The King's Beast

by Eliot Pattison

  “You are beyond me,” Franklin confessed.

  “Years ago, he and I were caught in a terrible blizzard in the northern Susquehanna country. We found shelter in an abandoned cabin that still had its roof and a workable hearth. We desperately needed fire but our tinder had gotten wet, so I was much pleased when I discovered an old pamphlet stuffed between two logs and was about to rip out some pages when Conawago stopped me. He said he was familiar with the work and we must not be so disrespectful of Mr. Saunders, the author who created it. He hated damaging the printed word. So I got out my knife and peeled away shavings from the log walls.

  “Only after the fire had thawed our bones did we turn back to the pamphlet. We were trapped in that cabin for four days and took turns reading it aloud. One of my favorite entries was the detail about the makeup of a mile. We memorized most of the pages. Conawago kept saying he would like to meet this genius Richard Saunders someday.”

  Franklin’s belly rose and fell several times before Duncan realized he was laughing. “Poor Richards Almanack,” Franklin said, holding his stomach.

  “1733,” Duncan said. “Being the first after the leap year,” he recited, “and by the account of the Eastern Greek Church the year 7241.”

  “The very first edition,” Franklin said. “We didn’t know how the public would receive it.”

  “It was not until years later that the public learned that Richard Saunders was you.”

  “I wasn’t going to give my own name and have farmers bringing legal action against me because my weather predictions were wrong.”

  “ ‘Death is a fisherman, the world we see his fishpond is, and we the fishes be.’ That was the opening for the month of May,” Duncan continued. “It was the one complaint Conawago had. He said that such a dark passage should be for a winter month, not for the spring.”

  They watched as a cab discharged a solitary figure in the courtyard. The man faced the cathedral, then fell to his knees and lifted his hands in prayer.

  “I think it was on the third day that we began challenging each other to recite a given month’s page from memory. On the ninth of February you predicted snow. And high winds for the fifteenth.” Franklin chuckled again. “We did catch you out that month. There was a printer’s error so that there was no twenty-seventh. The dates went twenty-six, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. But February of 1733 had no twenty-ninth day.”

  “I was mortified,” Franklin confessed. “But I couldn’t bear the cost of printing a new edition. I recall a farmer in Connecticut wrote to request a refund.”

  “Conawago was deeply impressed. He had never studied an almanac before. I recall him saying it was the perfect way to lure the common man to greater appreciation of the world. Sharing of common knowledge is the linchpin of civilization, he likes to say, though I am certain the first time he said it was there in that decrepit cabin as the ice wind howled outside. I genuinely believe it had a lot to do with his entering the newspaper business.”

  Franklin’s head swiveled toward Duncan. “But he is an Indian,” he said, then paused and attempted a more gracious phrasing. “I understand he is a tribal elder. I never heard of such a man in the gazette business. Why, it takes such perseverance, such acute powers of observation and articulation.”

  “You should spend more time with tribal elders,” Duncan said, trying not to take offense.

  “You never told me, Duncan. Perfectly amazing!”

  “He publishes the only paper west of the Catskills. He has a fine old German press.” They kept watching the forlorn man below. He was advancing in slow, single steps, and after each one dropped to his knees for a prayer. “Its masthead reads The Beacon of the Wilderness.”

  “Why, that’s extraordinary!”

  “He is extraordinary. We often travel in the wilderness together. Sometimes he finds ancient petroglyphs, and then has to stop and burn fragrant tobacco to honor them. He is like the incognitum in a way, aged and provoking of deep questions. He likes to camp on high ridges despite the greater winds because it gives a better view of the universe at night.” Duncan felt another pang as he realized he might never again pass such nights with Conawago. “He knows the name of thirty or forty constellations, in English, Latin, and at least two tribal tongues. Sometimes we lie on the rocks and make up our own constellations. On rare nights when he is thus relaxed I can get him to speak of entering the French court, before the turn of this century. King Louis begged him to stay but he told the king a bark lodge by the Hudson awaited him, and his mother’s delicious corn and bean soup. Except when he returned to the lodge, his mother and all his family had disappeared. He never saw them again. Some say they died of smallpox, others that they disappeared into the west like thousands of other tribal refugees.”

