by Mark J Rose
Mary, the two-year-old, spent most of her time in the arms of her governess, while Celia’s two sisters held the hands of the twins, Marcus and Margaret, who were almost five. Celia’s sisters had been surprisingly helpful during the time leading up to the funeral. Neither had ever shown any affection for Patrick, presumably for the same reason that most of London had shunned him, but now that Celia was dead, her sisters had come to his aid and shown extreme kindness. They were adamant in providing as much help as they could for the Ferguson family.
Eighteenth-century London was full of children, great and poor, who had lost one or both parents. Almost every prominent family had seen some recent death. Widowers and widows were a common occurrence, and so mechanisms were available to help his children prosper in the face of the hardship that came from the loss of a mother.
**********
The funeral procession from Ferguson Manor made rapid progress through the streets of London, but it would still be an hour before they’d reach the final resting place. It was Celia’s family plot, and he knew that she’d have wanted to be buried there. Trent, who sat next to Patrick, had paid people along the route to smooth their passing through the crossroads. They sat in silence listening to the sound of the horses’ footsteps on the cobblestone. Each looked out at the passing homes from their respective windows of the carriage.
Trent finally broke the silence and Patrick was welcome to have the interruption; he was getting nowhere in his thinking. Rage and grief were each taking a turn at overwhelming any attempt he could make at a coherent plan. Patrick was usually better at controlling these kind of thoughts.
“Let me say again how sorry I am, sir,” Trent said.
“I appreciate it, Nathan.”
“I feel responsible,” Trent confessed. “I should have sent additional guards. Only Deighton stood near enough to light that fuse.”
“You believe Deighton murdered my wife?”
“He’s the only possibility, sir.”
“And he killed himself by accident?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time that an assassin died by his own hand.”
Ferguson reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of plastic to show it to Trent. It was a charred grey, liquid-crystal display. A plastic window on its face had survived the explosion to protect the electronics that lay underneath. Ferguson waited for Trent to examine the burned object. “It’s from America,” Patrick explained. “The clock is set to ignite the bomb at a time of your choosing, or someone could trigger it from afar.”
“Who has such a device?”
“Franklin and Miller. It was likely intended for me, but I left to confront him. I’m sure of it.”
“Miller was injured in the explosion.” Trent looked both stunned and confused.
“I summoned him to his feet,” Ferguson explained. “He’d have been protected within the confines of his box like Franklin and the others.”
“What now, then?”
“Vigilance,” Ferguson said. “They are revolutionaries, willing to commit murder to accomplish their ends.”
“We should bring the sway of the British government against them,” Trent said. “You have many allies.”
“No,” Ferguson replied. “We cannot risk Miller exposing one piece of our strategy. Many of our countrymen wouldn’t understand. I want no connections to Maynard, unfortunate as it was—none.”
“We will accelerate our plans,” Trent said.
Ferguson nodded. “Those men must sail for America, whatsoever the cost.”
“‘Twill take another week,” Trent replied. “The ships want for cargo and provisions.”
“You must assume that their lives are threatened by Mr. Miller and his lieutenants.”
“His organization remains hidden from us.”
“Sutton?”
“Sutton has seen nothing of their people,” Trent replied. “We’ve fellows in our employ who could make Franklin and Miller disappear.”
“It would be nearly impossible without an incident,” Ferguson explained. “Franklin, too, has allies in Parliament. We’ll deal with him at some later time.”
“And Miller?”
“Lure him away.”
“I’ll find some men.”
“He should come to me,” Ferguson said with venom. “I’ll look into the eyes of the man who murdered the mother of my children. As he takes his last breath, I’ll look into his eyes.”
Chapter 48
Margaret and Polly
It was early morning, but Franklin was already gone. Matt had an open book on his lap but he no longer felt like reading. He was sitting in Franklin’s writing room in front of the multi-paned windows that looked out onto Craven Street. His face had healed enough that Matt no longer felt uncomfortable chewing. Looking up from his book, he watched the coaches that passed in front of the house, and then he tried to catch glimpses of the neighbors who lived in the carbon-copy row homes across the street. Most kept their curtains drawn, though, maybe in an attempt to protect their eyes from Franklin’s air baths.
Matt remembered, then, that he needed to finish a letter he had begun to Grace to send it out on the next ship. He set his book down and sat at Franklin’s desk. Margaret brought tea to Matt on a silver tray as he sat there trimming a new quill. “Feeling better, Mr. Miller?” she asked.
“I’m almost ready for a walk.”
“Dr. Franklin warned that you should not retire from our apartments.”
“Why?”
“He fancies your life is in danger.”
“Did he say from who?”
“He said to trust no one.”
“Where is he?”
“Investigating your situation.”
“Is his life in danger?” Matt asked.
“He doesn’t believe so, but recommended that you take quiet for a few days until he has a detailed picture.”
Margaret Stevenson was a handsome woman of about fifty and was so often at Franklin’s side during social events that most people in London assumed they were married. Polly, her daughter, was a regular visitor to both her mother and Franklin. She was in her early thirties and was married to a well-known surgeon, William Hewson, who was also Franklin’s friend. Polly and William were in negotiations with Franklin to take over the house so that William could use it for conducting medical classes. Franklin was unwilling to change apartments until Matt left London, so the Stevenson women had a vested but friendly interest in Matt concluding his business in as little time as possible.
