Benjamin Franklin's Bastard

by Sally Cabot

  B. Franklin

  LONDON, JANUARY 21, 1758

  My dear Child,

  I begin to think I shall hardly be able to return before this time twelve months . . .

  LONDON, JUNE 10, 1758

  My dear Child,

  I have no Prospect of Returning till next Spring, so you will not expect me. But pray remember to make me as happy as you can, by sending some Pippins for myself and Friends, some of your small Hams, and some Cranberries. Your answer to Mr. Strahan was just what it should be; I was much pleas’d with it . . .

  LONDON, MARCH 5, 1760

  My dear Child,

  Mr. Strahan is very urgent with me to stay in England and prevail with you to remove hither with Sally. I gave him two Reasons why I could not think of removing hither. One, my Affection to Pensilvania, and long established Friendships and other Connections there: the other, your invincible Aversion to crossing the Seas . . .

  LONDON, MARCH 28, 1760

  My dear Child,

  I have now the Pleasure to acquaint you, that our Business draws near a Conclusion, and that in less than a Month we shall have a Hearing, after which I shall be able to fix a Time for my Return . . .

  LONDON, JUNE 27, 1760

  My dear Child,

  I am concern’d that so much Trouble should be given you by idle Reports concerning me. Be satisfied, my dear, that while I have my Senses, and God vouchsafes me his Protection, I shall do nothing unworthy the Character of an honest Man, and one that loves his Family . . .

  Deborah pushed the packet of letters back into their box, having received little more satisfaction from the reading the second time—or third or fourth—than she had at the first. Three months had turned to six, to twelve, to two years, to four, and Deborah might have reconsidered braving the seas if she’d only been told her husband should be gone even longer, but that information—or invitation—never came.

  THEN ABRUPTLY, IF THE word abruptly could be used five years after the man had first sailed, Benjamin Franklin came home, carrying extra weight, the first wrinkles, an expanded forehead, and clothes much finer than those he’d taken across. There was something different in his speech too—a polish that made him stranger to her than had the altered features or clothes; before, the words were the things that had escaped her—now added to those was this new, strange tone.

  Benjamin came in, grinned, and opened his arms wide, lifting a questioning brow as if to say, “Well, here is what I am and what I’m not—are you ready for it again?” At her first glimpse of all the strangeness, Deborah might have said no, but at the sight of the open arms she saw that what was important in him was the same; she ran into his arms and the nineteen-year-old Sally came running and hugged them together.

  A family again.

  DEBORAH FOUND COMFORT IN Benjamin’s older, looser flesh—it reminded her that she hadn’t aged alone. They found their old, familiar places, more slowly, less violently, perhaps coming to a lesser end, but it was as it should be and no more. Over the coming days Benjamin and Sally played duets on the harpsichord and the new-fangled armonica that Benjamin had shipped home from London; he read aloud to them out of new-fangled books that Sally grasped more quickly than Deborah, but that fact only made her proud. In due time it seemed all Philadelphia came to their door, taking Benjamin off into his old life again, but Deborah was more patient with it this time; he was here.

  And then he was gone, this time on a six-month tour of his postal routes. Sally and Deborah were invited to visit William and his new bride in New Jersey, and although Sally went, Deborah elected to stay home. She’d heard enough about the new Georgian house with the fancy white fieldstone facade, the elegant furniture, the visiting artists and high-society Brits whom William now called his friends.

  She’d met Elizabeth.

  THE POSTAL SURVEY TOOK up most of that first year, but when Benjamin returned he excited Deborah by ordering construction begun on a new house on Market Street—the first house they would ever own. The happy bustle and commotion of planning and building took up most of the next year; part of Deborah’s joy over the house was the sense of permanence it implied, but she soon discovered that even though a house couldn’t move, a man could.

  Two years from the date of his arrival home, Benjamin appeared at the bedroom door with the news as before. London. Again. This time, no mention was made of Deborah’s coming along; how could she, with so much work on the new house yet to be done? But she was worried. William was in America this time, and in his few visits to his father, Deborah had grown concerned. William may have matured into his proper filial duty in his years gone, but that could twist both ways; she heard him talking over his father’s business with an alarmingly proprietary tone. A letter had come, out of which Benjamin had read aloud:

  Please tell my mother I am not so very great a distance away if she should require my aid at any time.

  With Benjamin gone, Deborah feared William’s interfering hand. But those seven years spent as an unlawful wife had taught Deborah the power of a bit of paper.

  Deborah approached her husband. “You’ve gone over the books I’ve kept since you were gone?”

  “I have.”

  “There’s naught amiss?”

  “Naught amiss. My child, you do me proud!”

  “As I shall this time you’re gone.”

  “I’ve no doubt of it.”

  “Should you not write it down, then, so those who might question my authority may read of it in your own hand?” She did not say the name William. Benjamin did not. But at the week’s end, Deborah tucked an official document called a power of attorney into a desk where she also found William’s next letter, which Benjamin had elected not to read aloud:

  As you appear to have found your own reasons for keeping your business in her hands, I will only add here that I am ever your dutiful and grateful son and should the need arise, ready and willing for you to command.

