Duncan and Ishmael were too drained to resist when she summoned them into the kitchen to apply towels and a basin of hot water. With matronly chuckles, interspersed with mild nautical curses, she wiped the dirt from their faces. By the time Lizzie arrived with a tray of tea, Captain Rhys had descended the stairs.
“Why the long faces?” the Welshman asked. “The bosun says all went as planned.”
“It’s my uncle who’s gone missing,” Ishmael replied in a hollow tone. “He is very aged and I fear for his health.” He caught Duncan’s eye. They had learned to be careful in speaking directly of Bedlam.
“Well now, for a missing boat I find that following its anchorages serves well,” observed the captain. “A vessel leaves a trail in its anchorages, and the anchorages themselves give their own clues. A man’s just the same. Who did your uncle know in London, lad?”
“No one,” Ishmael replied.
“He would have made arrangements, to sleep and eat and such. There’s your trail.”
“No one,” Ishmael repeated. “No trail.”
But the Welshman’s words lingered with Duncan. They desperately needed to know more about the path Conawago had taken in London, for that path would likely offer the best hope of saving their friend. Something about Sarah’s description of how she received letters had been nagging him. He turned to Ishmael. “Sarah said there were letters delivered by Mohawks. Why Mohawks? If Sir William Johnson had received them, he would have forwarded them by fast post rider.”
“Because,” Ishmael suggested in a contemplative voice, “Sir William didn’t receive them.”
“Delivered by Mohawks. Patrick Woolford had already sailed to England to some unknown estate in the countryside, but he and his wife Hannah live near Johnson Hall, and Conawago is well acquainted with Hannah, the daughter of a Mohawk elder. What if Conawago didn’t go to Johnson Hall to see Sir William? What if he went to see Patrick’s wife, because Patrick knows London, even has an office here when he visits.”
“Or because Hannah herself has a connection,” Ishmael ventured, and saw the query on Duncan’s face. “She has a china cup from London on her mantel, and Patrick always laughs about it, saying what need do they have for such a frivolous thing in their cabin?”
“As if,” Duncan mused, “he were not the one who gave it to her.”
Ishmael nodded. “Patrick would be a connection to London, but so may his wife. She does work with the Disciples.”
“The Disciples?”
“One of those old charities for the tribes. The Disciples of the Wilderness, or of the Trees or such. She goes to Albany sometimes and brings back blankets and pots, saying when she passes them out to thank the kind hearts of London.”
“Hannah has a friend in London,” Duncan concluded, “one whom Conawago would trust. But we know nothing of who it is,” he groused. Another door had creaked open, only to be slammed shut again.
Sarah—I was talking with Xander, one of the link boys who carry lanterns to guide citygoers in the night. He says he heard on the streets about the Sons of Liberty in America, but he can’t grasp what they are. He says if you have to claim your liberty then you have lost some of it, and that the only way to have real liberty is to be sure the king has no idea of who you are. I can’t explain the American view of liberty to people here, perhaps in part because there seem to be so many differing views in America. I would never make them understand how my new friend Daniel Boone gave up all his life in the settlements to find unfettered freedom in the wilderness, or how the tribes give up nothing for that freedom, for it has always been theirs. I tried to explain it to the porter here, Sinner John, and he said that it’s not the way things work in England. When I asked him to explain, he just said that liberty is meaningless for a man if that man doesn’t know his true self, and that maybe this is what’s happening in America, that people are discovering who they really are.
Duncan awoke from a fitful afternoon nap after writing to Sarah again to find a note on his nightstand. Coffee shop, Craven Street, it said in Ishmael’s handwriting. The small shop, half a block down from Charing Cross and not far from the Franklin residence, was not yet crowded and Duncan paid his penny for a chair and a steaming mug without any sign of Ishmael. He sipped his brew and watched the flow of passersby, imagining Conawago arriving alone in the unforgiving city. The aged were treated with contempt by many on the streets, and he had seen more than a few huddled at night under the bulks, the tables set in front of shops to display wares. On the Strand he had watched in despair as an old man struggled with a dog over a bone.
