Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  June 26, 1773, Hutchinson drafted his response to the actions of the Massachusetts House petition, in which he denied the entirety of the charges, flatly accused Franklin of the heinous political crime of intercepting and reading private mail, and demanded action on the matter. The resolution of the Massachusetts House and the response by Governor Hutchinson both crossed the Atlantic on the same boat and arrived in London in mid-August.

  It was Franklin’s duty as agent for the Massachusetts House to present the petition to Lord Dartmouth in London, secretary of state for the colonies, which he did immediately. However, he did not reveal to Dartmouth that it was himself who had forwarded the explosive Hutchinson letters to Boston in the first instance. For reasons never revealed, Lord Dartmouth did not resolve the matter quietly, as was his option. Rather, he wrote emollient, sympathetic letters to both Hutchinson and Franklin and stated that he would lay the matter before King George III “the next time I shall have the Honor of being admitted into his presence.”

  The matter began its journey through the ponderous political processes of English politics and in late fall appeared to have stalled. Then, December 11, 1773, William Whatley, brother of the late Thomas Whatley, accused John Temple, the former surveyor general of the customs in Massachusetts, of being the villain who had revealed the Hutchinson letters to the Massachusetts newspapers. Temple reared back in anger and denied it, and did what was required of a gentleman wrongly accused of such an act. He challenged Whatley to a sword duel, which took place in Hyde Park, and resulted in Whatley being injured twice, Temple injured not at all, and neither man satisfied. The duel would have to be fought again, to the finish.

  The lurching of the coach slowed and stopped, and Franklin raised the curtain on the window to see the driver scramble down from the box. He glanced up at Franklin.

  “Resting the horses for a minute while they drink.”

  Minutes later the driver climbed back into the box and the coach once again jolted into motion, and Franklin heard the splash as the wheels rolled through a shallow stream that crossed the road. They continued once again into the black of night.

  Franklin shook his head at the remembrance of the trap he had laid for himself. He could not let two men try to kill each other over what he had done. December 25, 1773, he wrote a complete statement declaring that he, Franklin, was the one who had delivered the Hutchinson letters to Boston, and thus he alone should bear the consequences. He had his statement published December 27 in the London newspaper, The Public Advertiser.

  January 8, 1774, Franklin was informed that in three days’ time the Lords of the Committee of His Majesty’s Privy Council for Plantation Affairs would be considering the Massachusetts House’s petition to remove Governor Hutchinson and Lieutenant Governor Oliver; his attendance was required. Less than twenty-four hours before the hearing, Franklin learned that Hutchinson and Oliver had secretly obtained leave to have the hearing conducted by private counsel, and not by the members of the Privy Council. When he learned whom they had selected as private counsel, he knew in his heart he was finished. Solicitor General Alexander Wedderburn was to examine Franklin. In all the British Empire there was no practitioner of law more detested, or whose principles and practices had sunk lower than Wedderburn’s. Before a judicial tribunal he knew no restraints, no limits to his savage, brutal, despicable conduct.

  At Franklin’s request, a delay was granted until February first, and in those three weeks, two events occurred. Franklin hired John Dunning for representation before the Privy Council. And, news arrived in London that on the night of December 16, 1773, citizens of Boston dressed as Mohawk Indians had dumped three hundred forty-two chests of tea into Boston harbor to protest English taxes. The Boston Tea Party burst onto the London political scene like a cannon blast just days before Franklin was to appear in the Cockpit at Whitehall to be examined regarding his now infamous action of intercepting private mail and publishing it for political purposes.

  Franklin leaned back in the coach and rested his head against the hard cushion. He let the scenes of the January 29, 1774 Privy Council proceeding in Whitehall run before his closed eyes as though they happened yesterday.

