by Jim Lehrer
So it was no problem for R now to see Ben naked in the chair, although he had been mostly clothed in their earlier conversations when R was researching his Craven Street book.
The Craven Street restoration folks had done a super job here in the parlor. The three large-framed floor-to-ceiling windows that faced out onto Craven Street had been left unobstructed. There was a stand-up desk against the wall between two of them, a tall grandfather clock and chairs between and away from the others. To Ben’s right was the man-high fireplace with built-in bookshelves on both sides, over which hung a painting of knights on horses. On the floor was a square rose and off-white patterned rug, fifteen by fifteen feet. A small round table with another chair was opposite Ben on the other side of the fireplace. All of the furnishings were, to R’s trained eye, authentic to the eighteenth century.
He would have had no trouble imagining men of science, politics, and the arts sitting here with a fully dressed Ben, playing chess, listening to him play music on his handmade glass armonica, or discussing the origins of electricity, the heat lost from open fireplaces, the true cause of the warmth in the Gulf Stream, and the urgent need to repeal the Stamp Act and later the Townshend Acts, two legislative moves by the British government that were pushing the American colonies toward rebellion. . . .
But that was not what he wanted to say this morning.
“Was Melissa Anne Harrison, later Wolcott, the mother of William?” R asked Ben.
I have never spoken of that subject, and I will not do so now.
“Why not?”
It could do harm to the woman involved.
“She is as long gone now as you are.”
Some of us never are gone.
“I asked you before but I do so again: Didn’t William have a right to know from whose womb he came?”
No.
“Why not?”
Because he was a traitor to his father and to his country.
“Did you know a woman named Melissa Anne Harrison, later Wolcott?”
No.
“Did you not see her on visits to her family home? Her father, Arthur Harrison—was he not a prominent Quaker businessman of your time and an acquaintance of yours?”
Many prosperous Quaker businessmen in the Philadelphia of my time who were my acquaintances.
“So you didn’t know him or his family—most particularly a daughter named Melissa Anne?”
I think I have already answered that question. Move on, please. I’m getting a bit of a chill.
“I can wait while you dress, sir, if you’d like.”
No, you may not wait. What else is on your mind?
“Did you have William’s mother killed?”
That is an absurd and insulting question. Remember to whom you are speaking, young man.
“What is the answer, sir?”
Certainly not. In fact, I provided sums for her throughout her life.
“Was William’s mother Melissa Anne Harrison Wolcott?”
How many times do I have to answer the same question?
“Did you know a man named Button Nelson in Philadelphia?”
The only buttons I have ever met were those on my clothing and that of others.
“You did not pay Button Nelson to murder Melissa Anne Harrison Wolcott?”
No, I did not.
“His brother Roger says you did.”
I would have thought any brother of a button would have been a hole, not a Roger.
“You are not taking me seriously, sir.”
Why should I?
“Because your reputation from this point on in history could depend on it.”
How would you describe my reputation now?
“Excellent, really—and getting better all of the time.”
Why is that?
“You are finally receiving the credit and admiration you deserve. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, and recently John Adams, have, always received more serious attention as Founding Fathers than you.”
Washington was a statue, Jefferson a pose, Adams a tree stump.
“What about Madison?”
A peacock. But a special peacock—to me, at least.
“Special in what way? I would have thought the differences between the two of you in personality as well as on the issues would have precluded—”
He had occasion to see me through a difficult situation, and he did so.
“What situation, if I may ask?”
You may ask and I may choose not to answer, which I now do.
“What about John Hancock?”
A figure.
“What do you mean?”
Figure as in what goes with a head.
“My fiancée is writing a book on him now. She’s having trouble doing so.”
Tell her to write an aphorism about him instead.
“Why?”
An aphorism can be as short as one sentence.
“Such as?”
A man who signs his name large is a man who thinks small.
“Was there an informal trial of you on charges of murder and other related crimes before a jury of your peers: Washington, Hamilton, Madison, Adams?”
Impossible.
“Impossible?”
They were not my peers.
“You think awfully well of yourself, sir.”
No man who does not think well of himself can do well.
“I have seen written evidence to indicate that you were . . . intimate . . . with a girl of thirteen—possibly even twelve—and that the girl was, in fact, Melissa Anne Harrison.”
Do you believe it, in fact, to be true?
“I don’t know yet.”
When will you know?
“I don’t know that either.”
That is what you mean about damaging my place in history?
“Yes, sir.”
What else?
“That this girl gave birth to William and later, when she was forty-five years old and on the verge of telling the world about her motherhood, you had her killed. That’s what the Pennsylvania trial was about.”
I told you there could be no such trial. Why would I have done what you have read that was charged against me?
