THE SPIRIT OF THE ’76

“Free and equal!” growled Dr. Sam: Johnson in high dudgeon. “All men, forsooth, created equal! What is to become of the proper order and subordination of society, if such frantick leveling doctrines are to prevail? Free and equal! Signed, John Hancock! Mark my words, sir, we shall yet see this fellow’s head spiked above Temple Bar!”

“Is he sole authour of this independent declaration?” I wondered, for secretly I admired it.

“No, sir. This treasonous manifesto comes, I am told, from the pen of a planter named Jefferson, aided and abetted by Benjamin Franklin.”

“Dr. Franklin!” said I. “Now there’s a head that would ill become Temple Bar. I dined in his company once, sir, some years since, and found him an agreeable companion, and moreover an ingenious contriver of devices to improve the lot of man, as his Pennsylvania fire place, his lightning rod, et caetera.”

“I, too, Bozzy, have encountered the fellow. He was presiding at a meeting of benevolent gentlemen associated to provide education for the unfortunate Negroes of the New World. He then appeared to be a sincere friend to humanity, not at all addicted to republican phrenzy. Yet more’s the pity, sir, he’s a traitor to his King, and belongs on the scaffold with the rest of them!”

“Would you put him there!”

“Aye would I, and twenty such, let me but come in sight of them!”

“Which you are not like to do,” I remarked. “They are safe on the other side of the water. Why should any of them put his head in the lion’s mouth?”

“There you are out, sir, that same Franklin is now, they warn us, on the high seas, making for France—”

I doubted it not. Dr. Johnson had recently made his pen useful to the Ministry, and his sources of information were many.

“—so that we may hope that a tempest will drive him upon our shores, or a man-o’-war catch him and bring him hither.”

I hoped not; but I said no more. As to the dispute with our fellow subjects across the sea, Dr. Johnson and I differed widely. Now that, with the Declaration of Independence, the breach had come, my friend was vehemently wishing success to our arms in putting down the insurgents; while, despite all, I wished them well, and desired they might all escape Jack Ketch.

This conversation took place in December of the year ’76, in my philosophical friend’s commodious dwelling in Bolt Court, Fleet Street. Tall, broad and bulky, in his full-skirted grey coat and broad stuff breeches, his little brown scratch-wig perched above his wide brow, he stood in the many-paned sash-window, looking down on the court. I felt once more a strong satisfaction that I, James Boswell, an advocate of North Britain thirty years his junior, was so often privileged to observe his proceedings as detector of crime and chicane. At that moment no problem engaged his massive intellect, unless the treason of America’s rabid revolutionaries; but that situation was about to change.

As I stood at his shoulder looking down, a coach drew up with a jingle, and a lone woman descended, muffled in a dun-coloured capuchin. Another moment, and black Francis ushered her in to us. She burst into speech at once:

“Forgive my lack of ceremony, Dr. Johnson. Your goodness is known so widely, I make bold to beg you—the child is stolen away, Dr. Johnson! He’s only seven, what am I to do?”

She choaked back a sob. Dr. Johnson took her slender hand and gently led her to the armed chair by the fire.

She was a small creature of a certain age, her soft face gently wrinkled, her grey hair pulled up in a plain pompadour above direct blue eyes now stained with tears.

“Be comforted, ma’am, we’ll find him,” said Dr. Johnson reassuringly; “but you must tell me all you know of the matter.”

“I will try. I am Mrs. Stevenson—Margaret is my name. I dwell in Craven Street, Strand, and thence Benny has been spirited away.”

“Your grandson, madam?”

“No, sir, but committed to my charge, and dearly loved.”

“Perhaps he has wandered away?” I hazarded.

“No, sir, Benny was whipping his top before the door, when two men came by and carried him off. A servant saw from the window.”

“Why did he not follow?”

“The wench is a she, and not over-bright. She formed the opinion that Benny was arrested by bailiffs, and knew not what was proper to do. I was from home, and only learned of the matter upon my return. What can they want of the boy? I have no money to buy him back.”

“If he’s to be bought back,” remarked Dr. Sam: Johnson, “we shall soon hear. Meanwhile, let us look over the ground in Craven Street.”

