by John Jakes
Marie protested instantly: “No! I will not let you give up the claim!”
“Just for a time,” he said, with quiet authority. Inside his mind, a faint voice mocked him:
Or do you really mean forever?
Marie started to argue again, then looked closely at her son’s face. It seemed older, showing the understanding of hard lessons recently learned. She put her head back on the pillow and turned away.
Phillipe left the room with a sense of sadness. Yet he was excited by a fresh sense of purpose, too. A purpose born of plain, homely kindness, of black tea—and the new world of presses and books waiting for him downstairs.
CHAPTER II
The Black Miracle
i
THE BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENT OF Mr. Solomon Sholto was divided into two sections. The smaller, occupying the front part of the main floor, opened onto the clatter of Sweet’s Lane. This was the stationer’s shop, where Mrs. Emma presided over the sale of an assortment of drawing and memorandum books, fine Amsterdam Black writing ink, quills, sealing wax and sand.
During the preceding year Mr. Sholto had expanded the shop with a new service—a lending library. Several similar libraries had become popular in recent years because, as Mr. Sholto explained it, only the rich could readily plunk down two guineas for a personal copy of a monumental literary achievement such as The Dramatick Works of Wm. Shakespeare, Corrected and Illustrated by Samuel Johnson, which ran to eight annotated volumes with deluxe Turkish leather binding.
Mr. Sholto bemoaned the popularity of “frivolous” fictional tales such as Defoe’s Moll Flanders, Fielding’s Tom Jones and Johnson’s moralizing fable, Rasselas. But he was quick to recognize the commercial appeal of such works. As a result, his lending shelves had expanded to fill two walls of the tiny shop and were crowded with all manner of novels, as well as nonfiction. Phillipe was captivated by some of the lurid fiction titles. Delicate Distress. Married Victim. Adventures of an Actress.
But he had little time for reading. Mr. Sholto was, as promised, a demanding taskmaster. He kept Phillipe busy in the noisier part of the business, in the back.
Here, two tall, wooden flat-bed presses sat on platforms flanking a central work area. On these premises Mr. Sholto and his sons did the production work for their clients—booksellers in the Strand, Ludgate Street, Paternoster Row. Sholto’s churned out editions on individual contract to each seller.
Mr. Sholto and his sons divided the labor according to the skills of each. Esau, who looked the least graceful because of his size, proved to have hands of amazing speed and dexterity. These hands plucked the metal type letter by letter, then locked it into the large chase. The chase held a form of four pages. Mr. Sholto had invested in presses of some size, to be able to print that many pages at one time.
The father and his other, more easily bemused son were responsible for operating the two machines. Mr. Sholto was faster and more expert. But Hosea knew what he was doing. When Phillipe would lug one of the astonishingly heavy chases over to him, Hosea would lift it as if it weighed nothing.
Hosea would then seat the chase in the coffin, which sat on the rails of the horizontal carriage. He would place a dampened sheet of paper between the tympan and frisket hinged to the coffin, then snap his fingers for Phillipe to be at his work.
To the new employee fell the task of inking a pair of leather balls. The balls were used to apply the ink to the waiting type. Though the balls had handles, it was messy work. Phillipe’s leather apron, as well as his face, hands and forearms, was constantly sticky and smeared.
On his first few tries, Phillipe failed to press hard enough, leaving several lines of type uninked. But all three Sholtos were patient. They sensed Phillipe’s eagerness to learn. Within a couple of days he had the hang of it and could ink a form neatly with no difficulty.
As soon as Phillipe finished the routine at one press, he frequently needed to run to the other to perform the same job. Hosea, meantime, would clamp the sheet between tympan and frisket, and fold both down so that the paper showed through the frisket in four page-sized cutout sections. These cutouts permitted the paper to come in contact with the inked metal.
Next Hosea would slide the coffin under the massive vertical head of the press. Hauling on the screw lever lowered a four-inch-thick piece of hardwood on top of the closed coffin. The leverage thus applied brought the thick platen down with sufficient pressure to leave an impression on the paper.
