by Glenn Cooper
She circled him with her arms. “Do you think Phillip’s all right?”
“He’s been through a lot for a guy his age. I hope so,” Will said.
“He had a connection to Haven, don’t you think?”
Will nodded. “I expect he’s going to stay in touch with her. The heart’s a heat-seeking missile.”
She kissed him. “Your heart held up pretty well.”
“It did everything a heart’s supposed to do, I guess.”
She withdrew one arm and lay on her back, looking at the fancy plaster ceiling. “No Horizon. It’s like a weight’s lifted off my chest. I feel I can breathe. I can live.”
“What about the rest of the world?” he asked. “Don’t they have the right to breathe and live too?”
“Don’t you think the British or American government will put out a statement?” she asked. “I mean, they have to explain what happened at Pinn.”
“Do they?” Will asked. “When was the last time the government did the right thing on this? If you ask me, we’re the ones who are going to have to go public. We know the drill. We’ve done it before.”
“The feds aren’t going to like it.”
He laughed. “Tough shit.”
“I won’t be able to stay at my job.”
He ran his hand over her breasts. “Then you’ll have to live on the boat with me.”
“In your dreams.”
She was sleepy and turned off her bedside light. Will had other ideas. The Franklin journal beckoned. He hadn’t had the chance to finish it, and, anyway, it held a special place in his heart. It had saved his life.
The leather book was hard to open because Kenney’s knife had deformed and crimped every page. He carefully pulled the pages apart until he found the place where he’d stopped.
Armed with the powerful and strange Knowledge I now possessed, I felt the greatest of Urges to return to America to assist my Comrades during their Hour of Need and deliver unto Them the Assurance that should We fight the Crown, We would win. Yet I was equally compelled to delay my Journey until I had the unique Opportunity to accompany Abigail to Yorkshire to see for Myself the Perpetrators of these Marvels in Action. As a Scientist and a Natural Philosopher, I could not do Otherwise.
After departing the Isle of Wight, Franklin traveled with Abigail by coach from Lymington to London. During that brief journey, he was engrossed in the deepest of thought. Although it set the household tongues clucking, he bade Mrs. Stevenson to accommodate Abigail in one of the servant’s rooms while he hastily arranged for the hire of the best carriage and driver in London for the journey to Yorkshire. In fine weather, the carriage man thought he could make it to Mallerstang in four or five days, but this was January, so Franklin was advised it might take twice as long. A price was negotiated and the departure date was sealed.
Before they disembarked, Franklin penned a letter to be taken by courier to Portsmouth to be put onto the next packet ship to Philadelphia and from there delivered to Virginia. It was addressed to the one man in the colonies whom Franklin considered to be the inevitable commanding general of colonial forces should there be war, the planter and soldier, George Washington. In the letter, he told Washington that the mood in London was dark and that political and economic compromises were not likely to be forthcoming from the king. That said, he urged the Virginian to be of stout heart and prepare himself for the arduous path that lay ahead. As soon as he was able to conclude his affairs he, himself, would sail to Philadelphia and join the cause. And then he concluded, enigmatically but forcefully, “Ask Me not how I know this, but I know it with the full Force of God-given Certitude. If We Continentals should endeavor to throw off the Shackles of the Crown by Force, then We shall win. Again, my dear Washington, this is not merely the Belief of an old Optimist. I ask you to spread the Word among our Brethren in all the Colonies. It is a Fact. We shall win.”
The journey to Pinn took even longer than the carriage man’s most conservative estimate because they encountered not one but two wintry storms near Birmingham and Manchester.
