Creighton noticed for the first time that Peter was brandishing a flintlock pistol. Dr. Franklin put a hand on the giant’s arm. “Calm down now and tell me where and when.”
Peter took a deep breath. “St. Anthony’s Square! At dawn!”
Franklin glanced through the open door at the sky, which was growing gray around the edges. “Dawn isn’t far off. Luckily, neither is St. Anthony’s.” He eyed the pistol. “What do you intend to do with that?”
Peter looked at the weapon as though he’d just realized he had it. “It’s General Arnold’s—for the duel. He’s asked me to be his second.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Of course.”
“Well, put it away. Guns make me uneasy.”
Peter stuck the pistol into the rear of his waistband.
“I’ll just put some clothing on,” Franklin said.
“Hurry, please.” The giant turned to Creighton. “Can you come, too? We might need your help.”
“My help? To do what?”
“Why, to stop the tarnal duel!”
“You can’t stop a duel. It’s a matter of honor. Besides, hardly anyone ever gets killed. It’s not really a fight so much as it is a formality, a sort of game.”
Peter shook his head. “Not to General Arnold, it an’t. He won’t be satisfied till one of ’em is dead.”
“Then how do you propose to stop him?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said grimly.
To Creighton, duels were much like hangings: though he didn’t much care to participate in one, they inspired in him a certain morbid fascination, a desire to see how the gentlemen involved would conduct themselves. He pulled on his shirt and shoes and emerged from his room just as Peter and Franklin were departing.
“Gad, I hope we an’t too late,” Peter said.
“Well,” observed Dr. Franklin, “if you’ve got the pistol, they’re not likely to start without you.”
“They might use swords. The other fellow is a fencing master.”
“Good heavens,” said Franklin, and limped along a little faster. “Arnold is a brave fellow, but he’s no swordsman.”
By the time they reached St. Anthony’s Square, the edge of the sun was just showing over the horizon. The place was nothing like the main square of the city, only a small grassy field surrounded by trees and shrubs, almost invisible from the street. When they entered the clearing, only one man stood there, looking about impatiently. It was Arnold.
He scowled when he spotted the three of them. “I only wanted a second, Peter, not a third and fourth.”
“I—I just thought—” Peter stammered.
“He fetched me to try to talk some sense into you,” Franklin said. “Where’s your opponent?”
“Late,” said Arnold. “Frenchies are late for everything; it’s in their blood.”
“Oh, don’t make such sweeping generalizations. And don’t tell me about the French. I’ve lived among them, and I know that every one is different, just as every American is different. Now, what’s this about?”
“He called me a mauvais Kaintock. I replied that he was a scurvy Papist, and I knocked him down.”
“Hmm. Fisticuffs. That’s a grave insult.”
“So is calling me a Kaintock.”
“What’s a Kaintock?” Creighton whispered to Peter.
“A body from Kentucky. The French use it to mean you’re crude and vulgar. I’ve heard that when French youngsters act up, their folks tell ’em the Kaintocks will get ’em.”
Franklin placed a calming hand on Arnold’s shoulder. “I understand that you’re angry about this. But think about what you’re doing. You know the governor’s made dueling illegal, and we can’t afford to antagonize him. Our position here is precarious enough as it is. Besides, we need the Spanish on our side.”
“Yes, but, damnation, Doctor, that doesn’t mean we have to swallow their insults!”
Franklin sighed, lifted the fur hat, and scratched the top of his head. “I hate disputes. There are so many pressing things that need doing in the world, and so little time to do them, it seems a pity to waste one’s energy on quarreling.”
“How can he say that?” Creighton whispered. “He’s just finished a war with England.”
“He was never in favor of a fight,” Peter replied. “He did his best to settle things peacefully.”
This was news to Creighton. For much of his life he’d heard and believed that Yankeys were warmongers, that they’d sent Franklin to England only to present their unreasonable demands to the king. He’d never imagined that a representative of the Colonies would make a plea for peace.
