An Experiment in Treason Page 19

  Well do I recall the morning of their departure. Not only was I called upon to see them off at the Post Coach House; but, more important, upon my return, the mystery of the missing letters began at last to unravel. Thus it is sometimes so that we recall events of great consequence by their nearness in time to others of comparative insignificance..

  It was Sir John’s custom to have the day’s newspaper read to him first thing in the morning. I was frequently the reader, though more often it fell to Mr. Marsden to perform the task. Since Mr. Marsden himself was absent, his “influenza” (as he now called it) still troubling him, I brought with me the day’s copy of the London Chronicle from my trip to the Post Coach House, and sought out the magistrate. I found him in his chambers, and, at his invitation, I sat down before him, opened up the newspaper, and began searching it for items, announcements, and stories in which he might be interested. A word should be said about that, perhaps: Sir John had little interest in those that had naught to do with the law and its enforcement, the judicial process, or its legislation in Parliament. Comment upon these subjects absorbed him only insofar as the commentator did. If his views agreed with Sir John’s preconceptions, then the magistrate would give him his attention; if not, I would be instructed to move on quickly to something else. I know not how it was with Mr. Marsden, but when I read the day’s newspapers to him. Sir John was ever accusing me of fastening upon those items which interested me alone and not him, and ‘wasting’ his time with them.

  There was just such a story in the Chronicle that morning, and I half-expected him to stop me as I began to read it aloud. Since I no longer have a copy of the text that I might insert it here, I shall be forced merely to describe the contents of the piece.

  It was a report from the Chronicle’s Boston correspondent upon a remarkable meeting of the Massachusetts assembly, at which excerpts from a packet of letters were read out to the members of the body. The letters, which numbered about fifteen, were an exchange between Thomas Hutchinson, now governor of the colony (appointed by the king himself) Andrew Oliver, the lieutenant governor (and Hutchinson’s brother-in-law), and the late Thomas Whately, a member of Parliament and an author of the Stamp Act so hated by the colonists. Though the letters were written between 1767 and 1769, they were as relevant and alarming to the colonists as they would have been had they been written but a day before.

  What frightened the citizens of Massachusetts was the cavalier manner in which all three of the correspondents were so willing to dispose of the rights the colonists enjoyed as free-bom Englishmen — should they continue to behave in a manner as fractious as in the past. In the most frequently quoted letter, that which was written and sent by Governor Hutchinson to Thomas Whately, it was said by him: “I never think of the measure necessary for the peace and good order of the colonies without pain. There mujt be an abridgement of what are called Engluh liberties.” No matter how much pain this would have caused the governor, it would have caused the colonists a good deal more.

  I read to the end of the item, expecting to be cut off by Sir John. Yet not to the very end, for when I was near it, I looked up to catch his reaction to what I had read thus far. I saw him leaning forward and eagerly taking in each word I said. Was he truly so excited? Yes, I believe he was, for in a few moments more I finished my reading, and he did indeed jump up from his chair in his excitement.

  “That’s it!” He fairly shouted it out. “That’s it!”

  “What do you mean, sir? “

  “Do you truly not see? Those are the very letters that were stolen from Lord Hillsborough.”

  “But … but are you certain? How can you be sure?”

  “Of course I can’t be certain — not as you mean it, yet I would wager any amount of money that I am right in this.”

  “How can we confirm it? “

  “Why, I don’t know,” said he. “I can’t imagine how one would go about it.”

  “Can no one be charged?”

  “You mean Franklin? No, not on such grounds as these.”

  “What about Arthur Lee?”

  “Because he was rowed out to a ship sailing for Boston to deliver a package? No, I fear not.”

  “So we are no farther along than we were weeks before.”

  “No, we’re a bit farther along. Now, at least, we understand what it was had been stolen.”

  “Well,” I said after thinking upon it for a time, “can we not bring in Dr. Franklin that you might interrogate him for a bit?”

