Caller of Lightning

by Eytan Kollin

  Table of Contents

  Part 1 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Part 2 13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Part 3 35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Caller of Lightning

  Peter J. Wacks and Eytan Kollin

  BOOK THREE IN THE ARCANE AMERICA SERIES

  When Halley’s Comet blazed across the sky in 1759, onlookers saw a sight far more spectacular—and disastrous—than they ever could have imagined. Destroyed in a magical battle, the comet is rent in two and appears to strike Earth. The event is known as The Sundering, the moment in which the Old World is separated from the New, perhaps permanently isolating the Americas. What’s more, The Sundering has brought magic into the world—creatures from folklore and fairy tales come to life, along with wizardry and magework unlike anything seen outside of legend. The New World is now far stranger than before, and the Europeans, Africans, and Indigenous peoples on the American continent must forge new bonds if they are to survive.

  So, when magic returns to the world of the 1700s, who does the world turn to for help? None other than the father of electricity himself: Benjamin Franklin! But Franklin is in for a shock if he thinks his knowledge of science will prepare him for the world of magic. The master once more becomes the apprentice. But Franklin must learn his spells fast, for he is far from the only one studying magic.

  In point of fact, he’s late to the race and almost out of time . . .

  THE ARCANE AMERICA SERIES

  Uncharted by Kevin J. Anderson & Sarah A. Hoyt

  Council of Fire by Eric Flint & Walter H. Hunt

  Caller of Lightning by Peter J. Wacks and Eytan Kollin

  Caller of Lightning

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Peter J. Wacks and Eytan Kollin

  A Baen Book

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-9821-2463-2

  eISBN: 978-1-62579-770-4

  Cover art by Dave Seeley

  Maps by Randy Asplund

  First Baen printing, June 2020

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Wacks, Peter J., 1976- author. | Kollin, Eytan, author.

  Title: Caller of lightning / Peter J. Wacks and Eytan Kollin.

  Description: Riverdale, NY : Baen Books, 2020. | Series: The Arcane America series

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020008739 | ISBN 9781982124632 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Franklin, Benjamin, 1706-1790--Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.A28 C35 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008739

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Electronic Version by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  Dad, this one is for you. You are missed.

  —Peter

  My dedication goes to my present and my past.

  The present is my beloved. Denise, my wife, thank you

  for your boundless patience, your cutting wit, and your love.

  Of all things, you are what fills my life with joy, appreciation,

  and just enough apprehension to make life worth living.

  My past is my father. Dad, my love of history is founded

  on you and the library you had in your study. It was a place

  of learning where I learned about history and all its fascinations.

  My discussion with you made this book and many other books

  and stories possible. Thank you.

  —Eytan

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I wish to acknowledge my friend and partner in this endeavor, Peter Wacks. Peter has been the driving force behind this novel. His dedication, willingness to learn the details of history, and driving energy have made this book what it is. I cannot say that I always appreciated losing some arguments about historical trends, but I loved the discussions that led to this book being what it now is. Thank you, Peter.

  Second, I wish to acknowledge the brilliance of J.A. Leo Lemay. He was a professor of English. To his glory, he wrote what I consider one of the, if not the, finest multi-volume biographies written in the English language. Its attention to detail and breadth of subject is staggering. This man did not simply list the books Benjamin Franklin read as a child. He read them, analyzed them in the context of Franklin’s childhood and future writings. This is just the merest example of the effort Professor Lemay put into his work. The tragedy is that this man died after completing volume three. The last four volumes remain uncompleted. I can remain grateful for what we have whilst mourning the man and the works he did not have the time to complete. —Eytan

  I never know what to say in these things, because I feel like no matter what I do, I’ll miss something or someone. I also wasn’t expecting to write one of these . . .

  So, I’m going to go super obscure. One of the hardest parts of writing something in the past is understanding how language was actually used and how it impacts what you read in timely accounts of said history. The second thing—where do you draw the line between historical accuracy and what the modern reader can palate before it detracts from the story? On that note, I want to acknowledge two old books that helped in the construction of this book. The first is Francis Grose’s Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, originally published in 1785. Between that and the second book, The Scoundrel’s Dictionary, or an Explanation of the Cant Words Used by the Thieves, House Breakers, Street Robbers, and Pick-Pockets about Town, published in 1754, I really got a grip on the conversational flow of English on the streets during the 1750s. Look them up, if you are so inclined. They are a lot of fun. —Peter

