Caller of Lightning Read online

  Ben’s anger flared and his expression went cold once more. “You are admitting theft, then? Nay, proclaiming it?”

  “These did not belong to you, sir; there can be no theft in arranging to return them to their proper owner.”

  “Who is—”

  “No one you need be concerned with,” said Richard Penn.

  “I rather think I should be the judge of that,” said Ben, grimly.

  “Come,” said Thomas. “I understood you to enjoy a good performance; forgive us this small piece of theater. We are prepared to reward you with everything you ever realistically hoped to win for your Assembly, in a manner that cannot be revoked or broken, in return for our own guarantees and the answers to three simple questions, which we will convey to the true owner of these journals. First, from whom did you get them? Second, how much—if any—have you gleaned of their contents? And third . . . there is one missing. Our agent was quite thorough in his search, while your family enjoyed time with you in New York, prior to your coming here to test your wits against our will. What happened to it?”

  Ben calculated carefully. There was too much at stake for the colony. His shoulders slumped, and he spoke. Every word he chose was true, while still revealing nothing. “They were procured as part of a lot sale from an estate. They are written in too many languages. I have to date, been unable to translate them. As to the fate of the final journal . . . it was, sadly, destroyed.”

  Thomas studied him intently, then smiled. “Noooo . . . I don’t think I shall choose to believe you, Mr. Franklin. We cannot do business with a dishonest colonial. Richard. Destroy the papers. Consider the offer revoked.”

  Ben stood, his spine a ramrod despite discomfort. “I was reluctant to trust your offer, sir, but hopeful to trust you. Clearly that was an error in judgment. Thank you for the tea and entertainment. I will see myself out.” Stone-faced, he bowed just half an inch less than was proper and left without uttering another word.

  “Ta, Mr. Franklin. We shall see you around.”

  Middle Temple Hall &

  the Home of

  Thomas Fermor,

  First Earl of Pomfret, London

  September 15th

  19

  Satan's Work

  William was deeply absorbed in a book on imperial law, and its application in border disputes with foreign powers, when one of the Silks of the King’s Counsel tapped him on the shoulder. The sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows of the Middle Temple’s library was warm on his cheek and neck, and the smell of fresh buns with currants filled the air. In all, he could not imagine a better place to pursue his studies, and any interruption—even so quiet an invasion as this—was hard-borne. On reading the Silk’s note, however, he took firm hold of the reins of his emotions. For a student barrister, turning down such a request was not an option. He would simply have to leave immediately, and best foot forward while at it. Anything less could be deemed an insult.

  “A moment only, please,” he said. He closed the book, carefully marking his place, then stretched his idle limbs and nodded. “Shall we?”

  The Silk led him deeper into the Middle Temple Hall, through areas still mostly unfamiliar. Multiple wings extended from the central portion of the building, which served as a church every Sunday, and each wing was marked with high ceilings, ornately decorated walls, and rich oak wainscotting. The oak had been polished so many times over the centuries that William could see a dim reflection of himself in some of the panels. Eventually they came to a stair to the basement, which they descended. At the bottom, William found himself standing before a door unlike any he had ever seen.

  It was both tall and wide, and very old, with a red stain to the wood that was so dark it might as well be black. The bindings and hinges looked to be made of antique brass, dingy with age, while the handle and lock were of a curiously different metal that appeared to be gray and silver at the same time.

  William opened the door and walked through.

  The unsigned summons had been a curious thing. He was far more confused, however, to open a basement door and find himself in a brightly lit room, with sunlight shining in from high windows along three walls. Seated at a desk in the center of the room was a man he knew only from printed reproductions.

  For the first time in William’s acquaintance, the Silk spoke, offering formal introduction.

  “Presenting Captain William Franklin. Captain Franklin, may I present the Honorable Thomas Penn, Esquire, doctor, proprietor of the Pennsylvania Colony, son of the Honorable William Penn, Esquire, founder of the Pennsylvania Colony, and grandson of the Admiral Sir William Penn.”

  Thomas Penn looked up and smiled. “Ah! Captain Franklin. I’m afraid I haven’t much time now, but wanted to introduce myself while we were both here.” He scooted back from the desk and stood, then stepped around it to approach the younger man. To the Silk he said, “Wait outside, please, until we are finished; and do close the door.”