As the sun began to show through the trees, two more men came into view, strolling casually across the clearing. Arnold stiffened and turned to Peter. “Where is the pistol?”
Peter reached for it, but Franklin stayed him. “Wait. Let me talk to them. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to damage your honor.” Before Arnold could protest, the old man was limping across the field to intercept the Frenchman and his second.
While Arnold stood scowling, Franklin and the fencing master carried on a spirited discussion, with much hand waving on both sides. Creighton couldn’t hear a word of it, but it scarcely mattered; it was probably all in French anyway.
After several minutes, the Frenchman abruptly nodded. He turned toward Arnold and gave a brief but graceful bow. Then he strode off with his second close behind. Franklin rejoined the others, looking pleased with himself.
“What did you say to him?” Arnold demanded.
Franklin shrugged. “Oh, nothing much. I simply reminded him . . . politely, of course—the French set great store by politesse—that, as a former ambassador to France, I was a close personal friend of His Royal Majesty, Louis the Sixteenth, and assured him that, if he didn’t behave himself, I would see to it that he was condemned as a traitor and banished from his homeland forever.”
Arnold stared at him a moment. “Oh,” he said finally.
Franklin yawned. “Now that that’s settled, I, for one, am going back to bed.”
“I’ll walk a ways with you,” Arnold said. “There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
As the two men walked off, Peter said, “I’m hungry as a horse. Will you join me for some breakfast?”
Creighton didn’t often rise early enough for a meal that could be called breakfast. He wasn’t all that eager for the giant’s company, either. But it occurred to him that there was one compelling reason to accept the invitation. “All right.”
Peter seemed so pleased that it made Creighton feel a little ashamed. As they emerged from the bushes and onto the street, the giant said, “I don’t ever have much chance to make friends with fellows my own age. There an’t many here, except for Creoles, and they an’t very well-disposed towards us.”
“I’ve noticed. Why is that?”
“I believe they’re worried that we’re going to make trouble for ’em. They think the Brits—sorry, the English—might attack the city so as to flush us out.”
“Do you suppose that’s likely?”
Peter shrugged. “I can’t say. I know it’d be a risky thing to do; it’d be like declaring war on France and Spain both.”
They came to a spot where the edge of the dirt street had been undermined by water coursing down the drainage ditch. When Creighton stepped on the soft earth, his foot went out from under him, and with a cry of dismay, he fell to one knee.
Peter rushed to his aid. “Faith! Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so. Could you help me up?”
The giant bent down, placed his huge hands under Creighton’s arms, and hauled him effortlessly to his feet.
“Thanks.” Creighton put his weight on the foot that had slipped and grimaced. “I think I twisted it.”
“Lean on me,” Peter said. “There’s a tavern just down the street. You can sit there and rest.”
By the time they reached the tavern, Creighton was walking normally again. “I can manage on my own now.”
“That’s topping. Come on inside, then, and have something to eat. I’m buying.”
“No, no, you go ahead. I just thought of something I have to do . . . for Dr. Franklin.”
Peter’s disappointment was obvious. “Can’t it wait awhile?”
“No. It’s for the paper. It has to be done this morning.”
“Oh. Well. You’re sure you can walk that far all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Creighton said, a bit irritated by the giant’s solicitousness. When he saw the hurt in Peter’s face, he said, with some effort, “Thanks for your help.”
Peter nodded. “I’ll see you later on, then?”
“Yes. Later.” As soon as Peter disappeared into the tavern, Creighton hurried back up the street until he reached the spot where he had stumbled. He crouched down, spread apart the reeds that choked the ditch, and retrieved the pistol he had deliberately dislodged from Peter’s waistband.
———
It would be best to deliver the pistol to his uncle after dark. In the meantime, Creighton concealed it beneath his bed.
