by Alan Gold
He was writing furiously with the quill, the inkpot close to his hand, muttering to himself despite the fact that his tongue, which continued to loll at the edges of his mouth, was operating independently of his mind. There was a plate of uneaten bread and meat and cheese beside him, a glass half-full of some purple wine beside a decanter that was nearly empty. Flora looked at the famous literary lion and couldn’t help but be amazed both by his appearance and by his total concentration to the defeat of all around him. She wouldn’t have been surprised had he been surrounded by a cloud of dust with flies and midges circling his head. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was this the man Mr. Franklin in America had urged her to see in order that he may use his brilliance to advise her concerning making her son into a king? Was this the man who was considered the most brilliant of all brilliant Londoners, a man whose tongue was as sharp as an axe and whose wit was as painful as a wasp’s sting?
Boswell coughed respectfully. It made no difference. The vast lumbering man remained hunched over his desk and continued to mumble to himself, laugh at his own joke, make some comment, and continue writing in a fury of speed and concentration.
Boswell coughed again. Louder this time. It caused Dr. Johnson to look up and realize that he had been joined in his study by others. He stood and said apologetically, “Dear God, ma’am. Gentlemen. I apologize. Boswell, how long have you been here. Why didn’t you make your presence known? I was engrossed in my writing, and I failed to appreciate your sudden manifestation; where once was solitude, now there is company. Please accept my most sincere and profound apologies.”
He came over and extended his hand toward Flora. “And you must be the admirable Mistress Flora Macdonald, the heroine of Scotland. Madame, it’s a rare and excellent pleasure to meet you. How do you do.”
Before she could tell him how she did, he turned his attention to Jamie and extended his hand to the bemused young man. “You are James, son of the heroine. A pleasure, sir. A pleasure. Some wine? Brandy? But you’re Americans now and no longer Scots, so what will you drink?”
“Forgive me, sir, but it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. A cup of tea would be very nice,” said Flora.
Johnson burst out laughing and said, “One of the disadvantages of wine is that it makes a man mistake words for thoughts. I have mistaken both the word, the deed, and the time. I have been writing since three in the morning, so for me, it’s the end of the day and nearly my bedtime. Forgive me, for I sometimes forget how other mortals live. I shall immediately order you tea.”
He picked up a bell from his desk, rang it, and continued to mutter to himself. Jamie looked at him in amazement and couldn’t decide whether he was like one of the elderly men in the town of Halifax who stumbled and spoke to themselves as they tried to remember where they lived or one of the drunks in the Inn who laughed at everything. But this Dr. Johnson had been promoted by his mother as a genius. So far, Jamie hadn’t heard much genius, but he’d seen much foolery. He looked at Mr. Boswell, who was smiling amiably, as though he was a proud child presenting his extraordinary father to his friends.
“My work and a little too frequent libation has the effect of making me forget the time of day, Mistress Macdonald. Once, only last month, I rose from my bed in the early hours of the morning and for some obscure reason I thought that it was eight or nine o’clock, dressed and shouted for my breakfast. Nobody came, and I went out into the vestibule and cursed all the servants in the house for being lazy and slothful. My manservant came running out wearing his nightcap and carrying a candle to inform me that it was half past three in the morning and asked whether I was ill.”
Johnson burst out laughing and ushered them into chairs near to the enormous windows. Flora was about to explain why she had sought an interview with the good doctor, but before she could begin, he said, “My dear friend, Mr. Benjamin Franklin, arguably the only intelligent and certainly the only interesting man in America, although some demand that I include Mr. Thomas Jefferson in my trans-Atlantic pantheon, has written to me and requested that I allow you an interview in order for you to seek my advice concerning grave matters of State, which is why I asked Boswell here to contact you last week. You are known to me, Mistress Macdonald, as doubtless you are known to most English and Scots folk, as the woman who all those years ago saved the life of the Young Pretender. Such a pity about him, eh? What a wasted life. I detest waste of any kind, both time and effort. If an hour is spent in idleness, five productive hours have been wasted. In Prince Charles’ case, I’m afraid, it can truly be said that he is an exemplar of a wasted life. You see, Mistress Macdonald, life is not long, and we spend far too much of it in idle deliberation how it shall be spent. This is what Prince Charles is suffering at this moment. All his early zeal and fury could have been spent wisely, but now it is to no avail. Every man suffers defeat, but a true man rises from his defeat like a phoenix and learns from his woes. But Charles has done none of this. He is a pisspot now, a shambling, rambling sot whose reputation throughout Europe is that of a drunkard and a violent womanizer. What a thing to come to pass, eh? What a thing to come to pass!
“But please continue. I’m interrupting. Mr. Franklin informs me that you now live in America, due no doubt to the murderous policies of the unlamented Duke of Cumberland. But my American friend did not tell me the nature of the advice which you seek, so I shall await your condescension.”
She had been thinking for days of this moment and how she would begin her request. She’d tried it out the previous day on Mr. Boswell. His reaction had been very positive, but the important discussion was the one she was about to have. And being a straightforward woman, she decided to be straightforward.