  The clambering crowd spilling out into the courtyard and street—the thirty-six members of the Privy Council, including Dartmouth, Hillsborough, and Rochford, all seated at the long table that ran below the windows—the Archbishop of Canterbury—the bishop of London—high political figures from both sides of the Atlantic. He recalled being required to stand in the Cockpit facing the tribunal—the reading of the resolution of the Massachusetts House—Franklin’s covering letter of the Petition—the letters from Hutchinson and Oliver—and then the moment Wedderburn rose to address the Privy Council.

  For one hour his voice rang off the walls of the high-vaulted chamber, first insulting Franklin by quoting from Hutchinson’s letters and then excoriating Franklin’s literary reputation with his caustic “this man of letters.” And then Wedderburn unleashed a tirade. He shouted, accusing Franklin of fraud, theft, malignant heart—having forfeited all right to move among honorable men by breaking the sacred trust inherent in politics and religion of respect for private correspondence. Mark him—brand him—a man without honor.

  Franklin stood for the entire hour as though cut from granite. He moved not one muscle, uttered no word.

  Wedderburn then declared he was ready to examine Franklin as a witness. Franklin denied Wedderburn his greatest hope in the entire matter, and stunned everyone within hearing distance, by simply refusing to submit to any such degradation. Wedderburn had already crucified him before one word of evidence had been taken, Franklin was not now going to give Wedderburn the satisfaction of picking his bones. The hearing adjourned. Before evening of that day the Privy Council announced their decision. All charges against Hutchinson and Oliver were declared false, groundless, and both men were exonerated of every-thing.

  The following morning Franklin received official notice. The king had found it necessary to remove Franklin from his post of deputy postmaster for North America. With stoic calm Franklin accepted it, and for the following year he stubbornly remained in London, determined to rebuild his political image, but it was impossible. On March 21, 1775, in total anonymity, he boarded the Pennsylvania Packet with his grandson, and on May 5, arrived at the Delaware River off Philadelphia to the shocking news that sixteen days earlier—April 19, 1775—American militia had met British regulars at Lexington and Concord, and in the daylong battle that followed had all but annihilated the entire British column. The spark he had predicted, and feared, had been struck and it had ignited an explosion heard around the world. A state of war existed between the colonies and Britain.

  On May 13, 1775, eight days after Franklin arrived in Philadelphia, the authorities in England issued a warrant for his arrest. He was an international fugitive.

  Franklin flinched at the sound of the driver’s voice calling commands to the horses, and then the coach slowed and stopped. William, opposite Franklin, yawned and raised the window shade as the driver walked stiff-legged from the horses. Vapor rose from his face as he spoke. “Stopping to let the horses rest.” He pointed east, where the earliest light of dawn was separating the earth from the sky. “Nantes is just over there. We will arrive shortly after sunrise.”

  Franklin nodded and settled back to weigh the first and most critical question of his entire mission. All of France knew of his eighteenyear courtship with England—his rise—his unparalleled popularity—the Grand Ohio Company—his desperate, losing attempt to reconcile the English with their rebellious colonies in America—the Hutchinson letters affair—the wicked destruction inflicted on him by Wedderburn in the Cockpit at Whitehall—his flight in the night from England to America—the issuance of the English warrant for his arrest.

  No one was more aware than Franklin of the fact that during all those years he was becoming the darling, and then the outcast of England, France had been seething with a need for nati
onal redemption for the losses they had sustained at the hands of the English when, in 1763, they ceded nearly all their rights and claims in North America to England at the French surrender following the Seven Years’ War.

  The first critical question Franklin had to answer was simple. With the history Franklin had of being a recognized figure in the British empire so despised by the French, what attitude would the French people have towards him now?

  The second critical question was equally simple. What would be the attitude of the French government?

  He heaved a great sigh and peered eastward towards the first streaks of sun on the undersides of the light skiff of clouds, and at the stark, leafless silhouettes of the trees on the rolling farmland between the coach and Nantes.

  I’ll have some of the answers in a few hours.

