by John Jakes
What remained was to convince Marie. Somehow, he hesitated to bring up the subject. Perhaps for fear of refusal, he admitted to himself.
But one sunny day in April 1772, when a balmy breeze began to melt the last gray snow and send it rushing down the street channels, two unexpected visitors to Sweet’s Lane took the decision about approaching Marie out of his hands.
CHAPTER III
Mr. Burke and Dr. Franklin
i
“WIPE THAT BLACK MESS from your hands, lad, and come up front at once!”
Startled, Phillipe nearly dropped the leather ink ball. Interruptions of the workday were rare; Mr. Sholto not only preached but practiced diligence. Yet there he was at the door leading to the shop, gesturing with some urgency. When Phillipe glanced at Hosea, the latter shrugged, equally baffled.
Phillipe grabbed a rag and cleaned his hands as best he could. Then he hurried to the doorway, where Sholto enlightened him a little further:
“I promised to introduce you to a colonial, didn’t I? Well, Franklin’s come by, out of the blue! In company with another of my good friends. Quickly, quickly!—we don’t want to take too much time away from the press.”
Phillipe followed the printer into the front shop. Two soberly dressed gentlemen were conversing with Mrs. Emma. Marie, busy dusting the bookshelves with a feather whisk, gave her son a surprised stare as he entered. Following Mr. Sholto, Phillipe didn’t stop for an explanation.
The younger of the two visitors, a ruddy-cheeked man in his early forties, was speaking to Sholto’s wife in lilting English that Phillipe later discovered was a hallmark of the man’s Dublin origins:
“—we’ve missed your good husband’s occasional presence at the Turk’s Head. The Whig party is coming back to life over the coffee cups.” The man turned to acknowledge the printer’s arrival. “Even irascible Johnson, who thinks the first Whig was the Devil himself, has inquired after you, Solomon.”
“Illness and work have kept me away,” Sholto said. “When health prevails and profits are secure—then there’s time for idling with friends.”
But it was the other visitor at whom Phillipe stared in awe. The “godless wizard”; the internationally hailed genius, the lusty Thames swimmer—
Dr. Benjamin Franklin was a stout man almost twenty years older than his companion. He had jowls, receding gray hair, a paunch and keen eyes. Spectacles enhanced his sagacious expression. At once, Phillipe noticed a peculiarity about the lenses. The lower halves seemed to be of a different thickness from the upper. Could the spectacles be the invention to which Sholto had referred?
Franklin said to the printer, “I agree about work, Solomon. Hundreds and hundreds of times have I agreed!” He smiled. “Poor Richard said the same thing endlessly—whenever, in fact, I ran out of witty words for him. I long ago concluded that I have written overmuch concerning the virtues of thrift and labor. I’m supposed to be the very model of a dull, parsimonious drudge—and gad, how the reputation lingers! Let me so much as crack one jest among most Britons and eyebrows fly to heaven. But you know, my friend, I enjoy the presence of maidens and Madeira as well as the next.”
“Better than the next,” Sholto smiled.
“Keep my secret, Solomon. Meantime, let me echo Edmund. You have been too long away from our gatherings.”
“And you from Sweet’s Lane, Benjamin.”
“Thank you. My sentiments also.”
“There are other attractions at the Turk’s Head besides political chatter,” advised the Irishman, his eye merry.
“Quite so,” Franklin agreed. “Doctor Goldsmith’s been favoring us with readings from his new comedy: He hopes you’ll land the printing commission after Garrack gets the play on. I predict it will be a solid hit. Very popular in the playhouses on our side of the Atlantic as well.”
Sholto called a halt to the pleasantries by clearing his throat and glancing at Phillipe.
Both visitors focused their attention on the younger man. Phillipe was also aware of his mother watching him closely. He hated to have his speculations about America revealed to her in this fashion. But he saw little he could do about it.
A mussel seller pushing a barrow went by in Sweet’s Lane, crying his wares as Sholto said, “This young man is a guest in my household. A sort of unofficial apprentice. His name is Phillipe Charboneau. His mother, Madame Charboneau, is there behind you.”