  “I really must meet this fellow. What tales we can exchange!”

  “You may recall, Doctor, that he is a prisoner of Bedlam.”

  The words deflated Franklin. “Just so,” he muttered. “Patients,” he added. “They prefer to call them patients.”

  “I take it you have never visited,” Duncan said.

  Franklin had no reply. A man in a priest’s robe emerged from the cathedral and spoke with the praying man, who rose and collapsed into the priest’s arms, sobbing. Duncan and Franklin spoke no more for long minutes. An air of tragedy hung over them.

  Duncan tried a new subject. “I don’t understand about those steam machines for mines. In my experience mines are warm enough inside. What use would steam be?”

  “Steam does the work, my boy! The machine is on the surface. It pushes a great piston and thereby powers a pump to pull water out of the depths. So many mines are in danger of flooding, and now these machines draw the water out. Such machines could break our economic servitude, don’t you see! God blessed us with such vast resources in America, and so many clever mechanics. The Covenant just needs to provide the keys to unlock that productive power.”

  Franklin cocked his head, listening. From far below came the sound of a choir practicing for an early service. The clouds in the east were gilded by the still unseen sun. “I think they hope for breakthroughs in Boston.”

  “Boston.” Duncan repeated the word with a chill.

  “Yes, yes. They sent word to conduct our work at a more rapid pace and send everything we can to Boston for the meeting Hephaestus has called there.” Franklin paused. “Prithee, forget that. I should not have spoken of it. All this secrecy. Speak only to this person, not that person. Invisible inks. McGowan or McCallum. It makes the head spin.”

  Duncan looked out over the city, stirring to life. “All I do is secret, sir.”

  Franklin considered his words and gave a sigh of relief. “Of course. You of all people can be trusted. Here we are on this sacred ground. Perhaps that makes you my priest so I can confess all my dark activities.” He nodded as if to himself. “At least you can share in my amusements. A new list came across with Olivia, bless her. Parts of the new loom are desired, the new recipes for pewter being applied in Manchester, more tools for coopers, and a hunter-green dress with fawn-colored lace trim. I said surely Hephaestus means a pattern for such dresses. Olivia was very tired, and had had too much port, I suspect. No, no she says, it is for Hephaestus to wear!”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I was stunned at first, then had to laugh. Don’t you see? Hephaestus is a woman, Duncan! It’s wonderful! Confusion to our enemies, eh?”

  Duncan stood, alarm in his voice. “The king’s advisers considered the Covenant to be treason. Traitors, the War Council has decided, are best dealt with in private so they would not become martyrs.” He pushed down the sliding ladder and retrieved his cloak.

  “I’m not sure I follow, Duncan,” Franklin said.

  “How do you send letters to those of the Pact?”

  “We adhere to the highest standards of secrecy. They don’t go the leaders of the Pact directly. I send them care of Hancock in Boston, Mulligan in New York, or Thomson in Philadelphia
. But never directly. My messages are left at a stable in Mayfair, on Chesterfield Street. Polly usually delivers them, though she was absent the last time and Henry did me the favor of running one over. There has been a flurry of information coming across. The Boston meeting is to be hosted by a cooper named Runyon. There is a miller from Lowell very keen to hear about water-powered looms.”

  Duncan stared at Franklin, dumbfounded, as his words sank in. “You have to send word, this very day!”

  “Word of what, pray tell?”

  “Hastings is going to Boston! Hastings believes his work against the incognitum is nearly complete and now he turns to Massachusetts. The War Council is sending their assassin to Boston. They mean to eliminate the leaders of the Covenant!”

  Heinz and Greta Huber reacted with warm enthusiasm to Duncan’s request that they keep the renowned Dr. Franklin in their house for a few days. The Philadelphia inventor had been cool to Duncan’s suggestion, made as they climbed down the tower steps, but his reluctance began to fade when he saw the remarkable collection of biological oddities in Heinz’s shop and disappeared entirely when Greta opened the door to the back of the house and the scent of fresh pastries wafted out.

