I spend the next hour with Elise, learning how to split wood. I’m clumsy, at first, and embarrassed by her impatience. But I get better, good enough to earn a grunting nod of approval. At least, that’s what I hope it might be.
I and my blisters return to the library to finish Franklin’s pages. When I’m done, I read the rest of his autobiography, thinking that if I’m to help him with it, I should know what’s in it.
What I read shows me why Mom, Pop, and Gus have always been such fans—why they’ve always thought living next to Franklin Court is so “awesome.”
Franklin is born into a Boston family without much money—so little that they cannot afford to send him to school for more than a few years. He doesn’t even get to begin high school. And while he dreams of going to sea, instead his father indentures him to his brother, James, as a printer’s apprentice.
But Franklin refuses to accept that he can’t be educated. Gaining access to a neighbor’s library, he reads all the books he can, tackling really difficult, demanding subjects like math, navigation, logic, and rhetoric. At the same time, he works hard at his brother’s newspaper, even writing satires to help it make money.
How does James repay him? By smacking him around!
So, Franklin takes off—leaves his friends, family, everybody—and lands in Philadelphia, where he spends the next 25 years making his fortune as a printer, writer, publisher, and businessman. Then, when he’s only 42, he basically gives it all up to devote himself to “natural philosophy,” meaning science, with no formal training whatsoever.
He discovers that lightning is actually electricity—making him world famous—and invents the lightning rod to protect buildings from catching fire. He could have made a fortune by patenting his invention, but he refuses to. Instead, he gives it to the world—as he does all his other inventions, like the Franklin fireplace, the busy-body, bi-focal glasses, swim fins, his “long arm,” and others.
A great believer in public service, he helps set up various civic organizations, including Pennsylvania Hospital, the University of Pennsylvania, The Library Company of Philadelphia, and the American Philosophical Society, all of which thrive into the 21st Century. And he holds many, many public offices: Assistant Postmaster General for the colonies; member of the Pennsylvania Assembly; Colonial Agent for Pennsylvania and other colonies in London (a little like an ambassador); Pennsylvania delegate to the Second Continental Congress and one of the drafters of the Declaration of Independence; Postmaster General of the United States; ambassador to France and Sweden; negotiator of the treaty with Britain ending the Revolutionary War; and finally, “President of the Supreme Executive Council of Pennsylvania,” otherwise known as President of Pennsylvania.
And those are just the highlights. He doesn’t write about all of it in the Autobiography. Some of it I learn as he teaches me chess in the library. But what sticks with me most from the Autobiography is his advice for a happy life: Be industrious, be frugal, be virtuous and, most important: be useful. Mom and Pop have always been big on that last one. So was Gus.
***
Franklin arrives home from the convention in the late afternoon, this time in Washington’s carriage. The general himself helps Franklin into the library.
The ride has been hard on him. He shambles in, braced on Washington’s arm, out of breath, his face gray, and his lips pursed so tightly they almost disappear.
“Here, you!” Washington commands. “Take the Doctor’s other arm. Help me seat him.”
“Thank you, General, most kind,” Franklin says hoarsely. “I’m sorry to be a burden.”
“Not at all, Doctor,” Washington says. “It was a long session.”
This is my first time seeing Washington. He isn’t what I expected; I suppose because he’s flesh and blood and not bronze or marble or paint. But there’s more to it than that. The man moves with such style and grace. And he has such a force to him, a power. I think it’s what Gus meant when he once tried explaining “command presence” to me. Washington’s fills the room—and Franklin’s library is a very big room.
“General, allow me to introduce the newest member of my household,” Franklin says, once he’s caught his breath. “Marcus Santana, who has just arrived from Paris. Unfortunately an injury to his throat has left him temporarily unable to speak.”
Washington eyes me, like I’m a horse he’s thinking of buying. And I try eyeing him right back. But it’s hard because I’m pretty intimidated.
He’s taller than me, and very powerfully built. His black suit and white stockings are so well tailored I can see the muscles of his legs, back, and shoulders gather and shift. His face looks like his portraits, but much less perfect. Like me, he has a lazy left eye. It wanders while the right one bores into me. Squint lines and pock marks from small pox mar his skin. He doesn’t wear a wig, but has his long, white hair powdered and tied back in a queue. I can see the powder along his scalp line.