Finally, the platen was raised, the coffin pulled back along the rails and the finished four pages removed as a single sheet and set aside to dry. A new sheet was inserted in the coffin and the process was repeated, with re-inkings as necessary, until the right number of sheets had been run.
Handling his chores on both presses, each of which creaked and thunked outrageously, kept Phillipe running from one platform to the other virtually all the time.
But in spare moments, he was also assigned the task of washing the ink from each form once Hosea or Mr. Sholto had finished with it. To do this, Phillipe used a foul-smelling alkali solution that not only removed the ink from metal—and his knuckles—but left his hands raw by the end of the long day. The print shop operated from before daylight till after sunset every day except Sunday.
As the winter of 1771 approached, Phillipe grew fairly skilled at his job. His hands became swift and adept with the leather balls. His arms strengthened from carrying big stacks of dried sheets printed on both sides. The sheets were taken away by the apprentice who worked for Mr. Sholto’s bookbinder. Sholto had long ago decided that he could produce books more quickly by subcontracting the sheet cutting, the sewing of the binding and the mounting of the leather-covered boards.
What gave Phillipe the energy to endure the always tiring, often confusing weeks was his interest in, and admiration for, the process of which he’d become a small part. It struck him as downright amazing that so many black-inked pages, precisely alike, could be produced at such speed by the raiding presses.
One noon, the elder Sholto noticed the way Phillipe’s eye kept straying to a stack of finished sheets, even while he paused to munch sections of an ink-smeared orange. Sholto came down from his press platform and waved at the stack:
“Gad, Phillipe, you look as though you were in church! That’s only a small reprinting of the Wild novel, which is certainly one of Mr. Fielding’s lesser works.”
“But to see words duplicated so easily—it really is like a miracle. In Auvergne, if you wanted a chair, the furniture maker carved and glued it with his hands, one chair at a time.”
“Machines are the coming thing. All over England, factories spin cloth—spit out iron bars. The age of handwork is gone.”
Wiping his fingers on his apron, Mr. Sholto accepted a wedge of orange Phillipe offered.
“Despite the way I complain about the trashiness of so many books, I love the business. Reading’s the means by which the lowest man can lift himself from a state of ignorance. You see how popular my little loan library up front has become. The masses are hungry for words and more words. Whether the words be for diversion or enlightenment, printing them, as I’ve said before, is a profession of which a man can feel rightly proud.”
Popping a piece of orange into his mouth, Phillipe could only nod in agreement. Ideas multiplied mechanically, for all to share, certainly had to be one of those new winds sweeping the world. And he was delighted to be at the heart of the gale.
ii
During her first weeks in the Sholto household, Marie seemed to recover some of her health. Color returned to her cheeks. She even showed a certain animation when Hosea and Esau discussed affairs of the town at supper.
But she said nothing about the Amberlys, not even to her son. Phillipe didn’t mind. He was too occupied with the exciting, tiring work downstairs even to think about the casket and the letter. It was Hosea who first brought the subject up again.
The family was gathered in the upstairs sitting room, an hour before the
customary nine o’clock household bedtime. Mr. Sholto was reading a Gazette, a penny paper containing, among other items, the latest bad news about the great East India Trading Company. The company’s mismanaged affairs had caused its stock to take another alarming dip, he reported. He was thankful he owned no shares. The household did not use the products imported by the firm. Mrs. Emma served cheaper tea smuggled in from Holland. It was sold everywhere.
The printer’s wife sat doing embroidery while Phillipe, already yawning, sprawled at his mother’s feet, listening to big Esau run through some melodic country dances on the flute he played with considerable skill. Hosea, who had excused himself to visit the Jakes, walked back in to say:
“Phillipe, I’ve been making some inquiries in the coffee and chocolate houses—”
“Concerning which gambling establishments are the most lenient with credit?” asked his father.
Hosea flushed. “No, sir. About the man responsible for bringing our lively helper to England.”