  Over a hearty breakfast Franklin cheerfully answered the Hubers’ eager questions about electricity and lightning. By the time Duncan departed, Franklin had called for paper and was diagramming how they might set up one of his lightning alarms in their bedroom.

  As Duncan hoped, the ever-reliable Darby intercepted him soon after he left the apothecary shop. The bosun laughed as he explained how he had paid two men in dark cloaks to lead some of the guardsmen on a chase across the river, where they could easily lose their pursuers in the labyrinth of alleys. Darby had then untied and scattered the horses of several of the Guard who had dismounted to search an alley after a willing—and fleet-footed—link boy had briefly emerged to call out to his friends that they should come meet the famous Mr. Franklin.

  As they approached the Faulkner House, Darby announced that the Galileo would be ready to sail on in five days, which meant the date of their raid on Bedlam was finally set. The ship would be anchored in the Lower Pool and a dinghy would be waiting at the agreed landing stairs before dawn. Captain Rhys, who had been in meetings with the ship owners, said they must sail with the tide, which meant soon after sunrise.

  “Then we move to ever greater danger, my friend,” Duncan warned. He felt a surge of emotion as he met Darby’s eye. “No matter what happens, Darby, I want you to know how grateful I am for all you have done. I would gladly stand beside you in battle.”

  “That will come soon enough, Highlander. And this time next week you’ll be standing beside me with salt spray on your face.”

  Duncan wished he could share the man’s confidence. “I look forward to the sweet smell of the Atlantic again,” he replied. Darby disappeared down an alley.

  Finding the stable empty, he entered the Faulkner House through the kitchen door. “Noah?” he asked the two maids who sat at the big table drinking tea. The nearest one pointed toward the side door. He found the library door ajar, and through the crack watched as Noah slid the basket of cocoons into what appeared to be a specially designed chest, then covered it with a folded piece of silk. Watching the freedman work with such careful, earnest conviction only made Duncan wonder how he could have taken so long to see the truth. Franklin sent secret messages to a stable on Chesterfield Street.

  Duncan rapped on the door and waited a few seconds, giving Noah a chance to hide his work. The groom was inspecting the hearth as Duncan entered. He turned with a smile. “I was worried about you when you did not return last night.”

  “Dr. Franklin and I were playing cat and mouse with the Horse Guards.”

  “You should rest,” Noah suggested. “Your wound is still healing.” He took a step toward the door as if to encourage Duncan to leave.

  “They are in terrible danger, Noah.”

  “You mean Mr. Franklin and his friends.”

  “I mean all of you who are engaged in secret support of the Non-importation Pact, of the Covenant.”

  Noah took too long for his answer to sound genuine. “I think I have read something about that pact in the gazettes.”

  “You have done more than that. You have obtained silk cocoons, and the moths that will emerge will make thousands of silk worms. You have made drawings of textile and steam machines. You handle secret messages from Franklin to America, to the Covenant.”

  Noah took a deep breath and grew distant. “I am just a groom, Duncan.”

  “I have the greatest respect for you, Noah. You are much more than a groom. But you don’t appreciate the danger you face. Not all the beasts and savages are on the other side of the Atlantic.”

  Noah offered no answer. Duncan realized he was gazing over his shoulder. He turned to see Madeline Faulkner, only two steps behind him. How had she entered so quietly?

  “Noah, the blue carriage needs the team harnessed,” she said, then offered an icy nod to Duncan as she stepped past him to stand between the two men. She straightened her dress and touched the matching green ribbon fastened around her neck, one of the chokers she always wore. He took it as a gesture of arrogance, as if she were reminding him of her high station.

  Duncan pushed down his spleen. He had no time for the interference of the socialite. “Prithee, Madeline,” he said. “I have business with Noah.”

  “And prithee, Mr. McCallum,” she said with unexpected tartness. “Noah works in my household, not yours.”

  Strangely, Noah momentarily put one of his big hands on Madeline’s shoulders as if to calm her, then stepped around her. “There is no need for this bile. We can speak freely, Duncan,” he said. “There are already many secrets among the three of us.”