“You were ill, already over eighty years old, and you wished to depart this world with your place in scientific, revolutionary, and intellectual history unsullied by charges that you impregnated a twelve-year-old girl and then later, when she was a mature woman, had her murdered in cold blood.”
How many people know of these charges against me?
“As we speak, probably only one—me.”
Are you going to tell anyone else, after we speak?
“I am a historian. If I believe they are true, I have no choice.”
A man with no choices is no man.
“Is that from Poor Richard’s Almanack?”
Have you read my essay on chess? Maybe it came from that. But, no matter, it is from Life itself. Choices are Life. Life is choices. I choose to play a game of chess, you choose to play a game of bowls. I chose revolution, my son William chose capitulation. I, you, he, she, we. They are personal pronouns; they are the beginnings of all sentences of action—of choice. Life choices are what make us different from the mongrels and the geese. The mongrel must fight and snarl; we can choose to do so or not do so. The geese must fly a certain direction at certain times of the year. We have no such musts. We are a species of choice. Some say it is God who put the possibility and luxury of choice in us; I say it matters less where it came from than that we recognize it as our Essence, our Power, our Force, and use it with gusto and purpose.”
“So what should I do?”
You did not hear me, did you? Choices are all individual. Groups make choices as the result of individual agreements. No man can make another man’s choices for him.
“You wrote rules for the game of chess and many other endeavors. Are there rules for choices?”
Ah, yes, indeed, and they are simple and as follows: No matter the wi
ll and the wit that goes into each, it is not possible to make nothing but perfect choices. Choices of expectation, of deduction, and even of love must find their way to final judgment through many outside forces beyond our control. Only choices of Honor are free of uncertainties. That is because they spring from and depend solely upon what comes from within.
“Thank you, sir. I’ve asked you this before—but one more time, Dr. Franklin. Whoever the mother was, why did she give you William to raise instead of keeping him herself?”
The answer to that question will be found in the Almanack.
“Where?”
Under, “A man who noses into another man’s business soon no longer has a nose to nose.”
“Yes, but what is to prevent one man from making a clear and free personal choice to so nose into the other man’s business?”
Nothing except the risk of losing his nose.
“Thank you, sir.”
You are welcome.
• • •
As he left 36 Craven Street a few minutes later, R felt foolish. Only a complete idiot would have come all this way to have an imaginary conversation with Ben—with anyone. Wally’s conversation/mantra aside, it was a silly, stupid, childish thing to do.
What is such an exercise anyhow other than a make-believe recycling of what the imagining one in the conversation—the imaginer—already knows or suspects?
Unless, of course, one really believes in ghosts of historical figures past. . . .
R pled a personal emergency to the Savoy and United Airlines and was on his way back to Heathrow less than an hour later without having unpacked or even put his head on a hotel room pillow.
Yes, coming here to talk to Ben had definitely been a waste of his mind as well as his time, money, and energy.
Although Ben’s line about Madison was arousing. What “difficult situation” did Madison see Ben through?
That phrase must have arisen from something R came across in his real Ben research. It would have had no meaning at the time but stuck in his mind until it came out of Ben’s imagined mouth. That must be it.
ELEVEN
In the taxi from Dulles, R made two calls on his cell phone.
The first was to Jack Hart, the deputy editorial page editor of The Washington Post. Jack had been the one who handled R’s op-ed page piece on Ben; without hesitation, he agreed to meet R at the Post in the morning at ten. All R had said was that it was urgent, to which Jack had replied, “Isn’t everything—but sure, come ahead.”
The other call was to Wes Braxton at the Eastern Pennsylvania Museum of Colonial History.
R began with the story he had roughed out on the plane. It was a lie but a small one, designed to buy some time and possibly much more, if necessary.
“Wes, about those papers from the cloak. I’ve had them checked for age and the like, and they certainly do appear to be authentically eighteenth century. There seems little question of that.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Braxton, “although not surprised. The chain of possession on the cloak was right on that path.”
R said, “Mmm, yes. Further examination also confirms my cursory reading for content the other day when I was with you. They appear to be someone’s notes—or diary—as I had suspected.”
“Somebody from the eighteenth century, for sure, then? Joshiah Ross, the guy who originally bought the coat?”
“Almost for sure, yes. But there appears to be no coherent message or story. The mention of murder and things like that are in apparent reference to somebody having seen it in a dream or otherwise imagined it.”
“What about those initials that seemed to be referring to Benjamin Franklin—and maybe other Founding Fathers?”
“We were able to trace most of those initials to other people and meanings.”
“That’s a disappointment,” said Braxton. “I was hoping that they would turn out to be something of real value.”
So far so good—with the small lies.
