by John Jakes
She brought her face close. The moist tip of her tongue crept into his mouth for one last caress. The coach stopped, swaying. He heard the tall servant grumble something to the driver. Boots crunched on the ground. The door was levered open.
The tall man’s eyes, lewdly amused, slid to Philip’s face. Philip climbed out. Had the man said a word, Philip would have hit him.
But the servant knew the limits. He mounted to his place on the box and signed the driver forward.
Philip stood under the April stars, his clubbed hair blowing in the wind. As the coach vanished around a corner, he thought he heard a low, lilting laugh—
A laugh of pleasure. Certainly—
Victory.
God, how easily she manipulated him too! And yet you don’t put a stop to it, do you, my friend?
Nor could he put a stop to his uneasiness. Its source remained hard to define. Perhaps it was Anne—and the vivid image of the liberty medal cast aside. Or the shameful fact that Alicia’s husband was not yet even in his grave—
He knew one thing. Only three or four years ago, he would never have raised a quibble about the future Alicia wanted. To have married an earl’s daughter would have fulfilled his ambitions completely—
Then.
It was a mark of all the change that time and circumstances had wrought that at this moment, he hesitated—
Remember what she stands for. The same kind of power the Amberlys used against you. How can she give that up?
Of all the questions, that one troubled him most. He knew Alicia too well to believe in miracles of love. Either she had given way completely to passion, and didn’t honestly realize the implications of all she’d said tonight—
Or—a return of his earlier suspicion—there was something else he didn’t understand.
Instead of going upstairs, he walked around to the main entrance of the City Tavern. At a table in the public room, he drank three tankards of flip, trying to solve the enigma of the night’s developments. Failing, he drank one more to get rid of the nagging question-marks.
He staggered up to his room half-drunk and vaguely ashamed. The landlord had refused money for the drinks. The sum would be added to his bill.
In the darkness, he flung the warming pan out of bed and sprawled, trying to think it through.
Instead, he slipped into sleep—dreaming not of Alicia but of Anne Ware.
ii
A week in Philadelphia’s balmy April weather brought him a sense of the pace and mood of the prosperous Quaker city.
On Tuesday evening, the sonorous “butter bells” of Christ Church tolled for the coming of market day on Wednesday. But everywhere, talk concerned itself less with commerce than with the trouble in Massachusetts.
Taking a meal in the tavern’s main room of an evening, he found that careful listening provided bits of news that were apparently being relayed by mounted courier to Philadelphia’s patriot faction.
Companies of British soldiers, he heard, had once more marched from Boston, this time toward the village of Brookline. Philip assumed the force had numbered fewer than five hundred men. There was no word of hostilities.
But the well-dressed gentlemen who dined and drank and cursed the North ministry under the blackened beams seemed to share the opinion of most everyone Philip talked to: hostilities were now inevitable.
He listened to men at the City Tavern laud some Virginia orator named Henry. In late March, the man had addressed the House of Burgesses and declared that, with war a virtual certainty, he saw only two choices for men of conscience—liberty or death.
The ruffled and powdered gentlemen of the City Tavern also seemed to be among the first to receive overseas news from arriving ships. Yes, the King was determined to force a showdown. The gentlemen banged their sticks on the pegged floor and shouted, “Fie, oh fie!” until the smoky room fairly thundered with the racket of the ferrules.
And when some slightly tipsy patriot rose to quote excerpts of the Henry speech, the sticks thundered with equal ferocity. This time in approval.
Six days passed. Philip was continually worried about Anne Ware and her father. Once he saddled Nell, intending to ride to Arch Street, bid Alicia goodbye and return north.
But with the saddle in place, he unstrapped it again. As he laid it aside, he cursed his own indecision—and Alicia’s hypnotic influence on his feelings.
I will see her one more time, he thought. That will be the end.
Yet he wasn’t sure.
What if, through some strange chemistry of the emotions, she truly had decided Roger Amberly’s world was not all she had once thought it to be? What if she really did want to be his wife, regardless of his prospects for the future? Time and events had changed him; why couldn’t the same thing have happened to her?
