by Jeff Shaara
But not all the applicants for service had been pretenders, and Franklin had heard of the young man, this Marquis de Lafayette, a man whom King Louis considered so valuable to his own military that Lafayette could make the journey only by violating the king’s orders that he not go. The only way the young man could avoid the king’s decree, and the ship captains who would certainly obey it, was by purchasing a ship and hiring its crew with his own funds. It could have been the fancy of just another wealthy adventurer, but Franklin learned from his friends in the French court that if this particular young man was provided the opportunity, Washington himself might benefit from his service.
Lafayette had been the joyous exception, and Franklin had come to accept that if he was to accomplish any work at all, the reports to congress, even his personal letters, he must first usher the waiting applicants through his sitting room.
He welcomed the presence of Deane, could always depend on the younger man’s energy in hastening the process. For a long hour they had endured the angry spouting from a strange old man, and neither Franklin nor Deane had been able to grasp what the man was demanding, his French twisted by the man’s age and some infirmity of his speech. The man’s presentation was concluded by his exhaustion, and Deane had graciously escorted the man out to his carriage. Franklin waited for him in the parlor, and Deane returned, said, “Rather odd chap, that one. I heard something about horses, ‘Lord High’ horseman . . . or some such.”
Franklin moved toward the sitting room, said, “You understood more than I did. I could only gather something about wanting to command all the horses. Perhaps he was asking to be named major general of livestock. He could oversee the lieutenant of chickens, organize the goat brigade.” He settled into his chair, felt the giddy humor, the complete lack of patience for the process. He sighed, tested the soreness in his joints. “Just a pathetic old man, I suppose, whose good days are past. We should be more tolerant, Silas. But they do not make it easy.”
Deane sat across the room from him, looked into a teacup, sniffed, “Cold. More coffee, Doctor? I’ll retrieve it myself.”
“No, thank you.”
Deane was out of the chair already, disappeared toward the back of the house, and Franklin thought, He has learned a great deal. Not so impressed anymore by every man in a uniform. Not sure if that lesson has been learned by the congress, which must certainly give dismay to General Washington.
Deane returned, a steaming cup in his hand, and he stopped in the doorway, looked out through the front window.
“A carriage. I thought we had completed our punishment for today.”
Franklin heard the beat of the horses, listened more to the pain in his bones and stayed in the chair.
“What have we this time?”
“Simple craft. No one of wealth, that’s certain. Oh dear. He has a uniform.”
Deane went to the door, and Franklin heard the voice, very foreign, and Deane seemed excited now, some recognition. Franklin waited, and Deane led the man into the sitting room, said, “Doctor Benjamin Franklin, I am pleased to introduce to you Baron Frederick William Augustus von Steuben. In my last meeting with Monsieur de Beaumarchais, the baron’s name was mentioned prominently. I did not expect him to make the visit here. Monsieur Beaumarchais has suggested the baron may be of service to our cause.”
Franklin stood slowly, studied the man who stood at stiff attention. Von Steuben was a tall, handsome man, a high forehead, and Franklin thought, He somewhat resembles General Washington. Same age, or close.
“Baron, it is my pleasure to welcome you to Passy.”
Von Steuben seemed unsure, smiled slightly, a short, crisp bow, reached into his pocket, pulled out a letter. Deane handed it to Franklin, who studied the wax seal, the gold embossing of the French War Ministry. He opened the letter, read for a moment, said, “It seems you have made a considerable impression on Count Saint-Germain. You may be the first man to visit here who has actually impressed someone worthy.” He read again, then looked at von Steuben, studied the man’s unfamiliar uniform. “Yes, of course, Prussian. You served with Frederick the Great. Tell me, Baron, what may we offer you?”
Von Steuben looked at Deane, the uncertainty returning and Deane said, “He speaks no English, Doctor.” Deane began to speak in French, and von Steuben’s face seemed to lighten, the words finding their way. The Prussian made another bow toward Franklin, said in a ragged display of French, “I seek service, sir. I bring the respectful salute of King Frederick, for your cause. I have considerable training in the art and practice of war. I ask only for an opportunity.”