When they finally arrived in Mallerstang, the Dales were blanketed in snow, and the midday sun on the fells was dazzling and blinding. Franklin endured the hardships of the adventure with stoicism and good humor, but he was a coughing, worn-out man, shivering under his travel blanket when they reached Pinn. Abigail had only been a partly suitable travel companion. Although she had been able to flatter him and make him laugh over the silliest of things, she had not been able to engage his mind in a substantial way. Every time she had glazed over at his pronouncements about science and nature, he had told her that if he were a magician, he’d have changed her into a member of the Royal Society to have a proper conversation. In the evenings, they had spent their nights in inns along the postal road to Scotland, and Franklin had immersed himself in writing inside his new blue leather journal about the circumstances that brought him to Vectis and now Pinn.
On their day of arrival, Abigail leaned out the carriage window and cried a river of tears at the sight of Lightburn Farm. And when her mother and father emerged from the farmhouse door to investigate the whinnies of strange horses, she sprang from the coach and threw herself into their arms. But Josiah Lightburn’s pleasure at seeing the unexpected return of his daughter changed to fury at the sight of Dr. Franklin gingerly climbing down onto frozen ground on his gouty leg.
“Who’s he then?” Josiah fumed.
“He’s Benjamin Franklin,” Abigail said. “He’s a very famous man from America who’s also th’ kindest man I ever met. I was a stupid girl t’ run away, but I never would have been able t’ mend my ways without ’is help.”
“Where were ya?” her mother Mary asked.
“London mostly.”
“You came all the way from there?” Mary asked in shock.
Franklin strode forward, extending his hand. “We did indeed. A difficult journey, but we are here, safe in body and felicitous in spirit. I am happy to deliver unto your care your wayward daughter, who assures me she will not stray again.”
“How can we ever repay you, kind sir?” Mary asked.
“I wish only a few days’ lodgings to renew myself before returning to London. And lodgings for my driver and feed for his horses.”
“You kinna stay here!” Josiah huffed.
“Father,” Abigail said, “he knows about us. I took him t’ Vectis. We found the reet place.”
“You told an outcomer?” he raged.
“It was the only way I could persuade him t’ pay off me indenture and take me home,” she sobbed.
“All right, come inside,” Josiah said gruffly. “Your man can stay in th’ barn.”
By the blazing hearth, with four generations of Lightburns clamoring to be with Abigail, Franklin sat in the best chair, warmed his cold feet, and drank a mug of strong ale.
“I promise you,” he told Josiah, “on my oath as a gentleman, that I will never divulge the nature of what I have seen in Vectis or what I will see at Pinn. I have to know for myself, that is all. Your secret will be safe with me. I seek no profit from it.”
“He’s brought our Abigail back,” Mary said, handing Franklin a bowl of stewed meat. “I can see by his eyes he’s a good man we can trust.”
“I’ll think on it,” Josiah said.
The following morning, Franklin awoke remarkably refreshed. Two children had been displaced from the bed to make room for him, and he was grateful for the comfort. He trundled down the stairs to the hearth, where Abigail had already assumed a burden of chores.
“I made some gruel for you,” she said proudly. Then she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Father said aye. I’m allowed t’ take you below th’ ground.”
He wasn’t about to postpone the venture to the secret chambers for the sake of gruel, so he waved off the meal and followed her eagerly down a clandestine stairway at the back of the house. As he slipped below the level of the floor, he caught sight of Josiah looking like he was about
to spit.
And when he had descended as far as he could go, he felt the chill of the underground realm and caught a whiff of leather.
“Through here,” Abigail said, pushing open a familiar door. She held up her torch. “It’s just like Vectis.”
Indeed it was.
He wandered through the Library of Pinn as he had done at Vectis, with a sense of wonder and rapture, feeling the spiritual power of the experience imbue his every fiber.
“It is enormous,” he mumbled.
“Those Lightburns who came before us cut the stone with pickaxes,” she said proudly.
“How far does it extend?” Franklin asked, holding his own torch ahead of him.
“I’ll show ya.”
They kept walking away from the direction of the house until the bookcase shelves became empty. He looked at the dates of the books most recently produced, and said, “So the volumes span 2027 to 2231. And by the looks of it there’s plenty of room for more in the future.”
“Aye,” she said, “we carry on.”