As a result of this kind of self-questioning, he remained in Philadelphia—in limbo.
The tavern conversation was full of references to the Second Continental Congress, due to open in early May now that George III refused to give ground. On his seventh afternoon in the city, Philip asked directions to the site of the forthcoming assembly. He strolled through the mild April twilight under the elm trees beginning to show their buds, and reached the imposing brick State House.
In the yard, boots tramped in rhythm. He looked in to watch a local militia unit drilling. Near them, half a dozen splendid saddle horses were tied.
As the militiamen executed a smart countermarch, Philip was troubled by a memory of Colonel Barrett and the Concord companies—as well as by thoughts of all those who had befriended him, adopted him to their cause—
Ben Edes.
Lawyer Ware.
Anne—
God! he swore silently. That man was ever born to be torn and troubled by women!
He absolutely could not stand to wait any longer. He resolved to get a message to Arch Street. Face Alicia, and see whether the encounter would lead to a resolution of the turmoil within him. One moment, he wanted her desperately. The next, he suspected her motives—
Yes, let it be a message to Arch Street! He’d hire another tavern boy and damn the furor it might cause among her relatives.
Vaguely aware of the clip-clop of hoofs behind him, he started away from the gate of the yard, determined to force the confrontation before the day was over—
“Sir—a moment. Aren’t we acquainted?”
The voice broke Philip’s concentration. He turned to see a man on horseback outside the State House gate. A stout, elderly man with spectacles and an all-but-bald pate—
It was Franklin.
The doctor had evidently come out of the State House and mounted one of the horses tied to the ring blocks in the yard. He was gorgeously clad in a suit of deep emerald velvet. White ruffles at the throat matched his white hose. Silver buckles decorated his shoes. Franklin nudged his horse with his knees and rode forward.
The sight of him carried Philip back instantly to Sweet’s Lane and Craven Street. Dr. Franklin still wore those glasses with differing thicknesses in the same lens. But the jowly, keen-eyed face appeared to have aged a good deal. The lines were deeper. Franklin’s smile as his horse trotted up seemed less natural than before, tinged with a puzzling melancholy—
“Warmest greetings to you, Dr. Franklin,” Philip said.
“Mr. Charboneau, isn’t it? I remember you distinctly from London.”
Philip smiled. “That’s mutual, sir. I remember you—and with much appreciation. Your loan of five pounds helped me reach Bristol and the colonies.”
“That’s splendid, splendid.”
“But I’ve taken an American name here. Philip Kent.”
“Capital! I was informed you were forced to leave London in some haste. I trust the list and letter were of assistance in establishing you in the printing trade?” Franklin pushed his spectacles down and peered over the top of the frames. “I mean, sir, I expect the loan to be repaid when your industry makes you rich.”
Preferring not to tell
Franklin how he’d lost both documents, Philip simply said, “It’ll be repaid, you can count on it. I found a very good location with a Mr. Edes in Boston.”
“Ben Edes of the Gazette? Then you’re not set up here in Philadelphia?”
“No, I’m only in the city on—on business.”
Gazing down from the expensive saddle of polished leather, Franklin gestured. “Sir, come along! You must let me buy you a mug of coffee or chocolate while you bring me up to date on news from our beleaguered sister city. How recently did you come from there?”
“Close to three weeks ago. I’m afraid any news I have is badly dated.”
“Mmm, quite so. However, working with Ben Edes puts you on the proper side, doesn’t it, Mr.—Kent, isn’t that what you said?”
“Right.”
“Good and proper American name. This way—there’s a very excellent and popular place just a few steps from here. I insist you let me buy you a refreshment. I want to hear how you’ve gotten on. After all,” Franklin added, still smiling that strangely forced smile, “I had something to do with persuading you to sail to this side of the ocean, I believe.”
“You certainly did, sir.”
“Perhaps now, with everything in such a catastrophic muddle, you’ve begun to regret heeding my advice!”