He finishes inspecting me with a nod of his head. When I nod back, a perplexed expression takes over his face.
Well what do you want me to do, I think, bow and scrape and act like your servant?
He turns from me to gaze at the drawing of the snake above Franklin’s desk, which, since a picture is worth a thousand words, I reproduce here:
“A fine piece of propaganda, Doctor,” Washington says. “I remember it well from our French and Indian War, and of course, our War of Independence.”
“I am most flattered, General. Although it is nothing compared to the leadership you provided in both conflicts.”
“Remind me, in what year was it first published?”
“In May of 1754, in my Pennsylvania Gazette, only days before your troops went into battle against the French near Pittsburgh. As you may remember, I had argued that a single government over all the colonies was necessary to successfully prosecute that war.”
“So you have believed in our union for all these years.”
“I have always thought it crucial.”
The two men are looking at each other now, almost as if they are sizing each other up, testing each other. I’m uncomfortable, standing there, unable to speak. So, I bow and start for the door.
“Just a minute, Marcus,” Franklin says. “There’s something I want to ask of General Washington, and it concerns you.”
Washington looks as surprised as I feel; but Franklin takes no notice.
“General, I have a problem and I am hoping you can help me, as you said you might.”
“Doctor Franklin, you need only ask, and if I can grant it, the help is yours,” he says warily.
“Good. When the convention decided not to make my grandson Temple its secretary, he left Philadelphia.”
“I had heard.”
“Which has left me without a clerk.”
“I am sorry for that, but I hardly see what I can do to bring him back.”
Franklin holds up his hand. “That is not what I am asking. Hear me out. As luck would have it, on the day Temple left, Marcus arrived from Paris. He and I have worked together before and he has proved himself quite excellent taking my dictation.”
Washington eyes me again and that same perplexed look reappears.
“Indeed,” Franklin continues, “he employs a most ingenious system to write rapidly and accurately. He can produce a verbatim record of, not only what I dictate, but any conversation.”
“Can he? How … useful.”
“As I had him do just the other evening when we all met in the garden,” Franklin adds.
For what seems the longest time, the only sound in that room is the buzz of a fly.
“You … had … this … boy … eavesdrop on our private conversation?” Washington finally says, his voice low and dangerous.
“No, no, no,” says Franklin. “I had him conduct an experiment. And it was a success! Show him the pages, Marcus.”
I get them from the desk. Washington snatches them from my hand and reads quickly, dropping each to the floor as he finishes.
“Extraordinary,” he murmurs. “This is the conversation we had. Just as I remember it. Franklin, to whom have you shown these pages?”
“No one! As I said, this was an experiment. I would never share them with anyone unless I had all the participants’ permission. Doing otherwise would breach their trust.”
“But how?” Washington asks. “How was he able to copy down everything we said so quickly and legibly?”
“He wasn’t. Not without an intermediate step. Marcus knows something called short-hand. Marcus, show him those pages.”
Washington examines the pages filled with my squiggles.
“A code,” Washington says.
“Allowing Marcus to rapidly record what is said and write it out later in a clear, readable hand. Time-consuming, but effective.
“Now, General, my memory is not what it was. Indeed, I am having trouble recalling what anyone at the convention said today, including me! Of course, were Temple its secretary, I would have access to the daily record. I note Major Jackson makes few notes, limiting himself to recording the votes. And without notes to refresh my recollection, I have little hope of being useful to our cause. If I cannot remember each delegate’s position, I cannot help to forge the necessary compromises. And I cannot make my own notes because a fall injured my wrist.”
“Doctor, what is it you are proposing?” Washington asks, looking like he really doesn’t want to know. I’m not sure I want to either.
“I want you, as President of the convention, to seat Marcus somewhere in the Assembly Room. Not amongst the delegates, certainly, for there’s precious little room on that floor. But if you can find a place for him—possibly in the public area between the front door and the rail, well away from the delegates—and let him copy what is said, I could have a record.”
My jaw hangs open. The look I get from Washington shuts it tight. He stands there, hands on hips, head tilted back, looking down that big Roman nose. Then he shakes his head.
“I can’t allow it,” he says.
I think: What a relief!
“Oh? Why not, pray tell? Franklin asks coolly.
