One task Franklin hadn’t asked him to help with was the printing of The Liberty Tree. Apparently the old man had done the job himself, for one day the form of type that had been concealed under the cloth was gone. But if Franklin had meant for the paper to remain a secret, he was soon disappointed.
One day, as he and Creighton were mixing varnish, linseed oil, and lampblack to make a new batch of ink, Benedict Arnold stormed into the shop, brandishing a sheet of paper as though it were a sword. “I can’t believe you would print this!” he shouted, and flung the paper down in front of Franklin.
“And I can’t believe,” the old man said calmly, “that you’re so indiscreet as to show this to anyone and everyone.” He picked up the paper, but not before Creighton had recognized it as a copy of The Liberty Tree.
Arnold glared at Franklin, then at Creighton. “What? The boy knows about this, doesn’t he?”
“He didn’t . . . until now.”
Arnold seemed as angry at himself now as at Franklin. “I assumed he’d helped you print it.”
“No. But I suppose there’s no harm done. I think that we can trust him. Eh, Creighton?”
“Of course.” Creighton didn’t think it wise to reveal that he’d been aware of the paper’s existence for some time.
“Now,” Franklin said to Arnold, “what are you so outraged about?”
“You know well enough.” Arnold flicked the paper derisively with one hand. “This essay—if it can be called that—written by Anonymous, otherwise known as Aaron Burr.”
Franklin gave the essay a look of feigned puzzlement. “I thought it was quite well written.”
“That’s not the question, as you also know. The question is, why do we waste our time trying to convince the western territories to secede, when we should be calling on all Americans to rise up and drive the British out?”
“We tried that, if you recall, and failed. It’s time we tried something else, something that may not involve going to war.”
Arnold made a disparaging noise. “You really believe England is going to give up the western territories without a fight? If we’re going to have to do battle with them again, it may as well be for the prize we really want, not just what we’re willing to settle for.”
“We’re in no position to fight anyone for anything,” Franklin said. “We have no army.”
“We can raise one, given a little time. The capture of the Amity put several thousand pounds in our coffers and doubled the size of our armory.”
“And if we should raise an army, who will lead it? You?”
Arnold lowered his gaze. “I’m well aware that I could never command the same sort of loyalty Washington did. But as far as we know, he’s still alive.”
“Yes. Now if we only knew where.” Franklin put a hand on Arnold’s arm. “I’d be as happy as anyone to have Washington back among us. Perhaps he could get us all pulling together again, rather than each of us straining in a different direction. And perhaps it will happen. But in the meantime, we must do the best we can to keep our cause alive. You’re doing what you do best—capturing ships and money and munitions. Let me continue to do what I do best—winning minds and hearts.”
Arnold didn’t seem convinced, but at least he seemed calmer. “It’s not the idea of creating a new country out of the western lands that I object to so much as the notion of getting France and Spain involved. Being ruled by a Louis or a Charles would be no better than being ruled by a George—a good deal worse, in fact, since they would try to turn us all into Catholics.”
“No one is proposing that we become a part of Spain, only that we form an alliance against Britain.” Franklin held the paper out to Arnold. “Here. Read it again, with a more open mind this time.”
Arnold grudgingly took the sheet and left the shop. Franklin said, “There you see one reason why we lost the war.”
“General Arnold?”
Franklin laughed. “Well, not him specifically. He’s a good soldier, if a bit hotheaded. I meant the inability to agree on anything. Washington seemed able, somehow, to find a path everyone could agree upon—or at least he could make them think they agreed.” The old man poured another cup of linseed oil into the ink. “You know, I once saw a snake that had two separate heads on a single body. Now, you would think, wouldn’t you, that with two brains it would be twice as intelligent? Instead, it seemed unable to make up its mind—or its minds, should I say?—to go anywhere, or even to eat, so it simply lay there until it starved to death. We’re more helpless, even, than that. We’re like a snake with no head at all.”
“In England,” Creighton said, “we heard half a dozen conflicting rumors about Washington’s fate. Some said that he’d turned his coat and joined our side, others that he’d deserted and gone to France, still others that he’d been blown to pieces by a cannonball.”
Franklin shook his head. “None of those is true. He was taken during the British invasion of New York. I got a full account of his capture from one of his aides. It seems that when our boys saw how many troops they were up against, they turned tail. Now, Washington is normally a reasonable, restrained sort of man, but he does have a temper, and when it gets loose it’s far more fearsome even than Arnold’s. When his men began deserting him in droves, he exploded. He rode among them lashing out with his riding crop like a madman and bellowing like a bull, ordering them to stand and fight. When they paid him no heed, Washington flung his hat in the dirt and shouted to the heavens, ‘Are these the men with which I am to defend America?’ Then apparently he was exhausted by his own fury, for he slumped in his saddle in a sort of stupor, as though he had no notion of where he was, or what danger he was in. Several of his men turned back to help him, but the British got to him first.”
“You think he’s is in prison somewhere, then?”
“So our informants say. But no one seems to know where. We’ve put out a plea for information on the matter in this issue of The Liberty Tree.”
Creighton didn’t let on that this was old news to him. Though he’d done his bit of spying only under duress, he knew that it would seem to Franklin and Sophie as though he’d betrayed them. In fact, it had begun to seem that way to Creighton himself.
A week ago, he wouldn’t have cared what they thought of him. But like a sailor who suddenly discovers that the wind, which had been blowing against him, has changed direction, Creighton realized that, without his even noticing, his feelings about them had turned around.