  William took in his surroundings. The room was even larger than it had appeared at first. Bookshelves twice the height of a standing man lined the far wall, each shelf packed with leather-bound volumes of various sizes; exquisite tapestries, richly framed paintings, and glass-boxed animal skins hung on the other walls, and artifacts from around the globe were positioned strategically around the room. It was an impressive display.

  Penn coughed gently into his balled fist.

  William shook off the room’s momentarily overwhelming effect and focused on the man before him. “Mister Penn, the one true Proprietor? I am, I must say, surprised to find you here.”

  “Ah. Please call me Thomas, as I hope you will let me address you as William, unless your father has already turned you against me. No?”

  William shook his head.

  “Good. Despite the opinion of the senior Franklin now habiting London, I am certain that you know I am more than just this dispute over taxes. I had therefore hoped that a sensibly reputationed gentleman such as yourself would be amenable to a meeting. Hence my invitation.”

  William raised an eyebrow, uncertain just what to say. “Your invitation? My apologies, Mr. Penn . . . Thomas . . . I mean no harm, nor to diminish you in any way, but on receiving an unsigned summons from a member of the King’s Counsel, I had naturally expected, um, the . . . ” He trailed off as he realized how foolish it must seem for him to have expected a meeting with the King. “I’m sorry.”

  Thomas threw back his head and laughed. “You have no need to apologize. This is the King’s study at the Middle Temple, after all. Only a very few of us who have the King’s ear have permission to use this room. Knowing you were at the Middle Temple this morning, I decided to avail myself of it. We have much to discuss, you and I, if you are amenable.”

  “You do me a great honor, sir.”

  “Pshaw. Nothing of it.”

  “No, of a certainty you do,” insisted William. “But I hope you will understand that I cannot work against my father’s wishes in any way, no matter my own opinion on a given point of politics. I am not an appointed Commissioner for the Colony. I hold no sway over any member of the Assembly, nor any local influence worth giving the name. In short, I do not see what value you may find in taking conversation with me.”

  “You may rest easy, William,” said Penn, his tone warm and inclusive. “All I wish from you is perspective. As I said, I am more than the dispute. It has been years since I was in Pennsylvania, and though I believed otherwise until a short time ago, I fear I am now English, through and through. The proprietorship does not understand the colony’s current set of mind. It seems . . . foreign to us, if I may say so. Even the French are more sensible, to be perfectly candid.”

  “My fellows can be damned hard to understand sometimes, at that. I often struggle with colonial attitudes, if I’m to be forthright.”

  “There. You see? You offer precisely what I need.” Penn rapped the desktop once for emphasis.
“There is a gulf between our worlds. If I am to find my way to a solution, I must somehow bridge it.”

  “An admirable goal,” agreed William. “But I am still not clear on how I might be of assistance.”

  “Simple enough. I am in London all this week on business. Come dine with me tonight at my father-in-law’s residence, and let us talk, simply talk, about the colony. I want to see it through your eyes. I want to understand it as you do, having been born and raised there. Your perception and insights regarding your home might seem obvious, even trivial, to you; they will be anything but that to me. Indeed, by some measures they may make all the difference between success and failure in this endeavor.”

  “I . . . I hardly know what to say.”

  “Say yes, then. I promise you a splendid meal, and even my aging company is tolerable for a single evening.”

  “You do yourself a disservice, sir. But . . . yes. I will come. And thank you for the invitation.”

  They spoke for another fifteen minutes before Penn, pleading prior obligation, had to excuse himself. After that, the waiting Silk, as silent as before, led William back to the library, where he picked up the book he had put down, turned to the marked page, and found himself utterly unable to focus on the text at all.

  The Home of

  Thomas Penn

  At Hitcham,

  near Maidenhead Bridge, Bucks

  September 15th

  20

  A Famous Father's Son

  William had ordered King to commandeer his father’s hired coach so that he could arrive in at least a modicum of respectability. On the ride to Albemarle Street he instructed his servant on the fine points of the evening and the standard of behavior he expected King to meet. Just because the boy was technically free on English soil was no reason, in William’s consideration, to be lax. He made it abundantly clear that if King was not on his absolutely best behavior, it was off to a Carolina plantation for him—English law or no. William disliked having to resort to threats; it really was distasteful. But tonight he had no time for King to be up to any sour looks or tomfoolery.

