An Experiment in Treason

by Alexander, Bruce

“Wedderburn has replaced Dexter?” Sir John asked, all agog at this information.

  “As I said. Sir John.”

  “Then has a hyena taken the place of a lapdog. When and where will this take place?”

  “In a week’s time at Westminster, in the Cockpit.”

  Having delivered his news, Lord Mansfield rose and prepared to depart. Yet Sir John would not have him leave without informing him of the latest development in this case, which seemed to grow like some evil plant whose roots spread underground in all directions only to pop up above the surface where least expected and least desired.

  “What sort of development do you speak of?” asked the Lord Chief Justice.

  Again, Sir John asked me to supply the details, which I did, editing them down to the bare facts of George Burkett’s arrival in Robertsbridge and Ned Ferguson’s death there.

  “Now, who was this fellow Ferguson?” Lord Mansfield asked, addressing me direct.

  “He was one of the two burglars who purloined the packet of letters,” said I.

  “And how did you hear where he had gone to hide?”

  “His partner,” said Sir John, “supplied us with that information when he surrendered to us.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “In custody.”

  “Well, send him up to me at Old Bailey, and we shall at least get one of these fellows hanged.”

  “Let us speak of that later, shall we?”

  “As you wish. Sir John. I must be getting on in any case. By the bye, do you wish me to put in for two places for you and your assistant in the gallery of the Cockpit for Franklin’s appearance?”

  “Do so, by all means, ” said Sir John. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  The Cockpit? What could that mean? Was I to believe that members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons met there in Westminster to pursue the ancient English pastime of cockfighting? Surely that seemed beneath their dignity. (Little notion had I then how without dignity were both bodies.) During the next week I pursued the question with Sir John, yet without much satisfaction.

  “What is it, sir, this place called the Cockpit?”

  “Why, it is a committee room in Westminster Palace. They conduct business there.”

  “But why do they call it the Cockpit?”

  “Well, it’s … it’s …” His words hung in the air for near a minute as he attempted to come forth with a proper answer to my question.

  “You know, I really have no idea why it is called in such a way.”

  Unbeknownst to me, Clarissa heard my query to Sir John. She gave the question some thought and asked Mr. Donnelly to put it to Mr. Goldsmith, who seemed, as she said, “to know quite all about everything.” The answer came back that in the time of Henry VIII, that particular room had indeed been used for cockfighting, and to this day it has retained the name, though its purpose is now altogether different. Or perhaps not quite so different as all that, for the two hours spent by Benjamin Franklin in the Cockpit had all of the drama and intensity of such a clash, even if it lacked something of the brutish nature of that sort of conflict.

  Sir John feared for Franklin’s safety. Upon hearing from me of the gruesome death of Isaac Kidd, he had posted an armed constable at the door of Mrs. Stevenson’s house in Craven Street, in which Dr. Franklin made his home and office. During the day, there were groups of hecklers to be sent upon their way, and at night, there was always the possibility of a visit by George Burkett; and so it was young Mr. Queenan during the day, and the taciturn veteran Constable Brede at night. Only some of this I was aware of till later. I did know, however, that as time grew nearer to the hearing in the Cockpit, the magistrate grew increasingly concerned regarding the threat of George Burkett at the event and immediately afterward.

  I recall quite well that Sir John had once said that if one were to murder another, it might well be best done in a great throng. I have not the words or his reasoning exact, but he felt that within a mob much may be concealed, including the killer, his weapon, and his mode of attack; and once the deed was accomplished, the mob would provide him with his means of escape, for he had but to melt into the multitude to become invisible.

