Caller of Lightning

by Eytan Kollin

  His thoughts composed, he dipped his quill in the open ink bottle, and began to write.

  General Post-Office, March 10, 1758

  Whereas the News-papers of the several Colonies on this Continent, heretofore permitted to be sent by Post free of Charge, are of late Years so much increased as to become extremely burthensome to the Riders, who demand additional Salaries or Allowances from the Post-Office on that Account; and it is not reasonable, that the Office, which receives no Benefit from the Carriage of News-papers, should be at any Expence for such Carriage: And Whereas the Printers of News-papers complain, that they frequently receive Orders for News-papers from distant Post-Offices, which they comply with by sending the Papers, tho’ they know not the Persons to whom the Papers are to be directed, and have no convenient Means of collecting the Money, so that much of it is lost; and that for Want of due Notice when distant Subscribers die, become Bankrupt, or remove out of the Country, they continue to send Papers some Years directed to such Persons, whereby the Posts are loaded with many Papers to no Purpose, and the Loss so great to the Printers, as that they cannot afford to make any Allowance to the Riders for carrying the Papers: And whereas some of the Riders do, and others may, demand exorbitant Rates of Persons living on the Roads, for carrying and delivering the Papers that do not go into any Office, but are delivered by the Riders themselves.

  What that would look like in the long term, Ben did not fully know; but in front of him was the beginning of a policy that could make a difference.

  The trick lay in designing a new strategy for deliveries, beginning with newspapers and expanding from there, that would continue to provide the means for the colonists to communicate things widely, yet also simplify the method of delivery while generating systemic profit. By establishing a set price for shipping goods—as the Quakers were apt to do with delivered store-bought items—rather than one negotiated by the delivery riders, then regularity and predictability could be provided, and the change he sought begun. As Deputy Postmaster General for the British Colonies, a position he had been appointed to in 1753, Ben had the power to make this happen.

  He continued:

  To remedy these Inconveniencies, and yet not to discourage the Spreading of News-papers, which are on many Occasions useful to Government, and advantageous to Commerce, and to the Publick; You are, after the first Day of June next, to deliver no News-papers at your Office (except the single Papers exchang’d between Printer and Printer) but to such Persons only as do agree to pay you, for the Use of the Rider which brings such Papers, a small additional Consideration per Annum, for each Paper, over and above the Price of the Papers; that is to say, For any Distance not exceeding Fifty Miles such Paper is carried, the Sum of Nine pence Sterling per Annum, or an Equivalent in Currency: For any Distance exceeding Fifty Miles, and not exceeding One Hundred Miles, the Sum of One Shilling and Six pence Sterling per Annum; and in the same Proportion for every other Fifty Miles such Paper shall be carried; which Money for the Rider or Riders, together with the Price of the Papers for the Printers, you are to receive and pay respectively, once a Year at least, deducting for your Care and Trouble therein, a Commission of Twenty per Cent. And you are to send no Orders to any Printer for Papers, except the Persons for whom the Papers are to be sent, are in your Opinion responsible, and such as you will be accountable for. And you are to suffer no Riders, employ’d or paid by you, to receive more than the Rates above mentioned, for carrying any Papers by them delivered on their respective Roads; nor to carry and deliver any Papers but such as they will be accountable for to the Printers, in Consideration of an Allowance of the same Commissions as aforesaid for collecting and paying the Money.

  And as some of the Papers pass thro’ the Hands of several Riders between the Place where they are printed and the Place of Delivery; you are to pay the Carriage-Money you collect for the Riders, to the several Riders who have carried such Papers, in Proportion, as near as conveniently may be, to the Distances they have been carried by each Rider respectively.

  ~ Franklin and Hunter.

  Perfect. He was sure that people would prefer that arrangement to overpricing which depended on the whim of the delivering rider. And once the policy was expanded beyond newspapers, and the Penns sought to challenge it, he knew he could incite the common people against them. He imagined mobs of Pennsylvanians boycotting goods from the proprietor’s estate, or blockading the roads to their properties—all ignited by pointed newspaper articles penned by Silence Dogood or some other identity from his collection of writing monikers.

  This was a long war against the Penns he was beginning, but damned if he was going to lose.

  He stretched for a moment, working out the kinks in his muscles. There was a positive side, too. This new policy wasn’t solely about retribution. It provided an actual, measurable benefit to those living in Britain’s colonies in America. Where so many of his efforts in England seemed to be stymied and deflected at every turn, his efforts in the Americas invariably produced fruitful and satisfying results. This would be one more.

  He returned to the work of completing his letter, smiling at the seed he knew it would plant.

  Simpson's Tavern

  Cornhill Street, London

  April 21st

  26

  There Are Worse Reasons

  Polly had enjoyed a dinner out with Ben at a new but popular eatery, barely a year old, where they were now giving their chess skills some exercise. Their emptied plates of Prussian sausages, bacon, and calf’s liver had been removed, but the aroma of those and other meals still lingered as they played. Now the diners in Simpson’s Tavern, watching, whispered at their tables as the two exchanged moves over the board. Being the focus of this mildly scandalized attention made Polly smile to herself: the wanton abandonment of public propriety that her current favorite person embraced was, to be frank, quite thrilling to her.

