The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (24 page)

In the lending library he located a copy of Franklin’s study on electricity, which included an account of the celebrated “Philadelphia experiment.” Phillipe was confused by a great part of the material, knowing nothing of the theoretical background or terminology. He did get the impression that considerable danger must have been involved when the doctor and his illegitimate son sent their kite aloft in a violent thunderstorm, then waited for the “heavenly fire” to travel down the string to a metal key.

Mr. Sholto confirmed the danger. So potent was the force which Franklin believed was contained in lightning, he had literally risked instant death performing the experiment. Fortunately, when he touched the key at the critical moment, he felt no more than a repeated tingling in hand and arm—the “electrick spark” that gave him international fame instead of an ignominious grave.

With such knowledge to be gained from it, London remained a constantly unfolding series of wonders and diversions for Phillipe. He spent another free afternoon strolling the far western reaches of the town with Esau. There, on the site of the great May fairs of the years past, fine new residences of the nobility were beginning to rise below the Tyburn Road. Esau discoursed on the new Georgian architectural style, which he much admired.

And one weekday evening, over Mr. Sholto’s protests about trivial amusements, Hosea was permitted to take Phillipe and his mother to the gallery at Drury Lane. They watched a performance of a lively farce called
High Life Below Stairs.
Marie clapped and laughed with such animation that Phillipe felt she might be starting to free herself from the grip of the past.

Afterward, Hosea apologized for having chosen a play in which the great Mr. Garrick appeared only to speak the prologue instead of playing a leading role. But Marie was thrilled just to have seen the famous actor whose name had been well known in Paris when she performed there.

At Christmas, the family gathered for a festive dinner of roast mutton and many side dishes, all capped by plum pudding. Mr. Sholto matter-of-factly presented a gift to each of their boarders. Phillipe received a new shirt of white wool, Marie a set of tortoise combs. She wept happily at the table, and later was prevailed on to perform a lively dance in the sitting room, while Esau piped on his flute.

Outside, snow drifted down in Sweet’s Lane. The bells of St. Paul’s clanged in the lowering darkness of Christmas Day. Phillipe felt stuffed, warm and content.

But he realized it was time to begin giving serious consideration to the future. The few shillings Mr. Sholto paid him for his work in the print shop were beginning to accumulate in a kerchief he kept under his pillow. He needed to broach the subject of a return to Auvergne. He hoped to discourage Marie from going back to a life of managing a dilapidated wayside inn.

He had a better plan. Or should it be termed a dream? Either way, it filled most of his waking thoughts. To give it room to grow, he asked Hosea after the turn of the New Year whether he had yet heard anything about Amberly’s death.

Hosea answered, “No, nothing.” Phillipe actually felt relieved. There was no doubt they would have to begin again. But why automatically back in France? Why not in another part of the world?

He had been borrowing books from the lending shelves in the front shop, where Marie helped Mrs. Emma from time to time. Late at night, he had begun reading about the American colonies.

In early February, a spell of bitter weather struck London, Mr. Sholto fell ill with a wracking cough, then fever. With the printing staff reduced to three, Phillipe worked even longer hours.

Esau still handled the typesetting because his hands were so skillful. But Phillipe took on new duties in addition to inking, washing the metal and lugging the finished sheets out to the binder’s cart. Under Hosea’s guidance, he began to operate the other press.

As with the ink balls, he was clumsy at first. He misaligned sheets between the tympan and frisket. He didn’t lever the platen down far enough to produce the right weight and resulting good impression. But the mistakes were quickly corrected. And despite the elder Sholto’s eternal remonstrances that Hosea was of light temperament, the young man proved a good and patient teacher. Phillipe’s blood began to throb with the beat of the press.

Thunk,
roll the coffin under the upright head.
Squeal,
pull the lever to tighten down the weight.
Squeak,
screw it up again.
Thunk,
retract the coffin and whip out the inked sheet. Then do it faster next time—

He no longer thought about the letter in the casket. He thought only occasionally about Alicia Parkhurst. Although her memory would never totally leave him, in the reality of his new life he recalled their love affair as if it were a dream. Full of pain and sweetness while it lasted. But ultimately unreal.

