by Glenn Cooper
Dashwood roared. “Indeed it is true! And for my impudence, the Swiss Guards escorted me to the gates of the Eternal City and bade me not to return. I’m afraid my views on Catholicism have not much changed with advancing age though my powers of discretion have marginally improved. Marginally.”
“I would enjoy having a conversation about religion with you, Sir Francis, preferably over a good bottle of claret. I myself am a Christian, to be sure, but I’m a picker and a chooser. I take what I want of it and discard the rest.”
Dashwood giggled at this and told Franklin he was sorry he’d been remiss in not reaching out earlier. He was certain, he said, that the two of them shared a great many views on a great many subjects. “I wonder,” Dashwood said, “if I might entice you to come to my country house in Buckinghamshire for an extended visit. In a fortnight’s time, a number of gentlemen will be joining me there for social activities.”
The loaded way he said “social activities” piqued Franklin’s interest. “And who might these gentlemen be?” Franklin asked.
“Ah, the likes of Sandwich, Wilkes, Bute, Whitehead, Selwyn, Lloyd. That lot.”
That lot included some of the most influential men in England, fellows whom Franklin had been courting and lobbying for years with varying degrees of success.
“You have my complete attention,” Franklin said.
“Yes, I thought as much. We need to include an American gentleman in our circle. That’s what’s been said, and who better than the esteemed Dr. Franklin?”
“I would be honored,” Franklin said, removing an errant strand of flowing gray hair from his face. “Might I know more of the social activities you mentioned?”
“I do not wish to spoil the fun. Suffice it to say that we call ourselves the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe. But you need not bring your Bible. Our worship is directed toward wholly more earthly realms.”
“I see,” Franklin said, his eyes twinkling.
Dashwood finished his brandy. “And wait till you see our nuns!”
Franklin had a notion he was going to enjoy his sojourn at West Wycombe the moment he arrived at Sir Dashwood’s country estate. The footman was dressed in some sort of flowing Arabic robe, and the butler looked something like a sultan. All manner of libations were laid out on a tray in his sunny room—gin, port, and decanters of vin rouge and blanc. A choice selection of fruits and cheeses was also on hand. Before departing, the butler advised him that the protocol for the evening involved donning the garments in the wardrobe.
On his own, Franklin swung open the wardrobe doors and laughed at the contents: the coarse brown habit of a monk, a hemp sash, and a pair of leather sandals. He heard carriage wheels on the gravel. From his window he saw another visitor arrive and in the distance, two more carriages were coming down the drive.
That evening, any self-consciousness Franklin might have possessed over his garb was cleansed when he saw that every one of the forty gentlemen assembling in Dashwood’s great hall was similarly attired. A servant promptly thrust a flute of champagne into his hand and he was warmly greeted by men he had previously met in the corridors of power at Whitehall. And in short order he was introduced to other “friars” he didn’t know, including John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, a haughty and imperious man, the only one who doused Franklin with condescension.
“Philadelphia, you say,” the tall man said down his narrow nose. “I rather imagine they would have to drag you back to a place such as that kicking and screaming.”
“Hardly,” Franklin replied. “I believe Your Lordship would find it most satisfactory in all respects though you would be hard-pressed to find a congregation of monks drinking champagne on Market Street. Perhaps I could visit Your Lordship at Parliament to inform you about the recent activities in our fair colony.”
Franklin received a dismissive, “Perhaps.”
Then, to the sound of an unseen gong, Dashwood emerged from behind a curtain. He was decked out in a bishop’s robe with a red mitre perched upon his large head.
“Welcome, Brothers! Welcome! It’s been too long since our last congregation, has it not? As always, I offer a special welcome to our twelve superior monks, who have already met this afternoon to discuss the Order’s business.”
Franklin looked around and realized that a dozen men wore red sashes around their habits instead of hemp. One of them was Sandwich.
Dashwood continued, “We have decided to install a new inferior monk tonight to add to our distinguished order. I give you Brother Benjamin Franklin, our esteemed guest from Philadelphia.”
Franklin bowed humbly and said to the portly man beside him, “I have no idea what I’ve gotten into.”
The man replied, with a leer, “You will not be disappointed, Brother.”
“Come, Brothers!” Dashwood shouted. “Our evening begins!”
With that, he led the group outside and through a grove decorated with classical statues in indecent poses. Franklin stopped in front of Hermes, the god of lust, who was holding a red-tipped phallus as a staff. He peered over his glasses and chortled at the inscription on the base: peni tente non penitenti—a stiff penis is better than repentance.
Beyond the grove, Franklin could see in the fading evening light the facade of a mock Gothic church constructed of flint with chalk mortar. Above the main arch was carved the motto of the Order, FAY CE QUE VOUDRAS, do what you wish, which Franklin took as confirmation that an interesting time awaited.
The facade was in fact the entranceway to a series of natural caves and tunnels, which Dashwood had elaborately embellished over the years. The labyrinthine chalk walls were shaped into archways. Grand halls were chiseled out. A channel of natural still water was widened and dubbed the River Styx.
