On his way back from Cambridge, Franklin stopped at Warwick, Rhode Island, and picked up his sister Jane Mecom, who was still living in Catherine Ray Greene’s crowded house. He took her back with him to Philadelphia. The pleasure this tragedy-ridden woman found in her brother’s company was evident in Jane’s letter to Catherine Greene. “My seat [in the coach] was exceeding easy and journey very pleasant. My dear brother’s conversation was more than an equivalent to all the fine weather imaginable.” Only once on the journey did Jane’s touchy temper manifest itself. They were supposed to dine at Wethersfield, Connecticut, where Mrs. John Hancock was living. Jane no doubt looked forward to dazzling one of the grande dames of Boston society by appearing with her famous brother. But the two Franklins became so involved in their agreeable conversation that they forgot to tell the stagecoach driver to turn off at Wethersfield, and when they discovered their mistake, they were several miles beyond it, and the driver refused to go back. For Jane this was a “mortification.”
The two older Franklins stopped overnight at Perth Amboy, but Jane mentioned no additional mortification from that meeting. Father and son apparently forebore to continue their grim debate in front of Aunt Jane, who was burdened with so many troubles already. Writing back to Catherine Ray Greene, Jane described William’s house as “very magnificient.” Elizabeth Franklin wrote to Temple, toiling over his school books in Philadelphia, that they “had the happiness of my father’s and Aunt Mecom’s company last Tuesday night; we would willingly have detained them longer, but Pappa was anxious to get home. . .” There was not a hint in the letters of these two women about the ominous, ever-widening division between father and son. But William Franklin must have discussed with his father the momentous decision he had already made, to convene the New Jersey Assembly on November 15, 1775.
Other royal governors had either fled or been driven from their posts. But William Franklin had many advantages they lacked. One was the prestige of his name. Another was his long tenure in office. A third was his frequent declarations that the rights of the people and the prerogatives of the Crown were equally dear to him. Largely rural, with no major city in which agitators could prosper, and no newspaper to fan the flames, New Jersey had never had a strong revolutionary movement. When the revolutionary provincial congress laid taxes and drafted men into the militia, a reaction had swept the province during the fall of 1775 which made it difficult for the patriots to interfere with the governor’s summons to the Assembly. Thus the colony relapsed into political schizophrenia, and William Franklin seized the opportunity to speak with a new, very dangerous voice.
Appearing before the assemblymen in Burlington on November 16, 1775, Governor Franklin discoursed on “the present unhappy situation of publick affairs,” proclaiming his wish to say nothing to “endanger the harmony of the present session.” He then proceeded to say a great deal that endangered the harmony of the entire American Revolution. He told the Assembly that “His Majesty laments your neglecting the resolution of the Commons of last February twentieth,” Lord North’s conciliatory resolution, which the governor’s father had already described as about as conciliatory as a highwayman brandishing a pistol in a stagecoach window. Boldly, Governor Franklin now proceeded to explain to the Assembly why he had not imitated other royal officials and fled to the protection of the nearest British warship. He did not wish the King to think that New Jersey was in “actual rebellion” as other states obviously were. The King was taking “all necessary steps” for putting down that rebellion, and Governor Franklin solemnly averred that he shuddered at the thought of exposing New Jersey to the royal heel. He begged the Assembly to “exert your influence likewise with the people, that they may not . . . give cause for the bringing such calamities on the province.”
If they did not agree with him, and wanted him to get out, all they had to do was tell him. With a frankness which dazzled the uneasy legislators, he let them know he was well aware that “sentiments of independency are . . . openly avowed, and essays are already appearing in the publick papers to ridicule the people’s fears of that horrid measure.” Then, leading them artfully in his direction, he added, “If, as I hope, you have an abhorrence of such design, you will do your country an essential service by declaring it in so full and explicit terms as may discourage the attempt.”
