The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  PART TWO

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  17. FRANKLIN

  JANUARY 1777

  He had arrived on the coast of France in early december, after a tormenting voyage that had aggravated every ailment he suffered. In the past, crossing the Atlantic had always been an adventure, a time for experiment, long hours testing the currents, the water temperature, all the fun of exploration. But his age was betraying him, and though he turned his efforts again to the science of the ocean, the aches and pains sapped him of any enthusiasm. By the time the ship moved close to the French coast, he was ready to feel dry land under his swollen feet. But there was one more torment. The winds kept the ship away from its intended port of call, and in frustration he disembarked at the wretched coastal town of Auray, welcomed by no one.

  He was accompanied by his two grandsons. Temple was now seventeen, the boy displaying an interest in politics that would not be considered unusual, given his father’s notoriety as one of King George’s most loyal governors. Franklin had been careful not to influence Temple by speaking ill of the boy’s father, even though Temple was more aware than anyone that the break between his father and grandfather was permanent and absolute. Franklin had convinced himself that the boy’s eagerness to accompany him abroad, possibly as his secretary, was a victory of sorts, if not for America, then for the old man himself.

  Benny was seven, his daughter Sally’s son, and politics was nowhere in the younger boy’s mind. The journey was the adventure of a lifetime, the youngster traveling with his grandfather to worlds that barely existed in a seven-year-old’s imagination.

  The difficulties of the sea voyage extended onto land. Since they had not disembarked at a major seaport, finding comfortable passage inland was a challenge. Eventually, they reached Paris, after a nerve-fraying ride through desolate forests said to be overrun with ruthless bandits. For Benny, it was yet another adventure. For Franklin, it was the final tormenting chapter in a journey that had been far too difficult a distraction for the work he had come to do.

  When they finally reached Paris, he moved them into the comforts of the Hotel d’Hambourg. Franklin was relieved to find that Temple could manage mostly for himself, the young man adapting immediately to the social settings, basking in the attention his famous grandfather attracted. The young man was already catching the eye of a number of flirtatious daughters of society.

  But Franklin was uneasy about caring for Benny. He was, after all, only a child, and would still require considerable schooling. Franklin had once believed that his influence, his wise counsel would be all the boy would ever need, but it was an old man’s vanity, and he learned that quickly on the long voyage across the Atlantic. Sally had warned him of her son’s boisterous curiosity, and Benny had engulfed his grandfather in endless questions about ships and oceans and France. Even if Franklin had wanted to provide so much enlightenment, his ailments dampened his enthusiasm for the sudden foray into being a parent.

  Franklin had been involved in the negotiations with France for over a year, but only in the most discreet and secretive way. To any foreign government America was still officially a part of the British empire, and no one in the French government would risk a confrontation with their eternal enemy by openly meddling in King George’s internal affairs. But the finances of making war had created a disaster for the American cause far worse than any rout on a battlefield. Congress was operating in bankruptcy, and no amount of debate or meetings in committees could solve the problem of supplying Washington’s army. The troops themselves might be accustomed to late pay, but many did not yet know what Franklin knew, that the congress had exhausted every means of feeding and clothing them, not to mention the purchase of guns and ammunition, horses and wagons.

  From the earliest days of the congress, Franklin had supported the attempt at a foreign alliance, that in order to achieve independence, there might first have to be some kind of dependence on a foreign power who saw the loss to England as a gain for themselves. The most logical choice was France, the one country whose conflicts with England had produced centuries of warfare. But France was not eager to renew a war she had lost thirteen years earlier.

  With Franklin’s prodding, France had offered a gesture of friendship by accepting an unofficial visitor from congress, whose duties would be harmless enough, a man who would only provide information of events in America. That man was Silas Deane, a Connecticut congressman with a particular talent for finance. Despite the public face of the French court, Deane’s real mission was to pursue any form of assistance France would be willing to provide, presumably in the form of military hardware. But France could not do business directly with America without risking war with Britain. Thus, Deane’s mission had involved him in convoluted deal-making, the French nervously offering minimal assistance through nefarious business channels. The result had been a slow trickle of munitions from French manufacturers which could reach America only after sailing through the French West Indies, where the goods could be transferred to American ships.

  Once the Declaration of Independence had been signed, the French government could feel more comfortable speaking directly to official representatives of the American congress, though a war with Britain was still the likely outcome. As the desperation in supplying Washington’s army increased, congress responded by naming three commissioners to openly negotiate for French involvement. Deane would remain in Paris as one of them. Franklin was an obvious choice, with his experience in Paris, and his familiarity with the French court. The third commissioner was to have been Thomas Jefferson, and Franklin had been enthusiastic to be working again with the young Virginian. He had enormous respect for Jefferson’s mind, and for his humility. The negotiations with the French would be ticklish certainly, and Jefferson would never be one to make some grand show in Paris, placing his own ambitions ahead of the job at hand. But as Jefferson was preparing to sail for France, his wife had fallen ill, and the young man had chosen to remain in Virginia. The congress replaced him with a man who contrasted completely with Jefferson’s quiet subtlety, another Virginian. His name was Arthur Lee.