CHAPTER IV
Too Much for the Whistle
i
PHILIP WALKED BESIDE FRANKLIN’S horse to their destination, The Sovereign Coffee-House, less than a block distant. The doctor frowned at the sight of several other horses tied up in front. Young black grooms held the reins of two more.
As Franklin swung down with a grace surprising for a man of his years, Philip glanced at the faded sign above the doorway. It bore yet another of those ubiquitous likenesses of the Hanoverian king. But some zealous individual had managed to stain the plump, painted face with what appeared to be dung. The Sovereign’s proprietor hadn’t bothered to remove it.
“Place looks more crowded than usual,” Franklin muttered as he and Philip pushed through the door. “Hope my favorite spot’s not taken—damme, it is.”
He indicated a deacon’s bench under the swirled bottle glass of a window to their left. Franklin scratched his chin while heads turned. There were whispers, pointing fingers. Philip realized he was in the company of a celebrity.
No one in the shop seemed inclined to offer the celebrity a place to sit, however. And Philip saw only one vacant table, a small one in a dingy rear corner.
But Franklin had a sly twinkle in his eye and didn’t budge from the entrance. He signaled to the landlord’s boy, called sharply:
“Young man! If you please!”
Recognizing his important visitor, the boy rushed forward.
“Very sorry, Doctor, but we’ve only that back spot open—”
“I suppose we’ll have to take it,” Franklin shrugged. “By the way, my horse is tied out front, and he’s hungry. The big roan—you know the one?”
“ ’Course, sir.”
“Take him a quart of oysters immediately.”
“A quart of oysters?”
“You heard me—a quart of oysters!” boomed the older man. More heads turned. Eyes popped and conversations stopped. “You have them this month, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, got plenty.”
“Then see to it. My horse craves oysters in the worst way.”
Philip threw Franklin a questioning look, but the doctor simply proceeded majestically toward the little table in the back. Philip followed. By the time they reached the table, the boy had returned from the kitchen carrying a small copper pot. Two men rose from a table. Two more. Before a minute had passed, The Sovereign was virtually empty, most of the clientele having followed the boy outside to view the remarkable horse that consumed oysters.
“We can move up front now, Mr. Kent,” Franklin said. “My favorite place is vacant.”
And so it was. Philip chuckled as Franklin settled on the deacon’s bench, remarking, “A little trick I learned when I first took over the postal system years ago. I traveled the routes personally to inspect them. Most country inns where I stopped were crowded of an evening. When I wanted the seat next to the fire and it was taken, I called for oysters for my horse. Never failed. The boy will be back momentarily to take our order.”
Franklin’s prophecy was correct. The landlord’s young helper looked unhappy as he approached, his oyster pot empty. He indicated a red place on his forearm.
“That damn horse won’t have a thing to do with oysters, Dr. Franklin! When I tried to feed ’im, he near bit my arm off. I spilled the whole blasted quart.”
Franklin looked thoughtful. “Perhaps my horse suddenly lost his appetite.”
“And I lost my seat,” complained one of the men who had trooped back inside.
“Oh, I thought you’d departed, sir,” Franklin said in a bland tone. “Well, there are plenty of other places—boy, two chocolates here. And put the oysters on my bill, of course.”
He turned his attention back to Philip, who could hardly control a guffaw as the tricked patrons stampeded through the shop, attempting to regain their former tables. Franklin ignored them. Sunlight through the bottle glass struck fire from his spectacles as he asked whether Philip’s mother was satisfied with their new country. Philip told him of her death aboard Eclipse.
“Ah, that’s tragic news. You have my deepest sympathies. I suffered a bereavement myself only this past December—” The boy arrived with warm mugs of chocolate, left again. “I was still in England when I received word that my dear Joan had died.”
“Your wife? Oh, doctor, I’m sorry.”
“At least I had my Philadelphia family to come home to—my daughter Sally lives here with her husband, Richard Bache.” Philip wondered why Franklin made no mention of his illegitimate son. “And you’ve found a home too, Mr. Kent—literally, if not philosophically—with Ben Edes?”