The rhythm of the flat-bed press created a new pattern to his days, a mounting hope. He gave voice to that hope one twilight late in February.

“No, Solomon! I forbid it!” Mrs. Emma cried, rushing down the stairs after her husband. The elder Sholto had appeared in his nightshirt, coughing and looking abnormally pale. “You’re not well yet!”

“Cease, woman! If you want food on your table, I must look to the welfare of my business.”

He closed the stair door with a bang, hiding his wife’s dismayed face.

Sholto raised his eyebrows at the sight of Phillipe, smudged black from forehead to waist. Phillipe was tugging the lever to lower the platen for another impression.

“So we’ve a new hand on the press, do we?”

“And a mighty swift one he’s turning out to be,” Esau called from the type cases. His hands kept flying, independent of anything else.

“What’s the work?” Sholto inquired, coming up the steps to Phillipe’s press as the latter slipped a new, dampened sheet into place.

“A reprinting for Bemis in the Strand,” Hosea informed his father from the other side of the room.

“It looks interesting,” Phillipe said. “Written by a Mr. Dickinson of the Pennsylvania colony.”

Mr. Sholto nodded. “It’s a very lucid discourse on the position of the colonists in regard to taxes. A position supported by quite a few leading Americans—including Dr. Franklin.”

“I’d have guessed that from what little I know about him,” Phillipe nodded.

“Dickinson’s book is already four years old. But it continues to sell nicely. He’s a lawyer, by the way. Trained right here at the Inns of Court. He struck the proper tone in his arguments. Many in Lords and Commons heartily approved of his sentiments and his reasoning.”

“Then I’ll have to read what he says when I have time.”

“Phillipe’s gobbling up the library—every available piece of material on the colonies,” Hosea said. “Good
or
bad.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Sholto said to Phillipe, “so long as you understand that many who have taken up the quill to write about America have never been west of Charing Cross.”

Phillipe said, “I’ve noticed that some of the books on the subject are fifty and sixty years old.”

“And most of ’em paint a false, visionary picture of instant wealth for the hardy man who will but set foot on those shores. It’s true in isolated cases. But as much depends on the man as on the country. For a more realistic picture, you’d do well to look through another monograph of Franklin’s. One which he also wrote in the fifties. It brought him nearly as much recognition here and in Europe as the electrical discourse. By combining mathematics with sharp social insights, he produced a truly brilliant study of the potential for growth in the Americas.”

“What’s the name of the work?”

“Observations Concerning the Increase of Mankind and Peopling of Countries.”
Sholto glanced at his elder son. “We own two copies in the front, do we not?”

“We did,” Esau answered. “Both are gone. One fell to rags, and someone never returned the other.” To Phillipe: “The book hardly came in but it was taken right out again.”

“Perhaps we can turn up another copy. In any case, Phillipe, I think a realistic appraisal of the colonies is this. They do seem to be raising a new sort of person over there. Tougher. A mite more independent than those of us who’ve stayed home. And the land
is
bounteous. The southern colonies are rich from agriculture, the northern ones from commerce—you’ve heard how the merchants here exerted pressures on Parliament to repeal the obnoxious taxes about which Lawyer Dickinson was writing?”

Phillipe said he had.

“When the colonial trade fell off, all Britain suffered. That’s proof the Americans are prospering. Becoming important to the Empire economically. For the time being, things are relatively calm over there. If that situation continues, I’m sure a good life—even riches—can be won. But not without diligence.”

The printer stifled another cough and squinted at Phillipe. “Why does the subject interest you so much?”

“I’ve been thinking that one of the colonies might be a good place for my mother and me to settle.”

“Ah—” Sholto smiled. “My guess was correct. But what trade would you follow?”

“Why, the one you and your sons have taught so well. You said your friend the doctor prospered in the printing business—”

“Hardly the word for it. He grew rich. First he ran a widely read newspaper. Then, with an eye on the commercial success being enjoyed by annual almanacs, he started his own. When he couldn’t hire a suitable philomath for his publication—”

“A suitable what, sir?”