Esau took the flute from his lips. Emma Sholto frowned. Solomon Sholto folded the penny sheet into his lap. Only Marie failed to respond. She continued to stare into space as if still entranced by the music.
Hosea sensed the tension generated by his remark, and quickly defended himself: “I thought there might be some interest in what’s been said about the Duke’s passing.”
That lifted Marie’s head slightly. Phillipe saw remembered hurt in her eyes.
Speaking rapidly, Hosea continued, “The curious thing is—nothing’s been said.”
Mr. Sholto exclaimed, “What?”
“That’s right. As far as I can discover, no word of Amberly’s death has come up to town.”
“You’re not exactly in the circles that would be the first to know,” observed Esau.
“Yes, but the public rooms are always full of gossip about the leading peers of the realm. No one’s breathed a word. I—I thought it puzzling,” he finished lamely.
Emma Sholto said, “Perhaps the Amberlys have retired to a long period of private grief. Perhaps they prefer to say nothing of the death outside the immediate family until a suitable mourning period is over. Loss of a loved one can affect an entire household for months, you know.”
Mr. Sholto put one hand over his eyes. Was he recalling his three dead infant daughters? Phillipe wondered with a touch of sadness.
In response to Hosea’s obvious embarrassment, Marie said, “You needn’t worry about mentioning him in my presence. The kindness Phillipe and I have found in this house has healed the wounds of the past.”
Phillipe was pleased at that. Whether his mother did or did not mean what she said—and he felt she didn’t, fully—the sentiment was correct. Marie went on:
“The presence of my son and I taxed Lady Jane to the extreme. Perhaps the death did indeed affect her mind. They shut the Duke up in a foul, airless room while he ailed. I wouldn’t wonder they’ve chosen the same kind of solitude for themselves. They’re peculiar, twisted people.”
Somehow Phillipe wasn’t entirely satisfied with the explanation. But he could offer none better. He yawned behind his hand, anxious to retire. He thought the matter closed until he heard Marie say softly:
“However, Hosea, if any word should come to you on your rounds, I would welcome hearing it.”
Scowling, Phillipe stared at his hands reddened by the alkali solution. The past was past. Why couldn’t she let it go?
Esau noticed his expression, promptly took up his flute and began another country dance. Marie was soon lost in her private reverie.
Seeing what? Phillipe wondered sourly. Himself? Still as the little lord?
Well, he had other ideas now. He had already begun to formulate the first tentative plans for a possible future. A future far more realistic than that which had dragged them to England, and to grief.
iii
As October waned, the first brief snowflakes fell on the great city of bells. But immediately, the weather turned pleasant again. Phillipe and his mother began to go out and see the sights with the family.
On a Sabbath afternoon all flamed with sunlight falling through the coloring leaves, they strolled St. James’s Park. On another unusually warm Sunday, after the printer and his wife had, as usual, worshiped at St. Paul’s, they took a short barge trip down the Thames to view the Tower, whose history Mr. Sholto could describe in gory detail.
At one point on the return upriver, two elderly female passengers and their male escort paused next to Hosea, who was lounging against the rail and staring at the sky in a bemused fashion. Suddenly, with scandalized expressions, the ladies pointed to the water between the barge and the stately Parliament buildings on the north bank.
“Whoever it is, he should be prosecuted for profaning the Sabbath with vigorous activity!” declared one of the thin-lipped women.
As Hosea turned to follow the accusing fingers, the second lady gasped, “I believe his shoulders are entirely unclothed!”
The gentleman peered. “Perhaps the rest of him, too.”
“Scandalous!” said the first woman.
Hosea smiled in a languid way. “He’s traveling in the river—we’re traveling on it. What’s the difference?”
“If you don’t know, then you are obviously an irreligious person,” the first woman snapped. Hosea looked nonplused.
Along with a number of other passengers, Mr. Sholto and his party crowded around the outraged trio. Phillipe looked past the printer to see a most curious and unexpected sight: something which at first glance resembled a small white whale paddling and splashing downstream.
