“Jeremy here offered it simply as an hypothesis — a mere guess — as to what the letters might contain. And in so doing, he gave me a most unpleasant fright.”
“Fright? I don’t understand you, Sir John. But in truth, I often don’t.”
“Nowyou have frightened me even more.”
“But how?”
“By taking it all with the utmost seriousness, by thinking it rather a good idea.”
At that, Lord Mansfield simply growled and said no more. The rest of our journey passed in silence. When it ended in Bow Street, he offered no more than a curt good-bye.
Once inside. Sir John swept down the long hall, as I trailed in his wake. He called out a loud hello to Mr. Marsden and asked how the docket looked that day.
“Barring a riot between now and noon,” said the court clerk, “it looks to be a light day.”
“Excellent, Mr. Marsden, excellent. I’ve a few things to attend to before court time.” And, over his shoulder, to me: “Come along, Jeremy. I must dictate a couple of letters, and then you must deliver them.”
Between the writing of the letters and their delivery, the rest of the morning was consumed — and a bit of the afternoon, as well. The letter to Samuel Johnson required special pains, for, in effect. Sir John asked in it that the great man cancel any and all plans that he may have made for tomorrow evening and come instead to a small dinner party that he was giving for Benjamin Franklin. Did Franklin know of this? No, he did not. In fact. Sir John was depending upon Mr. Johnson to persuade Franklin to come along to the party. He might tell him that “something special” had been planned for him, and indeed it had been. Sir John asked for Mr. Johnson’s support in this, and his trust, as well. He concluded the letter: “I would not presume upon our acquaintance in this manner if I felt there were any other way of assembling the players at this rather serious game. You know Franklin, I do not; therefore I must depend upon you. For your part, you may depend upon this: though Franklin may have some uneasy moments during our table talk, he would find it far more uncomfortable if I were to handle this in any other way.” This was then followed by the usual florid close.
A letter of invitation of a simpler and more direct sort was also dictated to Benjamin Franklin. It was to be given to Samuel Johnson that he might deliver it in person and use his justly famed pow-ers of persuasion to induce the colonial gentleman to attend this occasion.
“Can you think of any other, Jeremy, whom we might invite? I’d say we have room for one more.”
“Someone, perhaps, with an interest in science, and even some knowledge of Mr. Franklin’s experiments?” I suggested.
“Exactly right.”
“And yet with enough wit and gift for phrases that might acquit himself well in such company?”
“Perfect,” said Sir John. “Do we know anyone who would meet that description?”
“Indeed we do. Our own Gabriel Donnelly is himself a man of science. He quite surprised me with his knowledge of Franklin’s earlier work whilst on our recent trip to Portsmouth. And do we know another with his gift of the gab?”
So it was settled. Sir John hurriedly spoke forth a third invitation, this one to Mr. Donnelly. I copied it down, then hastily prepared all three for distribution to their intended recipients.
“See to Mr. Johnson first,” said the magistrate, “and if he is in the least encouraging, leave with him the letter of invitation to Mr. Franklin. Visit Mr. Donnelly afterward, and you may be able to get from him the report on that poor chap who was murdered in the course of that burglary of Lord Hillsborough’s residence. He promised it for today.”
“He’s usually quite dependable.”
“He is indeed.”
With the letters tucked into my pocket, I set off for Johnson’s Court (which in no wise was named after its most celebrated resident).
determined to do all that I could to persuade the great lexicographer to collaborate with Sir John in this endeavor.