That afternoon, they began printing the Journal. Franklin assumed the task of inking the type and placing the sheets of paper atop it; Creighton slid the form into place on the press and worked the lever; Sophie hung the printed pages on lines strung across the room and, once they were dry, folded and stacked them.
As the new member of the team, Creighton felt inept and clumsy at first, but before long he began to relax and fell into a sort of rhythm. He learned where to stand so that Franklin didn’t ink him as well as the type, when to slide the form into place so that it didn’t take Franklin’s fingers with it, how to peel off the paper without tearing it, and how to pass it swiftly to Sophie without dropping it or colliding with her.
The precise timing and the intricate steps put Creighton in mind of the minuets and contradances performed by guests at the elegant balls back home. But the snatches of conversation that accompanied them were rather different. At a ball, most of what was said was either flattery, flirtation, or gossip. Here the talk was of a more mundane, practical nature, but there was a certain amount of good-natured banter, too.
Creighton had never thought he could find pleasure in anything that resembled work, but he found that there was something oddly satisfying in filling a blank sheet of paper with words, in watching the pile of printed sheets grow, in knowing that he was, if not an essential part, at least a useful part, of the process. When Dr. Franklin measured the stack of folded papers and announced, “We’re nearly halfway there! Excellent work, my friends!” it was more gratifying than a hundred of the empty compliments that circulated, like counterfeit money, throughout Bristol society.
Late in the day Peter turned up and asked to speak to Creighton—privately. Creighton hoped that Franklin would say he couldn’t be spared, for he suspected what was on Peter’s mind. But the doctor said cheerfully, “Yes, go on. I can use a rest, anyway. My arms feel like sausages.”
“I will bring us some rafraîchissements,” Sophie said.
Creighton reluctantly stepped outside. Peter wasted no time in stating his business. “I did something stupid,” he said. “I lost General Arnold’s pistol.”
Creighton feigned surprise. “Oh? That’s too bad. But why tell me about it?”
The giant shifted about uncomfortably. “Because, I thought . . .” Creighton feared that an accusation was coming. Instead Peter said, “I thought maybe you’d remember what I did with it. I stuck it in my waistband, I know that much, but after that . . . Hang it, I just don’t remember.” He struck his forehead with one huge hand, as though to punish his stubborn brain. “I’m such a blockhead sometimes.”
“Could you have left it at the tavern?” Creighton suggested. “Someone might have made off with it.”
“Maybe.” The giant shook his head mournfully. “General Arnold is going to be so angry at me. That was his best pistol.”
“I’m sorry.” Creighton’s regret was painfully genuine. “I wish I could help you.”
Peter smiled feebly. “That’s all right. It an’t your fault.” He sighed. “I guess I’ll have to go and tell him. Thank you.”
As he slouched off, Creighton called after him, “Good luck,” and the giant raised a hand halfheartedly in acknowledgment.
After refreshments, the three returned to their tasks. But this time Creighton was so distracted that he stepped on Sophie’s foot, dropped a printed sheet, and pinched Franklin’s hand in the press—not severely, but enough to elicit an uncharacteristic curse from the old man, who then felt it necessary to apologize to Sophie for his crude language.
Sophie dismissed it with a laugh. “C’est rien. I do not know the meaning of that word you used, anyway.”
Creighton was so sick of having to apologize for things that he sullenly refused to say he was sorry. For the rest of the afternoon, those unspoken words seemed to hang in the hot, humid air of the shop, making it even more uncomfortable. Creighton was glad when Franklin measured the pile of papers and informed them that they had reached the requisite five hundred copies, half a day ahead of schedule. “Well done,” he said, beaming. “Both of you.”
With appropriate humility, Sophie smiled and curtsied. Creighton busied himself with washing the type and pretended he hadn’t heard. What did it matter, anyway, whether he did the job well or poorly? In a day, or perhaps two—as soon as his uncle and Lieutenant Hale had completed their escape plans—he’d be gone.