The two gentlemen offered cordial greetings. Marie executed a stiff curtsy, still obviously confused. Phillipe didn’t miss the way the older visitor adjusted his spectacles and boldly took note of Marie’s still-shapely figure.
Sholto said to Phillipe, “Mr. Burke is an orator and pamphleteer of outstanding skill. Also a member of Commons from the pocket borough of Wendover. Doctor Franklin, I’ve already told you about. Phillipe shows an aptitude for the printing trade, Benjamin. He’s most anxious to talk with you—and to read your Observations Concerning the Increase of Mankind. Our two copies, alas, are gone.”
“Then come by my lodgings at Number Seven in Craven Street, young man—of an evening, preferably—and we’ll accomplish both objectives. May I ask, however, the reason for your interest in my paper on population in America?”
Aware of Marie watching, Phillipe hesitated a second. Sholto answered instead:
“For various reasons, Phillipe’s considering going there, rather than returning to his home in France.”
Marie’s intake of breath was sharp and sudden. Phillipe glanced her way long enough to see the anger in her dark eyes. He was caught off guard by Dr. Franklin’s robust voice:
“Good for you! The opportunities are virtually unlimited. Particularly for an ambitious young fellow who can ply a press. Before I rose to my present position of eminence—” the twinkle in Franklin’s eyes disclaimed any seriousness in the words. “—I was a printer myself. Philadelphia.”
Phillipe nodded. “Mr. Sholto told me.”
“I actually learned the trade in Boston, as an apprenticed boy. Never regretted it, either. I arrived in Philadelphia at age sixteen with absolutely nothing to my name but one Dutch dollar, a few copper pennies—and considerable hope. Thanks to printing, before too many years were out I was living well—and even making a modest mark in the world.”
“Faith—‘modest!’ ” Burke grinned. “The doctor’s a man of parts, Mr. Charboneau. Inventor. Scientist. Founder of hospitals. Organizer of a society aiming to do away with the obnoxious slave trade—”
“He doesn’t want to hear about me, Edmund,” Franklin said. “He wants to hear about the colonies. Am I right, young man?”
“You are, sir. And I’ll take you up on your offer to call in Craven Street.”
“Excellent. I warn you—I may reminisce. I frequently wish I could go home, instead of wandering through the unspeakable maze of British politics. I formerly represented the commercial interests of Pennsylvania. Now it’s Massachusetts Bay—but it’s all the same kind of wrangling. And I had to leave my dear wife, Deborah, behind. She has an absolute horror of sea travel. Sometimes it’s a lonely life,” he concluded, with another glance at Marie.
Franklin’s sighed complaint didn’t match his lively eye. Marie wasn’t interested.
“How much have you told the boy about America, Solomon?” Franklin asked finally.
“What little I’ve picked up from you. That there’s hardly a city street corner where a hawker isn’t peddling some broadside or penny sheet—”
“Did you also tell him that many of the publications are scurrilous and radical?” asked Burke in a tart tone.
“Who’s to blame for that, Edmund?” Franklin retorted. “The longer His Majesty insists upon imposing unjust laws on Englishmen, the oftener the radicals like Adams and his engraver friend Revere will cobble together their inflammatory broadsides. The fault lies on your side of the Atlantic, not ours.”
Edmund Burke returned a dismal nod. “You know I agree. Haven’t I stood up in Commons many a time to plead for c
hecking the excesses of the ministers? My position is conciliation. The government simply can’t go on acting like a brutal father punishing a child.”
Dr. Franklin smiled, raised a plump hand. “Edmund, you needn’t impress me with your Irish oratory. I know your good intentions. I also know you’re in the minority—a steadily dwindling group that can no longer even count on Mr. Pitt’s full support.”
Burke agreed: “ ’Twas a double tragedy when we lost him to the peerage, then to his mental disorder.”
“And now,” Franklin returned, “the King and his supporters have the votes, in both the Commons and the Lords, to do exactly as they wish, provided they can keep the British merchant class content and prospering. Even though there’s a temporary stand-off, I am very fearful the government may again soon take up the same willful course that led to the massacre from which Adams made so much capital.”