“Philomath. Resident astrologer. Predictor of the weather—giver of sage advice. Every almanac must have its philomath. Franklin couldn’t find a scrivener capable of turning out work up to his standards, so he dreamed up Richard Saunders—and proceeded to write all of Poor Richard’s pronouncements himself. Practically put the competing almanacs out of business, too. Poor Richard’s aphorisms are universally quoted.”

Hosea said, “The one I’m fondest of is ‘Neither a fortress nor a maid will hold out long after they begin to parley.’ ”

“That is the one I would expect you to be fondest of,” charged Mr. Sholto. “You conveniently forget many that are relevant to improving a person’s character.”

Esau nudged his brother with cheerful malice. “ ‘Experience keeps a dear school, yet fools will learn at no other.’ ”

Hosea turned pink. Mr. Sholto couldn’t hide a faint smile. Phillipe spoke:

“All you’re saying suggests there are a great many printing houses in the colonies—”

“Thriving ones. A lively book trade, too. The very Bemis for whom we’re producing the Dickinson reprint supplies various American retailers with the latest titles by ship. Franklin says New York, Philadelphia and that troublesome Boston are particularly good markets. I also understand there are a great many penny papers and gazettes. Some support the Crown, others the radicals. No, there’d be no shortage of work for a young man handy at the press.”

The upstairs door opened. Mrs. Emma appeared, carrying a cup of tea. She delivered it to her husband with a solicitous glance but no further advice or protests.

When his wife had disappeared into the stationer’s shop, Sholto sipped tea, then remarked, “Never let a good woman know how much you depend on her. Spoils ’em—gives ’em a sense of excess authority. Now where were we? Ah yes, employment in the colonies. Have you discussed the idea with your mother?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you feel you’d meet resistance?”

“Yes. A little or a lot, depending on her mood. I’ve had a hard time reading her mood lately.”

“My wife and I also. Your mother’s the soul of politeness. She works hard, helping up front. But even though she never talks about the original undertaking that led you here, I have a feeling she broods on it privately a great deal.”

Phillipe’s hands, hard and calloused by now, clamped on the lever handle, pulled, then released.

“That’s what bothers me, sir. I hope she’s still not clinging to some dream of gaining the inheritance. I’d sooner steer a course for a harbor that can be reached. And strange as it sounds, I think we might be better off to try the long voyage to the colonies, rather than go back to France. Life had nothing to offer there except false hope. You can’t serve that at suppertime.”

“Agreed. Your course sounds sensible. When I’m over this accursed sickness, perhaps I can assist your endeavor. Introduce you to an American or two. We have ’em for visitors at the shop now and then—”

“I’d really like to meet your friend the doctor.”

“Capital idea—but as you’ve heard before, he’s not been by in many a month. Too much to do looking after the interests of his constituents. If we can’t put you in touch with him, we’ll try someone else. At least you could see whether you think your temper would match that of the Americans. Also whether you would be willing to undertake the attendant extra risks involved in going there.”

Phillipe frowned. “What extra risks, Mr. Sholto?”

“The problem Lawyer Dickinson argued has not been settled by any means. Only hid away for a time. It will be settled eventually. In peace, or with open trouble. Read those essays,” he finished, pointing at the press. “Between the lines!”

As he started across the room to inspect Hosea’s work, he added, “Dickinson and Franklin are men of reason. They openly and frequently avow their allegiance to His Majesty. But they are men of principle as well. I doubt such men will ever submit to what they consider tyranny. Weigh that—and all its possible consequences—before you decide.”

So as the presses piled up the sheets during the gray, wintry days, Phillipe inquired further into the American character by means of the collection of essays first published in early 1768 under the general title
Letters From a Farmer in Pennsylvania to the Inhabitants of the British Colonies.

The land-owning, law-practicing Pennsylvania aristocrat had been replying with firm but reasoned pen to the Townshend taxes. Dickinson conceded Parliament’s authority to regulate American overseas trade. But he emphatically denied Parliament’s right to tax within the thirteen colonies for the purposes of swelling the Crown’s treasury.