Benjamin Franklin and the Spy

This chapter was originally in the first act, but it lacked movement and wasn’t focused on my main character. Instead, it’s a view into my main character’s mentor, Benjamin Franklin. The scene is one that very few know, and it provides a glimpse into how the 69-year-old got his start in what became a long and productive relationship with the French.

Chapter Title: Leyden Jars

The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind.   – Thomas Paine (January 10th, 1776)

Carpenter’s Hall, 320 Chestnut St – Philadelphia, PA
Monday, December 18th, 1775 – 9:00pm

Over the past six months, Ben Franklin fully felt his sixty-nine years. Work in the 2nd Continental Congress was drudgery, especially the writing, a complete waste of time. He didn’t see how words, no matter how eloquent or persuasive, could fund the Continental Army.
They sure wouldn’t stop the British Regulars or King George the 3rd.
“The French envoy is on his way,” said John Jay, one of the youngsters on the new Committee of Secret Correspondence. He wasn’t even 30 years old.
“Have some Scottish Whiskey, Mr. Jay. They’re the last two bottles from the crate I brought over.”
A rumbling downstairs startled Ben.
“They’re here,” said John.
“Remember, this is a social call – a friendly visit with the friend of a friend, right?” Ben raised his eyebrows.
“Of course, Dr. Franklin.”
“People call me that in public, John. In private, you may call me Ben.”
John nodded and approached the stairway door. Little changed on the laboratory side; instruments, tools, and half-developed inventions seem to have ossified on its shelves and tables while he sat amongst the books of Philadelphia’s first public library.
Francis Damon, Ben’s close friend, entered the room, followed by a poorly dressed, limping man with an olfactory aura of stale beer and armpit hair.
This soap dodger can’t be a French ambassador, Ben thought. Then he whispered to John, “Wish I didn’t bring the Scotch.”
“C’est le Dr. Franklin.” Francis gestured to Ben.
“Ravi de vous rencontrer.” The guest bowed slightly.
“I speak Latin, Greek, and Italian.” Ben didn’t bother to stand. “I don’t speak French.”
“He said nice to meet you.” Francis laughed nervously. “Dr. Franklin, this is Julien Alexandre Achard de Bonvouloir.”
Ben didn’t extend a hand but said politely, “A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur. Please, sit. Have a drink.”
Bookshelves surrounded the small table where Francis poured everyone a whiskey. Ben faced the laboratory side as he sipped, relishing days long past when his passion was inventions and experiments, intellectual pursuits. Instead, negotiations and politics were his current occupation.
Ben decided to skip the pleasantries.
“We need muskets, ammunition, powder, and money from the French, Monsieur. If they’re not procured, the war will end before it begins.”
Francis’ face turned white as he translated.
Julian quickly drained his drink and gave a weak response through Francis: “I am a simple private citizen, a merchant from Antwerp. Not an official ambassador to King Louis the 16th.”
Ben pointed at Francis and said, “This man isn’t fit to be the fart catcher to the King’s fart catcher.”
“Waste of time,” John mumbled.
Ben finished his whiskey and poured another. “Please, relay this to the Frenchman: If he can help us, I’ll give him this entire unopened bottle of very fine, very expensive whiskey. But, if he doesn’t have the connections to the King of France you claim, then escort him from the building so I can turn in. My knee hurts.”
While Francis and Julian bantered in French, Ben poured a drink for John and said, “One of Poor Richard’s better aphorisms was that a spoonful of spirits will catch more flies than gallon of vinegar.”
“I believe it’s a spoonful of honey, not spirits.”
“Not tonight.” Ben savored his drink and made a show of how good it tasted. This meeting took a lot more energy than the younger men in the room realized. He was tired, and the gout felt like a colony of angry ticks burrowing pulverized glass into his knee joints.
Nearby Christmas carolers filled the conversation’s lull with “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”.