  He appreciated her using this time to share, quietly, the latest information collected by the Society of Numbers. He had been fascinated, that first evening, to discover Polly’s group was working on the same issue for which Peter Collinson and the Royal Society had recruited him—the growing expression of magic throughout the United Kingdom. Though they themselves had little or no skill in the specialty, they did hunt rumors of occultism and magic, and sought to either procure mystical items or debunk them. The primary differences were that their organization was smaller than the Royal Society; they kept their entire existence secret, disdaining public work that might distract their attention—and they operated under no grant from the King—just a founding directive from the mysterious Lord One, whose identity Ben had made no progress on penetrating.

  In her own turn Polly enjoyed the stories Ben chose to tell of his inventions, his work in the Colonies, and his mad adventures during his first visit in London, some thirty years before; most definitely including the frugal strategies he had devised to improve his condition.

  “There was so much on that trip that is so vivid I think I will remember it for years to come. It changed the course of my life. Conversely, I believe,” Ben said with a satisfied sigh, “that on this trip I will go bankrupt, spending my fortune sampling the offerings of every coffeehouse and restaurant in London.” He patted his belly. “And as the last pennies of my fortune melt away, I’ll be all the happier for it.”

  “There are worse reasons to enter bankruptcy, I would wager,” Polly shot back, and both laughed with the genuine mirth that comes from easy companionship.

  Ben looked out the window. The sun had set, and dusk’s deep gray blanket, with just hints of gold and crimson lighting the tops of the London skyline, was now a memory. Full night was on them. “I do believe we should head home quickly, Polly. Your mother will not take kindly to my keeping you out later than is her wish. She might put limits on future excursions, and neither of us wants that.”

  “You are the soul of courtesy, Mr. Franklin. Does this wish to retire early have nothing at all to do with the
fact that you are losing?”

  “We shall, of course, continue the game from the same position. I was up a knight, yes?” Ben helped her with her cloak.

  After retrieving his greatcoat, they headed to the door. “Why yes, you were,” Polly pointed out, “if by up a knight you actually meant down a rook.”

  “Right,” he agreed as they passed the restaurant’s threshold and closed the door behind them.

  Both were immediately struck by a sense of grave disquiet. “Hhmm . . . ” Ben trailed off, forgetting his rejoinder. Ben felt his heart skip a beat. Something is not right, he thought, suspiciously scanning the alleys that they passed.

  “We should not tarry, I think,” Polly said. “It would seem you feel the same disturbance that I do.”

  “I concur,” Ben agreed, leading the way with a pace a younger man would have envied. Despite being encumbered by her shoes’ protective pattens, which gave slippery purchase on the damp cobblestones, Polly’s youth stood her in good stead, and she kept pace.

  They continued for several blocks at this rapid stride, when suddenly Polly grabbed Ben’s arm and stopped them both in their tracks. “I have lived in London all my life and never seen the streets this deserted. Even in the midnight hours, there is someone around.” She glanced around quickly, eyes narrowed, seeking motion in the darkness, and found nothing.

  “Nor any sound at all,” Ben said. His voice seemed unnaturally loud to him in the stillness, and he couldn’t help but drop to a whisper as he continued. “Perhaps my imagination is getting the better of me, but in the wilds, when a predator has been detected, all the animals will go quiet. I fear we may be someone’s prey in this moment.”

  Polly, too, could feel someone watching. Her shoulders tensed as she considered what to do.

  “Excuse me, Ben,” she said, making sure her speech was loud enough to carry. “May we take a moment? This brisk walk has loosened the strap on my patten, and I must adjust it.” Then quietly, for his ear only, she whispered, “Pray do me the favor of speaking no Latin before I am done.”

  “Of course.” He looked at her curiously, then shrugged, waving his hand as casually as he might if they were standing on the Brighton Walk at busiest mid-day, instead of Cornhill Street on a deserted night. “Take your time, my dear. I’ll just watch the creepy empty streets for us.”

  Polly knelt, pretending to apply herself to her footgear. She knew that to any outside observer she was under Ben’s protection, a misunderstanding that she could work to her advantage and the observer’s detriment. That Ben shared in this misconception was endearing; she knew that his chivalrous nature would compel him to defend her and based on what he’d told her fellow Lords he had significant capacities in that regard. But tonight, she was determined to be the one who would protect him.

  She reached out with her mind as her fingers worked the straps of her right shoe patten. There could be no normal reason for what was happening on the street, ergo it must have been organized by magical effect. Her thoughts spread away from her in waves, gently touching on the subtle webs that bound the world, noting the spots—here and here and yes, over there—where they had been tampered with. Cautiously, so as not to give herself away, she traced a path back along the rippling alterations, towards their source. Careful not to make direct contact, she flitted all around that the source, gleaning what she could. It was a man, though she could not tell his age or anything else about him, other than a sullen ill intent which flared at his edges like wisps of smoke. And he was not alone. There were others with him, also men, of no magical capacity at all, but full of thuggish vigor.