I’ve no idea at what precise hour I arrived at the house in Johnson’s Court. It was, in any case, near noon, and I found, much to my consternation, that the head of the house had only some minutes before awakened and would not be available for some minutes more when he took breakfast. Frank Barber was away on an errand, and so was not about to keep me company. I had no choice but to sit and wait. And as the minutes ticked by on the large, standing clock in the hall, my mind went back to the theft of the letters. The more I thought upon it, the more certain it seemed to me that they would not be recovered unless we were given to know what those letters contained. I could come up with further hypothesis regarding them, yet what good would it be unless we knew what actually was in them? Still, I entertained myself by considering possibilities other than the one with which I had frightened Sir John, each one more daft than the last. The only possibility which seemed in the least practical was that the letters in question may have been from Lord Hillsborough’s predecessor to the Prime Minister, advising him to take certain actions which, if they were known to the colonists, would certainly not make them happy. Unless Ferguson and Skinner were located, and a case could be made against them, there would be no telling who had contracted to have the burglary done. Obviously, there were people in the government (how many? who were they?) who believed that Benjamin Franklin had put the two professional burglars up to it, and perhaps had made a map of the Hillsborough residence and had given a description of the letters to be taken. Yet save for a hearty dislike of the man, what reason had Franklin’s enemies for thinking so? Who knows? If they had such a reason why had they not confided it in Sir John? And what contacts had —
“You’re waiting to speak with Mr. Johnson, are you?” The woman who had let me in had returned from the interior of the house.
“I am, yes. I have a letter to deliver, also.”
“Well, come along. He’ll see you now.”
She led me down a short hall to the breakfast room, which I had visited before, though not often nor recently. It seemed I met Mr. Johnson only on occasions when he was eating. This may seem Stranger to you, reader, than in truth it was, for there were so many occasions during the day on which Samuel Johnson had before him a plate of something at which to nibble or snack, or a full meal. Thus did he appear always to be eating.
And, as a result, he was quite the largest man I knew. And by this I do not mean that he was merely stout or fat, for he was taller than most and had, in his own way, quite a powerful bodily structure. Yet he was in no wise physically attractive. The skin of his face was of a rubicund hue, roughened and pitted as a result of a childhood bout of scrofula, which had also left him blind in one eye. Still, he was a man who had to him a great sense of presence. Those who knew him not would pass him on the street, turn, and look back at him, knowing they had passed one of some importance. Even those who read no books at all knew him as “Dictionary Johnson,” as a salute to the great work he had done years before in assembling his great lexicon of the English language.
And though, in the beginning, he took little notice of me, he had manifested greater interest when he learned from Sir John that I was reading law with him. On one occasion, he had taken me aside and informed me that it had been his first and dearest ambition to be a lawyer and that therefore he wished me the greatest success in my chosen field. Ever after he had spoken more freely to me and addressed me by name.
“Ah, Jeremy,” said he, “it’syou, is it? Poll Carmichael said there was a lad with a letter for me. She didn’t say it was you, however. Perhaps she doesn’t know you by name.”
“Perhaps not, for I cannot say that I know her.”
“I’ll introduce you. But here,” said he, “would you like a bit of this?” — indicating the great pile of johnnycakes and hen’s eggs before him. “I can’t possibly eat it all.”
I declined and then watched him consume all on his plate with ease. However, I did accept his invitation to sit down.
“Well, you have a letter for me, do you
?”
I withdrew the letter from my pocket and handed it across the table to him. He took it, broke the seal, and brought it up close to what I have heard him refer to as his “good eye.” Then did he scan it quickly and lay it aside.
“Now you must tell me, just between us two, what is this all about? “
What indeed? I blurted out something, unconsciously using some of the same phrases Sir John has used in the letter.
“No indeed sir, that will not do at all. You need not rehearse the letter’s contents for me. Tell me what is behind it.”
I sighed. Sir John had not told me what might be said and what might not. Therefore, he had left it to my discretion, had he not? Secure in that, I told Mr. Johnson quite all — from the burglary of a few nights past to what had transpired that morning during our meeting with the Lord Chief Justice. I left out nothing of consequence. My listener had paid me the compliment of attending closely to every word I said — even though he continued to bite, chew, and swallow through it all. At last I finished, nodded to indicate as much, and waited for him to speak — waited, that is, till he had gulped down the last bite and might lay aside his knife and fork. “Bravo,” said he, “an excellent summation of a deviously involved tale — well organized and well told, too. And now I understand better the reason for — nay, sir, the necessity of this hastily organized dinner party.”