“If you are up for stalking some game,” came Ishmael’s voice from behind him, “you are welcome to join me in the chase. Dr. Franklin scoffs at the notion that soldiers are secretly watching him. Wouldn’t you prefer to say you have proven it?” Ishmael had acquired a large tricorn hat which he had pulled low to obscure his features. “The relieving watch has reported and the off-duty man is leaving,” he declared, nodding across the street. “He wears high black boots,” he added, indicating a man who had begun moving at a brisk march in the direction of Whitehall.
“I see no boots. He wears long trousers.”
Ishmael gave a small laugh. “Like the cavalry and dragoons wear. That link boy Xander and his friend Robbie ran by him and spilled a chamber pot on his foot. He cursed them but did not chase them, because he could not leave his assigned station. But he went to the horse trough and put up his leg to clean his foot, lifting his trouser leg to do so.”
“And exposed his boot in doing so,” Duncan surmised with a grin. He drained his cup and followed Ishmael onto the street.
As they walked, Ishmael explained that Xander, Robbie, and the other link boys had accepted his challenge of playing the stealthy Indians stalking an enemy soldier. They had soon reported that the watchers worked on four-hour shifts with one or two on duty at a time, and they had a link boy from a different parish who ran messages back and forth. Sometimes they sat in the coffee house, sometimes at the small bake shop across the street; otherwise they sauntered along the street or lingered in one of the shadowed alleys.
“Soldiers recruited from other duties,” Ishmael said, voicing the suspicion they had shared since hearing the bosun’s first report of men in high boots. “Not accustomed to ground maneuvers or subterfuge. They stand too erect, and usually look like they are marching when they walk. A couple have legs bowed from long hours in the saddle.”
A knot grew in Duncan’s belly as he watched the man walk through the gate of the large parade ground, returning the sentry’s salute despite being in civilian clothes. A sign with gilded letters proclaimed the compound to be the home of the Horse Guards.
It came as no surprise, but seeing a place filled with men in the same uniform as Hastings made their danger more real, and more grave. Ishmael was gazing not at the soldiers but at Duncan, and Duncan realized the real reason they had come. Ishmael was not simply performing the warrior’s duty of reconnoitering the enemy—he was chastising him for not confronting the danger to Benjamin Franklin more directly.
“The major made good on his threat,” Ishmael observed. “Poor lad. I do feel sorry for him despite his red coat.”
Duncan followed his nod toward the east side of the parade ground, where a line of high-prancing horses was being ridden in a pattern around barrels. “Poor lad?” he asked.
Ishmael answered with a quick gesture beyond the exercising mounts to the stable itself. Duncan didn’t understand until the forlorn soldier hauling a barrow of horse manure emerged into the sunlight. It was Ensign Lewis.
Ishmael having departed for Bedlam, Duncan was a block away from the Craven Street house when a figure dashed out of an alley, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the shadows. “It’s true!” the man said. “I never would have credited it if I had not seen with my own eyes!”
“Henry?” Duncan asked, surprised to be accosted by Franklin’s secretary Henry Quinn. “What’s true?”
“The men who creep about! The watchers! Dr. Franklin was cross about you suggesting it, Mr. McGowan, saying you didn’t understand the comings and goings of the city, but I do believe you are right. I saw some rough-looking fellows studying the house yesterday and they are back today, lurking in the shadows. When I saw you approaching, it occurred to me that you might help me.”
“Help you?”
“Convince the household of how important our secrecy is. They speak so freely, sir. I have been with Mrs. Stevenson in the market and heard how she prattles on about the doctor and his experiments. And his visitors,” Quinn added, nervously glancing around the corner of the alley as he spoke. “And he treats Polly like a beloved daughter, tells her everything. I suspect she keeps no secrets from Dr. Hewson. Then there’s Judith, who goes out to the tavern down the street once a week with three or four women in service with other houses. The market gossip, the parlor games, the tavern tales—who knows what confidences can be breached in friendly banter! Why, if it were a ship, the Stevenson house would have sunk from all the leaks long ago.”