  “No, still it would be un-wise to tip our hand. It is best to wait.”

  Events moved swiftly. Followng a good deal of impassioned rhetoric in the newspapers (“we shall not countenance,” etc.), a shocking bit of news came to light. William Whately, brother to the late Thomas who was one of Hutchinson’s correspondents, took it upon himself to defend his brother’s reputation, for there were some who believed Thomas Whately to be the source of the letters. In doing so, William accused John Temple, a minor government official, of stealing the letters. True, Temple had been granted access to Thomas Whately’s papers and had examined them, yet he insisted that no such letters were among those he had gone through. Nevertheless, William Whately continued to point his finger at Temple and accuse him publicly of theft. John Temple saw no solution but to challenge him to a duel.

  It was fought in early December in Hyde Park, and was fought in deadly earnest by both men. They hacked away with swords, one at the other, till Whately fell, too badly wounded to continue He was carried from the field, vowing to continue the fight as soon as he was physically able.

  All this was reported in most, if not all, of London’s newspapers and became widely known. What became even better known was a short notice that appeared in one newspaper alone — and that was the London Chronicle. Well do I recall returning from Covent Garden with the copy of the Chronicle I had purchased from the news vendor there. Once settled in Sir John’s chambers, I commenced reading the notice to him before ever I had noted its author. This, then, is what I read, under the heading “Public Statement on the Hutchinson Letters.”

  “Finding that two Gentlemen have been unfortunately engaged in a Duel, about a transaction and its circumstances of which both of them are totally ignorant and innocent, I think it incumbent on me to declare (for the prevention of farther mischief, as far as such a declaration may contribute to prevent it) that I alone am the person who obtained and transmitted to Boston the letters in question. — Mr. W[hately] could not communicate them, because they were never in his possession; and for the same reason, they could not be taken from him by Mr. T[emple]. — They were not of the nature of “private letters between friends.” They were written by public officers to persons in public station, on public affairs, and intended to procure public measures. Their tendency was to incense the Mother Country against her Colonies, and, by the steps recommended, to widen the breach which they affected. The chief caution with regard to Privacy, was, to keep their contents from the Colony Agents, who the writers apprehended might return them, or copies of them, to America. That apprehension was, it seems, well founded; for the first Agent who laid his hands on them, thought it his duty to transmit them to his constituents.

  [signed] B. Franklin, Agent for the House of Representatives of the Massachusetts Bay.

  Part Two

  EIGHT

  In which Sir John

  questions Dr. Franklin

  for a second time

  “Bring him in, Jeremy,” cried Sir John, beating upon his desk with the flat of his hand. “Bring Benjamin Franklin to me, and I shall have at him again.”

  Never, I think, had I heard him so full of purpose as at that moment. I, who had for weeks been clamoring for Ben Franklin to be brought in for another, less accommodating interrogation, found myself actually pitying the poor fellow as I anticipated the ordeal he soon would endure.

  I jumped to my feet, ready to depart. Yet he had not done with me.

  “If this were later in the
day,” said he, “I would send one of the Beak Runners to bring him in. Since Mr. Fuller must be responsible for the rowdy prisoners in the strongroom, a particularly nasty bunch this morning, I ask you to play the role of the runner once again. But show Franklin no sympathy. He is not a prisoner, but he is to suppose himself such. Wear a brace of pistols and look like you would be pleased to use them. Is that clear?”

  “Most clear, sir.”

  By the time I left Number 4 Bow Street, I not only had round me the brace of pistols Sir John had told me to put on, but I had also in my coat pocket the cosh which Mr. Baker had taken from one of our overnight guests. For some reason, it came to mind that it might be useful — and so it did prove. Weighted down as I was with pistols and such paraphernalia, there was no possibility for me of going there at a run, or even jog-trotting the distance. Yet I felt a sense of urgency that seemed to call for such haste. After all, I had been pushing for this, had I not? To be ordered at last to bring in Dr. Franklin, even at this late date, seemed to me a vindication. And so I walked as Swiftly as I was able down the Strand, and there, across from St. Martin in the Fields, was Craven Street.