Not a word was spoken by the Assembly against these sentiments from the royal governor. In part they were undoubtedly disarmed by William’s frankness. But a more practical reason for their good humor soon became apparent. He announced that the King had finally granted a plea that New Jersey had been making annually for the better part of a decade; the province now had royal permission to print 100,000 pounds in bills of credit, which would serve as badly needed paper money. Part of this influx of cash was to be used to raise the salary of the governor and other civil servants in the province, and to help pay for the governor’s new residence. On November 29, the Assembly reacted to this royal munificence by appointing a committee to petition George III. Governor Franklin suggested they urge the King to “use his interposition to prevent the effusion of blood and to express the great desire this house hath to restoration of peace and harmony with the parent state on constitutional principles.” Even more startling were resolutions of the Assembly, sent to the New Jersey delegates in the Continental Congress. One directed these delegates “not to give their assent to . . . any propositions . . . that may separate this colony from the mother country or change the form of government thereof.”
It was a truly incredible performance, and an enormous tribute to William Franklin’s talents as a politician, to extract these measures from an American Assembly, sitting less than a half day’s journey from the Continental Congress in Philadelphia. There, the business of the day was largely consumed in approving the Franklin Committee report reorganizing and enlarging George Washington’s army, and worrying over the ominous report of another committee, surveying the situation of the American army that was attempting to bring Canada into the continental confederacy. Congress was also advising several colonies, among them New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Virginia, to go ahead and form their own local governments, and take no more orders from royal officials, who had either fled or, as in Virginia’s case, had declared martial law and were attempting to organize a local army to suppress rebellion. Engulfed in this ever swifter current toward independence, the congressmen could not quite believe their ears when they heard what Governor Franklin and his Assembly were doing just across the Delaware River in Burlington. If New Jersey’s petition got to the King, and he received it graciously and bestowed still more proofs of his generosity from his ample exchequer, the chances were all too good that other wavering colonies, such as New York and Maryland (both of whom had forbidden their delegates to vote for independence), would have second thoughts about their loyalty to the penniless Continental Congress.
John Adams, the American who had the keenest eye on the question, later estimated that about one-third of the people were for independence, one-third were opposed, and one-third were indifferent. At this point in the struggle, the pro-independent people were much fewer, probably no more than one-quarter, possibly one-fifth. If the King had even one or two opportunities to demonstrate his good will (which was to him dependent, of course, on a colony’s “submission”), the deep wellsprings of feeling for England which were still a living reality in almost every American might have swiftly swept the independence men into a tiny, impotent minority.
Even more probable was the instantaneous jealousy that would seize every colony if New Jersey, then New York, then Maryland made separate petitions and won special favors from the King. The continental union, already demonstrably so fragile that Benjamin Franklin could not even persuade them to consider his Articles of Confederation, could vanish in the smoke of mutual recrimination, overnight. Almost single-handedly, William Franklin was daring to duel his father and the rest of the Continental Congress for the control of a continent. Seldom h
ave men played for higher political and personal stakes. If he won, William Franklin could expect from a grateful King and Parliament those “highest favors” Lord Howe had dangled in front of his father. Simultaneously, he could enjoy the gratifying vision of himself as a peacemaker, albeit a submissive one.
But the men meeting in Congress at Philadelphia were equally aware of the stakes. Although they by no means agreed on whither they were marching, toward independence or eventual reconciliation, they were in total agreement on the necessity of maintaining a united front. The very day they heard the news of the New Jersey Assembly’s petition and resolution, they forthwith:
RESOLVED UNANIMOUSLY, That in the present situation of affairs, it will be very dangerous to the liberties and welfare of America, if any Colony should separately petition the King or either House of Parliament.
Congress appointed a three-man committee, and ordered them to leave for New Jersey without delay to persuade the legislature to abandon their petition. The members of the committee were John Dickinson of Pennsylvania, George Wythe of Virginia and John Jay of New York.