“Sir, I am here to stop a war and all the carnage which results. The Stamp Act and now this terrible tax on tea and the monopoly of the East India Company is infuriating my American compatriots to a level of vehemence, and I fear that blood will be spilt unless sense prevails. They are demanding representation in the Parliament, and the government of England is showing no signs of accepting the right of a people who are taxed to determine the laws and procedures by which these taxes are raised. That’s the reason for the growing conflict, but I fear that it will result in a war, and I have seen too much of killing for a cause to allow it to happen again in my adopted homeland.”
“Very commendable, ma’am,” said Boswell, who moved his chair closer to the center of the little circle that had been formed.
“England wants money from the colony to pay its debts. The colonists in America, and no doubt other colonies, want representation and fairness. We’ll pay our dues provided we’re not taxed to extinction by a rapacious Parliament,” she said.
Johnson and Boswell hung on her every word.
“What I want to do is to meet with the prime minister of England, and the king, and propose a new arrangement which will make everybody happy. Nobody will suffer, all will be rewarded, and England will be the strongest nation on the face of the earth.”
“Utopia? Estimable, Flora, but what is the shape and substance of this New World which you are suggesting.”
She breathed deeply. She’d only ever discussed her idea with Alan and Mr. Franklin before she left. Boswell had been enthusiastic. Alan believed that these matters should be conducted by men, especially men ordained as the proper representatives of the American colonies; Franklin had nodded his agreement and appreciation but told her that the king and Parliament would never go for it. Now she was about to expose her ideas to a man who was truly the representation of all that was good about England. His reaction would determine the shape of her fate and her future.
“I wish to propose to the king the creation of a commonwealth of Nations, rather than an empire. Each nation will have its own government and ruler, but all will pay obeisance to His Majesty King of England. Some taxes and dues will be paid, but the expenses for the mother country will be far smaller as she won’t need armies to defend her possessions, so England, ha
ving a fraternal commonwealth instead of an empire which it must control, can rebuild both its Treasury and its reputation.”
Johnson sighed deeply and made a spire of his hands against his mouth. Flora remained silent, waiting for his reaction. Boswell looked to Johnson, but she could see from his eyes that he approved of every word she’d said.
“And each member nation of the British Commonwealth would have its own ruler? And each ruler would be subservient to the king of England?” asked Dr. Johnson.
She nodded. “Ruler or Governor, Parliament or Senate, Congress or Meeting House. I don’t know each nation of the empire well enough to advise.”
“But why would the king of England, and its prime minister and Parliament, give up their colonies?” he asked.
She explained the reason. “England is a small nation and cannot maintain control of a country like America or any of its other colonies, without having large resident armies. They’re costing a fortune and leaving England weak and undefended against its real enemies, the French, the Spanish, and the Portuguese. By having a commonwealth, there’ll still be trade between England and its former colonies, and some sort of fee for membership of the Commonwealth in place of exorbitant taxes which won’t be necessary because there’ll be no army to pay for.”
Again, Johnson nodded. “And why should once liberated colonies want to retain their association with England once the umbilicus has been cut?”
She’d thought that issue through and answered, “Because of the strength they’ll still retain in the numbers of nations and the populations which will be part of the Commonwealth of England. If they become independent without maintaining their relationship with England, then they’ll be prey to conquest by nations such as France and Spain. But if countries view members of the Commonwealth avariciously, then they’ll know that should they attack, Britain and other commonwealth nations will come to her aid.”
He remained silent. Boswell smiled at her and nodded in appreciation. But could Dr. Johnson see the benefits. At last, he said slowly, “I see great advantages and many problems. But so long as the advantages outweigh the problems, there’s no reason why such a brilliant concept can’t be proposed. First to Lord North, the prime minister; and then, God willing, to the king. A commonwealth of nations? An interesting idea. Throughout history, all great empires have frayed at their edges; revolts against the central authority begin at the margins of the empire and eventually work their way through to the center of power. This was the case with Assyria, Egypt, Rome, and latterly the Ottomans seem to be stagnating and will soon, I have no doubt, be following the same pathway.
“But that’s not what you’re proposing, is it? Not an empire ruled by a central government which ultimately must become despotic because such a government can never remain benign, but a commonwealth in which every Nation contributes to the good of the whole.” He nodded and smiled. “What an interesting idea. Brilliant, eh Boswell?”
Johnson turned to Jamie and said ostentatiously, “Sir, you have a mother who is a woman beyond price. The name of Flora Macdonald is one which will be mentioned in history, and if courage and fidelity be virtues, mentioned with honor.”
His panegyric was interrupted by a servant who knocked deferentially on the door and entered carrying a tray with silver pots of tea, hot water, milk, and lemons. A three-tier cake stand filled with biscuits and pastries of all different shapes and sizes was also on the tray. Jamie looked at it in astonishment. His cookies came out of a pewter cookie jar on a kitchen shelf.