“Sir John merely wishes to put questions to Mr. Franklin in a more comfortable setting than the usual,” said I. “It is out of respect for this distinguished gentleman that he wishes it so. After all, what might he think if a constable were to call at his residence and take him away without so much as a by-your-leave?”
“And wouldn’t Mrs. Stevenson be dismayed!”
“Who is she?”
“Oh, never mind. Now, Jeremy, if I understand that letter properly, you’ve a letter of invitation with you for Franklin. Is that correct?”
“It IS, sir.”
I dove once again into my capacious pocket and pulled out the letter for Benjamin Franklin. That, too, I handed over to Mr. Johnson.
“Though I have little sympathy for those ‘Sons of Liberty’ and their cause, I like Franklin personally and would not have him punished for their sins. Furthermore, he is rather a good writer, and such poor wretches are altogether rare and should be protected.”
“A good writer, you say sir? In which pubKcations do his writings appear?”
“Oh … in various newspapers and gazettes,” said he. “Yet he follows the custom of signing his letters and short essays with various noms de plume to do with his associations — ‘a New England Gentleman,’ ‘an American,’ — that sort of thing.”
“An American?” said I. “I do not believe I have heard that as applied to … people. Do they no longer name themselves Englishmen?”
“Some do not. It’s the influence of that Sam Adams, I’ve no doubt.”
“Hmmm,” said I, considering. Though interested as ever in matters pertaining to the colonies, I often did not fully understand such news, especially lately.
“But I believe,” said Mr. Johnson, “that I may be able to win Franklin’s cooperation with Sir John’s plan. He has been dropping hints that he would like to be invited to the Thrales’, so I shall drop a hint of my own that attendance at Sir John’s might win him a place at Hester’s table. She is doubtlessly the most popular hostess in London and I daresay it’s all because of me.”
“Well,” said I, “the matter is left in your hands then.”
“I shall do all any man can, but shall send word later today of my success or failure.”
“I’ll inform Sir John of that.”
I rose and, after a proper bow, prepared to depart.
“Oh, and Jeremy, let me say again that I thought that quite an excellent summation. I’ve no doubt you’ll make a fine lawyer.”
Having knocked loudly and often upon the door to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery, I had about decided that I should have to return to Bow Street and make another attempt to deliver his invitation later in the day. Yet just as I was about to leave, I heard a noise from deep within his chambers, which sounded ever so much like something shouted. What was shouted I could not possibly say, but I thought it best to wait a bit longer and see what might occur. And having thus decided, I knocked no more and did bide my time till at last I heard footsteps cross the rooms beyond. The key turned in the lock, and the door swung open, exposing Mr. Donnelly to view. He raised his hand in greeting, and I could not but notice that it was generously stained with blood, as was its fellow. If he were to appear below, in Drury Lane, just as he was at that moment, he would most certainly have been set upon by a host of right-minded Lon-doners and accused of bloody murder ere he walked ten steps.
“You have not, I hope, been busy amputating the limb of some poor soul,” said I.
For a moment, he appeared quite puzzled by my remark. But then his eyes brightened with understanding, and he held up both bloody hands, and he laughed.
“No, the patient is dead and has been for a couple of days, I fear,” said he. “Even starting to smell a little.”
“Is he indeed? Well, perhaps I’d best come back another time.”
“Oh no, I’ve a lesson in anatomy prepared for you, and you came at just the right moment to take it in. Come along.”
He led the way through the anteroom, in which his patients awaited his attentions. (It was, or course, deserted at that moment.) Then on into the treatment room, where the body of the footman was laid out upon a table, face-down. I thought that strange for the moment — until I noted the gaping hole of near two inches in diameter at the base of his skull.