  “We can go out to the stable,” Duncan said, and with an uneasy glance at Madeline, added, “I can help with the blue carriage.”

  Noah ignored his suggestion. “You were speaking of the American Non-importation Pact and something called the Covenant,” the freedman said with a meaningful look at the mistress of his house.

  Duncan cast another peevish glance at Madeline, who for the first time since he had known her had anger in her eyes. “Duncan,” she insisted, “you need to go to your room. You need rest.”

  “Your groom is involved with the Covenant,” Duncan snapped. “I am trying to protect him!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You don’t understand these things!” Duncan growled, not understanding the amusement that rose on her face. “He needs to listen to me!”

  “I am listening,” Noah insisted.

  “The War Council is dispatching Major Hastings to Boston. The secret messages to the Covenant have been compromised somehow. Hastings is the secret assassin of Whitehall. He is going there to eliminate the leaders of the Covenant.”

  Madeline gasped and her hand shot to her mouth. She suddenly seemed to have trouble breathing. Before either Duncan or Noah could react, she slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  Noah scooped her up and laid her on the divan. Duncan grabbed her wrist to check her pulse. “The damned choker!” he called out. “She has to breathe! Take that tight ribbon off her neck!”

  Noah did not move. “I don’t think she would want—”

  Before he could finish Duncan reached up and snapped the ever-present ribbon off her neck, then stared in mute amazement. Underneath was a narrow six-strand necklace of thin purple and white wampum beads.

  It was impossible. His mind raced over the anomalies and mysteries of Madeline and her household and Sarah’s strange relationship with her. In that instant, with those simple beads, all was resolved.

  Chapter 22

  DUNCAN LOOKED FROM THE STILL unconscious woman to Noah. “You knew.” He studied the narrow necklace. The beads were in a familiar pattern of two purple then one white, followed by another purple pair.

  “I pledged my secrecy long ago.”

  Duncan
acknowledged Noah’s point with a weary nod. “Can you get a cool towel for her forehead?”

  As Noah stepped out of the library, Madeline stirred. Her eyes slowly opened.

  “Kahnyenkehaka,” he declared, using the Mohawk’s name for their tribe.

  Madeline hesitated, as if not understanding. “Sir?”

  In answer Duncan raised the broken ribbon that had been around her neck.

  “Sennihstyakitha,” he said. Your necklace.

  Her hand shot to her throat, touching the beads. Her eyes flared. “You had no right!”

  “I feared for your breathing, Madeline. I meant only to help you.” She laid her hand over the beads for a moment, as if she could hide them. “The pattern is of the Mohawk,” he said. “When in Philadelphia Sarah liked to visit her robin, they said in Deborah Franklin’s household. They thought she liked to hear the birdsong from some special grove. The maid said she even had a name for the robin. Siko was the word the maid recalled. I’m going to hear my Siko, she would tell the maid. I think she meant tsihskoko,” he said, using the Mohawk name for robin. “You are Tsihskoko.”

  Madeline gradually softened, and all pretense fell away. “Aktsi’a, I call her.”

  “Older sister?” Duncan asked, realizing he had not found all the pieces to the puzzle.

  “We were taken in the same spring raid all those years ago and raised in the same lodge. Sarah is two years older, and always looked after me, even though she was but a young girl herself when captured. We vowed we would always stay together.”

  “But you chose London.”

  “My father is of the same disposition as Sarah’s natural father. He loathes the tribes, is shamed by our ancestors who helped them. He had me scrubbed and brushed for hours when I was returned, until my skin bled. I was alone, without Sarah, without my Mohawk parents, without my clan or tribe. I cried for days. But eventually I realized that life was much easier if I simply pulled on another’s skin when I had to deal with my father and his world. It was just a game at first. When my father left me I would run to climb the trees or go sit with the foals by the forest. Acting like the proper young lady, the desirable maiden of society, opened doors for me. Sarah chose to slam those doors, to defy her father. I learned not to defy my father but to use him, and to embarrass him just enough with occasional crude conduct to make him happy for us to live apart.”