In the modest dwelling in Craven Street, the wench Katty was stubborn, being what Dr. Johnson is wont to denominate a “mule fool.” She set her long jaw and stood to it. Master Benny was in the hands of the law. Time was wasted on her, before she remembered to say to her mistress:

“And, ma’am, there’s a billet handed in for the gentleman—”

Mrs. Stevenson seized it, scanned it, and extended it to my friend. At a sign, I moved to his elbow to share it with him.

Dear Doctor:

As you regard Benny, see that you present yourself at the Cat & Fiddle in Bow Street, this Day at five of the clock, & you shall hear further. Come alone. Fail us not, at Benny’s Peril.

I am, Sir,

As you shall deal in this,

Your Friend

Dr. Johnson turned the missive in his strong, well-shaped fingers.

“Hm—paper of the best quality—a fair copying hand—this was never writ by a parcel of bum-bailiffs. Well, well, Mrs. Stevenson, I’ll present myself as directed, to hear further as they promise. There is not long to wait.”

“O sir, you’ll never go alone!”

“I must, at Benny’s peril. But Boswell shall be handy, in case of trickery.”

Thus it was that before five of the clock I was approaching the Cat & Fiddle, alert to detect the miscreants we had come to meet. As I neared the lighted doorway in the foggy darkness, my eye fell on a tall, burly figure in the shadow. At first I thought it was Dr. Sam: Johnson himself in outlandish disguise, for the fellow was his replica in height and breadth. His powerful figure was enveloped in a vast coat of bull’s hide, and a large fur cap was pulled down over his straggling grey locks. He wore a pair of cracked spectacles set in wire, and carried a porter’s coil of rope. As I approached, he moved off, and I entered the Cat & Fiddle.

I was established on the fireside settle with a pint, when the door squeaked open, and a couple of rough-looking fellows made their appearance. Katty perhaps had not been so foolish, for sure enough they looked very like bum-bailiffs. Like bailiffs they took up their station on either side of the door. The potboy gave them a look, and discreetly vanished.

Another squeak, and Dr. Sam: Johnson stood in the doorway. He was wrapped in his large dark grey greatcoat, and his cocked hat was firmly tied down by a knitted scarf.

From left and right the two fellows closed in and seized him.

“We arrest you,” cried the smaller of the two triumphantly, “in the King’s name!”

“Arrest me, ye boobies!” cried Dr. Johnson. “What call have you to arrest me? Everyone knows me: I am Dr. Johnson.”

“O aye, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Brown, Dr. Robinson, ’tis all one. We know you, Doctor, right enough, you must come along with us.”

“I’ll come with you to the magistrate in Bow Street, and no further,” growled Dr. Johnson.

“You’re wanted elsewhere.”

“What’s the charge?”

The big one with the stupid face swelled up to proclaim it, but the ferret-nosed little one plucked his sleeve.

“Stubble your whids, Ned, ’ware rescue, we are not alone (jerking a gesture in my direction). There’s a great price on this fellow’s head. Do you want to share it?”

“Carry me before Sir John Fielding,” insisted Dr. Johnson. “We’ll see if there’s a price on my head!”

They hustled him off. I set down my pot and followed. It was but a step along Bow Street to the Publick Office. Beside the doorway a lighted lanthorn flickered. As we approached, the catchpolls began to edge their captive away from the light, when Dr. Johnson with a powerful motion jerked suddenly from their grasp. Simultaniously the big pandour was pulled off his feet by the loop of a porter’s rope.

Dr. Johnson collared the ferrety one and dragged him inside, leaving Ned hors de combat on the pavement, and the doughty old porter vanished. Another moment, and the three of us stood in the publick room before the magistrate.

Sir John Fielding, the famous Blind Beak of Bow Street, sat quietly in the magistrate’s chair, a large, handsome personage with venerable white locks and a fold of black silk over his sightless eyes. He turned his ear as we entered, and spoke in an edged voice:

“What, is it, you, Greentree? There’s no missing that effluvium of dirty linen and gin. What miscreants have you brought me?”

“I’ve taken up a traitor, sir, is wanted at the Ministry.”

“Sir John,” said Dr. Johnson calmly, “the foolish fellow mistakes me for another.”

Sir John, an old friend, knew the voice at once.

“Dr. Johnson, your servant! And where is Mr. Boswell? Not far away, I’ll wager.”

“Right here, Sir John, at your service.”