  Yet when I turned down it, I found that a considerable crowd, more than a dozen though less than twenty — had gathered before Number 10, which I knew to be Benjamin Franklin’s address. They shouted, and the gentlemen waved their walking sticks in a most threatening manner. It seemed that Dr. Franklin’s notice in the Chronicle had angered quite a few.

  What, I wondered, was I to do to get him out of this situation? It appeared to me that it would not be long till certain of the crowd began throwing stones or paving bricks through Mrs. Stevenson’s windows. I could not allow that to happen, could I? I studied the situation for a moment and came up with a plan. Taking a place to the rear of the crowd, I shouted out at them.

  “ORDER! Let there be order!”

  There was none. One or two turned round and regarded me briefly, yet, if anything, the uproar increased following my cry for silence. Just as I expected.

  From its holster upon my right hip, I drew the pistol which Mr. Fuller had reluctantly supplied. I cocked it and fired it into the air. Then did the crowd fall silent as swiftly as they might if the king himself had called for it. Mouths were left open in midyell. Shock and astonishment were written upon their faces. I had their attention.

  “I am come,” said I loudly, “upon the orders of Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, to collect Benjamin Franklin and bring him to Number 4 Bow Street. I would now have you make way and give me access to the door. If you do not, I shall take it as an insult to the Bow Street Court and to Sir John himself and I shall deal with it accordingly.”

  I looked round the gathering as I tucked away the pistol I had just discharged.

  “How do you plan to deal with it?” asked one of the braver of the bunch. “You only got one bullet in that other pistol. You can’t arrest us all.”

  “That may be,” said I, reaching into my pocket, “but I have this to use on those who block my way.”

  Wherewith I produced the cosh and held it up for all to see. They were impressed. No longer silent, they began mumbling and whispering, one to the other, yet they fell back and allowed me passage to the door. I made my way through them and mounted the two or three stairs to the stoop. Each step of the way I allowed the cosh to bounce in the palm of my left hand, so that all might note the weight of the thing. Having reached my destination, I turned and addressed them once again.

  “Gentlemen,” said I, “my advice to you all now is to go about your business. In other words, be gone.”

  I did not wait to assure myself that my order was obeyed. Rather, I turned and, with the cosh, beat upon the door of Number 10 Craven Street thrice, loud and hard. The sound made was like unto the very strokes of destiny.

  The door came open in a most timid manner: slowly and no more than a foot. It was just enough to recognize the face of Mrs. Stevenson. She sighed, more or less in relief.

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”

  “I am here to conduct Dr. Franklin to Sir John Fielding.”

  Then another voice, a whisper. “It’s all right, Margaret. Let him in.”

  That she did, throwing the door open wider, grasping me by the arm, and pulling me inside in a swift movement. She was much stronger than I had suspected. Then did she push the door shut behind me.

  Benjamin Franklin cowered in a corner of the entryway. He seemed less in every sense — even physically — than he had been. Had he shrunk? It seemed so. His cheeks had hollowed somewhat since last I saw him. And he now stooped, perhaps trying to make himself smaller, less visible to his enemies, who must now number a great many. I addressed him direct.

  “You heard what I said to Mrs. Stevenson, did you? I’m to convey you to Sir John. ‘

  “Yes, yes,” said he, “and I’m greatly relieved to hear it. I count Sir John Fielding as a friend.”

  I gave him as hard a look as I could. “I should not count overmuch on Sir John’s good will, if I were you.”

  He looked as if he were taken somewhat aback at that. “Oh, I … I … oh.” His lower lip trembled. “I’ll get my hat.”

  So saying, he disappeared into the depths of the darkened house.

  Mrs. Stevenson watched him go, then turned to me fretfully.

  “Are they still out there?” she asked.