Their way was illuminated by candles, but Franklin could have scarcely gotten lost as all he had to do was follow the friar directly in front of him. Upon entry into an enormous chamber blazing with sooty torches and adorned with whimsical and weird faces carved into the chalk, Franklin saw a long banqueting table groaning under an abundance of roasted meats, pies, and sundry delicacies. Looking up, he was astonished to see a large, painted fresco, which aped classical themes but was surely the most pornographic group of images he had ever seen.
Dashwood took the place of honor, surrounded on each side by his superior monks. Then the inferiors were bade to take their seats.
“Bring in the nuns!” Dashwood declared.
Franklin had been fixed on a splendid, steaming leg of lamb, but he was persuaded to turn away from it at the sight of some three dozen young women flooding the chamber with their presence. All were dressed in the black habits of nuns, but their hair flowed freely, and their habits had long slits allowing creamy thighs to flash into view. The nuns proceeded to pour wine and whisper provocative things into monks’ ears, generally involving their need to be punished for their wickedness. Franklin reckoned these were local girls pressed into service but one of his table mates told him that many were imported from London for the occasion.
After the most debauched meal of which Franklin had ever partaken, the group moved through another series of passageways into a large chamber, this one much more dimly lit. It was apparent that this room was set up as an abbey of sorts, complete with pews and an altar.
Lord Sandwich, referring to Dashwood as the abbot, called him to begin the mass and among general sniggering and catcalls, Dashwood drunkenly offered an ersatz version of a Latin mass, replete with profanities and double entendres. The assembled monks, who by now were dividing their attentions between Dashwood and canoodling nuns, grew louder and louder in their responses and began to openly call for the Devil to appear. And when the congregation was in a high lather of fevered excitement, Dashwood reached for and pulled a hidden string, connected by a pulley to the top of a large chest next to Sandwich’s chair.
Out sprang a gibbering and shrieking baboon, which burst from its confinement, scampered over Sandwich’s head, and ran amok among the
howling monks, who either broke into hysterics as Franklin did or alternatively cowered in fear at the perceived actual arrival of Satan.
The sight of this black creature appearing out of the gloomy red atmosphere of the chamber, seemingly conjured by their exhortations, unnerved Sandwich so greatly that he promptly let loose a full bladder of urine and ran from the hall, shouting in alarm. It took a number of his peers to fetch him back and one of the nuns was dispatched to procure a mop to erase the evidence of his cowardice.
When order was eventually restored, Dashwood declared the black mass concluded, and upon reiterating their motto, “Fay ce que voudras!” the night took its inevitable turn. Franklin, for his part, was delightfully accosted by a comely nun with raven hair and clear skin who asked him if he would care to accompany her to a couch in one of the side chambers.
“Do you desire a lesson in the catechisms?” Franklin asked woozily.
“Wot’s that?” the girl asked.
“If not, we can discuss current theories of electricity.”
Again, a blank look.
“Never mind,” Franklin said, as the girl pulled him to his feet. “I am a most patient teacher, and I am certain we can find a subject that interests you.”
Although I departed England for Philadelphia in 1762, I was called back to Service and returned to England only two Years later. The political Situation in the Colonies had deteriorated. It was clear the odious Stamp Act was about to be passed by Parliament, and cognizant of the Foment this would cause throughout our American Colonies, I was dispatched once again to urge the Crown that it should make Efforts to deal differently with its American Cousins, to treat us with greater Felicity as a full Member of the British Empire, entitled to Representation in Parliament if we are to be asked to pay to the Crown Taxes upon our Goods.
Upon my return, I happily reestablished Residency with Mrs. Stevenson at my old Haunt on Craven Street. Though I had intended the Journey to be numbered in Months, the steadily worsening Climate between the Colonies and England turned a brief Trip into one lasting a Decade! I, of course, renewed my Friendships and made new Associations among Politicians, the Gentry, and Scientists both in England and indeed France. I must admit I also continued to serve rather faithfully as a Friar of St. Francis of Wycombe, for to do Otherwise would have severed not only important political Ties but have measurably diminished my Joie de Vivre.
And so, in 1775, the New Year just upon Us when I was grieving from my just received Family News, I was called on by Dashwood, who had by then inherited the Title from his Father and was now Baron Le Despencer.
Franklin was shocked at Le Despencer’s appearance. He had not seen him for the better part of a year, and the man had gone downhill. Once hale and hearty with a perpetual spring to his step and an air of mischief in his eye he was pale and drawn, his inverted lower lip, once impish, now dry and forlorn.
Yet when Franklin voiced concern about his well-being, the baron brushed it off and told him he had come calling because of concern about his American friend’s health.
“Tragic news about your wife’s passing, old man. What a blow,” he said, slumping into an armchair.
Franklin sighed heavily. “Her death was not a shock, Baron. She suffered a stroke some years back, and her health had declined. I could divine that from her letters well enough. My greatest sadness is that I was not at her side during these long years in England.”
“You are a fine public servant, a credit to your compatriots, though I fear we shall be at arms soon enough. Is it, do you think, inevitable?”