  The Loire River, running west into the Bay of Biscay, was a golden ribbon in the frosty light of the winter sun as it passed near the southern reaches of the village of Nantes. The driver wheeled the rocking coach to a stop on a narrow cobblestone street in front of an inn near the center of the village and climbed down from the box. The carved sign above the door was written in French, with a figure above the letters of a blue pony prancing on a road. Franklin stamped his feet for a moment to raise warmth and circulation, then opened the door to the coach and fluently translated for his grandsons.

  “The Blue Pony Inn. We are here.”

  William threw aside the old blanket and stepped from the coach, then turned to reach for the hand of his grandfather. Slowly Franklin made the steps down to the cobblestone and stood for a moment while his trembling legs steadied and took the load of his aging, frail body. His grandson Benjamin followed and the three of them turned to the driver, who spoke. “I will unload your baggage and then I must take care of the horses.” He gestured to the tired team, heads down, steam rising from their sweated hides.

  The door of the inn opened and a portly, middle-aged woman with a great shawl pulled tightly about her shoulders walked out to meet them. She spoke to the driver.

  “You have guests for the inn?”

  The driver turned to her, and stopped, then paused a moment to savor the announcement. “Clotilde, may I present Monsieur Benjamin Franklin of America, and his companions. They will need food and lodging for a time.”

  The woman froze in her tracks and her eyes popped as she shifted them from the driver to Franklin. She opened her mouth to speak, could find no words, and spontaneously turned on her heel to call in through the open door, “Marius, come at once! You are not going to believe!”

  Marius gasped when Franklin returned his greeting in fluent French, and then Marius stumbled all over himself getting the baggage inside. Franklin paid in advance. The second floor room was small and spartan, but clean, and warmed by its own fireplace. While Franklin and his grandsons unpacked and washed, Clotilde set breakfast on the large table in the dining room by the great front window overlooking the street, and quietly hissed orders to her son. He threw on his coat and disappeared out the back kitchen door, and within minutes the town of Nantes was alive with the news. Benjamin Franklin is at the Blue Pony Inn. Yes! Benjamin Franklin of America.

  The food was simple, basic, delicious, and served steaming in large bowls. No sooner had Franklin raised his fork than two small faces appeared just outside the window and two noses pressed against the glass. Wide-eyed, the children pointed, exclaimed, and ran away, only to reappear within minutes with several more.

  Franklin raised understanding eyes to William and Benjamin and smiled. “We should soon see either the sheriff, the mayor, or the priest, depending on what the village of Nantes thinks of us.”

  They finished their meal, and Clotilde appeared at Franklin’s elbow, gesturing, talking, making it clear she was urging. “Would you care for more? You must have more.”

  Franklin raised his eyes to hers, and his nose crinkled with his smile. “It is the finest breakfast I can remember. How I wish I could eat more, but I cannot. You must accept my great compliments and thanks. It was wonderful.”

  Clotilde did not realize she had just been captured by Benjamin Franklin. An uncontrollable grin crossed her face, her glance fell to the floor, and she blushed. “Sir, it was nothing.”

  Franklin stood. “After a night of winter travel, it was everything. May I ask a great favor?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “My grandsons and I are very tired. Could you arrange not to have us disturbed while we rest in our room?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I will.”

  Franklin bowed and turned towards the stairway to the second floor when the front door burst open. In thirty seconds the room was halffilled with wide-eyed children who stood gaping, wordless. Behind them came their parents, and behind the parents came a tall, gaunt man wearing a black coat and high-crowned hat.

  Clotilde’s mouth fell open, and she clacked it shut before she turned to Franklin. “Sir, may I present our mayor, the most honorable Monsieur Jerome DeClerc.”

  Instantly Franklin shifted to face the man squarely, and bowed deeply from the waist. “Sir,” he said, “it is my most profound honor to visit your town. May I request your permission to remain for a few days.”