Francis took a deep breath and translated their conversation: “Direct trade of war supplies to any British Colony and France is illegal. Strictly prohibited. However, Julien knows several merchants in the ports of Le Havre who would happily welcome trade with the City of Philadelphia.”
John started to speak but Ben raised his finger. He waited several long seconds before proclaiming, “The best direction forward may require some…misdirection.”
“What are you proposing?” said John.
“If he cannot speak as an official ambassador to the crown, then perhaps we could come to a more creative solution.” The new King of France, Louis the 16th, was only 21 years-old. Would the boy-King hate the British as much as his grandfather?
Julien appeared confounded through the translation, so Ben clarified: “I propose a new private business with exclusive rights to trade with the French government. The 2nd Continental Congress will neither sanction nor sponsor it, at least not officially.” He winked at John. “The new business will sell goods to the French in exchange for arms, ammunition, and gunpowder.”
Julien rubbed his chin, appearing deep in thought. “An agreement between two private businesses is possible,” he said through Francis.
Ben filled the Frenchman’s empty glass in reply, and Julien’s expression dissolved from a frown to a sly smile.
For Ben, this moment was like the spark of an idea that resulted in a great invention. Perhaps this agreement would result in a valuable partnership, one needed if they were to battle the best armed, trained, and equipped army and navy in the world.
They drank and made arrangements for future meetings to work out the details of the private import/export companies. After an hour or so, Francis left and escorted Julien to City Tavern.
Ben shifted uncomfortably in his seat and spotted a large, unfamiliar wood crate on the laboratory side. Was it there when the meeting started? He wasn’t sure, must have been too focused on the negotiations. Ben pointed his walking stick and said, “John, I seem to have received an unopened parcel. Bring it to me, please.”
“Shall I open it for you, Ben?”
“Yes, place it on the table.”
“There’s no port of origin marking on this box. Not even an address, just your title and name: Dr. Benjamin Franklin. Something you sent for?”
“No. A Christmas gift perhaps? Let’s see.”
John removed a white linen envelope sealed with a Madonna Lily over jade green wax. There was no writing on the outside and the note inside was unsigned, just a single statement: Spare parts for your Bell Lift Cage. Ben didn’t recognize the typeface. He’d seen or used most every kind across Great Britain and the Colonies. This one was unfamiliar, crisp and not blotched around the edges. The paper, too, was unnaturally white.
John extracted the wool packing material and removed a small box filled with four Leyden jars, glass containers used to conduct and store electricity. Ben already had several dusty, old Leyden jars in the lab, but these were the highest quality he’d ever seen.
There was a frantic thumping up the stairs and John ran to meet whoever was coming.
“It’s Andrew McNair.”
“The caretaker? Fine bloke. Always gets me the most comfortable seat in the assembly room.” Ben went back to inspecting the paper’s fabric under a lamp.
“Apologies for the late calling, Dr. Franklin. She insisted on immediate delivery, sir,” said Andrew.
“Did she have a name?” said John.
“Madame Gabrielle, Mr. Jay. Old Negro woman. Gave me a fright, she did. Wore fancy clothes too, a white rabbit fur hat and –”
“Delivery of what?” John interrupted.
“A letter.” Andrew handed John a thick envelope made of the same ghost-white paper closed with green wax and Madonna Lily imprint. “It’s for Dr. Franklin, told me to make haste.”
“I don’t see his name on this,” said John.
“She said there wasn’t time.” Andrew crumpled his hat nervously.
“What is it?” Ben was tired, yet intrigued. “Open it, will you John?”
Inside was a drawing of the metal cage in the State House’s bell tower, labeled like the countless diagrams of his own inventions. There were instructions to connect a copper wire from the metal cage to the lightning rod in the bell tower’s wall. Under it were formulas in the same crisp typeface.
Ben exhaled and said, “The physical sciences are my past, not my future John.”
He tossed the papers into the battery of Leyden jars and purged it from his mind.