“And met Samuel Adams, and Mr. Revere and Dr. Warren and many of the other patriot leaders.”
“Excellent men, every one,” Franklin nodded, sipping his chocolate. “I’m informed their lives are forfeit if they stay in Boston much longer, though.”
“To my knowledge, all but Warren and Revere have gone out into the country. I helped a British soldier find a safe haven there, in fact.”
“Helped him desert?”
Philip nodded. “He didn’t have any stomach for causing trouble for other Englishmen. I took him to Concord. I’ve been drilling with one of the militia companies there.”
Franklin pulled down his spectacles. “Is it committee business that brings you to Philadelphia?” Redness colored Philip’s cheeks. “No, it’s—it’s personal. In a way, it was a relief to get out of Massachusetts for a while. Things are so damned confused— Some people want independency, some don’t—and most have no opinion but are scared as hell anyway, because everyone’s convinced there’s going to be trouble.”
Sadly, Franklin bobbed his head to agree. “The irony is, just prior to sailing from England—not only in low spirits but in some disgrace, as you may have heard!—I had an audience with one of this country’s last good friends. The Earl of Chatham. I told him that in all my years in the colonies, I had never, in any conversation, from any person drunk or sober, encountered a deep and genuine wish for separation. Or the suggestion that such a thing would be of the slightest advantage to America. Yet back on these shores, I find it’s being discussed openly. Once, the word was merely whispered—and only by radicals, at that.”
The alert eyes pinned him. “Have you a position on it, Kent? When the second Congress convenes, there’ll be much interest in the state of mind of our citizenry. So every opinion’s valuable.”
Thinking a moment, Philip shook his head in a glum way. “I had unfortunate experiences in England—”
“Yes, you alluded to those when you visited Craven Street. Something to do with a well-placed family, I believe—?”
“That’s right.
The trouble they caused didn’t exactly give me a favorable feeling about the ruling class. On the other hand, all except the most extreme men in Boston—Mr. Adams, for instance—seem to favor some kind of reconciliation.”
“Even at this late hour?”
“If it’s possible. Maybe it isn’t. But with a few exceptions, the soldiers have behaved with restraint. Certainly the Governor has. I mean—elsewhere, I’d guess that a man like Gage would arrest a man like Ben Edes, considering the attacks on the general that the Gazette’s printed.”
“That restraint,” Franklin returned, “is one of the reasons Gage’s star is already falling in Whitehall. I believe he’ll be recalled before too long. The King and his flunkies want decisive action now that they’ve declared Massachusetts in rebellion.”
“I’ll admit none of it’s pleasant to look forward to—I hoped for a chance to build a future here. Maybe that’s why I’m still a little on the fence. I’ve worn a liberty medal, helped Mr. Edes, things like that. But I haven’t supported the cause as completely as I might have. Who wants to see the future go up in musket smoke? And risk dying at the same time?”
“No one who is sane,” Franklin said. “But times do come in the affairs of men when such a course can’t be avoided. I realize many, many people in America would prefer safety to the perils of war—” Franklin set his chocolate mug down, his voice low, his spectacles like twin fires in the filtered sunlight. “But those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.” A pause. The melancholy look returned, “So we must go ahead, whatever the outcome—though I’m not at all certain a war would succeed.”
“Well, that’s one view I haven’t heard before.”
“You hear only the patriot side. Narrow, and admittedly partisan. I try to sound all quarters. I believe only a fraction of our population would support armed hostilities. A fourth, perhaps. A third if we were lucky. We have no army, and who knows how untrained farmers and artisans would behave against regiments that have distinguished themselves on battlefields all over the world? And yet,” he went on earnestly after another pause, “I am still persuaded that we’re traveling the only road we can. In my opinion there is no greater crime under heaven than for one man to allow another to place him—or his nation—in bondage. However”—He shrugged. “—that’s a stand which each must take for himself.”