  Benjamin Franklin in ARCANE AMERICA

  “In going on with these experiments,

  how many pretty systems do we build,

  which we soon find ourselves oblig’d to destroy . . . ”

  ~ Benjamin Franklin, August 14th, 1747

  My Dearest Son,

  I have ever had Pleasure in obtaining any little anecdotes from my Ancestors. Should you e’re find your way across the Veil between our Sundered Worlds, or the Veil between Life and Death, as I fear may be the truer, I imagine it might be equally agreeable to you to know some of the Circumstances of my Life which I never shared with you, as Fathers so often do not find voice to share with those whose responsible guidance and care they have been charged by Providence. As last we saw each other was when you were with me in England, in a Moment most disagreeable, and afore the time in which our Worlds could no longer touch, there is
much with which you are unacquainted.

  When I reflect on my Life, it induces me sometimes to say that were it offered to my Choice, I should have no objection to a Repetition of the same Life from its beginning—only asking the Advantages authors have in a second edition to correct some Faults of the first. So I might, besides correcting these Faults, change some sinister Accidents and Events of it for others more favorable. Chief amongst these would be our Separation in England before the Sundering. But since any such Repetition is not to be expected, the thing most like living one’s life over again seems to be a Recollection of that life, made durable as possible in writing.

  Hereby, too, I shall indulge the Inclination so natural in old men, to be talking of themselves and their own past actions as grand Stories; and, perhaps to gratify my own Vanity, the beginning of this Memoir is the same as the Day I discovered the existence of the Arcane. Forgive my Desires, but, with all Humility and Dignity intact, I shall impart this as I remember it, this story of a Key, a Book, and a Bell, rather than the more traditional Bell, Book, and Candle and perhaps in that remembrance gain back one of the Days I have lost with you. Though a poor Substitute for your Presence, we must all make do with what is Real, and leave the intangible to Dreams.

  ~ Benjamin Franklin, July 17th, 1777

  Letters to a Lost Son: An Accounting of the Sundering of Worlds

  Part 1:

  A Candle

  About a candle in the form of a simple Key,

  which is a font of electric fire.

  1752

  The

  Franklin Home

  Philadelphia,

  Pennsylvania Colony

  June 10th

  As frequent Mention is made in the News Papers from Europe, of the Success of the Philadelphia Experiment for drawing the Electric Fire from Clouds by Means of pointed Rods of Iron erected on high Buildings, &c. it may be agreeable to the Curious to be inform’d, that the same Experiment has succeeded in Philadelphia, tho’ made in a different and more easy Manner . . .

  ~ Benjamin Franklin

  The Pennsylvania Gazette

  1

  How Fortunate

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Ben Franklin slid the window curtain aside, discarding the letter he had just opened and read. It fell from his fingers to the floor, settling on an untidy, ankle-high pile of handwritten journals recently sent from the estate sale of the Widow Eversleigh in London. They were purchased for Franklin by his dear friend Peter Collinson. Despite the diaries having been sealed inside oiled paper during their journey across the Atlantic, ostensibly to protect them from moisture and salt air, a rankly nidorous scent wafted up from their tattered leather covers.

  Franklin excitedly called to his son as he stared at the approaching—and uncommonly heavy—evening storm clouds. “Today is the day, Billy. Come, help me gather the supplies!”

  His gaze drifted across the rooftops, tracing the gray and black skyline. The long spell of light rain was breaking at last in favor of harsher weather. In the distance, lightning stabbed through the clouds. He could see the colony’s bright red flag snapping boldly in the wind, and the sign hanging over his laboratory door bounced on its chains as errant gusts tugged at it.

  “Look at how the electric fire dances so brightly in the heavens tonight! Grab the rope, kite, and the rest of the kit, Billy. Hurry now! I have a modification I must make.”

  The stout forty-six-year-old turned from the window and was surprised to learn that he had been talking to himself. Minutes before, as Franklin had eagerly opened the letter from Collinson, his son William had been organizing books of royal law on the far side of the room. It was a shared family passion to find ways to fight the Penn family’s stranglehold on the colony and improve the conditions generally of the people living in Pennsylvania. Now his laboratory was empty save for Ben himself, though the lamp his son had been using still burned, merrily lighting the desk.

  For being a grown man, Ben reflected, the boy could certainly sneak about.

  Another rumble of thunder sounded, spurring Franklin to action. “Peter!” he yelled as he began sifting through the container crates that housed his extra supplies. “Attend!”

  The head of the household slaves poked his head in from the connecting anteroom. “Mr. Franklin?”