“There’s no reason for disappointment, Wes. I am pretty sure they would have great value in the antiquities market for serious private collectors of eighteenth-century American memorabilia.”
“You think so?”
“I’m almost certain. I have come across many such people in my work. A lot of money changes hands for authentic examples of colonial life—such as these papers.”
There was a brief silence. Clearly, Wes Braxton was doing exactly what R wanted him to do. He was considering.
“When you say ‘a lot of money’ what could we be talking about? God knows we need money at our place, as I told you. A little infusion of cash might be exactly what the doctor—and my future—ordered.”
Now it was R’s turn to consider—or at least continue the thinking he had already done about how high a price to throw out. How much would it take to get Braxton’s attention and support?
“It’s only an estimate,” said R finally, “but it could go as high as fifteen thousand—possibly seventeen five.”
“You don’t mean the cloak too, do you? We couldn’t sell that under any circumstances.”
“No, no. Just the twelve sheets of paper.”
There was quiet. The taxi was near the end of the two-lane section of Glebe Road, in the lane for crossing Chain Bridge into the District.
“Obviously, I would have to run this past our board and the Ross family heirs.”
“Do you want me to make inquiries within the collectors’ crowd to measure interest?”
“Would you do that? I hate to ask you to perform as a kind of broker in this.”
“It’s not a problem. I don’t mind.”
It’s not a problem. I don’t mind.
The call ended with the promise from each to get back to the other with an update when either had new information.
Then, once he was home, R sent an e-mail to Clara Hopkins in Philadelphia.
clara:
i need your help on another “small” item. could you determine the whereabouts on September 7, 1788, of ben, adams, hamilton, madison, and washington? i would love exact place and activity if possible. the information should be available for each through diaries and their own personal letters. i would suggest beginning with the databases at the libraries that house their respective papers—madison’s at the university of virginia, hamilton’s at columbia university, adams’s at the massachusetts historical society. we should have that information on ben right there in wally’s files but, if not, his papers are at yale. the library of congress and the national archives are the places to go for washington. you probably already know all this and, if so, forgive me.
thanks.
r
She responded in less than a minute.
dear r big boss:
yes, sir. i will do what i can. it may not be quite as simple as you suggest. but we’ll see. again, i guess it’s too much for you to accompany the request with some word on WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON?
when are you coming back to philadelphia? an assistant of some kind in elbow’s office called this morning to inquire. she said the president would like a word with you about an important matter.
i wouldn’t mind speaking to you myself. and, yes, of course, i already knew where the papers of the founding fathers are kept. i do not forgive you. but, for now, i remain your obedient servant,
clara
Elbow?
R answered:
tell elbow’s office—and you—that i may be back in philadelphia tomorrow. probably early afternoon. thanks again. and i’m sorry again.
• • •
R laid out the two articles on Jack Hart’s desk, exactly the way Rebecca had marked them.
“That’s mine on the left, Jack,” he said. “The other is something written by Timothy Morton in the late seventies. It was in a magazine.”
Jack Hart, a Post foreign correspondent and White House reporter before coming to the editorial page, was a man who was moderate in just about everything, from
his early forties age, height, and weight to his shirt size and his opinions. Even his office on the seventh floor of the Post building on 15th Street Northwest was moderately sized—and decorated with framed copies of front pages of the Post and watercolors of flowers. He and R had first met a couple of years ago at a Library of Congress symposium on journalism as history.
Jack immediately noticed the bright red underlines on each of the articles. Silently, he read the ones on his left—R’s piece—and then on Morton’s.
Back and forth his head went, a second and then a third time.
“So what’s the urgent problem?” he said to R.
“Maybe I should have made it clearer that some of the points were patterned after what Morton had written,” said R.
“You did.” Jack lifted the op-ed piece and read out loud: “ ‘Timothy Morton, in a most perceptive essay in 1977, had proclaimed the need for Benjamin Franklin to be given his rightful place in our hearts and minds—as well as our history books.’ All you did from then on is relate, through paraphrasing mostly, what he wished for to what has finally happened.”
“Some of the wording later could be too similar.”
“All right,” said Jack, beginning to read again. “You said for instance, that Franklin had always been known for flying kites and making up platitudes—more or less. So did Morton. So what? I don’t get the problem. You didn’t steal any direct quotes. Had you just read Morton’s piece before writing yours?”
R nodded.
“That happens a lot. You read something, put it aside and write your own, and some of the other guy’s stuff sticks. It’s no big deal.”
R shook his head.
“Somebody’s about to try to make it a big deal?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Jack put the two clippings one on top of the other and handed them back across his desk. “What’s gotten into you historian types of late? Everybody seems to be running either scared or at each other.”
“Well said, Jack.”
“What do you want me to do about this?”