  The mayor stood anchored to the spot, dumbstruck. In his wildest dreams he had never conceived that Benjamin Franklin—the Benjamin Franklin—would grace the small village of Nantes with his presence, and it was beyond all belief that Franklin had now asked his permission to remain for a few days. All rules of political protocol left his mind like lightning, and he licked dry lips and stammered. “Stay here? In Nantes? You want to—” He suddenly realized what he was saying and cleared his throat, straightened his spine, and squared his shoulders. “May I extend an official welcome to Nantes. We would be honored if you were to remain here. The town is yours. If there is anything you wish, you have only to ask.” He stopped, quickly reviewed what he had said, and bobbed his head.

  Franklin smiled warmly. “It is a privilege. Thank you. If there is anything I can do to be of service, you would honor me by mentioning it.”

  The mayor stopped to consider, but the numbness had not yet left his brain. “Not at the moment.”

  “Then may I ask your permission to take my grandsons to our room? We have traveled all night and—”

  The mayor cut him off. “But of course. Of course.”

  Once in their room, Franklin turned to his grandsons and smiled. “They sent the mayor, not the sheriff or the priest. Apparently they intend to welcome us, not to arrest us, or call us to repentance.”

  While Franklin and his grandsons sought the comfort of soft beds and down quilts, Clotilde and Marius spent the day quieting the unending stream of townspeople who appeared at the door, clambering for a glimpse of the mythical Benjamin Franklin, the man who had tamed lightning. In the late afternoon, a written invitation was delivered. The mayor would be most honored if Mr. Franklin would attend a great banquet that evening in his honor, in the chambers of City Hall.

  The streets were filled, City Hall was jammed to the walls, and hastily made bunting and handmade welcome signs hung everywhere. Franklin was at his best, blending in, talking to high and low, modestly acknowledging his accomplishments when asked, inquiring in turn of the merchants about business, the schoolteachers about schools, the blacksmiths about horseshoes, the bakers about pastries.

  In the midnight quiet of his room, with his grandsons asleep, Franklin sat on the edge of his bed and reflected deeply on the events of the day. Finally he nodded his head in conclusion, laid down in the dark, and pulled the great, down-filled quilt up to his chin.

  I believe I have the answer to the first question. It seems the French people will accept me. As for the second question? the politically powerful? That is yet to be seen.

  With the good food, his body gained strength and the painful boils began to heal. The coach he hired for the wintry ride northeast to Paris was drawn by four horses, had glass windows, and a recess in the f
loor for a metal box into which hot coals were placed each day. The road smoothed after they passed Le Mans, and they stopped for two days in Versailles, with the lights of nearby Paris showing dully on the underside of the clouds at night. On December 22, 1776, the driver halted the carriage before the Hôtel d’Hambourg in the Rue de l’Université in Paris, and Franklin and his grandsons helped unload their luggage onto the cobblestoned street. At the registry desk inside, Franklin quietly signed his name in the leather-bound ledger, paid for one week in advance, accepted the large brass key from the clerk, and smiled as he raised his eyes.

  “I am advised you have an American, Silas Deane, registered here.”

  The clerk eyed him. “That is correct.”

  “Would you be so kind as to advise Mr. Deane that Mr. Franklin has arrived by appointment?”

  The clerk nodded and began to turn, then stopped in his tracks. “Monsieur Franklin? Doctor Benjamin Franklin?”

  Franklin nodded, bemused. “So I am told.”

  The clerk jerked the registry book around and read the signature, raised startled eyes to Franklin, and stuttered, “Y-yes, sir. At once, sir.”

  Minutes later Silas Deane—average height, slender, with thinning hair and slightly rounded shoulders—paused on the stairs until he identified Franklin waiting with his grandsons and baggage in the foyer, then descended the stairs rapidly. He seized Franklin’s hand and shook it warmly, and Franklin sensed the tremendous relief as the man spoke.

  “Doctor Franklin! Welcome! I am so profoundly gratified that you have arrived safely. Your presence here in Paris could hardly be more timely or more desperately needed. I trust your passage was acceptable?”