They walked the remaining empty space of the vast cavern until they came to a door.
“Through there?” Franklin asked.
“Through here,” she agreed.
He felt the anticipation prickle the hairs on his neck.
The next chamber was smaller and brightly lit with dozens of fat candles.
And there they were!
A dozen ginger-haired men and boys sitting at tables all dressed in simple farmers’ tunics, completely consumed by their labors to the point that they largely ignored the intrusion.
Franklin stood before them, watching them dip quills into ink-pots and scratch names and dates upon parchments.
He began to weep softly, and whispered as not to disturb them. “From God’s hand to their hands. My faith has always been firm, but it is now like a fortress. I am blessed to be in the presence of the divine.”
Abigail walked among them, showing the tenderness of a wayward sister returning home. She touched shoulders and heads, and when she did, the pale faces and green eyes registered glimmers of contact.
Then one young writer shifted his chair back slightly and began to rise, but she firmly pushed his shoulders down, and said, “Nae, Isaac. Nae!”
Franklin understood immediately.
“I see!” he whispered. “That’s how they are renewed! Is that why you ran away, Abigail?”
She nodded sadly. “But I don’t mind now. I’ll do me duty. The things I done whilst in the baron’s service were a lot worse.”
He spent a good hour underground, observing the writers, wandering the stacks, plucking books from shelves for perusal, and when he was done, he retired to his bedroom, opened his writing case, and resumed penning his journal.
At supper that night, Franklin was given a favored seat at the family table opposite Josiah. He thanked them profusely for allowing him the honor of seeing their noble venture and reiterated his vow that he would not divulge what he had seen and heard at Pinn.
Josiah looked at him skeptically, finished chewing his piece of mutton, and reached under his chair.
To Franklin’s astonishment he had his blue journal in his hand.
Josiah’s voice rose in anger. “We found this among your things when you was in th’ privy. We can read and write, ya know. We can see you’ve written about Pinn, and you’ve written about Vectis. I say you’re lyin’.”
“Heavens no, my good man!” Franklin cried. “I keep a journal for my own uses only. As I age, my memory dims.” He removed his bifocal spectacles and pointed at his face. “The only eyes that will ever see these pages are my own.”
Josiah handed the journal to one of his brooding sons, and said, “Our work here’s sacred. We’re the keepers of these books. We can’t have outcomers interfering. We made an exception with you because of th’ kindness you showed t’ our Abigail, and if you’re th’ gentleman you appear t’ be, you’ll honor your vow of silence. But you’re not taking this journal. It stays ’ere.”
“Very well.” Franklin sighed. “It’s probably for the best. I will leave in the morning, glad in heart that I have seen what I have seen. And while you, good sir, continue your enterprise in this beautiful valley, I will return to my country, where I will continue my enterprise to liberate my countrymen from their shackles.”
So I conclude My Journal on this second Day of February, 1775. The Things I have seen at Vectis and at Pinn will stay with Me in the profoundest of Ways for the rest of My Life. I have witnessed the Span of Humanity to come. The Future of Man appears both bright and dark. The Brightness comes from the knowledge that Mankind will endure, not for years and decades, but for Centuries and perhaps Millennia. Yet the Darkness troubles me no End. At Vectis, I saw Years where the Word Mors appeared so many Times it made Me Numb: 1863; 1864; 1915; 1916; 1917; 1942; 1943; 1944; 1945. I can only assume that great and horrific Wars will consume Humanity. But nothing shook the Foundations of my Soul like the Observation I made at Pinn concerning the year 2027. Commencing on the sixteenth Day of the Month of October, Book after Book, Shelf after Shelf, Row after Row, a great Tide of Woe. By my Calculations, the unfathomable Number of One Billion Souls will perish during that single Month, which is far in the Future yet near enough to turn my Heart to Stone. What terrible Powers of Destruction will Men create to wreak this kind of Devastation? My only Consolation is that the books continue after this Annus Horibilis. Births continue. Life continues, and Mankind seemingly finds a Way to endure. What a strange Adventure it is to be Human!