  Lee was the brother of one of the stalwart champions of the Declaration of Independence, Richard Henry Lee. But Arthur Lee possessed none of his brother’s gift for diplomacy or passion for any cause other than his own. Franklin had known him from their time in London, Lee serving as the colonial representative from Virginia, as Franklin had done for four other colonies. Lee fancied himself a shrewd manipulator of public policy, and while in London he grew close to those members of Parliament who openly opposed the policies of King George. Once the king declared the colonies to be in open rebellion, there was no official purpose to Lee staying in London. To his few friends in Philadelphia, it was an appropriate next step for Lee to join Deane’s efforts in France. But the news that Arthur Lee would be arriving in Paris seriously dampened Franklin’s enthusiasm. He had no confidence that Lee would bring anything to the negotiations beyond loud impatience. Even worse, Franklin was certain that Arthur Lee despised him.

  When Lee reached Paris, he initiated an immediate conflict with Silas Deane, and a small flood of letters from Lee was already sailing to Philadelphia. Deane’s offense had been to carry on business negotiations without Lee’s involvement. It was the worst kind of wound to a man like Arthur Lee. He was accusing Deane of ignoring him.

  Deane was deeply immersed in a complicated arrangement for French loans that had to be funneled secretly through a private company. Franklin trusted Deane, and by the time he had reached Paris, he understood that Deane’s negotiations were nearly complete, and the transfer of funds to congress was already in progress. He welcomed Deane’s talents in the areas of high finance, and Deane returned the favor by suggesting that Franklin serve as the spokesman for the commission, an obvious choice, since Franklin was quite simply the most famous American in the world. Once again, Arthur Lee’s prickly sensitivity was bruised.

  With his grandsons firmly in the care
of motherly hands, Franklin began to focus on his mission. They did not have long to wait, the first official welcome coming to Franklin’s hotel, an invitation for their first meeting at the French Foreign Ministry.

  JANUARY 9, 1777

  The man’s name was Charles Gravier, and he carried the title of the Count of Vergennes, had held the position as the Minister of Foreign Affairs to King Louis XVI since the young king’s ascension to the throne barely two years earlier. Vergennes was an immensely intelligent and charming man, and had become an immediate favorite of both Louis and the young king’s Austrian wife, Marie Antoinette. Louis had inherited a court divided in its support for the American cause, but Vergennes had been firmly on the side of the Americans from the beginning. His opposition had come mainly from the stubbornness of the conservative finance minister, Baron Turgot. But Turgot was soon replaced, the young king showing no patience for disagreements in his court. Though Vergennes brought the support of his king to the negotiating table, Franklin believed that there must still be some discomfort for a well-entrenched monarch like Louis. The only news from America was a dismal report of loss and retreat by the American army. It would certainly be inappropriate to ask the French for a commitment of troops or a fleet of ships. Louis would be cautious, hesitant to risk a war with England by granting full support to a rebel army that had yet to prove it could stand up against the might of the British.

  Franklin was concerned as well that the issue at the very core of their negotiations was independence for a people who were struggling to throw off the yoke of their own monarch. Whatever value Vergennes placed on American independence, George III and Louis XVI were of the same mold. England and France were traditional enemies, and Louis might delight in King George’s crisis, but if the Americans were successful, the passion for independence might spread, and every monarch in Europe might suddenly find himself immersed in a revolution of his own. It was a delicate political reality, and Franklin knew that Vergennes would have to tread carefully. There was indeed a game to be played.

  Vergennes had not yet arrived, and the Americans had been led to what the servant described as a parlor. The room was enormous, ornate powder blue walls trimmed with delicate designs in gold leaf, and in the center of each wall hung an enormous mirror. There was a fireplace on one wall, dwarfed by an enormous portrait of King Louis, his image carved into a disc of white marble nearly three feet wide.

  Franklin was familiar with the grand halls of royalty, had been entertained in some of Europe’s most imposing mansions, but as he studied the ornate gilded carvings that framed one of the enormous mirrors, he could not help but be impressed. The French do have a way, he thought. Dwarf the man by engulfing him in splendor. It is a statement, I suppose, a lesson for the little people, the very notion of a monarch who so towers above us all. He backed away from the mirror, felt his sore feet cushioned by a soft Persian rug that spread across the width of the room.

  To one side, Deane was studying a part of the oak floor not covered by the rug, an intricate design of diamonds and detailed parquet. He put his hand down, feeling the wood, said to Franklin, “Marvelous, I must say. Not merely a floor, but a work of art!”

  Deane’s secretary, Edward Bancroft, stood close by, seemed amused by Deane’s sense of wonder.

  Franklin had thought it appropriate for at least one secretary to be present, that anything said in these meetings must surely be recorded. Bancroft was the obvious choice, a Massachusetts man who had worked with several of the colonial representatives in London. Franklin had known him for years, a pleasant and sociable man, and he had been pleased to hear that Deane had secured Bancroft’s services. Franklin was still determined to groom his grandson Temple as his own secretary, but the position was too new to the seventeen-year-old to bring him to such an important meeting. Bancroft could certainly fill the role for all three of them.