  Thus it was that he began making preparations as he heard news of the large crowd which was expected at Westminster. It was those who would gather outside the palace who worried him. When did a large crowd become a mob? And how? Would Lord Hillsborough have planted paid shouters in their midst to agitate against Franklin? Against all the so-called Americans? It was surprising and disturbing to me how many of those, neither upper-class nor lower but somewhere between, had united against the colonials since news of the “tea party” had come from Boston. Estimates of the size of the expected crowd were high, all the way up to a thousand. Could the constables cope with such a number? Sir John consulted with Benjamin Bailey and Mr. Perkins, as well as others, regarding what might be done. At some of these conferences I was present, and at some I was not. Yet I was sufficiently close to the planning to understand that matters might be regulated down to the last jot, yet still and all, ‘twas naught but Sir John’s feeling that Benjamin Franklin was in mortal danger at the time of the hearing that had activated this flurry of preparation. Yet, in the past, had this feeling not been enough? Often before, with little to support his certain belief, he would choose a course directly opposed to that which all logic dictated was the “right” one — and then see his choice triumph. He had instinct on his side, and Sir John’s instincts had proven accurate time and again. How odd then that they should now be enlisted in this effort to protect Dr. Franklin, the very champion of logic and science.

  In the end, it was fairly evident that, depending upon the size of the crowd, there was not a great deal could be done to ensure completely the safety of Dr. Franklin. If the number waiting at the great door to Westminster Palace approached a thousand, all that one could do was pray. A hundred or two hundred, even three, could be handled easily by the contingent of constables Sir John had at his disposal. But if there were many beyond that, all would depend upon the temper of the crowd. If it became an unruly mob, then the best that could be done would be to form a ring round Dr. Franklin and, with drawn cutlasses, usher him to the coach which would wait just a short distance from the entrance.

  The day before the hearing was to take place Sir John dictated a letter to Benjamin Franklin in which he outlined the potential dangers to him (mentioning the murders of Isaac Kidd and Ned Ferguson, though sajang nothing of the mutilation); then did he outline the precautions he had taken or was intending to take. He emphasized the importance of his cooperation and instructed him to wait there in the Cockpit and leave only with himself or “the bearer of this letter.”

  “I want you, Jeremy,” said he to me, “to return with a firm commitment from him that he will do as I ask.”

  “I shall, sir.”

  Thus did I make a commitment, as well.

  Before I could make myself known to Dr. Franklin, or to Mrs. Stevenson, I had to push my way through a small crowd in Craven Street, which had gathered at Number 10. There were less than a dozen there. They seemed curious rather than hostile. Constable Oueenan seemed not to mind them, and he was most happy to see me — though less so when he learned that he and Mr. Brede would be conveying Benjamin Franklin to the hearing next day.

  “Mr. Brede will drive, and you will guard Dr. Franklin,” said I. “That’s as Sir John wants it.”

  “Is that going to be as slow-going as this has been?”

  “No, I give you my guaranty that tomorrow will be more interesting — cutlasses and pistols.”

  As we spoke thus, the door flew open and Mrs. Stevenson pulled me inside.

  “Have you something for Dr. Franklin? For if you don’t, then back you go whence you came.”

  “Yes, I-”

  “I’ll not have anyone bothering him while he prepares for tomorrow unless it’s something important.”

  “A letter from Sir John Fie
lding.”

  “Oh, well, that’s important. Give it here, and I’ll bring it right to him.”

  “No, ma’am, ” said I firmly. “I’m to put it in his hands and wait for an answer.”

  “Oh … all right.”

  So saying, she turned and made her way to the stairs. Then, mounting them swiftly, she disappeared above.

  As I waited, I heard a quiet mumble of voices from the first floor. All I understood of it was Sir John’s name spoken loud by Mrs. Stevenson. A minute later, or perhaps less. Dr. Franklin’s step sounded upon the stairs, and he appeared, a worried frown upon his face.

  “Mrs. Stevenson says you have a letter for me from Sir John.”

  “Correct, sir,” said I, taking it from my pocket and offering it to him.

  Yet he did not at first accept it. “If it’s a summons to another interrogation, I shall not accept it, ” said he. “I no-w have all I can do preparing for the hearing before the Privy Council.”

  “It is nothing of the sort. I’m to wait until you have read it and return with your message of compliance.”

  “Compliance, is it? Well, we shall see about that.”