Waiving courtesies, Dr. Johnson at once adverted to the matter in hand.

“This Greentree,” he said urgently, “baited me hither by stealing a child and sending this billet.”

He began to read it out.

“I know nothing of your billet,” muttered Greentree. “’Twas writ at the Ministry. I had only to nap the kid, which I did—arrest the Doctor when he broke cover, which I did—and fetch him to the Minister.”

“What Doctor?”

“My Lord did not say.”

“He gave you a warrant?”

“Well, no, sir, ’twas to be done in secret.”

“Illegality upon illegality!” remarked Sir John. “Where is the child? Discover him, or you shall be the worse for it.”

“In Water Lane,” uttered the fellow grudgingly.

Instanter a posse of constables, with Greentree pinioned in their midst, conducted us to Water Lane. Our captive led us to a miserable hovel at the water’s edge, where a slatternly harpy whined:

“Which I kept him secure as you bade me. He’s locked in the loft that looks on the river. This way, gentlemen, you shall see he’s safe enough.”

The rusty key screeched in the lock, the door grated open. Dr. Johnson started forward; but save for a small pair of buckled shoes, the room was empty. The cracked casement swung on one hinge. We looked out in dismay on the brown waters of Thames. Had the child been done away with in this lair?

Sir John’s men took up the cursing woman, and bore her with Greentree off to the roundhouse, there to be sifted further. We were left to make our way back to Craven Street with news of our failure.

With heavy hearts we mounted the slope. I liked the neighbourhood ill. Fleet Ditch stank. Ragamuffins prowled or slept in doorways. Trulls loitered, and bullies swaggered. Once I thought I glimpsed the burly old porter with his rope, but then he was gone again in the darkness.

As the street rose, out of the foggy dark one more ragamuffin appeared. This one approached us confidently, a sandy-haired, solid-built little boy, shoeless and dripping wet. As we paused, he recited in a clear voice:

“Please, sir, my name is Benjamin Franklin Bache, I dwell at Craven Street in the Strand. My new Granny is Mrs. Stevenson. Will you take me to her?”

“What, boy, did you say Benjamin Franklin?”

“He is my grandfather.”

“Well, well, Bozzy, it appears there is more in this than meets the eye. Where is your grandfather, boy?”

“In Craven Street, sir.”

“Then,” said Dr. Johnson, “in the King’s name, on to Craven Street!”

We wrapped the shivering child in my waistcoat, and set a brisk pace. As he trotted along between us, he readily told what had befallen him.

“The men, they said they were officers of police, and I must come along. I didn’t like them. I misliked the old witch too. I waited and waited for my grandfather to come. I was hungry and cold, and I went away from there.”

“Went away! How?”

“Through the window, sir.”

“In the water?” I ejaculated, dumfounded, since I cannot swim a stroak. “What, little boy, can you swim?”

“My grandfather,” said the child with pride, “is the greatest swimmer in the world, and he taught me. ’Twas but a few stroaks to the nearest water stair.”

“I can swim further than that,” the small voice chattered on. “When the sloop was like to founder in the storm, my grandfather bade me fear nothing, we could swim for it. But the Reprisal made her way to shore at Hoy Cove, and as soon as the Westcombe men have put her to rights, we’ll away to France.”

“Will you so, my boy?” said Dr. Johnson drily.

“Yes, indeed, sir.—I’m sleepy,” he added with a prodigious yawn, and fell silent.

We arrived at Craven Street without further parley. Mrs. Stevenson fell on the child with transport, but Dr. Johnson held him fast.

“I claim the privilege,” he said, “of restoring Dr. Franklin’s grandson to his arms myself.”

Mrs. Stevenson looked affrighted, but could not gainsay him. She ushered us to the two-pair-of-stairs parlour.

“Benny!” The sturdy old gentleman by the fire held out his arms, and the boy flew into them.

I stared. Gone were the bull’s-hide coat and the porter’s rope; but the fur cap and the spectacles remained to tell us that the old fellow who had dogged us on our errand was none other than Dr. Franklin himself. I scanned the cheerful lined face. It was a face that had mellowed with the years, not handsome, but winning with its look of pleased surprise, as if perpetually astonished and gratified by the spectacle of the world in its infinite variety. The hazel eyes sparkled with a penetrating intelligence. Over the boy’s tawny curls, the brilliant gaze turned to us.