“There was a massacre solely because the Boston mobs provoked the troops!” Burke insisted.
“Damme, let’s not argue like enemies, Edmund! We hold the same basic position, after all. And we both know one important fact which most of my countrymen do not. That it’s really the King, not the toadying ministers, chiefly responsible for the vile taxes lying at the center of the trouble.”
“Here, Benjamin!” Sholto said, dismayed. “That’s a change of heart, isn’t it?”
Franklin smiled sourly. “Many things change as a result of eavesdropping and maneuvering on the back stairs of Whitehall. Daily, I grow less and less enchanted with His Majesty—”
“Well, those taxes you mentioned may plague you again,” Burke warned. “Have you heard the latest clack about the East India Company?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s rumored that because their fortunes have sunk so low, they may try to manipulate passage of a bill to give’ them a monopoly on the tea trade overseas.”
“They’ll do so at their peril.” The keen eyes behind the peculiar spectacles showed a ferocity Phillipe found surprising in a man of such benign appearance.
Abruptly, Franklin turned his attention away from Burke. “I am supposed to paint you a cheerful picture, Mr. Charboneau. And here we are daubing out a gloomy one. But there’s some sunlight among the thunderheads after all. Come by Craven Street and I’ll show it to you.”
“I look forward to it, Doctor.”
“The colonies really have no desire to create problems, you see. The future tranquility of America rests solely in the hands of King George.”
“Nonsense!” Burke protested. “Your friend Adams, for one, is anxious to provoke trouble. He can’t wait to manipulate his mobs again, in order to feed the fire of his personal ambitions.”
“Adams may run to excess on occasion,” Franklin granted. “But if we do not share the same means, we share the same principles. We crave peace and harmony above all things save one.” He paused a moment. “Our rights as Englishmen. I would have that warning repeated from the Turk’s Head to your farmer king’s own private cabbage patch. Yet I fear none will listen, except for a few good men like you, Edmund.”
At that, Burke merely looked glum.
Phillipe noticed Marie watching him across Burke’s shoulder and hastily averted his eyes. He realized that before the day was out, he would have to confront her.
Franklin became more animated again, producing a fobbed silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. Showing Burke the painted dial, he said, “I’ve an appointment shortly with the Secretary of State for the American Department. I must beg leave to go along.”
“I’ll go as well,” Burke said, “now that we’ve concluded our main business—inquiring after Solomon’s health.”
As the two visitors started for the door, the Irishman added, “Rush orders or no, Solomon, your friends will be expecting you for coffee or chocolate at the Turk’s Head within a fortnight. Uninterrupted work creates sour dispositions—”
“And wealthy printers.” Dr. Franklin grinned. “Mr. Charboneau, don’t fail to call.”
“I won’t, I promise. And thank you.”
The two men disappeared down Sweet’s Lane, trailed by half a dozen urchins who suddenly materialized to importune them for gin money. Before the men and the noisy children had passed out of sight, Marie bore down on her son with a vengeful look in her eye.
“What is this plan you discuss with strangers when you haven’t so much as mentioned it to me?”
Phillipe didn’t flinch from the glare. “I intended to speak to you about it soon, Mama.”
Solomon Sholto said, “Your son wanted to investigate the idea first, Madame Charboneau.”
Marie’s fists clenched. “To labor like a nobody in some foreign land where everything’s in a turmoil—is that your proposal?”
In an attempt to rescue Phillipe, Sholto stepped between mother and son. “Madame, I remind you that we are in the midst of a working day. I appreciate that you and your son have matters of consequence to discuss. But pray do so later, when I’m not paying for it.”
With effort, Marie suppressed a retort. The front bell tinkled. Two bonneted ladies entered. Mrs. Emma bustled forward, saying much too loudly:
“Good day, Mrs. Chillworth! Come for the newest novels? Madame Charboneau will help you find them—”
For a moment Phillipe feared that his mother would explode with anger. But she didn’t. Seconds passed. Mr. Sholto cleared his throat.
With a final glance at Phillipe that promised an accounting later, Marie turned and stalked off to aid the new customers.