“I fear it is. I have spent many years of my life endeavoring to find compromises and solutions, but I’m afraid the intransigence of the king and his Parliament has brought us to the brink.”
“I hear,” the baron said sadly, “that you will be departing these shores soon.”
Franklin nodded. “I have some last maneuvers I would see through, but yes, I believe I will have to sail these old bones back across the sea to be with my people during the approaching storm.”
“Then come with me to West Wycombe one last time for what may be the final meeting of the Friars. I’ve had my own small storms, I’m afraid, and I will be closing down our fraternal order.”
Franklin knew well of Le Despencer’s woes. Many were a direct result of that wretched baboon. Lord Sandwich had not taken his humiliation that night well, and the baron had found he was not the best of men to anger. In the intervening years, Le Despencer’s political career had collapsed at the hands of Sandwich’s marionette maneuverings, and neither had his business interests fared well. The expense of being England’s leading lush was no longer tenable.
“I’m a bit old for the doings in your caves,” Franklin said.
“By God, man, you’re only two years my senior, so don’t play at decrepitude. You must come! I will be bereft if you do not.” He looked truly despondent.
Franklin reluctantly agreed to the baron’s pathetic request, then purposely turned the conversation to the last-ditch efforts afoot to avert a great war.
Though Franklin had been in the West Wycombe caves many times, he couldn’t remember a more desultory occasion. The twenty or so monks in attendance tried their best to appear merry, but none seemed up to the occasion. Even Le Despencer in his banqueting speech sounded more like a eulogizer than anything else. It was the end of an era, the monks were aging, and war was coming.
Yet the nuns buzzing about seemed out of touch with the mood of the place. Like the professionals they were, they stayed in character, showing a good bit of leg and saying all the right naughty things to spice up the evening. Franklin, in particular, given his fresh bereavement, was in no mood for frivolity, and, indeed, he felt silly wearing his monk’s habit. But one girl persisted in her attentions to the sixty-eight-year-old statesman and succeeded in rallying his spirits.
She was a black-haired beauty with buttercream skin, certainly not yet twenty. During supper, she kept his wineglass full and insisted on licking his fingers clean, one by one when he was done. Then she pulled him off to one of the private rooms and sat upon his lap.
“You’re a pretty lass,” Franklin told her. “Have you been to these before?”
“Aye,” the girl said with a thick northern accent, playing with his long, thinning hair.
“And what is your name?”
“Sister Abigail.”
“Your real name.”
“Abigail.”
“I see,” Franklin said. “You are not employing a nom de plume.”
“A what?”
Franklin chuckled. “You’re using your real name.”
“Aye.”
She put her hand under his habit, but he blocked its upward progress and removed it.
“You’re a very sweet girl, and I will put good coin in your donation cup, but I would rather talk than play.”
“Why?” the girl asked.
He slid her off his knee and had her sit beside him.
“Because I am old, and I am sad.”
“Why are you sad?”
“Because I have recently received a letter from America informing me that my good wife has passed.”
“Was she sick?”
“Indeed she was.”
“It was her time,” the girl said emphatically. “Everyone has their time. You shouldn’t be sad. ’Tis God’s will.”
Franklin seemed happy to have been given entrée to a conversation topic.
“I’m not so sure I fully adhere to the Calvinist principles that everything under the sun is subject to God’s predetermination. Surely there are some elements under the direct control of man.”
“That is not so,” the girl insisted. When she drew up her knees for comfort, her saucy nun’s robe parted to reveal all.
Franklin rearranged her gown, mumbling, “I am apt to lose the direction of my thoughts. There, that’s better. Abigail, you seem very sure of yourself on this point of theology. Why is that? Is that the way you were ra
ised?”
“I’m sure because I know.”
“To my mind, one can know something, truly know it, only via the powers of direct observation. Faith requires more of a leap because we cannot directly observe the provenance of God. The only things in life I feel I sincerely know are the things I have seen and studied.”
“I know about you,” Abigail said. “You’re an inventor, ain’t you?”
“I am indeed.”
“You invented lightning.”
At that Franklin nearly laughed himself off the settee. “Hardly, my dear! God takes credit for that. I merely chronicled the properties of lightning and invented the lightning rod to tame its wrath. How do you know of me?”
“I heard the baron talking.”
“Where?”
“In his house.”
“Do you live there?”
She nodded, but as she did, a tear dribbled down her cheek.
“Are you in the baron’s employ?” Franklin asked.
She nodded.
“But surely that is a good thing, is it not, rather than being on the streets like so many waifs?”
“I want t’ go home.”
“Then tell the baron, and he will surely let you go.”
“He will not. I’m inventured.”
Franklin smiled at that. “I believe you mean indentured. How did you wind up in indentured servitude?”
“I ran away from home. I shouldn’t have, but I done it. A traveling man found me on the road and took me with him, made me do things with him and other men. He took me t’ London, where he sold my indenture t’ the baron. Now I’m indentured t’ His Lordship. I’d need fifteen pounds to buy my freedom. And then I’d have t’ find my way home.”