Deane looked at Franklin, said, in French, “Doctor, Monsieur Beaumarchais has told me that the baron brings a considerable amount of skill. He is currently, um, my apologies, Baron. He is currently without position. He holds the rank of captain in the Prussian army.”
Franklin sorted through Deane’s words, saw a short nod from von Steuben. He thought a moment, said, “Baron, the French War Ministry feels you are qualified for service to any army in the world. I have no reason to doubt that. However, I see one problem.” He sorted through his words. “The congress is deluged with men of high rank, vast claims of experience, most of them absurd. I fear that your rank of captain will not attract much attention.” Franklin moved to his writing desk, sat, retrieved his pen from the inkstand. He looked at Deane, said in English, “Mr. Deane, I have a solution. If you agree that the baron is indeed one of the few capable men who has come through this parlor, then we should provide him with a letter of introduction that will cause him to be noticed. I propose we . . . elevate him somewhat.” He began to write, glanced up at von Steuben, who was watching him with puzzled curiosity. Franklin returned to the paper, the pen scratching out the words. He finished, held up the paper, said, “There. Mr. Deane, I would ask you to translate this for the baron, so that he may know what he is carrying.”
Deane read the paper, smiled now, said, “Only you would have the courage, Doctor.”
Deane began slowly, read the words aloud to von Steuben in French, and Franklin saw the man’s eyes grow wide, the Prussian now looking at Franklin with some apprehension.
Deane saw the look, interrupted his reading, said, “I’m not certain the baron is comfortable with this, Doctor.”
“Nonsense. Never knew a military man to turn down a promotion.”
Deane began again.
“The gentleman who accompanies this letter is the Baron von Steuben, who honors us from his position in the service of the king of Prussia, whom he attended in all his campaigns, being his aide-de-camp, quartermaster general, and lately achieved the rank of lieutenant general . . .”
DECEMBER 1777
He had taken Temple to the opera, a lavish production of a new work by Franz Joseph Haydn, Il Mondo della Luna. The young man had protested at first, but Franklin would hear none of it, had been dedicated to injecting his eldest grandson with a significant dose of culture. He knew Temple would have been much happier spending the evening with the young ladies of Passy, and throughout the carriage ride into Paris, the young man had sulked and growled his displeasure. But once inside the grand opera house, Temple’s mood had brightened considerably. The vast audience that flowed through the portals of the hall were the cream of Parisian society, and as both the young man and his grandfather noted, there were more beautiful women in attendance at this one event than could be found in the entire village of Passy. Though he could not be certain that Temple had acquired any appreciation for the works of Haydn, the society women who took notice of this eminent Doctor Franklin, took special notice of his grandson, and the young man found himself fluttered over by a giggling flock of colorfully adorned young maidens. Temple would never protest an evening at the opera again.
They would remain in Paris for the night, Franklin having been granted an appointment with Vergennes the next day. He had made arrangements to stay at a comfortable hotel in the city, had been discreet about his planning, expected that if the n
ews of his evening in Paris was announced, someone would certainly insist on making a fuss, some sort of reception. Temple would no doubt enjoy the attention, but Franklin’s patience for social banter was fragile. Despite his love of the opera, after such a long evening, he was more interested in a good night’s sleep.
They arrived at the hotel to find the wide entryway choked with traffic, carriages and their drivers maneuvering clumsily. His own carriage halted in the street, and Franklin peered out the side, his driver pointing. “Monsieur. My apologies. There is so much . . . busy.”
“No matter, my good man. We will make the walk from here. If you would kindly retrieve our bags . . .”
The driver was quickly down, opened the door, and Franklin eased himself out, stepped down on the uneven cobblestones. He looked back at Temple, said, “You see? Someone in the hotel must have revealed our stay to every guest in the place. Now they have spread the word to every corner of the city. There is truly no escaping the crowd.”