His feelings about his uncle had changed, too. He had never liked the man much, but what he felt now was something far stronger than mere dislike. If Gower had ever demonstrated anything resembling kindness or decency, the blow he’d delivered to Creighton’s head had erased all memory of it. Though the lump had all but disappeared, the pain still plagued him from time to time. So did thoughts of his father. Each time they did, he silently cursed the colonel, and he would have prayed for the Indians or the alligators to get him except that it would mean sending Lieutenant Hale to the same fate.
He was no longer so eager to return to English territory, either. If it meant returning to his uncle, he would as soon stay in New Orleans, mosquitoes and all. But, as much as he might wish it, he had not seen or heard the last of Colonel Gower.
———
On Thursday afternoon, the new issue of the New Orleans Weekly Journal “hit the streets,” as Dr. Franklin put it. Weary from his efforts, Creighton went to bed early that night, but he woke a few hours later, feeling vaguely uneasy. It took him a moment to determine what had disturbed his sleep.
There was an acrid smell in the room, as though someone had been smoking a particularly foul cigar. Then he became aware of a crackling sound. He sat up and looked around, and saw flames outside his window. The wooden shingles on the roof of the printing shop were ablaze.
He flung aside the mosquito netting and stumbled to the window. In the light from the flames he saw three figures, dressed only in Indian-style breechcloths, sloshing buckets full of some liquid onto the log walls of the building. At first he thought it was water and assumed that they were attempting to douse the fire. Then he caught the scent of tar and noticed the torches in their hands.
“What are you doing?” he cried, and without stopping to think or even to don his breeches, he sprang out the window and across the yard. Two of the Indians took to their heels; the third lingered long enough to thrust his smoldering torch into the tar in an attempt to set it afire. When it failed, he threw down the torch and turned to run, but too late. Creighton launched himself at the man, grabbed him about the knees, and brought him crashing to the ground.
The Indian struggled fiercely for a moment and then, unable to free himself, squirmed onto his back and reached for something at his waist. Creighton had little experience in hand-to-hand fighting; it was considered beneath a gentleman’s dignity. But desperation is an excellent teacher. He raised one arm and drove his elbow as hard as he could into his adversary’s groin. The man gave an agonized cry and doubled over.
Creighton groped about until he found what the man had been reaching for—a hunting knife. He slipped the knife from its leather sheath and got to his knees. The whole roof of the printing shop was in flames now. He glanced about uncertainly. He couldn’t let the building burn, but if he went for help, or even if he pumped water himself to throw on the flames, it would mean letting his prisoner escape.
Just then Sophie ran from the house, dressed in her nightgown. “Mon Dieu!” she gasped, staring first at the flames then at Creighton, who stood over a groaning, half-naked man, holding a knife in his hand and wearing nothing but his underclothing.
“Do you have a fire brigade here?” Creighton called over the crackle of the fire.
“Oui! I will ring the alarm!” She flew off down the street, barefoot, her nightgown billowing out behind her.
A moment later Franklin limped into the yard, took one look at the situation, and said, as calmly as though this sort of thing happened every day, “We must rescue the types. Come with me.”
“What about this knave? We can’t just let him go!”
“The types are more important.” Franklin pushed open the door to the shop and disappeared inside.
Creighton hesitated. If he kicked the Indian hard enough, it might at least slow him down. But it wouldn’t be a gentlemanly thing to do. He flung the knife as far as he could into the darkness and hurried after Dr. Franklin.
The roof had already burned through in several places, and the flames illuminated the room with a flickering, insubstantial light. Franklin had two of the type bins in his arms and was shuffling toward the door. “It’s useless!” Creighton said. “We’ll never be able to save them all!”
“Then we’ll save what we can,” Franklin replied, his voice strained, breathless.
Creighton sighed and hefted two of the bins. “What about the printing press?”
“It can be replaced,” Franklin called over his shoulder. “The types cannot.”
As he carried a second load of type into the yard, Creighton heard the alarm bell in the square clanging. But he knew that by the time the fire brigade arrived, it would be too late. Already the roof was on the verge of falling in. He glanced toward the spot where his adversary had been lying; the man was gone. Shaking his head in disgust, Creighton plunged into the building again and hauled out two more bins of type. As he stood with his hands propped on his knees, trying to get his breath, he saw Franklin start into the shop yet again. “No!” he called. “Let the rest go! It’s not safe!”
Franklin ignored him. Cursing under his breath—what little he had—Creighton headed after the old man. Just as he reached the door, there was a creaking, snapping sound from above. The timbers in the center of the roof collapsed and crashed to the floor. “Doctor!” Creighton burst through the doorway. The composing table lay buried under flaming debris. Choking on the smoke, Creighton dropped to the floor and crawled forward on his hands and knees. “Doctor!”
The heat was so intense it felt as though it were blistering his skin, but he forced himself on, one arm shielding his face, until he caught sight of Franklin’s still, crumpled form. The old man lay under the composing table, which had helped shelter him from the falling beams. Creighton crawled the last few yards on his belly. Reaching out, he took hold of the neck of Franklin’s nightshirt and tugged. The old man wouldn’t budge.
Creighton turned around, planted his feet against the legs of the table, and heaved. The body slid toward him a foot or two, far enough so Creighton could grab hold of one of the old man’s arms. He scrabbled on his back across the floor, dragging Franklin after him a few inches at a time. Another section of the roof caved in off to his left, making him struggle even more desperately for the door.
His throat burned, his lungs demanded fresh air, but when he drew a breath, he took in only the searing, smoke-filled air of the room. He doubled up, coughing and retching. He was certain that the door couldn’t be more than a few yards away, but he was equally certain that he couldn’t possibly drag Franklin’s limp form that far—or his own, for that matter.