The servant placed the tray on the table, and each took a pastry, Jamie selecting the biggest. Flora poured tea for everybody, and as she sat down, wondering what to say next, Dr. Johnson asked, “Would a child willingly give back his birthday gifts? Would a farmer willingly give away his lands? If not, then what will be uppermost in the mind of the king of England will be the thought of giving away an empire which makes England far greater than the size of its island with all the attendant prestige which it brings? I’m not sure that withdrawing armies and saving a fortune will be uppermost in the minds of the prime minister and his less-than-intelligent king.”
She sipped her tea and gave her considered response. “The child will not be giving back his toys, Dr. Johnson. Instead, he will be putting his toys into a big basket filled with the toys of his brothers and sisters. Then all will share in the toys and the child, while he might have lost the exclusive right to the toys, will nonetheless be able to play with all the other children’s toys. As to the farmer, he will share the bounty of his lands with all the other farmers, and instead of surviving on just one crop, he will give part of his crop away, but will benefit from all the other crops grown. And as to King George III, he will be father to other kings and rulers and governors, and all kings and rulers and governors will pay tribute to him for being the father. But with respect, I believe that you’re underestimating the value and benefit to England if it can withdraw its armies?
“All that money in supporting its empire can be saved. Trade will flourish because it will be on an equal basis, not on the inequitable relationship of a master and his servant. Women in England will still demand beaver furs for their hats and coats, so trappers in American will still gain their livelihood; farmers will still grow tobacco and sugar and potatoes, but it will be a free and fair trade. You will have an assured supply and we in the former colonies will be free to live our lives without the yoke which is breaking our backs. You in England will need to spend less money because you won’t have colonies to support. If the French in America continue their assaults against our possessions, we, the American army, will rise up and fight them. And if your army is required because of French or Spanish adventures in Europe, then it can be free of its responsibilities in the colonies. Indeed, the American Army might even come to the aid of its father, the king of England.”
She had been speaking longer than she dared hope. When she addressed an audience, she would speak uninterrupted for an hour. Yet this was more a conversation than a speech, and she knew that Dr. Johnson wanted to interrupt.
Instead of speaking, he looked at her for an embarrassingly long moment. Then he turned to Boswell and said, “Call the guards, Boswell, for we have in our presence a dangerous radical, a woman who will upset the very balance of nature itself and will undermine the roots of our civilization. This woman must be taken away to the very furthest island in the world and cut off from all society.”
Flora looked at him in astonishment, until he burst out laughing.
“Brilliant, Flora. Utterly brilliant. You argue like an advocate and you think like a philosopher. Yesterday, I met an interesting young man named Jeremy Bentham, whose ideas of social justice called Utilitarianism may inform you better of what kind of society you might wish to see in America. It calls for the greatest good for all. I want you to meet him. Indeed, I want you to meet many men of my acquaintance, for there is much you could teach us and more that you could learn from us. While we base our ideas on thousands of years of Greek and Roman civilization, it must be admitted that we have a tendency to be hidebound in our thinking, ossified in our ideas. You may need us, ma’am, but just as certainly we need you to infuse us with the freshness, verve, and originality which springs from the New World in order to shake the branches of our Old World tree.”
She glanced at Jamie, who beamed a grin from ear to ear; then she glanced at Mr. Boswell, who smiled and nodded in appreciation. But it didn’t satisfy her.
“Dr. Johnson. I would be delighted to meet with your friends, but I’m here on a mission. I must see the prime minister and the king, in order to prosecute these ideas and turn them into realities. Will you advise me on the best way forward?”
“Of course,” he said immediately. “I shall write a note today to Lord North, our esteemed prime minister. You will see him by the end of the week.”
She nodded in gratitude. It was what she had hoped for, yet dared not expect. Suddenly, a simple American farmer’s wife was des
tined to see the most important man, after the king, in all of England. She wondered how it had all come to this.
And with her newfound confidence, she decided to ask the next favor. “Sir, what you have offered is more than I could have believed possible when I left America. For that, I am grateful. But there’s one other service I wish to ask for, and I will understand why you may prefer to decline. My son, Jamie, and I, have an appointment with destiny. To gain our destiny, we have to seek the assistance of a churchman of England who still harbors Jacobite sympathies. Do you know of such a churchman?”
Surprised, Johnson asked, “Why would you need to see a Jacobite churchman?”
“There are good reasons,” she said softly.
“But surely you can’t expect me to expose any of my friends to potential danger and imprisonment and accusations of treason against the Crown of England unless you give me more information. That would be most unreasonable.”
She looked at Jamie, who nodded.
“Dr. Johnson, Mr. Boswell. May I introduce you to my son, James. He is the only male successor of the Stuart line to the Crown of England and Scotland. He is the last remaining son of the House of Stuart. Jamie is Bonnie Prince Charlie’s son. He was conceived in a crofter’s hut on the Island of Skye. And I intend to have him crowned in Westminster Abbey on the Stone of Scone as the king of Scotland. I know that Prince Charles is still alive, but no Scottish laird will accept him as king because of his past misadventures. So the Scottish monarchy must miss the present generation and move on to the next, which is my son. Prince Charles has all but renounced his claim to the Scottish throne anyway. He has tried three times and will no longer be considered king by any Scotsman or woman. Jamie, however, is his son and I will make every endeavor to see that he is recognized as the rightful heir.