Temple was beside him, the young man holding discreetly to Franklin’s arm, supporting him, steadying him as they stepped over the treacherous roadway. “I should have a word with the manager. Clearly he has no respect for my privacy.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
The young man’s tone was sarcastic, and Franklin could tell that Temple was skeptical. Why else would such a crowd assemble? It seems he must see for himself. He is more like me than even he knows. Ah, well, if we must endure an adoring audience, at least I can use this to instruct him, some guidance on the proper way of showing humble appreciation to one’s admirers.
They wound their way through the carriages, reached the entryway, the door held open by two men adorned in the costumes of Roman guards. Franklin smiled as he passed them, thought, Ah, the French. They do so seek the absurd in their fashion.
The lobby was more quiet than he expected, and he led Temple to the reception desk, a young man writing furiously on a pad of paper.
“Excuse me, sir. We have arrived. Will you kindly direct my grandson and myself to our proper station?”
The clerk ignored him for a moment, continued to scribble, looked up now, showed a mild shock. “Oh! Dr. Franklin! Yes, your room is prepared, sir!”
Their baggage had been set beside him, and the clerk seemed to study the emptiness of the lobby, an annoyed frown.
“There is no one to assist. I am sorry, sir. The servants are all engaged with the reception in our grand hall. I shall have to assist you myself. If you will wait just one moment.”
The clerk went back to his pad, was scowling, annoyed at having to suffer such an inconvenience, and Franklin said, “Shouldn’t we attend the reception first? There is ample time for us to retire afterward.”
The clerk seemed perplexed, said, “Are you attending, sir? I was not aware.”
Franklin was perplexed himself, and Temple leaned forward, said in a low voice to the clerk, “May we know who the reception is for, sir?”
The clerk smiled now, a show of pride.
“We are honored tonight to receive a most famous Englishman, sir, Mr. Edward Gibbon.” The clerk lowered his voice, said to Franklin, “You know, sir, I am told he writes books!”
Franklin looked at Temple, saw feigned disinterest. Well, no, he is not so much like me after all. He had the wisdom not to assume that I am the center of every universe. The clerk was out from behind his desk, hoisted their two small bags, said, “If you will follow me, sir. Your room is this way.”
“Doctor! Dr. Franklin!”
The woman’s voice was familiar, and he saw the flutter of silk, a bright yellow flower moving toward him.
“My word, Madame Brillon! How very . . . surprising to see you.”
She moved close, took his arm, and Franklin was suddenly self-conscious, overwhelmed by a wave of her perfume, the stiff tower of her hair soaring high above them both. Temple began to back away slowly, and Franklin said, “Temple, you recall my friend, Madame Anne-Louise Brillon. What, my dear madame, has brought you away from Passy?”
“Really, Doctor, do I require an excuse? My husband is scarcely aware if I am home or not.” She laughed now, a girlish giggle, and he felt her grip tighten.
“You exaggerate, madame,” then thought, Well, no, she does not. Her husband was an assistant to a government minister, connected to the dreary operations of the king’s treasury, a much older man than the energetic woman who still held tightly to Franklin’s arm. Franklin had assumed her to be in her thirties, and from their first meeting in Passy, she had placed a strong grip on both his arm and his daydreams. He knew that Temple’s daydreams had run rampant as well, and more than once Franklin had to insist to his grandson that Madame Brillon was much more of a daughter to him than anything scandalous. If he did have scandalous thoughts, he was not about to reveal them to his grandson.
“Do come, Doctor! Mr. Gibbon is a most fascinating man! I had thought him to be much older, but he is far closer to my own age than . . . I mean, such insight into history . . .”
Franklin would not let her be embarrassed, interrupted, “Yes, that explains the costumes at the door. Roman. A salute to his work.”