  Ben grunted as he carefully shifted a box of glass jars, ready for conversion into Leyden jars, to one side. “Why haven’t we taken these over to Mr. Loxley? No, never mind, forget that I asked. We can deal with them later. Find that wandering boy of mine and tell him it’s time to attempt the experiment.” Peter started to leave, but stopped short when his master continued talking. “And tell him to hurry! If I’m any judge of these things, we have perhaps thirty minutes before the storm is upon us.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Franklin. I’ll find him straight away.” Peter ducked back out of the laboratory.

  After going through several crates and boxes, Ben finally gathered what he needed for his newly conceived alteration, but the prepacked box with the actual experiment continued to elude him. Stepping back to gather both wits and memory, he pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his forehead in frustration. “Damnation, William, will you hurry up? I don’t want to have to wait ’til Fall to test this methodology, and we might not get another storm this season.”

  A shout echoed from the hall. “Coming, Father!”

  Face flushed, William Franklin hurried through the doorway. He was a handsome, fine-featured man just into his twenties, with curly dark hair that hung to his shoulders.

  “Where were you off to?” fussed Ben irritably.

  “I’m sorry, Father. I do know how important this is. You were lost in that letter, and I needed more penning ink for the ledger, so I went to get it. Then I heard you shout and, realizing your plan, knew that I had to change into something more appropriate.” William adjusted his immaculate undress jacket.

  “Very pretty. I cannot find the kite, Billy, or anything else we prepared.”

  “You had me put it away. For safekeeping, you said.” The young man shimmied behind several large stacks of different weights of papers, then vanished from sight as he leaned down for a moment. When he stood again he was hefting two boxes from which copper wire and two pieces of shaped cedar extended. “Here. This is everything you directed me to store.”

  “Indeed, my boy, that is what’s needed. And here is the modification I just devised.” Ben held up a spool containing a short length of silk rope.

  William paused, brow furrowed. “I trust that you’ll explain later.” He awkwardly shifted round as he wiggled out from behind the stacks of printing press paper. Emerging with the two boxes, his shoe cuff caught on the boards of an overflowing paper box and tore a small run in his cotton leggings. William paused, mouth pursed, and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile. “We haven’t much time, correct?”

  Ben slid his glasses down the crook of his nose and stared over them at his son’s leg. He raised one eyebrow slightly and pursed his lips. “A gentleman is never seen in public as less than composed.”

  William took another measured breath. “Yes, sir. I’ve fallen victim to your overstuffed boxes. Not for the first time, and nor, would I wager, the last. Rather than change again, perhaps one of your own sayings is more applicable?”

  “Indeed. Haste makes waste! A little more care and your hose would still be whole.”

  William worked his mouth soundlessly, words lost for a moment in the face of his father’s admonishment. “Actually, sirrah, I had intended to say that a plowman on his feet stands above a noble on his knees, and we have work to do. But you are aright. Of course.”

  Ben frowned as he squinted through his reading spectacles. They would never serve, outdoors, so he took them off and put on the pair he kept in his coat pocket. “Much better,” he said. He finally took note of the overly composed look on his son’s face and the complex emotions it sought to disguise. “I a
m sorry, Billy. My nerves are on edge to try this experiment, and I have been more than a little unkind to you over a triviality. Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course, Father.” William continued, though a little stiffly, “If you would, in turn, refrain from calling me ‘Billy,’ as you know how much I dislike it. Shall we depart?”

  Franklin clapped his son on the back, “Sorry, sorry. I’m not myself.”

  “Then who are you?” William relaxed, shifting his burden.

  “There is the wit! Well done,” Ben replied with a smile as he took up one of the boxes for himself.

  The two men, each carrying their own load, hurried out of the laboratory. “Peter, douse the lamps!” Ben yelled over his shoulder as he and William ran into the windy evening. They moved quickly through the market district, toward Society Hill and the banks of the Delaware River. People cleared the way for them—the good folk of Philadelphia were well used to the Franklins chasing around town for one reason or another, and in any case were eager to escape the increasingly foul weather themselves.

  The Franklins hurried toward a small field a third of a mile away, on the edge of the dockyards and only two blocks off the river. Just outside it they passed the Loxley house, a unique tan dwelling, currently under construction, with the walls of the second floor pushed back from the façade of the home. The street-facing side of the second floor had been turned into a balcony capped by a lightly peaked roof, which was supported by two cornices that looked like they belonged on a frigate. Those who knew the house’s history understood that this architectural curiosity was actually the case—the roof supports had once adorned the HMS Adventure.