. “Find him a quill.” There was a knowing smirk on the Captain’s face, and Matt took it as his challenge to wipe his grin away.
**********
In the Captain’s stateroom, Matt had completed a drawing that showed a ship along with exploding mines in the water. Matt pointed at the diagram with the quill as he explained the prospect of floating a mine to damage the hull of a chasing ship. Black ink splashed from the quill whenever he pointed too vigorously, but it helped to highlight that the mines were supposed to explode. “I’ve heard of such a thing,” Jay said, “but I don’t see how it’s possible.”
“You said there’s a mortar on-board,” Matt said.
“We could hoist it on-deck,” Jay replied, “but they’d hit us with a broadside before we’d have the range.”
Matt pointed to the diagram. “No,” he said. “Float them on the water as she follows. Rig them to explode when they hit her hull.”
“There’s no time to make such a device,” Jay replied. He pulled the diagram in front of him, suddenly better engaged. “Put ‘em in barrels and light a fuse,” Jay said to the drawing. “They’d have to reach her hull and explode.”
Matt looked down at the diagram, puzzled. There’d be a lot of ocean between the two ships, and they didn’t have time to make an infinite number of floating bombs. Matt’s could feel his idea crumbling. Making some sort of a mechanical detonator would take days to perfect, and they had hours. “Fine,” Matt said. “We make as many barrels as we can, drop them in the water, and hope one hits.”
Jay scoffed at him loudly. “They’re not idiots. They’ll steer clear.”
Matt scrutinized the diagram again. “Can we sail through some narrow passage, like between rocks or in the shallows,” Matt said. “Make it so they can’t steer away.”
“We’re in the middle of the sea.”
Matt pulled the diagram back and examined it again. “How do we make it so they can’t avoid the barrels?”
Jay smiled. “She’ll be right up our arse.” He put his hand out to take Matt’s quill, and Matt watched as he drew two barrels spanning the bow of a ship. Jay then drew a line around the ship and continued each end to a barrel. Matt looked back at him puzzled. “Rope,” Jay said, pointing down to the diagram. “She’ll tangle and pull ‘em in.”
“We want—” The booming sound of cannons interrupted Matt’s sentence.
Jay stood. “It’s begun.”
Chapter 13
Ben Franklin
Franklin sat there with his ale looking out across the River Thames hoping that the seething he felt subsided. He wanted to throttle Matthew Miller. In all their discussions, how could Matthew have left out a detail like this? The civilized world was on the brink of economic collapse, and the young Dr. Miller hadn’t thought it prudent to include this one crucial detail along with all the useless nonsense about the future he had spewed? There was no excuse for an omission of this magnitude – none!
Franklin had met Matthew Miller by chance one night in a Philadelphia pub, a few days after Christmas in 1762. His first impression of the young man was of a wide-eyed kid who had stumbled into one of the toughest cities in the colonies. Franklin had taken the lad under his wing, hoping to save him from being eaten alive in a town known for separating fools from their money.
A smile came to Franklin’s face when he thought back to what certainly had been a simpler time. English taxes had been high in the sixties, but so was English investment. Prosperity was there for the taking, not just for the landed elites, but also for anyone willing to put in a fair day’s labor. It was a boom time for every city in America. Now, the banking crisis had overwhelmed England, and a higher debt engulfed the world than seemed possible. Franklin had lived through some banking bubbles in his lifetime, but non
e so far ranging as this. The moneyed British families were falling one by one. Estates, new and old, were liquidated to pay the astronomical debt that accumulated during the excesses of the past decade.
As hard as the economic crisis was hitting England and Europe, the American colonies were hammered even harder. The credit that had been a regular part of the transatlantic traffic including tobacco, cotton, and linen, had disappeared and been replaced by a margin call. Men with names like Washington, Hancock, Carter, and Wharton were no longer mentioned for their business acumen, but for their connection to the growing number of delinquencies. English and Scottish creditors estimated that the Americans owed them almost five million pounds. It was an astronomical sum of money.
In all of Franklin’s discussions with Matthew Miller concerning the independence of the American colonies and the coming revolution, young Miller had never mentioned a banking crisis. Monetary strife was now the most significant factor provoking the rift between Great Britain and her colonies. Franklin couldn’t believe that his protégé had left him so unprepared. Overwhelming debt was a more credible explanation for revolution than all the other drivel. Taxation without representation took on an entirely new meaning when the world was in the middle of a banking disaster.
Franklin, like many of his fellows, had suffered personal losses in the crash, and some previous intelligence of the crisis could have deterred it entirely. Wasn’t this supposed to be the benefit of knowing someone from the future? Patrick Ferguson, in contrast, had timed the market perfectly. He was an oak, now, and among the greatest men in England. “Ah!” Franklin said into his mug and then to the water. “’Tis my own fault. After throttling that young man, I should throw myself into the Thames for being so beetle-headed.”