She gripped him hard again, said, “Oh, Doctor. You know how much I am drawn to men of experience.”
He glanced at Temple, felt a rising heat on his face, said, “I should enjoy meeting Mr. Gibbon. However, it is not acceptable for me to invite myself. There might be some Englishmen present who would find my company to be objectionable.”
“Nonsense, Doctor!” She released him now, said to the clerk, “Excuse me, young sir, I would like to carry a note from Dr. Franklin to Mr. Gibbon.”
The young man dropped the bags, an unceremonious thump beside Franklin, returned to his desk, tore through papers, scrambled to find something suitable, then produced a pen, said, “Madame, please proceed. I will write.”
Franklin could see a blush on the clerk’s face as well, thought, Yes, young man, she has that effect. She took Franklin’s arm again, her softness melting him, and she dictated to the clerk, “Doctor Benjamin Franklin requests the honor and the pleasure of a meeting with Mr. Gibbon.”
It had been nearly an hour, and Temple had retired to their room, the young man’s endurance not what Franklin had hoped. He sat alone in the lobby, thought, Historians, even English ones have some value, surely. I should instruct my grandson to show respect. One day he might regret his impatience.
Madame Brillon had returned angrily to the reception. Her patience had become exhausted as well, more insulted than Franklin himself for his being made to wait just to enjoy the company of the famous author. He was fighting the rising tide of sleep, the chair beneath him more comfortable with each tiring moment. He fumbled for his watch, but his tired eyes would not see the details, and the effort to retrieve his spectacles was simply too much work. He found himself thinking of Madame Brillon’s anger, relieved that it had not been directed at him. She is most charming, he thought, a thoroughly delightful companion. His eyes were closed now, and he was breathing in the scent of her perfume, was suddenly jarred awake by a burst of sound. He pulled himself upright in the chair, could see her marching toward him from the long hall, a flurry of motion, and she was there now, the clerk following her, nervous, a paper in his hand.
“Really! I am offended, Doctor! How dare anyone suggest . . . oh, the arrogance!”
Franklin took the note from the clerk, read aloud, “It is with regret that though I hold much admiration and respect for the good doctor, I cannot place myself in conversation with a man so identified with the rebel cause. Though I would enjoy such a meeting, I must maintain the strictest loyalty to my king. Edward Gibbon.”
Madame Brillon made an angry sound, said, “To think that I made this journey just to pay my respects to such a man! How utterly rude!”
Franklin stared at the paper, said, “My dear, I am a subscriber to the rhetorical skill that is best described as the last word. Young man, allow me a moment, then I wo
uld ask you to return to the reception, and convey my response.” He wrote,
Mr. Gibbon. I have read your note with understanding. As much as I admire your previous work involving the fall of Rome, I should like to offer, that when you take up your pen to write the Decline and Fall of the British Empire, I shall gladly furnish you with the ample materials in my possession. Benjamin Franklin
He took Temple with him to the meeting with Vergennes, had already made good use of his grandson as his personal secretary. He knew that Arthur Lee suspected every servant, every employee around any of them as being a spy, while Deane seemed to ignore completely the same threat. Franklin found himself somewhat in the middle, but a secretary was a position too important to be filled carelessly. Temple had solved his dilemma. What the boy lacked in worldliness, he compensated for in loyalty and an inexhaustible desire to please.
Over the past few months, the meetings with the French court had produced little in the way of progress, and certainly nothing that should be kept from the ears of anyone’s secretary. It was a growing frustration for Franklin, as it had been for the other commissioners as well. Lee’s mission to Spain had been a complete failure, the Spanish king refusing even to meet with an American representative, even more hesitant than the French about provoking the anger of King George III. Lee had resumed his mission in another direction, traveling on to Berlin. He went at the invitation of the Prussian King Frederick, who had a legendary hatred for the English monarch. But Lee’s efforts were futile there as well, Frederick reluctant to widen a war that so many in Europe believed was simply an English problem.