  Arthur Lee had moved to the far end of the room, as detached from the others as he could be and still be in the same space. Lee was staring at a mirror, and Franklin caught the man looking at him in the reflection.

  “Rather lovely place, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lee?”

  He put as much pleasantness in the words as he could, some means of breaking through the shroud of gloom that enveloped Lee. Lee did not turn, said, “Lovely, yes.”

  There was nothing pleasant in Lee’s words. Deane glanced at Franklin, a brief shake of his head, and Franklin said quietly, “We must strive for appearances, Mr. Deane. I have done this sort of thing before. United front is most important.”

  Lee turned now, said, “Yes, Dr. Franklin, you have done all of this before. Mr. Deane, we must be certain to watch and learn.”

  There was hard sarcasm in Lee’s voice, and Franklin felt frustration, didn’t know what else to say. He turned again to the mirror, could see Lee’s back in the reflection, the man doing everything he could to create a gulf between them. Lee was somewhat younger than Deane, both men in their late thirties. Deane’s face was adorned with a pleasant openness, a soft roundness given easily to a smile. It was a sharp contrast to Lee’s stern glare, a tight aristocratic handsomeness that made him seem much older than Deane.

  Franklin saw Deane again studying the intricate woodwork of the floor, busying himself with a mindless distraction. Franklin thought, We cannot demonstrate this sort of conflict to the French. Mr. Lee must surely know that.

  Franklin had always known Lee to be a man who placed great value on his own abilities, but he thought, Does he truly believe this job is for him alone? Clearly I cannot counsel him. He assumes anything I say to be a show of vanity, as though we must go about these negotiations by my instruction only. If he is excluded from anything here, it is by his own doing.

  He realized that they had been waiting for several minutes, felt a nervous twinge, thought, Is that their plan? Are we to be kept waiting as a show of our unimportance? It was a familiar annoying experience from his days in London. British officials delighted in making a disdainful show when confronted by any issue concerning the colonies. Surely, it cannot be like that here. They would not have invited us here just to humiliate us. I only hope we make a suitable impression. He glanced at himself in the grand mirror, thought, Well, old man, if you intended to make this impression, there could not be a more perfect setting than a house too beautiful to live in.

  He was wearing a fur cap, a simple brown covering that did not hide the uncoiffed hair that straggled down to his shoulders. It was the most modest attire he could fashion together, a simple brown coat over a stark white shirt, none of the ruffles and lace and adornments the French elite considered a requirement for high fashion. If the French had not yet formed their own image of what an American was, Franklin invented one, and offered it to all of France with no embarrassment. There would be none of the fineries, none of the personal trappings of luxury, and certainly, nothing that would make him appear to have once been English.

  He wore his spectacles always, kept them low on his nose, peered up over them to the tall ceiling. He marveled at the chandelier right above him, the one understated piece of décor in the room, a ring of tall candles emerging from a small explosion of glass beads, glittering like a mountain of diamonds. He moved to one side, thought, No doubt a capable craftsman fastened it securely. But anyone can have a bad day. No point in placing myself under anything whose sudden collapse could dice me into small bits.

  He saw Deane and Bancroft moving toward a long table perched squarely in the center of the room. It was surrounded by ornate chairs, and Deane stood behind one, looked at Franklin, said, “Doctor, would you care to sit?”

  Franklin shook his head.

  “Not appropriate, Mr. Deane. We must endure the wait.”

  Bancroft leaned close to Deane, said, “Protocol requires us to stand until our host has arrived.”

  He appreciated Deane’s gesture as much as he appreciated Bancroft’s knowledge of decorum. He flexed his feet into the rug, bent his knee slightly, and a sharp pain
ran all the way up his back. He looked at himself in the mirror again, frowned at the expanse of his waist, thought, Too many lavish dinners, too much standing about. I must return to my routine, the long walks. Perhaps this stiffness will be relieved.

  There was a flurry of noise, and the tall glass doors swung open, servants stepping in quickly, standing to one side. More men appeared, with pads of paper, all of them falling into what seemed to be a reception line. Now another man appeared, said in a loud voice, “Le Comte de Vergennes.”

  The man seemed to be speaking to a roomful of people, and his voice drew the four men closer to the door. Franklin steadied himself behind one of the chairs, saw Vergennes appear in a rush, the man trying to gather himself. Vergennes looked at Franklin with utter horror.

  “Oh, my word, Dr. Franklin! Forgive me! I was detained at the royal court. The queen insisted.” Vergennes seemed to catch himself, suddenly aware of the indiscreet comment, and the ears of his staff. He looked at the other three men, produced a smile, said, “On behalf of His Majesty, King Louis, welcome to Paris.”

  He turned, said something in French, and two of his assistants seated themselves behind him, on either side of a small table that held their inkstands, each with a pad of paper perched firmly on one knee. The rest of the entourage was quickly gone, the double doors coming closed with a soft click. They had gathered close to the table, and Vergennes said, “Gentlemen, I sincerely apologize. You should not have been made to wait. Were you offered some refreshment?” He looked at Franklin now, said, “Please do not take offense, Doctor. This was an accident, nothing to be interpreted otherwise. You are as welcome here as anyone can be. Please, do sit down.”