“Dr. Johnson, I believe?”

“Your servant, Dr. Franklin

“I am your debtor, sir,” said Franklin stiffly, “little as I desire it. I regret that Margaret was so impulsive as to call upon your aid.”

“Ben!” cried Mrs. Stevenson softly, “we are much in Dr. Johnson’s debt for his efforts!”

“Dr. Franklin knows,” observed Dr. Johnson, “for he trusted me so little, he dogged my every move in guise of a street porter.”

“Trust?” exclaimed Franklin. “Why would I trust a man who wrote against us and counselled the Ministry to set upon us the Red Men and the Blacks?”

“You misread me, sir,” said Johnson calmly. “True, I would give the Blacks their freedom, with means of sustenance and defence; from which, if memory serves, you yourself are not averse. And as to the raids of the Red Men, what else can you expect, if you renounce the protection of British arms?”

“The protection of British arms!” echoed Franklin bitterly. “It was British arms that shot down innocent people in the Boston Massacre!”

“We all deplore it, sir,” conceded Johnson.

Franklin set down the boy from his lap.

“Make your bow, Benny, and go now with Granny.”

The mannerly boy inclined solemnly to each of us, and left us. As Dr. Franklin turned to us with an air of dismissal, a newcomer erupted into the room. From the tall form, the long dark face, the Satanick quirk of the black eyebrows, I recognised him with mixed emotions. It was Sir Francis Flashwood, he who raised the Devil in the caves under Hoy Head, whose witching daughter I had once thought to woo, whose Coven we had quelled at Westcombe in the ’68 (all which I have set forth at large in my account of “The Westcombe Witch”).

We had heard of that gentleman’s doings since then, how with his close friend Benjamin Franklin he had “reformed” the Prayer Book—Satan rebuking sin?—how as Lord LeSpenser he had gone into politicks, acting as Postmaster General to such effect that he was now respectable, and the Westcombe Blacks were heard of no more.

Now he paid us not the slightest heed, but rushed to Franklin crying:

“Up, Ben, there’s not a minute to waste! There’s a plot against you at the Ministry. I have it on the surest advices. Since you are too elusive to be caught, they will lay hands on Benny, and so force you to come in, to who knows what fate—”

“Why, Francis,” said Franklin calmly, “I thank you, but your warning is belated—”

“What, they have him?”

“No, no, dear friend, the attempt has been made, but it has been frustrated by Dr. Johnson here.”

For the first time my Lord’s eyes focussed upon us where we stood by the fire.

“Dr. Johnson,” he said wryly. “Yes, a notable frustrater. And Mr. Boswell too. How do you, Sir Brimstone of Tophet?”

“Well, I thank you, sir,” said I, grandly ignoring this allusion to my diabolical misadventures in the caves at Westcombe, “and how does your lovely daughter, Miss Fan?”

“Fan is wed to her cousin Talley. She lives in the West Country and raises a numerous progeny. But there’s no time for gossip. Dr. Franklin is in the gravest danger. O Ben, Ben, you might have been safe at Westcombe, why would you insist on coming up to London?”

“Money, business, and love,” smiled Franklin, “what other human motives are there? To fetch the gold intended for the cause, to recover my papers, and to see once more my dear Mistress Margaret.”

“Let us hope your recklessness will not cost you all three, and life besides. We must depart for Westcombe with all speed. My travelling coach stands waiting at the door, and the men of the Westcombe Blacks are a-horse and ready to escort us.”

“A desperate set of men,” remarked Dr. Johnson. “I had thought them won over to the side of the law.”

“Well, sir,” Sir Francis smiled thinly, “not entirely, when my friend’s life is at stake. For him they’ll do their utmost. And you, Dr. Johnson, what will you do for us? The issue now is greater than a few French bales. Will you keep silence?”

Johnson said nothing, and I struck in:

“You have my parole, sir. I wish the Americans only good.”

“Then you may go, Mr. Boswell.”

“Not if Dr. Johnson remains.”

“He remains,” said Sir Francis emphatically. “We cannot have him running to Lord North behind our backs.”

“Tut, sir, I told you once, I am no catchpoll.”

“And I believe you, Dr. Johnson,” said Franklin quietly.

