Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

“No, he said he would walk home. I understand that he lives quite near to Whitehall.”

“Well, yes, he does, but what about the crowd? The mob?”

“What crowd? What mob? When they saw what had happened to Burkett, they scattered in all directions. Nevertheless, I ordered Oueenan and Rumford to accompany him. They made it to Craven Street without incident, in any case. That was the last we heard from him.”

“What a shame, sir, that he should part from you in such a way,” said I.

“And from you!” Then, with a sigh, he added, “I’ve a notion what now preoccupies him. He is no doubt quaking for fear that he will be charged with treason. There was some talk of that. As a matter of fact, Wedderburn’s attack upon him, before the Privy Council was supposed to open the way for it. But as I understand it, Burkett’s attempt upon his life, which you countered, has ended all such plans. No doubt Dr. Franklin will be returning soon to America. I would if I were he.”

(As it happened, reader, Benjamin Franklin stayed on in London till sometime in 1775. He had already resigned as agent for the Massachusetts House of Representatives soon after his ordeal in the Cockpit. Yet though he was still agent for three of the North American colonies, he transacted little business on their behalf. Things simply went from bad to worse between Britain and the thirteen American colonies. Why did he remain here in London? Because, at bottom, he liked it. After all, he had spent more than half his life in London. He had friends here — the philosopher Joseph Priestley, the Earl of Chatham, and Mmund Burke, a member of Parliament, and, of course, IVlrs. Stevenson. I believe he would have been happy to spend the rest of his days in Craven Street.)

On the third day, Mr. Donnelly visited, looked me over, and pronounced me fit for light duty. What that would mean, he explained, would be taking letters in dictation from Sir John and going about town to deliver them. No more than that for a while.

“Let Molly do the buying in the Garden for a while,” said he. “If there are loads to be carried, I shall carry them.”

“Agreed,” said 1. “And I’m sure she’ll be glad for your assistance.”

As he packed up his black bag, he took notice of something inside. He reached in for it rather carefully.

“By the bye, I’ve brought you something. Call it a gift, or perhaps a trophy — but it’s yours.”

Having said that, he brought out a large and dangerous-looking object. I recognized it as the knife wielded with such grisly results by George Burkett.

“I’m not entirely sure how it came to me,” he continued. “Yet as I have supposed it, Constables Bailey and Perkins must have brought it to me along with you. Big, ugly thing, isn’t it? More sword than knife. I wouldn’t keep it, if I were you, but it belongs to you, more than anyone else. I’ll let you decide what to do with it.”

With that, he placed it carefully upon the chest of drawers, closed up his black bag, and made ready to depart. Just then — I cannot say why — it came to me to inquire after Mr. Donnelly’s friend, Oliver Goldsmith.

“It’s strange that you should ask,” said he. “Just two nights past he had that collapse that I have so long predicted. Luckily I was present and managed to get him admitted into St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

“What is his complaint?”

“Oh, a combination of one thing and another — blood in his urine, a weak bladder, and, judging from his jaundiced complexion, a liver complaint.”

“Will he recover?”

“Oh, I hope so — no, I believe so. Yet next time he may not, for unless he stops eating and drinking as he has been, there will certainly be a next time. But I must go now and visit him at St. Bart’s. I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

“By all means do so,” said I, waving good-bye to him as he disappeared through the door.

(Though Oliver Goldsmith did, in fact, recover under Mr. Donnelly’s care, he was soon consuming alcohol and rich food in the same way as before. Just as his friend had predicted, another collapse came later in the year, from which Mr. Goldsmith did not recover. That delightful and irresponsible man died in that year of 1774.)

I worked at taking dictation and delivering letters in and around the City of London and Westminster, just as Mr. Donnelly had suggested — for Sir John would have it no other way. After a week of that, there was a letter which he dictated and directed to the City of Liverpool in Lancashire. (I cannot now recall the matter with which it dealt.) In any case, it called for a trip to the Post Coach House, which I managed without difficulty. The man at the post window accepted the letter for Liverpool without comment, but just as I turned away, he called me back.

“Hold on,” said he. “There’s one here for Sir John. You’ve not been round for a while, and it got put aside. Give me a moment, and I’ll find it for you.”

He began picking, one by one, through a handful of letters.

“Where’s it from?” I asked.

“Ah, here it is.” He held it up and read the return. “It’s from Massachusetts Colony. Should be interesting, eh?”

He pushed it across with a wink. I took it, waving my thanks, and set off for Bow Street at a run. Then, remembering Mr. Donnelly’s cautions, I slowed to a fast walk and arrived just in time to catch Sir John before his court session. I burst in upon him and begged for time to read the letter to him.

“What is so important about it?” he demanded a bit suspiciously.

“It’s from Massachusetts,” said I. “It’s from Mr. Bilbo. I’m sure of it.”

“All right then, read it to me.”

I broke the seal and glanced down to the signature at the bottom.

“It is from Mr. Bilbo, sir.”

“Well, read it, will you?”

“Certainly! He begins, ‘Sir John — ’”

“Just so?”

Yet I was already reading the rest aloud:

Though this letter will be short, it has taken me a terrible long time to write. I threw away just so many as I started, which was quite a few. I’m writing to ask your forgiveness for breaking my word to you, which I know I did. It was that or hand over the woman I love, which I would not do and still would not do today. When I say I’m asking you to forgive, I mean man to man, friend to friend, for I know there’s nothing can be done for me legally. And so I’ll have to stay away from England. We are not likely ever to meet again in this life. It’s just I would sleep better at night knowing all was straight between us. It’s a sad thing, but I’m certain, and each day more certain, that there will be a war coming soon between England and America, and I know we’ll be on different sides, we will, sure. There’s naught can be done about that, just that those things are now all beyond us. The lad Bunkins says he thinks often of you and Jeremy and would like to be remembered to you both. He’ll never forget you, and I will not either. You accepted me for just what I was. May God bless you for that.

Having read through the body of the letter, I paused, and then added, “As I said. Sir John, it is signed ‘John Bilbo. ‘

“That is all, then, Jeremy?”

“That is all, sir.” Then did I ask: “Do you think he is right? — About the war, I mean.”

“I fear that indeed he may be,” said Sir John.