Will put the journal down and wiped away his stinging tears.
Nancy was asleep by his side.
He nudged her awake as gently as he could.
And he told her. He had to tell her.
Into the night, they held each other and talked.
October 16, 2027. The Chinese. The Americans. The British. The seeds for what was coming must have been sown over those few days in the Yorkshire Dales.
“I think I’ll leave Washington,” she told him. “Phillip and I will come to Florida. We’ve got a year and a half before this happens. Let’s spend it together in the sun. You can teach me how to fish.”
He kissed her and tried to make her laugh. “It’s going to be bad, really bad, but at least it’s not the end of the world.”
“You still want to go public with what’s going to happen?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Let me sleep on it.”
They made love, talked some more, and made love again. And when the first light of dawn made their curtains glow, they finally fell asleep.
Epilogue
“You’ll be in here,” the matron said.
Prisoner #965876 stood in front of the cell and waited for the matron to unlock the door. New Hall Prison in West Yorkshire was built in the 1930s of red brick to resemble a fortress. It was overcrowded and noisy. Cells meant for one woman held two, and those meant for two held three.
The new prisoner held her bed linens, blanket and towels to her chest and stepped inside. The door slid closed behind her.
“Bloody ’ell,” the other prisoner said. She was heavyset, with thick calves and ankles showing beneath a flimsy yellow prison dress. “I’ve had this to myself for just one bloody day, and they’ve filled it with fresh meat already.” She pointed to the top bunk. “That’s yours. My name’s Sheila. I’m from Manchester. What are you in for?”
“Accessory to murder and defeating the course of justice.”
“Oh yeah? Suppose you didn’t do none of it, right?”
“I pled guilty.”
Sheila thought that was hysterically funny. “You needed a better lawyer! How much time’d they give you?”
“Two years.”
“That’s nothing. I got fifteen. They say I set my boyfriend on fire. I’m not daft like you. I pled not guilty, but they didn’t buy none of it, did they? Whoever done it, he deserved it, the wanker. What’s your name then?”
“Cacia.”
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Sheila stared her up and down. “Here, didn’t I see you on the telly?”
“Can’t say,” Cacia said.
“Yeah, I did! You’re from Mallerstang. You had that Library.”
Cacia responded with an almost imperceptible nod and asked if she could stand on the lower bunk to make the upper. Sheila seemed to like the deference, and helped her with the sheets.
“What happened to your family then?”
Cacia answered with dry eyes. “I lost both of me sons. My husband’s in prison waiting trial. He’s charged with murder, and I expect he’ll be sent away for a long, long time. I pled guilty t’ get me time over with so I can get back t’ me daughter. She’s with me sister-in-law and her girls. They’re put up on an estate in Kendal. I lost others too.”
“How come you ain’t crying when you’re telling me all this?”
“I’ve had me fill o’ tears.”
The woman nodded. “Want some tea then?”
While Sheila waited for the kettle to boil, she launched into a pedestrian explanation that all the provisions on the shelf were hers and hers alone. Until Cacia received her first care package from the outside, she’d let her have some items on credit—with interest, of course. One biscuit would be repaid with two, one tea bag with three . . .
Cacia sat on her bunk, gazing through the barred window. A sliver of blue sky was visible above the prison ramparts. She thoroughly tuned out her cellmate’s recitation of repayment rules.
“Here, haven’t you been listening to me? Do you or don’t you want a fig biscuit?” Sheila waved one in the air.
Suddenly, Cacia jumped off the bunk and made for the stainless-steel toilet. She fell to her knees in front of it and began retching violently.
“Bloody ’ell! What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Sheila shouted. “You’d better not be contagious.”
Cacia looked up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled.
“Don’t worry, I’m not contagious,” she said, caressing her belly. “It’s only a touch o’ morning sickness.”
About the Author