  He then took it from me, broke the seal, and began to read the letter. He seemed notably more confident than the last time I had seen him — or, perhaps, not so much confident as determined. Yet Sir John’s words persuaded him of the seriousness of the situation.

  “It says here that I am to go by coach to the hearing. These two — constables Queenan and Brede — are to take me there. These are the two who have been at the door? “

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you and Sir John will take me back to the coach when the hearing is done?”

  “There will be other constables involved in your return.”

  “Why is Sir John doing all this for me?” He seemed quite innocently puzzled.

  “Because he feels that you are in danger, sir. If you wish to know more than that, you must ask him yourself. But now, please, do I have your assurance that you will cooperate with the arrangements that have been made?”

  “Oh yes,” said he, “yes indeed. And please deliver to him my most profound thanks.”

  We in the gallery of the Cockpit were ranged round the room at a height somewhat above the thirty-six members of the Privy Council. They had their places at a single table set against the far wall. Before them were the two featured players of the drama which was about to unfold before us — Alexander Wedderburn, the new solicitor general, and Benjamin Franklin, appearing as the agent for the Colony of Massachusetts and its legislature. They sat wide apart. Wedderburn, obviously uncomfortable, twitched about awkwardly in his chair like some marionette on strings; Dr. Franklin, in the company of a barrister named Dunning, sat close and conferred with him. Those in the gallery were noisy to the point of disorder; they had come to be entertained. And, finally, the members of the Privy Council waited in silence, evidently in no mood for amusement.

  The varying temper of those there in the Cockpit seemed to reflect that of others outside. Sir John and I had waited for the arrival of the rented coach which brought Dr. Franklin. As we waited, I attempted to estimate the size of the crowd. It was in no wise large. There were no more than a hundred, and probably a good deal fewer — and all rather jolly — as I told Sir John. He, for his part, cautioned me that the hundred I saw could easily grow to a thousand in the next hour or two. “I am shocked,” said he, “to hear of so many here so early.” Then did the coach appear, driven by Mr. Brede; he pulled the horses up as near to the great door as possible, and Dr. Franklin exited the coach, attended by Constable Oueenan. Then was I surprised to hear hoots, and whistles, and hostile shouts from the crowd, which only moments before had seemed near festive in attitude. Sir John called for Constables Bailey and Rumford to go out and give young Oueenan a hand. There was no more difficulty after that.

  All of that had come to pass over a quarter of an hour before the commencement of the hearing. After Dr. Franklin was situated in his place, we claimed our places in the gallery. There we waited for the open places at the long table to be filled and the hearing to begin.

  Lord Gower banged away with his gavel and called the hearing to order. The text of the petition which Dr. Franklin had presented was read out, for that was the nominal purpose of the hearing. Then was the text of the Hutchinson letters also read aloud, for that was the true purpose of the hearing: to tar Franklin for his part in the publication of the letters. Thus it began, and it swiftly proceeded from the nominal to the true. Barrister Dunning argued, as he had been coached by Dr. Franklin, that the matter of the letters did not belong in consideration with the petition because they were essentially political in nature. As it happened, Mr. Dunning was not a well man. So weak was he that he could not stand for long without showing signs of tottering, and his voice was so weakened that he could scarcely speak above a whisper. Those in the gallery round us became restive, and then unruly. There were shouts of “louder ” and “speak up!” until at last Lord Gower was forced to wield his gavel once more, shouting for quiet as he sought to bring the rowdy crowd of noblemen and aristocrats under control. At last, they began to quiet down, and Mr. Dunning prepared to resume.

  Before he could do so, Alexander Wedderburn leaped to his feet and began his attack. His reasoning: Since it was the Hutchinson letters which gave birth to the petition to replace the governor, then one is no less political than the other.

  Yet that, reader, was the mere modicum of reasoning contained in the hour-long tirade to which he treated his audience. They had, as I said, come to be entertained, and he did entertain them. All the twitching energy I had seen in him before the hearing began, was now concentrated in this assault upon Dr. Franklin.