  Their collective intention was clear enough to Polly, if not their motive. It gave her great pleasure to charge the strands she had used to trace their presence with the full force of her anger and her will. How dare they wait in ambush!

  One street away, four men of the Bow Street runners waited patiently. They had been guaranteed a conviction if they apprehended these two, and convictions paid.

  “Bloody quiet out here.” The largest of them spoke, though in hushed tones.

  “Shut up, Doxer,” said the man peering intently around the corner.

  None of them noticed that the shadows were beginning to swirl around their feet.

  “Why do I gotta shut up? Why don’t you, Georgey?” Doxer sounded sullen.

  “I’m the leader, that’s why.” He held up a hand, warning everyone back. “They’s takin’ their time to tie that damn shoe. Maybe we oughta just g—” A shadow wrapped around George’s throat, cutting him off mid-word. The dark tendril yanked him back, sending the thief-taker plowing into one of his compatriots.

  The night came alive; shadows frothing and bubbling, like a rabid octopus morris dancing, with inky tendrils snapping to and fro. The last man standing was Doxer. He threw down his truncheon and held up empty hands. He begged, “Please?” The darkness swarmed over him, stifling his scream.

  One by one they fell, insensate, vanishing from her mind’s sight, while her ears detected a most satisfying collection of pained cries from a block or so ahead.

  “There,” she said, standing back up. “All done.”

  Before Ben could say anything to her, a loud thunderclap broke over the city and, with it, rain began to fall. Oddly, now that rain was pattering down, people began to make their way out of buildings and on about their business as if nothing had been detaining them. In minutes the street was populated at normal levels for the hour.

  “Ah,” said Polly as she pulled her hood over her head. “One of those unexpected London thunderstorms I’m sure I will remember fondly in years to come. How fortunately coincidental, for now you must hail us a carriage instead of making me walk home to Craven Street. You should try that in pattens sometime.”

  Ben looked at her thoughtfully. “Indeed,” was all he said, though his eyes were full of questions she knew he would not let her avoid answering.

  Once the two had faded into the night, the wall shimmered. If one looked just so, a stack of boxes turned into a door, and a rotten piece of fruit the handle. The door swung open and Thomas Penn stepped out, surveying the group of downed thieftakers. “Interesting,” he mused. “Franklin appears to be getting stronger.”

  The

  Collinson Home

  Ridgeway House,

  Mill Hill, Middlesex

  April 24th

  27

  Valid Concerns

  Ben’s carriage jounced along the road as he approached the home of his closest friend in England. The trip was a welcome distraction. Over the last weeks, despite his hard work and Polly’s bright company, his fight with his now-absent son weighed heavily on his spirits. He and William had exchanged letters as William traveled, but there was no longer anything personal in what his son wrote—just curt and simple presentation of details. Ben almost dreaded opening them. When not otherwise occupied by pressing matters, he had begun taking long solitary walks through the London streets, missing Debby and Sally, missing Philadelphia—though he was careful not to let melancholy overpower him. Above all he must be mindful of his campaign against the Penns.

  He had taken this day to head out to Mill Hill, then, to break his dour mood and the lure of downcast behavior it encouraged. Arriving, he knocked on the door with his cane. A servant admitted him, after which Mary Collinson promptly took him in tow. “Peter will be delighted you were able to make it, Mr. Franklin. He’s waiting for you in his study.”

  After a short walk, Mary opened the door to the study, revealing a diligent Peter Collinson writing in a journal.

  “You’ve had an interesting time of it, Ben,” said Peter, looking up from his notetaking with a warm smile for his friend.

  “No question. Much more than I had understood when you first introduced me to some of the complexities of the current situation.” His eyes reflexively scanned the room’s bookshelves. There were always at least a dozen, sometimes more, titles he had missed on earlier trips.

  “Bu
t your health, at least, has improved. That pleases me.”

  “I’ll need it, to get through, as I need your continued insight. Which is why I am here. Well, that and you invited me.” Ben frowned seriously. “There is new information to make you aware of, the sort I can’t even hint at in our correspondence.”

  Collinson prepared himself for taking notes, switching out which journal he was writing in. “Best start, then.”

  “Where to begin, where to begin? I feel like a man with a scattering of milled parts, and no guide for their assembly. As you already know, the Penns and I are at war on multiple battlefronts. They have stolen my son from me; I have made changes in the Colonies that will affect their authority and cost them a great deal of money. They have stolen the surviving journals you sent; I have identified some of those they employ in their search for magical tools, tracing the pattern of their operations, and still hope to uncover the robber.”

  “That will be an achievement,” said Collinson.

  “I do not hold with thieves, plain and simple.”

  “Go on.”

  “You remember Polly, my landlady’s daughter?”

  “That’s the young woman who introduced you to the group that parallels our own secret work. Their motivation seems admirable enough. I should like to meet some of them, when the time is right. Depending on their character it might be logical to work together on occasion; or at least to avoid accidentally working at odds.”