“No, Ben, we cannot risk it. He shall go with us to Westcombe.”

I started forward to protest, but Dr. Johnson shook his head at me. I shrugged, and composed myself for the journey.

Now all was bustle. Papers were bagged, portmanteaus slammed shut, hampers filled with viands. Benny, dried off and warmly cloathed anew, was swathed in shawls and tucked in a corner of the travelling carriage, where he promptly fell asleep. In the hurly-burly, we might easily enough have slipped away, but Dr. Johnson unaccountably sat on in smiling calm.

Soon we stood at the door bidding adieu. Franklin took little Margaret Stevenson warmly in his arms, and embraced her tenderly.

“Farewell once more, my dear, and once more, thanks for years together of sunshine without cloud. Let us be grateful to the storm which blew me hither and allowed us to meet for one more time; and if we never meet again, remember me.”

We left her weeping in the doorway as we rolled off into the night. The dark-clad figures of the Westcombe Blacks closed in about us with silent hooves, and so we trotted briskly out of town and took the road towards the sea. No spies dogged us. The misadventure of Benny had clearly put the Ministry forces in disarray. If we could only get clear before they rallied!

It was a long way to go, to the harbour at Westcombe, where lay the Reprisal, refitted now and ready to slip her cable for France. The Westcombe Blacks had smoothed our way. Fresh horses awaited us at posting-houses, where we could refresh while the ostlers bustled, and the Westcombe men waited upon us—and watched us—attentively.

At first we rode together in stiff silence, which merged into sleep as exhausted nature claimed her due.

The day dawned sunny. We explored the contents of the hampers, and then sat back invigorated. The coach was new and commodious, smelling of leather and horseflesh and creaking lightly on easy springs. I regarded my companions. Sir Francis, clad in a bottle-green cloak with multiple capes, lounged in his corner, his watchful dark eyes fixed on Dr. Johnson; who, for his part, sat complaisantly smiling with the pleasure he always derived from the swift motion of a carriage.

Dr. Franklin in his snuff-coloured greatcoat wore neither wig nor hat, but that same fur cap, like a brown bee-hive, pulled down almost to his spectacles; through the round panes of which, he drank in the passing prospect. Next him sat small Benny, emerged from his cocoon. In the smiling quirk of his small upper lip and the brilliance of his eyes, the resemblance to his grandfather was strong.

It was impossible we should continue in sullen silence. My companions were men of wit and ingenuity, and had much to say to one another if it could but be brought out. And who should bring it out better than your humble servant, James Boswell? If I had been able to reconcile my stern friend to that devil Jack Wilkes—as I recently had done—it would go hard but I would bring Johnson and Franklin together.

Warmed by my breakfast glass, I first undertook to kindle the atmosphere with one of my own songs. I considered the bawdy strophes of “Gunter’s Chain”: Sir Francis would certainly relish it, and Dr. Franklin with his almost-smiling mouth looked receptive. But I glanced at the lofty countenance of my moral mentor, and instead trolled out a stave of my ditty celebrating “Currant Jelly.” Franklin then reciprocated with a convivial drinking song of his own composition, writ, he said, some thirty years since, in praise of friendship and wine. His voice was husky, but true.

“Then toss off your glasses and scorn the dull asses

Who missing the kernel still gnaw the shell.

What’s love, rule, or riches? Wise Solomon teaches

They’re vanity, vanity, vanity still,

For honest souls know

Friends and a bottle still bear the bell.”

“On this we can all agree,” I exclaimed, “for Dr. Johnson is wont to bid us, ‘Keep your friendships in repair’.”

“And in my country,” replied Dr. Franklin, “the Red Indians have a saying, ‘Keep the chain of friendship bright’.”

“What, has Benny no song to sing?” prompted Flashwood, smiling at the bright-eyed little boy.

At this Benny shrilled out a jolly jig tune entitled “Yankee Doodle.”

“Father and I went down to camp

Along with Cap’n Good’in,

And there we saw the men and boys

As thick as hasty puddin’.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up,

Yankee Doodle Dandy,

Mind the musick and the step

And with the girls be handy!”

“With the girls!” repeated Dr. Johnson, unable to repress a smile. “A precocious Yankee Dandy, Benny, indeed!”