If there was a low point in Franklin’s life, it was December 4, 1775, the day this committee was formed. His chief political foe in Pennsylvania, John Dickinson, had been assigned by his fellow Americans to rescue the revolution (Franklin, at least, had no doubt that it was a revolution) from his Tory son. It reduced Franklin’s political power in Pennsylvania, and in Congress, to something very close to zero. A man who could not persuade his own son to join the Cause or at least stop him from threatening the entire fabric of American resistance, could hardly be respected as a political leader.
Dickinson, Wythe, and Jay appeared in Burlington, to William Franklin’s vast rage and resentment, on December 5, the day after they were appointed. They asked for permission to address the Assembly. Behind the scenes, Governor Franklin frantically lobbied with influential members, to persuade the assemblymen to refuse to listen. But this was asking too much of American legislators in late 1775. The Assembly granted permission, and Dickinson and his two companions took the floor. A highly effective orator, Dickinson begged the assemblymen to withdraw the petition, arguing that it was a capitulation to the British policy of divide and conquer. Only if they convinced Britain that they were not “a rope of sand” would Americans ever redress their grievances. Young John Jay made a more subtle suggestion. He pointed out that Congress had already presented Dickinson’s “olive branch” petition to the King. Wouldn’t it be better to wait and see what his Majesty did with that perfectly respectable plea before making one of their own? The assemblymen, not a little uncomfortable at being the subject of a unanimous rebuke from the Philadelphia Congress, seized on Jay’s idea as a perfect out. They promptly resolved that their petition to the King “be referred” until the King replied to the olive-branch plea. Governor Franklin could only watch in silent frustration, while his daring attempt to build a backfire against independence flickered out. His consolation, a very minor one, was the prompt adjournment of the legislature, which left on the record the resolutions forbidding the state’s congressional delegates to vote for independence.
Benjamin Franklin, meanwhile, was adding the power of his potent pen to his grim resolve to fight to a finish. He sent some witty statistics to his friend Joseph Priestley in England, knowing he would swiftly spread the story as a Franklin bon mot. “Britain, at the expense of three millions, has killed 150 Yankees this campaign which is 20,000 pounds a head. . . During the same time 60,000 children have been born in America.” He urged Priestley to have their mutual friend, Richard Price, apply “his mathematical head” to calculating “the time and expense necessary to kill us all.” To Member of Parliament David Hartley, he warned, “You are insensible of the Italian adage, that there is no little enemy.”
On December 14, 1775, The Pennsylvania Evening Post published a news item which summed up better than anything else Franklin’s personal attitude toward the struggle. It was his favorite propaganda device, the hoax.
The following inscription was made out three years ago on the cannon near which the ashes of President Bradshaw were lodged, on the top of a high hill near Martha Bray in Jamaica, to avoid the rage against the Regicides exhibited at the Restoration:
STRANGER
Ere thou pass, contemplate this cannon,
Nor regardless be told
That near its base lies deposited
the dust of
JOHN BRADSHAW,
Who, nobly superior to all selfish regard,
Despising alike the pageantry of courtly splendour,
The blast of calumny and the terrors of royal vengeance,
Presided in the illustrious band
of heroes and patriots
who fairly and openly judged
CHARLES STUART
Tyrant of England
To a public and exemplary death;
Thereby presenting to the amazed world,
And transmitting down, through applauding ages,
The most glorious example
Of unshaken virtue, love of freedom and impartial justice,
Ever exhibited on the blood-stained theatre of human action.
0, reader!
Pass not on till thou has blessed his memory,
And never -- never forget
THAT REBELLION TO TYRANTS IS OBEDIENCE TO GOD.
John Bradshaw was not even buried in Jamaica. But the hoax was so successful it passed into history books, and was quoted as fact by numerous historians in the nineteenth century. Franklin admitted his authorship only to a handful of like-minded contemporaries, such as Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. Jefferson later adopted the last line for his personal seal.