“Now, tell me, Jeremy, how many brains have you? Indeed, how many has anyone?”
“Why, one, of course — only that.”
“Not so,” said Mr. Donnelly. “There are actually no less than three.”
“Three? But where are they kept?”
“Well, the large brain, which they call the cerebrum, is the one we think with. It’s that which we consider our one and only brain. But under here — can you see that? — this is what they call the cerebellum.”
“And what does it do that the other does not?”
“Well, I believe, though there are not many with me in this, that it handles all manner of bodily movements. If you decide to run, it allows you to do that. It manages your muscles so that your legs and feet don’t become hopelessly tangled. There are all sorts of simple and complex motions that it manages for you.”
“Doesn’t that cover it all?” I asked. “Thinking, moving about… what more would there be? “
“A good deal more. Do you see this long, pulpy section here? It’s a bit messed about, I fear, for two bone chips from the skull were driven into it by the blow that killed this poor fellow.”
“And what do you call it?”
“The medulla oblongata.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Forgive me,” said I. “The sound of it struck me as funny.”
“Hmmm. Never quite thought of it that way.”
“And what does it do?”
“In a way, it has the most important functions of all: those which take place inside the body and must proceed without our willing them to continue.”
“I don’t understand,” said I. “What would they be?”
“Well, if you had to think your way through each heartbeat and every breath you took, you’d soon be dead, wouldn’t you? As soon as you fell asleep, you’d lose your ability to keep concentrating on breathing, on keeping your heart pumping, on all those other necessities — and when you did that, you’d be dead.”
I paused, giving all that he had told me due consideration. “I am curious about something,” said I at last. “You said, when you were talking about the … ce-re-bel-lum, that there were not many who would agree with you? All that you’ve said seems perfectly logical to me. The separate parts of the brain have separate functions. Others believe — what?”
&
nbsp; “That the brain functions as a single unit.”
“But you’ve proven them wrong.”
At that he smiled. “No, not exactly proven them wrong. It is naught but a theory. But I believe I couQ prove them wrong.”
“And how wouldyou do that?”
“I’m thinking of writing a paper and submitting it to the Royal Society of London.”
“What a grand idea,” said I.
“Yes, well, I’ve been persuaded by the example of Benjamin Franklin. He has no noble patrons, no university connections, and yet using his native intelligence and powers of observation, he has made some valuable scientific discoveries and conducted valuable experiments.”
“Well, I suppose, by and large you are right, though I can’t say that one down in Portsmouth proved of much value.”
“We have not yet heard the end of it,” said he. “Something may yet come of that oil-on-water theory.”
“Perhaps,” said I. “But tell me of the paper you wish to write.”
“Well, you’ve heard the theory. And I have quite a marvelous anecdote, but as yet I have not thought how an actual proof of the theory might be managed. ‘
“You say you have a marvelous anecdote? Tell it to me, by all means.”
“Well, it was quite the most interesting thing I’d seen during my years as a Navy surgeon. I’m surprised I hadn’t told you of it before. I haven’t, have I? The fellow who had the top of his head blown off?”
“Sounds like a grisly tale if ever I heard one. Let me hear it please.”
“Well, the frigate wherein I served, the Advance, was not in many battles, as such, but we did take part in one during the blockade of the St. Lawrence River. We were there, just north of Nova Scotia one spring, taking our turn with another frigate, the Fortune, when quite early of a spring morn a whole flotilla of the French came at us from the east. They’d just crossed the great ocean and had a fair wind in their favor, and they were determined not to allow a pair of frigates block their way. As I was told, the French had three frigates of their own in that convoy, as well as a ship of the line that mounted seventy guns, at least, and all the cargo ships were well-armed, too. They came at us out of the fog, just as the fog was burning off — and that put our gunners at a great disadvantage, for they had the early morning sun in their eyes.
An Experiment in Treason Page 7