Encouraged by my friend’s smiling regard, Benny prattled on in his small high tones:

“I shall go to school in France,” he told Dr. Johnson proudly, “and when we have won the war—”

“Won, my boy?”

“Yes, sir, of course we shall win.” The clear voice rang out. “We’ll fight the redcoats on the beaches, in the streets, if need be in the wilderness: and thereto we have pledged our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour!”

“Why, “said Dr. Johnson, still smiling, “what an eloquent young rebel it is!”

“An eloquent young parrot,” observed my Lord. “That last flourish, if memory serves, was writ by Thomas Jefferson of Virginia.”

“With the assistance,” added the American, “of Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania.”

“And such,” concluded Flashwood, “is the spirit of the ’76!”

“Cant!” muttered Johnson, and I hastily turned the subject.

“Pray, Dr. Franklin, what projects have you to the fore for the good of mankind?”

The smile that touched his lip deepened, and for a moment I thought he would say “Freedom!” Instead he replied civilly:

“Why, sir, I have newly made observations on the Gulf Stream, on the Aurora Borealis, and on further improvements in opticks.”

“There, sir, I heartily wish you success,” said Dr. Johnson, “for my eyes serve me ill, and I have found no spectacles by which I can both read and view the world about me. I have wondered whether one might not be able to combine the two functions by joining two pieces of glass into one pane, the lower for reading, the upper for looking afar.”

“Why, sir,” replied Franklin, smiling, “not only can it be done, I have done it: as you may see by the spectacles I wear.”

He took them off and handed them over. Johnson brought them up close to his near-sighted eyes and examined them attentively. I saw now that what I had hastily, in the half light of Bow Street, taken for cracks, were really the lines where two half circles joined.

“Ingenious!” said Dr. Johnson, and put them to his eyes. After a moment he handed them back, shaking his head regretfully.

“They will not serve my turn.”

“Of course not,” said Franklin, “each double pane must be suited to the eye that wears it. Well, sir, when I come to France—if I am so fortunate—I purpose to set the lens-makers to work. If all goes well, you shall hear of this further.”

Chatting thus of matters scientifick, we passed the rest of the morning in amity.

“You were right, Bozzy,” said my friend in my ear at the next posting-house, “that’s too well-furnished a head to let the Ministry have it to adorn Temple Bar!”

The sun was well past the meridian when with a sense of relief we rolled in to the village of Westcombe. There we turned in at the Admiral’s Head, that our voyagers might recruit before going aboard the Reprisal. The master shipwright awaited us with the welcome news that she rode well and was ready for sea. His men at once carried off the baggage while we took a glass.

A sound of hooves thudding our way in hot haste broke our complacency, and a breathless youth flung into our presence.

“The redcoats, my Lord!” he cried. “We have been betrayed! Some one has given the word at Carnock Castle, and the troopers are riding this way to apprehend us. They cannot be ten minutes behind me!”

“Keep watch, Gannett!” commanded Sir Francis. “Up, Ben, we’ll go by the caves. That way it is but two minutes to safety!”

I remembered the caves of Westcombe with their secret passage to the harbour, and took heart. But almost at once Gannett was back in the room, crying:

“They’re coming, my Lord, they are at the top of the street. We are all trapped!”

Dr. Sam: Johnson rose resolutely to his feet.

“Not yet. Give me a horse, and I’ll draw them off.”

“You, Dr. Johnson,” exclaimed Franklin, “you’ll do so much for America?”

“Let us say I’ll do it for Benny. Quickly, Doctor, here’s a wig in exchange for your fur hat, and a grey coat for your brown one—”

The exchange was made, and most convincing it appeared, for the two tall, burly old men, tho ’unlike in face, were of an age, and much alike in figure and bearing.

With the briefest of farewells we took horse in the inn yard; the gates were opened; we set spur and dashed into the street. Not a hundred yards away we perceived the redcoats trotting our way with a measured jingle of harness. Johnson wheeled his horse with a roar, and with incredulity I heard the words that he roared:

“Long live the United States of America!”

“Hold your fire!” cried the officer in the lead. “After him, for he’s to be taken alive!”

In this coil it was well that in the ’68 we had learned to know the ways of Westcombe. By a byway we left the town, and gallopped away over the down.