Duncan eyed the earnest clerk uncertainly. “Why reveal this to me?” he asked. “I am little more than a stranger.”
“You brought Dr. Franklin something, something precious it seems,” Quinn said, then held up his open palms. “Don’t tell me what it is. But if you value it, take precautions, I beg you! I only want what is best for Benjamin. He is a man of little guile. Too trusting, I fear, and his health troubles me. It would be a cruel shock to him if someone in his household betrayed him, even inadvertently. And he needs to be more careful with his mail. Why, he often just finds the nearest link boy or runner to send a message to Whitehall. The seat of government! It is his colonial way to be so trusting and I admire that, truly, but there must be a limit, especially in these troubled times.”
Quinn abruptly spun about, his face in the shadows now. A man in high riding boots was pacing along the opposite side of the street. Franklin’s secretary pulled Duncan deeper into the alley.
“I have already set myself the task of reminding him of the dangers,” Duncan said.
“Then I am truly grateful. And perhaps mention what a bad practice it is to be so negligent with mail. If necessary, I myself can run messages to Whitehall.” Quinn leaned closer. “These are precarious times. Government is shifting. It is not proper for a secretary to speak up to his master, but if Benjamin’s friends fall from power, he could lose everything. You and I have to protect him from himself.”
“Preposterous! I tell you again, you are mistaken, sir!” Franklin protested when he heard Duncan’s report. “I assure you the Horse Guards have no interest in me! Those men that sailor saw, why, they were just some toughs looking for easy prey. Some of the houses here are just the city dwellings of families who spend most of their time at country estates. ’Tis not unusual for them to attract footpads and burglars. What you suggest is beyond right thinking!”
“You live in a world of diplomacy,” Duncan said, “in which you must pretend to believe the best of everyone. Just because you don’t openly express support for the Sons of Liberty doesn’t mean you have not been connected with the Sons by men who live in a different world. Ishmael and I are trained for reconnaissance and war, where we must seek out bitter reality. These men are not watching this house because they think it is easy pickings or because of me, for they believe I am at the bottom of the Atlantic. I tell you, you are in danger, sir, and you will put the entire household in danger if you do not take more precautions.”
Franklin made a small harrumphing noise and sipped his tea. “I am a diplomat, agent not just of the Pennsylvania colony but for New York and Massachusetts as well. There is an etiquette to be observed in the government’s treatment of an official representative.” He paused, then searched his pockets and produced a slip of paper. “I have something for you, my friend,” he said, seeming keen to change the subject.
Duncan accepted the paper and gazed in confusion at its words. Oal hiumun biings ar born fri and ikwul, it read.
“It’s my new alphabet!” Franklin explained. “You are one of the first to see it! My dear friend the landlady’s daughter and I use it for now just to correspond but soon it shall be embraced by the masses. Much easier to pronounce and spell.”
Duncan studied the words again. “All human beings are born free and equal,” he read.
“Precisely! You prove how simple it is to assimilate! Soon I shall breach the secrecy and tell the world.”
Ishmael took the paper, quickly scanned it, and handed it back. “It looks like a code,” he observed.
“At first glance perhaps, but soon it will quickly become second nature.” Franklin leaned forward as if to answer their questions about this, his latest invention.
Instead, Duncan folded the slip into his pocket and said, “I believe we were speaking of your diplomatic world, Doctor. You are not a member of Parliament.”
“No,” Franklin said, clearly deflated. “That’s rather the point of my efforts with Whitehall, to try to attain proper influence for the colonies despite that sad reality.”
Duncan pressed on. “You are not appointed by the king.”
“Of course not.”
“In fact, you are appointed by the colonial assemblies, whose very existence is an annoyance to the king.”
“An annoyance to the king’s advisers,” Franklin said, as if correcting Duncan. “The king shows due respect to the colonial representatives.”
Duncan did not remark on the hollowness of the assumption by so many that the king was ever a virtuous and reasonable man. “I recall reading something by a great man,” he observed instead. “Half a truth can become the greatest of lies.”