Franklin did more than write tough letters and brilliant propaganda during that same month of December 1775, when his son was doing his utmost to torpedo the American cause. Ever since his return home, he had been working at a pace which might have killed a far younger man. He was a member of the Committee of Safety for the State of Pennsylvania, responsible for putting the province in a state of defense against potential British incursions. In this guise he bought powder and conferred on the manufacture of saltpeter, and pondered the problem of blocking the Delaware River with underwater barriers made of logs and iron, which he also probably designed. In Congress, he served on no less than ten different committees, in addition to his duties as America’s first Postmaster General. He had to worry about the Indians of “the Middle Department” along Pennsylvania’s and Virginia’s borders, advise Congress on ways and means to protect the trade of the colonies, draw up a report on Lord North’s conciliatory proposition, and confer with generals and engineers on supplying and equipping the American Army. Americans were so short of powder, Franklin recommended the use of pikes and bows and arrows. A well-aimed arrow, he observed, was at least as accurate as the contemporary musket, which was grossly unreliable except at point-blank range. “My time,” Franklin told Priestley, “was never more fully employed. In the morning at six, I am at the Committee of Safety . . . which holds till near nine, when I am at the Congress, and that sits till after four in the afternoon.” No wonder John Adams noted that Franklin, during the sessions of Congress, was “a great part of the time fast asleep in his chair.”
By far the most important committee on which Franklin served began its work during that same painful month of December 1775. In the closing days of November, Congress had appointed Franklin, Benjamin Harrison of Virginia, Thomas Johnson of Maryland, John Dickinson of Pennsylvania, and John Jay of New York to a secret committee with “the sole purpose of corresponding with our friends in Great Britain, Ireland and other parts of the world.” Another secret group, the Committee of Commerce, headed by Robert Morris, was to handle the business of buying war material. Both were momentous steps for Congress. Franklin had thought about seeking foreign aid more than once, and expressed grave doubts as to its wisdom. In London, he had advised Josiah Quincy, Jr., against it. The logical c
ountry from whom to seek aid was France, and Franklin had been an Englishman too long to look on such an alliance with equanimity. Twice in his long life, he had helped fight the French. He had seen first-hand the French and Indian slaughter on Pennsylvania’s frontiers. But he had warned several English friends, such as Priestley, that it was “natural” to think of a foreign alliance “if we are pressed.” News from England, in December 1775, made it clear that immense pressure was on its way. The British were, in fact, hiring German troops to bolster their army. The King had rejected the olive-branch petition and declared the colonies in rebellion. There seemed to be no longer the slightest doubt that all-out war had begun.
A few days after, or perhaps before, this news arrived, Francis Daymon, the French-born librarian of the Philadelphia Library, paid a discreet call on Dr. Franklin to inform him that there was another Frenchman, one Achard de Bonvouloir, in Philadelphia, who was anxious to meet him. Although he called himself an “Antwerp merchant” and insisted he had come to America “out of curiosity,” Daymon’s raised eyebrows made it clear to Franklin that there was much more to Mr. Bonvouloir than his public image. There was a strong probability that he was an agent of the French government. Franklin instantly arranged for a clandestine meeting between the Frenchman and the secret committee of foreign correspondence. Philadelphia was swarming with British sympathizers and the touchy feelings of so many people about the question of independence made dealing with the representative of a foreign power, particularly France, doubly dangerous. The Americans and the secret agent met by night, each man traveling alone to the rendezvous by a different route.
The conversation, as Bonvouloir reported it, was thick with evasions and subterfuges. The first thing the Americans wanted to see was some written instructions, to make sure this man was not a British agent, collecting information that could hang them. Alas, Bonvouloir had only verbal instructions, and even these were so vague that he could make them no offers. He could only promise “to render them every service that could depend on him, without making himself in any way responsible for events.” Bonvouloir spoke of “acquaintances” to whom he could pass on requests, with the assurance that these mystery men would keep everything confidential.
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