  He talked of little but the purloined letters. He vilified Franklin as a common thief. He said, “Men will watch him with a jealous eye; they will hide their papers from him and lock up their escritoires. He will henceforth esteem it a libel to be called a man of letters.”

  A chorus of laughter rang out round us at that. The fact that they could find humor in such vituperation quite astonished me.

  Sir John leaned toward me. “This exceeds all bounds of propriety,” said he. “I have never before heard such from a member of His Majesty’s government.”

  Nor did the solicitor general neglect to offer a reminder of what all now called the Boston Tea Party: “… the good men of Boston have lately held their meetings, appointed their committees, and with their usual moderation have destroyed the cargo of three British ships.”

  And then, sudden as it had begun, Wedderburn’s attack ended. Had he exhausted the subject of Franklin’s treasonous acts? Or had he simply run out of breath and bile? Whatever the answer to that, the response of Benjamin Franklin was an eloquent silence. It would not have been his nature to rail, shout, and snarl, as Wedderburn had done. Had he chosen to do so, he would have lowered himself to the level of his attacker. It was impossible not to admire him as he sat in his chair, erect and unblinking, his face set in a mask of dignity. Nor was I the only one who saw it thus. A few of those in the gallery who had come to jibe and jest at the expense of Dr. Franklin fell silent as they watched him. I discovered later that more than one newspaper, reporting upon the event, counted it a moral victory for Franklin; they also hinted that Lord North, the prime minister, was displeased with Wedderburn. It remained for Sir John to make the most telling comment — and that was made directly to Dr. Franklin himself once the business was done.

  We made our way down the stairs into the cockpit, and there stood Benjamin Franklin, still silent and now alone. Even his frail barrister had withdrawn from him. I saw a man go by, almost with-out stopping, and squeeze Franklin’s hand as he said not a word; then did he also hastily depart.

  “You see how they run from me?” said Franklin to us as we approached. “As if I were a carrier of the plague.”

  “We know not what waits for you outside. That is why we are here to see you back t
o Craven Street. Now, sir, if you will just follow me and Jeremy? “

  “Indeed I shall, sir, and gladly.”

  We set off down the long crowded hall, which led to the great door. Those passing us by gave us a wide berth, shrinking to one side, as if fearful of Franklin. He seemed to have achieved fame — of the wrong sort. Yet he seemed no-w to be eager to talk about the ordeal.

  “The Privy Council rejected the petition,” said he, talking to our backs.

  “But you must have expected that,” said Sir John.

  “Oh, I did, but they might at least have considered it on its merits.” And having said that, he launched into a presentation of what he considered to be its merits. This was, I supposed, what he would have said, had the solicitor general given him the opportunity to do so. Yet for some reason, as we approached the great door, it became increasingly difficult for Franklin to be heard — not because his voice grew weaker, but rather because there came a noise, a strange washing sound like unto that which I had heard on the beach at Deal as the tide came in; it interfered increasingly with the voice of Franklin — never truly strong under the best of conditions. Curious, I urged Sir John to pick up the pace a bit, yet he was unwilling. “We’ll get there soon enough,” said he. All the while, Dr. Franklin talked unconcernedly on — until we stepped through the door and he glimpsed the source of that strange noise.

  “Oh, dear God!” said he.

  Before us we saw a sea of faces — or, perhaps not quite so many as that, but a lake, certainly. If the pure number of people out there between us and the rented coach was impressive, the sudden roar that issued forth from them as they recognized Benjamin Franklin was much more so. It was frightening.

  “Now how many would you say are here?” Sir John shouted above the tumult.

  “I’ve no idea,” I shouted in response. “Perhaps a thousand!”

  “Not so many” — a new voice, that of Mr. Perkins, whom I had noticed standing now beside me. “I’d put them at not quite eight hundred.”

  “That’s a good many.”

  “They’re pretty well-behaved, though. They look to be shopkeepers, clerks, and the like. They’re not a mob.”