  “I’ve no idea, but they’ll cause us no trouble.” I managed to sound more confident than I felt. “How long have they been there?”

  “Well … we began to hear them shouting just a few minutes before you came.”

  “And what did they shout?”

  “Oh, terrible things, some of them I would not repeat. They were too … too crude. But Dr. Franklin was called ‘traitor’ and ‘thief and I know not what more. It’s so unfair!”

  “Unfair? Do you think so?”

  She looked at me in surprise. “Well, don’t you?”

  Before I could answer that, I heard the rush of feet upon the stairs. He then appeared, properly hatted, with his walking stick in hand. Pausing for a moment, he set his jaw and cleared his throat.

  “I’m ready,” said he.

  I threw open the door and found — nothing. All who had threatened Dr. Franklin but minutes past had disappeared from the front of the house. Then did I step out the door and look Craven Street up and down. I caught sight of what might well have been the last of them, turning into the Strand.

  “Come along,” said I. “Sir John is eager to have at you there in Bow Street.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  By the time I arrived with my charge, it was late enough so that I knew that I must get on with my duties as clerk to the magistrate’s court. And so it was that when I had delivered Dr. Franklin up to Sir John, I went off to interview the prisoners and prepare the docket. Sir John was correct in calling them a nasty bunch; they were fractious and uncooperative, and so what ordinarily took no more than the half of an hour, lasted well over a full hour. As a result, I had no chance to listen in to the first half of Sir John’s interrogation of Franklin. I called the magistrate out to impart to him the substance of my interviews that he might ask pertinent questions of the prisoners — this was my usual — and he asked me, when I was done, if there were time to resume with Franklin before commencing his court session. I told him that there was not.

  “Well then,” said he, “we shall have to keep him here through the session, I fear, for I am not through with him. Where shall we do that?”

  “Not in your chambers?”

  “No, I fear not. I want him to feel less at liberty than he would feel in such circumstances.”

  “If that is your wish, then why not have Mr. Fuller lock him up in the strong room? It will be empty of prisoners when Fuller has brought them out to sit in the courtroom till they be called.”

  “Quite impossible, Jeremy, as you must know. Dr
. Franklin cannot be locked up till he be arrested, and I am not yet ready to charge him.”

  “Yes, I understand you.”

  “I have it,” said Sir John. “Why not install him in the front row, directly in your view. You can give him hostile stares, and I shall be even more stern than is my wont. That should do quite nicely, don’t you think?”

  “It should, certainly, but tell me, sir, have you got anything from him yet? “

  “Yes, a great deal of annoyance is what I have from him thus far. He maintains doggedly and monotonously that he did not lie to me when I questioned him earlier, for at that time he knew naught of the theft of the letters but what he had read in the newspapers, and that the letters fell into his hands — charming figure of speech, eh? — only after we had our talk. He claims, in fact, that it was the very next day.”

  “How convenient,” said I. “Has he named the individual who put the packet of letters in his eager hands?”

  “That he refuses to do so far. It was, if I’m not mistaken, also omitted from the statement in today’s Chronicle.”

  “So it was. I believe I can supply that name.”

  “Yes, of course — your man, Arthur Lee. He is a key, connecting element in your theory of the crime. Perhaps we should try it on Dr. Franklin after our court session. And this, for that matter, may be the time to question Lee.”

  “Ah, well,” said I, “I’m happy to hear you say it.”

  All was done as Sir John had suggested. We two sat at the table, as was customary. Opposite me, sitting in the first row, was Benjamin Franklin. During the court session our eyes often met, yet not happily for either of us. Franklin seemed altogether miserable. I could tell that he had been often flustered by Sir John’s questions and by his badgering manner. His eyes were red-rimmed, and it seemed to me that his hands shook slightly. Just to intimidate him further, I had laid the cosh on the table just off to one side of my right hand. His eyes had widened when I put it there. He knew what it was. I thought that interesting.