  44

  ANNE CAME DOWN THE stairs and stepped into the Penny Pot’s common room. Familiar heads came up and waved or smiled, but Anne had seen a table of new custom—better dressed than the usual Penny Pot crowd—and she began to work her way there. As she moved amongst the tables, returning each greeting with a smile, she remembered her first days at the Penny Pot, and how much—and how little—she’d learned in all the years that had stretched between now and then. Odd that she was in fact thinking about those early years when a general cry went up, and she turned to find Franklin sailing through the door.

  Anne hadn’t seen Benjamin Franklin since the New York wharf; she’d returned from that aborted journey and gone straight to the Penny Pot, laying her proposition down in front of John Hewe. Beside the marriage contract there must be another—a will that on John Hewe’s death would bequeath the Penny Pot to Anne. Hewe had made a brief, weak argument.

  “The Pot’s been promised to my grandson.”

  Anne had looked around the tavern. “And where is he?”

  “Williamsburg.”

  “Ah,” Anne had answered. “And yet here I am.”

  In the end the two contracts were drawn and signed, and Anne had given Hewe three years of hard work both above stairs and below, a faithful wife to him while he lived, washing and feeding him in his last illness, holding his hand while he died. Now the Penny Pot belonged to Anne alone. It was true that after John Hewe died, she often lay awake in an uneasy, exhausted state, pondering the many things she might have forgotten to do . . . or say. Then there were those nights when she woke thinking of William, and whether in her life she would ever see him again, and what she might say were she to do so. She knew he’d returned from London with an English wife and an English appointment as royal governor of New Jersey, that when he visited Philadelphia he didn’t stay at his parents’ home. She knew all this and she knew nothing; she hadn’t laid eyes on him in more than seven years.

  There were times too when Anne had thought of Franklin. She’d read in the papers of his rece
iving this or that honorary degree from the most respected European institutions; she read his oft-quoted essay, “A Defense of Americans,” first printed in the London Chronicle and later reprinted in the Pennsylvania Gazette; she followed every report of his scientific innovations—watertight compartments for ships, iceberg watches, a phonetic alphabet—and read with amusement that he was reportedly climbing every tall building in Europe and fixing them with his electrical “points.”

  Anne also listened to every report of Franklin’s pending return that never came true. As she followed these London doings via newspaper and rumor, she gave passing thought to what kind of witness she might have been to all of it, even what possible influence she might have had, but she never regretted her last decision regarding him, no matter how many times she might question an earlier few.

  And now here was Franklin, home again, but by the time he strolled into the Penny Pot, he’d in fact been home for some time, still filling the papers and the rumor mill by making his own news. As trouble brewed between the white settlers and the Indians on the western front, as rumors of a planned slaughter of Indians circulated, he wrote a pamphlet defending the six Indian nations, joining forces with the Quakers at last and forming six militia companies to provide for the tribes’ protection.

  The next Anne read of Franklin he was gaining more Quaker friends and losing political ones by defending Negro education. Undaunted by the criticism, Franklin ran for his old seat in the assembly, but lost by eighteen votes in the face of a campaign against him composed of false—and true—rumor: An Indian lover. A hatred of Germans. A bastard child.

  FRANKLIN SPIED ANNE AND made straight across the tavern floor to her. “Ah, my old friend.” He caught up her hand. “Or the Widow Hewe, as the name is now?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  Anne chose to ignore the eyebrow. She retrieved her hand and led Franklin to a seat by the fire. Without asking she went away and returned with a tankard of milk punch. Franklin pointed to the chair opposite, but Anne waved at the restless crowd around them. She must stay on her feet.

  “I hear you leave for London on a new mission soon,” she said. “With your wife this time?”

  “No.”

  Anne waited, sure that the old invitation would be renewed, but it wasn’t. In fact, Franklin soon began to exhibit those signs of increased intensity, which meant he was approaching the true reason for his visit.

  “What news have you of Grissom?” he asked at last. “I understand he’s widowed too.”

  “Yes,” Anne said, but again nothing more, for there was little more to be said of it. At his wife’s death Anne had written Grissom a heartfelt letter of condolence, but the next time she’d passed him in the street, he’d avoided meeting her eye. For many months little was seen or heard of him, but she continued to make the occasional excuse to pass the shop, and one day was surprised to see him back in it, taking his son to task by shaking out an apparently improperly filled bolster onto the floor.

  Anne returned her attention to Franklin and found him leaning forward in his seat, staring fixedly at her. “Tell me, then. Why didn’t you come with me to London? What did you get for yourself by staying behind?”

  Anne circled the room with her arm. “A tavern. What do you suppose I’d have gotten if I’d gone to London with you?”

  Franklin sat back, attempting to look offended. “You’d have gotten—and given—a fine old time!” He continued to gaze at her darkly, but after a while he began to laugh, and much to Anne’s surprise and his obvious delight, she laughed with him.

  Franklin pointed again to the chair, and this time Anne pulled it out, sat down, and waved to the girl for another milk punch. Once they were alone again, Anne said, “Now tell me of William.”

  All mirth evaporated; Franklin’s brow creased. “I could tell you a thing or two of William.” But then the brow eased. “Yes, I could talk to you of William.”