“Good morning, Mr. Miller.” Matt turned to see Polly enter the room as Margaret was leaving. She sat down in the chair next to him and gave him a teasing smile. Polly was a flirt, so Matt did his best to keep her at arm’s length. Detachment seemed essential when considering the relationship Polly had with Franklin. Married or no, she had been in Franklin’s life for more than a decade, and she filled the older man with joy. Sometimes Franklin talked to her like a father, often like a teacher, and lastly, there were times when Matt swore that they could have been lovers. Polly was another on the long list of very complex relationships that Franklin maintained with the opposite sex. Matt had long since given up on sorting them out.
“How are you today, Polly?” Matt asked.
“Quite well, Mr. Miller. Your face has almost healed.”
“I feel better,” Matt replied. He thought for a moment to restate his answer. “I feel well enough to go about my business if only your mother and Dr. Franklin would allow.”
“Mother says that there is some peril to your person.”
“So it seems.”
“Oh,” Poly said while reaching into a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress. She pulled out a letter and presented it to Matt. “Someone brought this to the door a moment ago. It’s from Virginia.”
Matt took the letter. Polly curtsied and left. Matt leaned back in his chair, hoping that it was a long letter, with plenty of good news from his family. He missed them now more than ever.
Disappointingly, it was only a single page. He broke the seal. The hand was unmistakably that of David Taylor. David had never written Matt before, and the mere sight of his handwriting immediately caused Matt alarm.
Richmond, Virginia, June 27, 1772
Dear Nephew,
I hope this letter finds you well and you have been successful in the enterprise that entreated you to join Dr. Franklin. There is no other way to apprise you, so I’ll make haste. Perhaps a month after you repaired for London, Grace experienced a trauma that caused her to lose her unborn child. She remains extremely ill, though I don’t believe her life is in danger. The doctors cannot tell the time it will take her to recover, or if she ever will.
The circumstance of her ordeal should also be disclosed in that it may sway your affairs in London, especially if your intercourse concerns the English government. The events leading to Grace’s injury were as follows: We hosted Governor and Lady Murray, and a dozen other delegates after the Virginia Economic Congress. Ten Redcoats accompanied the Governor as part of his personal guard. They were staying in the shacks, some on watch, others sleeping or eating. Two soldiers dragged Grace into a barn while she was putting the farm to bed and attempted to rape her. She was able to fight them off ere she was violated, but she and her unborn child were injured. The inside of her legs became wet with blood, and she lost the baby soon after. It is hard to know exactly what motivated these men, but Grace believes they were angered by words they overheard whilst standing guard outside the dining hall. Besides their evil constitution, there may have been political motivations.
I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I believed you should be made aware. I cannot understate the urgency of your returning to Virginia.
Your friend and Uncle,
David A. Taylor
**********
Matt dropped the letter softly onto the desk and sat stunned. He fought back the urge to rage and kick, then to fall to the floor and sob, and then a moment later, the rage returned. Matt stood up and faced the doorway. “Polly!” he called.
Polly came bounding in with a smile on her face that changed as soon as she looked into his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Miller?”
“Do you know anyone down by the dock? I’m looking for a gentleman, maybe of a lower station.”
“My husband has fellows he employs for finding cadavers and such,” she said hesitantly. “Why do you ask?”
“I need old clothing.”
“There are tailors on Strand.”
“Used clothing that fits me, like a homeless man would wear. Complete sets.” Matt said. “I want an old wig or two, and a bottle…the kind a drunk carries. Costume beards, too, like in the theatre.”
Polly looked back at him puzzled. “You’re willing to pay for these items?”
“I’ll pay a fine price if they’re here before dark. There should be two of each to choose from, and they should be my size, maybe a bit larger.”
Polly reached cautiously between Matt and the desk to the handle of the drawer. Matt slid his chair back so she could open it to pull out a sheet of parchment. Polly assessed his face again, and then set it in front of him. “Write your list,” she instructed.
Matt dipped the quill into the ink. His fingers were shaking with rage.
**********
Three hours later, Matt was standing in his bedroom on the third story, looking out the window, when he heard the doorknocker. He rushed down the three flights of steps and jogged through the hall to answer the door. He met Margaret halfway.
“I got it,” Matt said.
“A delivery?” she asked.
“Something for my business,” Matt muttered and repeated, “I got it.”
Margaret returned to her room, and Matt continued to the door. “Who is it?” Matt asked through the door. Franklin’s warning that his life was in danger was still on his mind.
“Delivery for a Mr. Miller.”
“What delivery?” Matt asked through the door.
“Old clothes,” the man said.
Matt opened the front door and looked into the eyes of a scraggly looking seaman. He was holding a heavy greyish burlap sack and was already sizing Matt up. “Should fit,” he said simply. “One pound, ten shillings. Bottle’s half full.”
“Too much for old rags.” Matt wasn’t in the mood to be cheated.
