Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

“The Privy Council rejected the petition,” said he, talking to our backs.

“But you must have expected that,” said Sir John.

“Oh, I did, but they might at least have considered it on its merits.” And having said that, he launched into a presentation of what he considered to be its merits. This was, I supposed, what he would have said, had the solicitor general given him the opportunity to do so. Yet for some reason, as we approached the great door, it became increasingly difficult for Franklin to be heard — not because his voice grew weaker, but rather because there came a noise, a strange washing sound like unto that which I had heard on the beach at Deal as the tide came in; it interfered increasingly with the voice of Franklin — never truly strong under the best of conditions. Curious, I urged Sir John to pick up the pace a bit, yet he was unwilling. “We’ll get there soon enough,” said he. All the while, Dr. Franklin talked unconcernedly on — until we stepped through the door and he glimpsed the source of that strange noise.

“Oh, dear God!” said he.

Before us we saw a sea of faces — or, perhaps not quite so many as that, but a lake, certainly. If the pure number of people out there between us and the rented coach was impressive, the sudden roar that issued forth from them as they recognized Benjamin Franklin was much more so. It was frightening.

“Now how many would you say are here?” Sir John shouted above the tumult.

“I’ve no idea,” I shouted in response. “Perhaps a thousand!”

“Not so many” — a new voice, that of Mr. Perkins, whom I had noticed standing now beside me. “I’d put them at not quite eight hundred.”

“That’s a good many.”

“They’re pretty well-behaved, though. They look to be shopkeepers, clerks, and the like. They’re not a mob.”

“Are all of us here?”

“All except Constable Brede,” said Benjamin Bailey. “He had to stay with the coach. We’ll have to make it through the crowd to get to him out there.”

“Well and good,” said Sir John. “Now, you’ve all done this at least once before. Cutlasses out.”

There was a nasty, sharp, slithering sound as the swords left their scabbards.

“Hold the cutlasses high so they can be seen. If any in the crowd gets too close, then use the flat of the sword on him. If there is an actual attack on any of us, you may use the sharp of the sword, or shoot to wound. Form a ring round us, and remember that your first responsibility is to protect Dr. Franklin. Are you all ready?”

There was a bit of shifting about as the constables sought their places, but soon there was an affirmative chorus from them.

“All right then, let us go forward!”

Without a weapon, I felt somewhat at a loss. Yet what would I do with a cutlass? Only harm to myself, no doubt. And Sir John had forbidden me to carry a pistol into the Cockpit. (“Of course it is done,” he admitted, “but it is against the law and should be. I will not have you breaking the law in my company.”) And so, as a result, I was one of three protected within what Sir John had described as a “ring.” In truth, it was more in the nature of a square. I walked between Benjamin Franklin on my left, and on my right. Sir John (who held lightly to my right arm). Forward on the left corner was Mr. Bailey, and to the rear on the left was Mr. Oueenan; on the right forward was Mr. Perkins, with Mr. Rumford in the right rear.

(Just one more point, reader; though I have described myself as unarmed, that was not strictly so. While I had with me neither cutlass nor pistol, I did carry with me, concealed in my coat pocket, the cosh Mr. Baker had given to me so many months ago. I had taken to carrying it quite everywhere with me.)

And so, in the odd configuration which I have just described in some detail, we seven set off into the crowd. Those directly before us backed away, allowing us passage, but they did so unwillingly, even sullenly. As Mr. Perkins had said, the individuals making up this great mass of men appeared to be shopkeepers and clerks, — well-dressed, not poor, and generally law-abiding. They fell back in respect for Sir John — and also for the drawn cutlasses of the four Bow Street Runners who surrounded him.

That did not, however, prevent them from shouting abuse and invective at our troop, most of it (though not all) directed at Dr. Franklin.

“Traitor” he was called, and “Dr. Treason.”

“Have you no shame?” demanded one.

“You owe the East India Company a hundred thousand pounds!” dunned another.

“The colonies must pay!”

And so on, as we marched through them.

The coach lay near seven rods away, yet I did not fix upon it. I kept scanning the crowd, looking for George Burkett, as Sir John had urged me to do. It had come to me that it would be difficult for that giant of a man to hide, even in a gathering of eight hundred; for at six feet and four or five inches in height, and eighteen stone in weight, give or take a few pounds, he would be hard to miss. The only way he could avoid towering a head above the rest would be to walk about upon his knees. And not even Burkett could keep that up for long. So it need not be difficult to see him from a distance. Yet I kept trying.

Much nearer than I had been looking, I heard something that caught my ear and kept my attention:

“Make way!”

“Make way for the veteran.”

“Yes, by God! I am a veteran. I’ll tell them about it.”

It was close by. I could tell that. This conversation of shouts came from off to the left, not far beyond young Oueenan.

“Push him up front, I say, so he can tell Franklin up close.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him, I wall! Just let me get near him.” There was something familiar about that voice. It was … it was … no, I couldn’t yet say who or what it was.

No, I could not — not until he was pushed — or propelled himself — into the front rank, coming nearer and shouting louder.

“I am a veteran of the French War, I am. Fought the French and the Hurons and lost the power of my legs there — all for these ungrateful colonials.”

And then did he raise his head, displaying his face. But he did so perhaps a bit too early, for I saw him and recognized him at just about the moment that Sir John recognized his voice. “Jeremy!” he cried in alarm.

It was George Burkett, pushing himself along in a contraption which was built upon the small wheels of a child’s goat cart. Had I seen something like it bearing a beggar in Covent Garden? But now it bore him straight at Dr. Franklin.

I dove forward, cosh in hand, but managed only a glancing blow at his face before he swept me off with a single swing of his huge hand. I was down on the ground, slightly dazed, when I witnessed a most singular event.

He made the mistake of attempting to jump to his feet whilst still upon the beggar’s cart. He was simply too much for it — too much size, too much weight. The contraption that supported no longer supported him. It went off skittering from beneath him, leaving him flailing the air with his hands, one of which clutched in it the biggest knife I ever saw. Yet try as he may, he cannot balance himself — and he falls, dear God, how he falls, right on his belly!

I see my chance and dive upon his back that I might beat upon his head with my cosh. I hit him again, hard as I can, yet it seems to do nothing, less than nothing, for he begins to rise.

I throw my left arm round his throat and rise with him. It is like riding the back of some great fish. While I still can — for I feel myself slipping — then do I put all of the strength I have left into a single blow aimed at the base of his skull.

I fall. He falls. And that is all I remember.