Another welcome diversion, albeit one that made Mrs. Emma exclaim aloud, was a sudden crash from the back. Hosea bellowed, “Oh, God damn and blast!”
Phillipe and Mr. Sholto dashed into the printing room. They found Hosea furiously kicking one leg of his press. The thick, all-important platen had split through the center.
At his type case, Esau was smirking. “Too much pressure on the lever, dear brother. Where was your mind? Up some doxy’s skirt?”
“We shall take all day replacing it!” Mr. Sholto fumed, purple in the cheeks.
But as Phillipe followed the owner up the steps to where Hosea was swearing and rubbing his toe, he realized that no delays of any kind could prevent an inevitable—and inevitably unpleasant—confrontation with Marie.
ii
Mr. Sholto had to send all the way across the Thames to Southwark for a replacement platen. The part didn’t arrive until well after dark. Installation took two hours. The family’s customary eight o’clock supper was delayed. Phillipe was tired and edgy when he finally followed Sholto and his sons upstairs shortly after St. Paul’s rang ten.
Marie was waiting for him.
“We will not eat until I have spoken with you, Phillipe.”
He checked his temper with great effort. “All right. But at least we needn’t disturb the household. We’ll go for a walk.”
“Careful of the streets at this hour,” Mr. Sholto advised, moving on toward the kitchen, from which drifted aromas of steaming tea and new-baked bread. Phillipe nodded absently.
Marie fetched a shawl from her room. They walked down the outside stairs into darkness that had become thick with fog. Their feet rang hollow on the cobbles of Sweet’s Lane. Phillipe was hardly conscious of which way they were going. His mother didn’t speak. The tension mounted. Suddenly Marie slipped in the slime of the drainage channel.
He reached for her arm. She shook off his hand angrily. Then the outburst came:
“Your mind’s been affected! You’re ready for that asylum they call Bedlam! How can you even entertain the idea of traveling to another country when there’s wealth—position—power waiting for you in this one?”
He could no longer treat the subject tactfully. “Mama, that’s an illusion! Have you forgotten the trouble at Kentland? We’ve no chance of pressing the claim successfully.”
Marie seethed; he could hear it in her rapid breathing. “What has turned you into a coward, Phillipe?”
He wheeled on her. “Nothing! I’m trying to look at the future like a grown man, not a bemused child!”
“I won’t listen to—”
“You will! Do you propose that we live on charity all our lives? Clinging to the hope that some miracle will happen? The Duchess of Kentland won’t permit miracles! And what’s left for us in Auvergne?”
“Therefore—” He’d never heard such awful bitterness in her voice. “Therefore you intend to waste your life as a printer’s boy? You, who swore an oath that you wouldn’t let yourself be humbled into obscurity?”
Phillipe winced inwardly at that. Guilt lay heavy on him a moment. Marie was expert at striking at the most sensitive part of his defenses.
“I hadn’t definitely decided to propose that we sail to America,” he hedged. “It seemed worth looking into, that’s all. Printing is a worthy occupation—”
“Being a tradesman is worthy! Faugh!”
“Dr. Franklin did well at it. His writings made him more than welcome among the nobility—”
“Oh, yes, I remember all the talk on the river trip. A genius!” Her tone grew cutting. “Are you a genius, my son?”
“No, no, of course not, I—”
“But you are a nobleman,” she argued, as their clacking footfalls carried them deeper into the mist that beaded cold on his cheeks. “Even your American genius can’t claim that. It comes down to this, Phillipe. If you refuse to press your claim, then I’ve lived for nothing.”
Phillipe’s spine crawled. She no longer spoke with fiery conviction. She ranted, on the edge of hysteria:
“Will you do that to me, Phillipe? Will you destroy me after I’ve surrendered my whole life for you?”
“Mama, you know I’d never willingly hurt you. I love you too much. But you must be realistic—”
“Exactly. Exactly! Why do you think I’ve hoarded every shilling we earn helping the Sholtos? To buy passage back across the Channel?” Her harsh laugh unnerved him even more. “No. Oh, no. I’ve been making secret plans of my own, Phillipe. When we have enough money, we’ll find a lawyer here in London. One who can help us use the letter to advantage—”