“Lumping pennyworth,” the old man replied. “The distance ‘twas too far for any price!”
Matt dug down in his pocket, fished out the coins and then kneeled down to do a quick survey of the bag’s contents. Satisfied that everything was there, he stood back up and counted the coins out into the man’s palm. The old seaman glanced down once more at the sack of clothes in the doorway and then closed his hand. He nodded, turned and walked away.
Matt picked up the sack, locked the front door and returned to his bedroom. He closed the door behind and took stock of his new outfit. He had two pairs of stripped sailor pants, spotted and randomly stained as if someone had flecked them with an old tar brush. One pair came with a rope belt. There were two off-white shirts, an old overcoat, some nasty looking wigs, an old hat, and two scraggly balls of fur that turned out to be fake beards. The wigs didn’t look lice-free, but that was everything you put on your head in the eighteenth century. Matt tucked it all back into the bag and slid it under his bed to wait until the house was empty.
**********
Matt heard Franklin come home around three. Margaret had prepared cold meats, cheese, and bread. Matt sat with them and ate until it was polite for him to excuse himself by saying that he was tired. He made no mention of his news from Virginia. Matt waited, then, for Franklin and Margaret to leave for their party, and then put on the sailors clothes and fit the wig to his head. He tried one of the beards but decided against, since it would require trimming to look right.
When his costume was complete, Matt looked into the mirror, decided that he wasn’t sufficiently grubby, went to the fireplace, coated his hands with soot and ash, and worked it into his two weeks of beard growth. He pulled the hat down over the wig and grabbed his bottle. He looked in the mirror one last time, walked down two flights of steps, eased himself out a back second-story window and across the roof, and then he dropped down into the garden.
Chapter 49
Jack Tar
Having escaped Franklin’s house unseen, Matt made his way along an alley behind the row-home, up to Charing Cross, and then to a bench that was perhaps fifty feet from its intersection with Craven Street. Row homes packed each side of Craven, so there was no way to watch Franklin’s residence anywhere near the front of his house without being obvious. Spies would most likely be sitting at the Charing Cross end of Craven where Matt was sitting, or down at the other end that intersected the river. Charing Cross had constant traffic of carriages and pedestrians, so it was the best place to sit. Matt would check the river end later if no agent became evident from where he sat presently.
Matt leaned back on the weathered wooden bench, tilted the bottle up to his mouth and drank some of the tea he had used to replace the old whisky. It was almost too easy to recognize the men who were watching his street. They were massive characters, dressed in ill-fitting suits, standing around reading and re-reading copies of the London Gazette. Matt took another drink from his bottle and gave an exaggerated cough. He wiped his face on the sleeve of the coarse woolen overcoat, stared down at the ground, and then he coughed again.
Matt closed his eyes for a moment to put his face into the sun. When he looked down again and opened his eyes, three sets of ratty, worn leather shoes were standing in front of him. They belonged to teenage boys who were now blocking his view. “Move along, kiddeys,” Matt grumbled in his drunkard's voice. “I ain’t sharin.”
“You move along, you old soaker,” the middle boy said. Matt scanned across their bodies and faces. The middle one was the leader. His face and clenched fists told Matt that he had something to prove.
“Don’t want no trouble,”
Matt said. He saw the boy relax.
“Sit on another bench.”
“Yeah, you old cuff,” the boy on one side added.
All their faces were dirty. Matt took another drink from his bottle and made the same exaggerated cough. We wiped his face on his sleeve again and then looked hard where he had wiped. He reached up with his thumb and forefinger and played with his sleeve pretending to pick off boogers. He exaggerated the motion it took to shake them from his hand.
“He’s disgusting,” declared the middle boy.
“Come on, you old fumbler,” said the boy who had not spoken. He reached out and poked Matt’s shoulder
Matt cleared his throat. He wasn’t going to leave this bench until he could follow the men who were watching his street. Besides that, he imagined himself spending the next few days in costume as he investigated the bombing, and the boys were the perfect individuals to rehearse his old drunkard persona. “Too weary to stand up,” Matt proclaimed in an old man’s voice. “Bunch of natty lads, you are. Anyways, there are plenty of benches. Let an old man be.” He waved his empty hand around and then pointed up and down Charing Cross.
The middle boy asserted himself again. “This is our bench,” he declared.
“Why’d you want this bench?” Matt asked. “Ain’t movin, no how.”
The boys turned to one another to discuss the situation, uncertain, now, of their next move. Why do they want this bench so much?
“He’s gonna keep us from getting paid,” the boy on the left said. “I want them coppers.”
“How many you gettin?” Matt asked.
“Mind your beeswax,” the middle boy said.
“Leave an old man alone to take his nap?” Matt declared. “Um so sleepy. The sauce does it to me...every time it does.” Matt shimmied to the very end of the bench. He waved randomly for them to sit. The remainder of the bench was long enough for three boys…just. Matt leaned back to show his intention to take a nap. He snorted as if he had already fallen asleep and had re-awoken. “It’s my bottle,” he gurgled in between snorts. “Young hemps…ain’t sharin.” He let his head fall forward and then he reached up to tilt his hat to hide his eyes.