“Your memory may be failing, Doctor, as is mine. But surely you remember the convention is contemplating a rule of secrecy.”
“Yes, and what of it? All the delegates are free to take their own notes. If the rule of secrecy is adopted, that won’t change. Delegates can note whatever they please. They just can’t publish their notes. James Madison plans to record as much as possible of the convention.”
“Yes, but Mr. Madison is a gentleman. This fellow is a mere boy—”
“He is a young man with a very special skill—which I need so that I may be of help to the convention. I would, of course, obey the prohibition against revealing anything.”
“Yes, but why should any of the delegates trust that this chap will also obey? –Oh yes, I see, because he can’t talk. But you said that is only temporary. When he regains the ability to speak, how can any of us be sure he will not reveal what has been said?”
“First, because he will promise you that he will not. Second, because I am vouching for him.”
Washington looks away, out the window, seeming to consider. The fly buzzes. I hold my breath, hoping Washington will stick to his refusal. Franklin’s relying on me for an accurate record of the convention is way more than I bargained for.
Finally, Washington looks back at me and asks: “Boy? Do you know what it means to swear an oath?”
I consider shaking my head no, but that would just make me look ridiculous. I nod.
“And if you are permitted to do this, do you swear by almighty God that you will not reveal to anyone what is said or what takes place at the convention and that you will do all in your power to safeguard and keep secret all the notes you make?”
I look to Franklin. His face is eager. He nods his encouragement. I raise my right hand and nod.
“This doesn’t mean I’ve decided anything, Franklin,” Washington says. “But it occurs to me you are right to want a record that you can review. And while any delegate has the right to make such a record for his own use, you, because of an injury, cannot. That places you at a disadvantage, especially considering your age. I shall need to consult with several other delegates. Bring the boy to the convention tomorrow and I will let you know my decision.”
“Thank you, General. I am in your debt.”
“In the meantime, please see about getting him some decent clothes. No one is going to want him in the chamber dressed like that.”
I’m wearing the canvas britches and stained work shirt from Franklin’s slop chest. I think it lucky Franklin told Wimpole the tailor to have the clothes ready by tonight. Which leads me to wonder: had bringing me to the convention been Franklin’s plan all along?
***
Wimpole delivers the clothes on time. But nothing he’s made fits. The pre-made clothes are fine: the shirts, shoes, stockings, wig, and hats. But I swim in anything he’s made. The britches are too big at the waist and fall to my calves. The weskit might fit Cedric the Entertainer. And the coat sleeves are so long, I can’t get my hands through the cuffs.
“Oh no, that won’t do at all,” Franklin says. “It seems our friend Wimpole has attempted a bit of ‘pay-back’ of his own. You’d better get Elise.”
When we return, he leads us to a high-backed leather and mahogany chair near one of the bookshelves. Bending from his waist, he fiddles at the seat. With a bang, it turns from a chair into a step-ladder.
“Whoa! Awesome!”
“What is awesome?”
“This chair-ladder thing.”
“I assure you, there is nothing awe-inspiring about it. It is merely a convenience. A clever one, I’ll admit, since I’m its designer. But really, it is no more than a whimsy.”
I stand on the first step as Elise, her mouth full of straight pins, maps out new hems and seams.
“Ouch! Watch it! I’m not a pin cushion, you know.”
“Hold still!” She slaps my ankle.
“Ow!”
“Stop your nonsense! A five year-old is more manly. There. Finis. Take them off and I will sew. You shall have them tomorrow morning. Well? What do you wait for? Take them off!”
“I will just as soon as you go, or turn your back, or something. I don’t need you watching me undress.”
“Why? You have nothing I have not seen, or that interests me.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say as Franklin chuckles.
“You really sure you want me doing this?” I ask him.
“Is there some reason I should not?”
I really don’t want to admit my fear about not being up to the task. So I say: “Well, it’s just I don’t want any special favors—I mean, I don’t want you owing anyone on my account.”
“No? Well then, I shall owe them on my account. You see, Marcus, in this life I have found that the man who once did you a favor will be much more willing to do you subsequent favors than the man who has received a favor from you. Before this convention is over, I may have to ask for many favors, or compromises, from these delegates. Best to get them in the habit of giving now.