Franklin’s expression softened into an ironic grin. “Unfair, McCallum, to use my own words against me.” He turned with a contemplative gaze toward the low fire in the hearth. “But truly I have done nothing to offend the king’s elite troops,” he said after a moment.
“It is not the army pointing these secretive men at you, it is members of the War Council. And if it is not something you have done that offends them, then it must be something you intend to do,” Duncan suggested.
His words stiffened Franklin, who rose and paced along the hearth, hands folded at his back. Duncan remained silent as he stepped to the giant tooth, again on his gaming table. The tooth had clearly taken on a deep significance for him. He touched it the way Duncan touched his own totem pouch.
When he finally looked up his eyes were heavy with worry. “If what you say is true, then it is difficult to maintain hope for peace,” he declared. “I must—” He broke off at a commotion in the entry below. Clearly grateful for the interruption, Franklin moved to the sitting room entrance as steps sounded on the stairs.
“Polly!” he cried in greeting and threw out his arms as an attractive woman of perhaps thirty years left the arm of Dr. Hewson to embrace him. “Ever a reviving sight for weary eyes,” Franklin said, and introduced Mrs. Stevenson’s daughter to Duncan and Ishmael.
“Adventurers from the New World, I hear!” Polly exclaimed. Her eyes sparkled with deep intelligence, and Franklin was clearly delighted at the way she still held his hand as she spoke. “I tortured William terribly when his housekeeper told me of secret goings-on last night. But no confidences breached, for I was already in the incognitum cabal, so to speak.”
Franklin’s smile faltered as if Polly were about to expose a layer of his secret world he did not wish to share. “Tea! More tea, Margaret!” he called out. “And let’s try the almond cakes and madeira!”
Hewson cast a grimace toward Duncan as if apologizing for the interruption, then carried an empty tray from the sideboard down for renewal in the kitchen. When he returned, he was escorting the final member of the incognitum circle, energetically speaking with her about the workings of the lymph glands.
Olivia Dumont had left Hewson’s house the night before with great reluctance, for she had been fascinated by his own
bone collection and mention of his research. “Dr. Hewson has a great cobra in a jar of alcohol!” she exclaimed to Duncan as Hewson and Polly poured tea. “And over a dozen dried lizards!”
The afternoon had grown cool and Franklin added more fuel to his hearth, then stared at the flames intently. Duncan had begun to realize that Franklin had certain habits for his contemplations, one being consulting the smoke of his pipe and the other being studying the flames of his hearth. Duncan recalled from conversations with Franklin’s wife in Philadelphia that he had first lived in the Stevenson house a dozen years earlier, and now with the long rays of the sun shining through the windows he could see the faint discoloration and indentation in the floor indicating the track of such musings through the years. Franklin was a man who could burst into ebullient exclamations and explanations but who could just as quickly sink into deep, brooding silences. When his focus finally returned to his companions, he gestured with a forced smile toward the little blue crystal crescent moon hanging in the top sash of the nearest window. “Have you forgotten, Polly dear?”
Polly glanced at the moon, clearly not understanding. “Benjamin?”
“The treasures. The blue moon. My message.”
“But I’ve received no message from you this week and more,” Polly replied. “Nothing about a moon, blue or otherwise.”
Franklin cast a puzzled expression at her, then rose and stepped to his desk, where he rummaged through papers stuffed in the pigeonhole compartments. “It’s not here, dear,” he concluded, then paused as he perused what seemed to be a stray letter. “Oh. Oh my,” he muttered, then looked up sheepishly, holding the letter out. “It’s my original report to Prime Minister Grafton on the debates in Philadelphia about a new Pennsylvania currency.” Franklin’s expression slowly shifted from embarrassment to amusement. “Henry was away the afternoon I sent it. I stuffed your message, Polly dear, in the envelope for Grafton. Won’t the prime minister be entertained, receiving a missive about pearls in a blue moon, although I am not sure he will be able to decipher my alphabet.” Franklin chuckled, then pointed to the moon again. “For you, Polly dear.”
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