  He began. William lived beyond his means, blaming the poor salary set by the New Jersey Assembly, declaring his extravagant lifestyle necessary for the sake of his position. He was courting the wrong friends. He was ignoring his father’s good advice as to the proper handling of his constituents. But he was also building better roads, feeding and clothing the poor, treating fairly with the Indians, banning gaol for debt.

  My son, Anne thought, but didn’t say.

  Never said.

  45

  Philadelphia, 1774

  BENJAMIN HAD BEEN WISE enough this time not to promise Deborah any three- or six-month return, and Deborah had been wise enough to refuse to allow Sally to accompany him; what would her days have been like if both Benjamin and Sally had gone? This second absence had now stretched far beyond the first, entering its tenth year, with no definitive word on when Benjamin might come home, and here sat Deborah, rereading his letters and looking for hints. Again. But this time as she reread the letters one after the other, she was better able to notice the steady change in tone—it was all business between them now.

  I have sent six coarse diaper Breakfast Cloths; they are to spread on the Tea Table, for nobody breakfasts here on the naked Table . . .

  There is also 56 Yards of Cotton printed curiously from Copper Plates, a new Invention, to make Bed and Window Curtains; these are my fancy . . .

  The Oven I suppose was put up by the written Directions in my former Letter. You mention nothing of the Furnace . . .

  I received the two Post Office Letters you sent me. It was not Letters of that Sort alone that I wanted; but all such as were sent to me from any one whomsoever . . .

  Send me a little draft of the Lot you have bought that I may see the Dimensions, and who it joins upon. Who have you for a Tenant in the House, and what Rent do they Pay? Have you got the Carpets made? Have you mov’d everything, and put all Papers and Books in my Room, and do you keep it lock’t? As to oiling the Floors, it may be omitted till I return: which will not be till next Spring . . .

  When Deborah came to the letter dated August 1765, she paused. On Benjamin went about carpenters and paint and rents, never knowing as he wrote how close he’d come to losing it all. The Stamp Act had come to America, and Benjamin, in London, had at first underestimated the violent hatred of the act at home. While riots broke out from colony to colony, he wrote making recommendations of his friends for the positions of stamp agents; it was therefore believed that he defended—or perhaps even crafted—the hateful law. Rants against Benjamin Franklin appeared in the newspapers, and a rumor flew about that his new house was to be burned to the ground, filling Deborah with rage. This was Philadelphia’s thanks for her husband’s years of service, for Deborah’s sacrifice?

  William had heard the threatening talk in New Jersey and sent a carriage to fetch Deborah and Sally to the safety of the governor’s mansion; Deborah read the letter that came with the carriage and all her old resentment, long at the simmer, began to boil.

  Honored Mother, This carriage will deliver you and Sally to New Jersey where you must stay in safety until this fuss over the Stamp Act blows past. There is no need of staying in town and suffering such humiliation as Father’s enemies would inflict upon us all.

  Humiliation, was it, to stay and defend her home? Deborah called it humiliation to run to New Jersey. But Sally, all there was left for Deborah on her home soil, Sally who at twenty-two was fast growing into the kind of companion that Benjamin might have been had he only retired at home like most sensible men—Sally must be kept safe. Deborah contrived the kind of excuse that was like as not true—William’s wife was ill and he’d asked Sally to come nurse; the girl was packed off.

  Soon the warnings began to roll in in earnest; a cousin, the cousin’s brother, even a neighbor came to tell her an actual mob had formed and was approaching her home. Deborah sent the men home for weapons, and while she stationed herself with a loaded musket at the upstairs window, the men waited below behind the barricaded door. Just past dark she heard them, the catcalls and hoots like a barn full of drun
ken owls; next the torches came into view. Deborah got up and lit the lamp beside her; let them see who they tormented! Let them remember who her husband was and all he’d done for them and their town!

  The tactic appeared to have some effect. As Deborah resumed her seat, musket held high, the mob slowed; the collective nerve seemed to fail. The catcalls grew halfhearted, several torches sputtered out and weren’t relit, the crowd began to thin at the edges, and within the half hour the street before her door was empty again. Deborah went below and handed her cousin his gun and her thanks; the men went home and Deborah went to her bed, lying down fully clothed, until her heart had returned to its normal rhythm. Then she rose and began a letter to Benjamin.

  WHILE DEBORAH WAITED FOR Benjamin’s answering letter she had time—three months—to write four more. She believed herself to be a dutiful correspondent, not only in the letters she’d sent but in the ones she hadn’t: She’d told Benjamin every detail of her handling of his business affairs but left out any mention of the angry answer from William over her refusal to come to New Jersey, of his disapproval of a young man named Richard Bache of whom Sally had grown fond. She tried to conceal from Benjamin her growing gloom, but she couldn’t answer his numerous questions about curtains without admitting her indifference to the matter; she was forced to respond to his repeated inquiries about his friends that she seldom went out anymore.

  Finally, in November, Benjamin’s letter came.

  I honour much the Spirit and Courage you show’d, and the prudent Preparations you made in that Time of Danger. The woman deserves a good House that is determined to defend it.