Dr. Johnson always said he rode harder at a fox-chace than anybody, and he rode harder now. Had I not been mounted on as swift a horse, and riding lighter in the saddle, I could not have kept pace with him. As it was, too soon our mounts were blown, and the soldiers cornered us in a fold of the hills.

“Benjamin Franklin,” cried the lanky young officer, “I arrest you on a charge of high treason! And your accomplice too,” he added with a jerk of his head towards me.

“Whither do you carry us?” I demanded.

“To London, sir, with all speed.”

Johnson said nothing. The less he said, in his Lichfield accent, the less would our captors suspect trickery; and the longer we went unsuspected, the better the Reprisal’s chances of making good her escape to France. The soldiers closed in, and so we began the weary way back to London.

As we crossed the brow of the hill, we glimpsed the blue of the bay, and the schooner with all sails set standing out to sea for France. I sent a wordless wish after it: Success to your mission!

The return journey seemed interminable; but at last we entered London Town. Whither would our captors lead us now? Bow Street, Newgate Prison, the Tower? Had we seen the last of the sun?

Instead, the young lieutenant set our course for the fashionable end of the town, and drew rein before a handsome house in Grosvenor Square. Stiffly we dismounted and followed our guide within. Knocking, he flung wide a door, and announced with a flourish:

“My Lord, I have the honour to present—Dr. Benjamin Franklin!”

A man with a star on his coat rose smiling from a marquetry writing table. By his florid face and prominent eyes, for one thunderstruck moment I thought him the King. Then I knew him for Lord North, the King’s first Minister, about whose resemblance to his King courtiers talked behind their hands.

“My Lord!” Dr. Johnson, who always prided himself on paying a nobleman the ceremony due him, removed the fur bee-hive and executed a stately bow. My Lord started, and peered close. The smile dissolved in a frown.

“What nonsense is this, Leftenant? This man is not Dr. Franklin, but Dr. Sam: Johnson, to whom I am indebted for political pamphleteering. By G-d, I am ill served by clodpates! Leave us, fellow! (The crestfallen soldier withdrew.) And you, Dr. Johnson? What do you here in a rebel’s coat? Have you turned your coat in earnest?”

Dr. Johnson glowered. Tho’ he upheld my Lord’s politicks, he despised his person.

“I am no turncoat, my Lord,” he replied sturdily. “I reprehend rebellion as much as ever I did. Yet when a man is to be secretly trepanned—and that man a benefactor of mankind—without colour of law, at the expense of a child, and for what clandestine purpose? Secret assassination, perhaps?”

“Not so!” cried North, stung, but Johnson swept on:

“Then I shall do what I can to save my country from such infamy. If my company can protect, no matter how, my company shall be afforded.”

“That explains,” I cried, enlightened, “why you submitted—”

Johnson gave me a look which silenced me, and continued coolly:

“The Leftenant’s mistake has given me much fatigue, my Lord; I beg leave to withdraw.”

Would leave be granted? In a swift vision I again saw the Tower and the scaffold before me. Then my Lord smiled coldly.

“As you perceive, Dr. Johnson, this transaction, were it known, would make my Ministry a byword and a laughing-stock. You have leave to depart; and see that you both hold your tongues.”

“Yours to command, my Lord. But give me leave to tell you, after hours spent in company with the American and his grandson, I can prophesy the end. For determination, bravery and ingenuity, the Americans have never seen their match, and I fear your Lordship will find it difficult to prevail against the spirit of the ’76!”

[Two of the most remarkable men of the 18th Century were Dr. Sam: Johnson and Dr. Ben: Franklin. It is a pity that, though they once rubbed shoulders, they never really got together. This story supplies the omission.

In November, 1776, when Franklin was at sea on his way to France, it would have taken only the onset of a contrary wind to blow him into Dr. Johnson’s orbit. I have supplied that wind, and the fictitious meeting follows.

Franklin was in fact very bitter against Johnson, on account of some remarks the latter had made in his anti-American pamphlet, Taxation No Tyranny (1775). If you should read that work (which nobody does any more) I think you would perceive that in this Dr. Johnson was misunderstood. My Story gives him a chance to explain himself, and ends as it should, with a better understanding between the two famous men.

Endearing little Benny is described from a Franklin family portrait said to resemble him. Franklin of course had other companions aboard the Reprisal, including another grandson; but I have chosen to suppose that they stayed on board.]