Only after he shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare did the peculiar aquatic specimen take on definition. It was a man—and not a young one—swimming vigorously. On the embankment, a band of urchins followed the swimmer’s progress, whistling and offering merrily obscene encouragement.
“It would serve the fellow right if he drowned!” the first woman said.
“Charity, Aunt Eunice, charity!” the man said. “It might be that he’s suffering some mental lapse. There is nothing more pathetic than a gentleman of middle age who vainly attempts to behave like a youth. Don’t scorn such derangement. Pity it.”
At this, Mr. Sholto chuckled. “You’re off the mark, sir. The gentleman is far from deranged. To the contrary—he’s a scientist and diplomat of the first rank. Keen of mind. And he swims the Thames often.”
“Damme, yes!” Hosea exclaimed with a snap of his fingers. “I thought I recognized him.” He took no notice when one of the ladies appeared faint after he cursed.
“But—but the chap looks sixty years old!” the male escort sputtered.
“Very nearly,” Sholto nodded. “He has a rugged constitution, however.” The printer cupped a hand to his mouth and hailed, “Franklin! Ho, Dr. Franklin—over here!”
The racket made by the swimmer’s youthful admirers on the embankment prevented him from hearing. He continued downriver, his thrashing arms and legs churning up water that sparkled in the sunshine.
One of the narrow-lipped ladies whirled on Mr. Sholto.
“Do you mean to say that is the Dr. Franklin? The godless wizard from the colonies?”
“I don’t believe your adjectives are entirely correct, madam. ‘Godless?’ Perhaps. Certainly he doesn’t observe the Sabbath as strictly as some of us.” Mr. Sholto harrumphed for emphasis. “But ‘wizard’? I think not. Rather, call him a genius. Of international repute.”
“You seem well acquainted with him,” the woman sniffed; it was far from a compliment.
“Yes, we take coffee together when my schedule permits. And he does visit my bookshop on occasion—when his duties as business agent for the Massachusetts colony don’t keep him running from one ministerial office to another—”
“Genius or not,” the woman retorted, “I have read something about his tamperings with the divine mysteries of nature. ‘The modern Prometheus,’ isn’t that what he’s called in some quarters?”
“Aye, so the philosopher Kant christened him.”
“I still say anyone who meddles with the heavenly fire is santanically inspired!”
Annoyed, Mr. Sholto replied, “Then you are merely displaying your ignorance, my good woman. Of all the scientific thinkers of the modern world, it was that very Dr. Franklin—” his hand shot toward the bow, and the diminishing glitter of water marking the swimmer’s passage—“who brought the study of what scholars term ‘electricity’ out of the province of superstition and into full respectability. Furthermore—”
Mrs. Emma tapped her husband’s elbow. “Solomon, please.”
“No!” exclaimed the printer. “I will not have a friend vilified. Are you not aware, my dear ladies, that ‘Franklin’ is the most famous American name in the civilized world? Are you not aware that our own Royal Society awarded him its highest honor, the Copley medal, for his Experiments and Observations on Electricity in fifty-two? He proved that lightning contains the same electrical forces which had previously been observed in laboratories at the University of Leyden and elsewh—”
But the trio of outraged puritans had turned their backs.
At first Mr. Sholto looked furious. Then, after his wife patted his arm several more times, he sighed, resigned. He gestured Phillipe, Marie and his family to another section of the deck, to prevent further friction.
Phillipe craned for one more view of the swimmer. He stared in fascination at the tiny figure still splashing down the great river.
“Solomon, that was not polite,” Mrs. Emma chided.
“I know, but I can’t abide stupidity. Franklin may not hold much brief for any sort of church, but he’s no more devil than I am!” Catching Hosea’s start of a smile, Sholto added, “No remarks from you, sir.”
Marie wandered to the rail, indifferent to the conversation. Phillipe remained intrigued.
“And he’s an American, you say?”
“Indeed. Nor was I exaggerating about his reputation. He’s known all the way to the court of Imperial Russia. Do you know how he started his career? As a printer!”