  King rapped the knocker and the door was opened by a household servant dressed more elegantly than William was, which took him instantly aback. At my finest I’m less than a servant of the proprietor, William thought. Why do we engage in conflict with these people? We play at power but don’t understand how powerless we are.

  Despite these misgivings, he maintained a pleasant—even commanding—demeanor as the servant relieved him and King of their cloaks and hats, then led them to their respective destinations. King was given a seat in a side hallway and told to wait until the servant could return to take him to the kitchen; after which William was taken into the most private sections of the house, where Thomas Penn awaited him.

  William entered the calling room with an air of confidence that he hoped would ingratiate him with his host. For the first time since earning his captaincy, he felt himself his own man, instead of merely being a famous father’s son.

  “William,” said Thomas Penn, buoyantly. “How marvelous to see you twice in one day. I am glad you were able to keep our appointment.”

  William was delighted to be received in so open and friendly a manner. He carefully modulated the depth of his bow to offer respect to a non-royal, without crossing over the line into obsequiousness. “Chief Proprietor,” he said in earnest, “I am, humbly, at your service.”

  “Oh, please, let’s not stand on such formality. This afternoon I was Thomas; pray let me be Thomas again.” Penn had not moved as he received his guest, but put out his hand so that William could advance the distance to shake it.

  William closed the gap with vigor and took Penn’s offered hand. He gave it his best grip, firm and decisive, and was well pleased with the manner of his handshake’s return. “You are kind, sir, but your family is well above my station. I do hope to someday be called to the bar here, and must know my place. So I will surrender to your wishes within these walls, or else otherwise in private; but outside them or in company I shall call you Mr. Penn. For my own comfort, and for propriety’s sake.”

  Thomas Penn considered this speech and appeared to judge it worthy. He smiled more warmly than ever, the very model of congeniality. “Agreed, then. As before company I shall never omit your own well-earned title, Captain Franklin.”

  “Thank you.” William bowed his head.

  “It is only your due, young man. And now that we have obliged the niceties, perhaps you would like to eat?”

  The meal, as promised, was splendid—easily the best William had yet had in London—and the smooth perfection of its serving, spectacular. William was glad to think of King watching within the kitchen as the household staff progressed from course to course: perhaps he might learn something useful from the experience.

  The conversation had also been something to savor. Penn had not leapt immediately to colonial matters, choosing instead to open London’s doors for his visitor. William had made a point of following both business news and the doings of society since his arrival in England, but hearing this information from Thomas Penn’s lips was vastly more compelling. William was entranced, and not least because the man knew the stories behind the stories—details and secrets that provided extra layers of meaning, spice, humor, or outrage. William found this experience almost as intoxicating as the brandy.

  Before dessert was presented, the nexus of discussion finally jumped westward, across the Atlantic, to Philadelphia and the many challenges comprising life in Pennsylvania. Now the balance of give and take shifted, as Penn retreated to the role of questioner, and William happily answered his probing queries at length. He was taken by the diversity of the man’s interests, the precision with which he ferreted out details and sorted them for relevance, and, above all, by the concern he showed for William’s fellow colonials. Before this evening, William would never have questioned his father’s views on the Penn family. But he could hardly deny the evidence of his own experience. Sadly, he knew that his father’s stubbornness and biases had led him astray, at least on this topic.

  Later still, William was quite surprised to see that the elegant clock above the fireplace was nearing eleven o’clock.

  “My God,” he said. “Look at the time. I have horribly abused your hospitality, Thomas.”

  “No,” said Penn. “You have simply confirmed my good judgment. I am grateful to you, and happy to count one Franklin, at least, among my friends.”

  William swelled at the praise, an emotion boosted only slightly by the evening’s drink.

  “I do admit that this entire day has been . . . unexpected. Such a strange introduction, and then your invitation to a private meeting. You know, before coming here I wasn’t sure that I should, considering the turbulent nature of your relationship with my father. But I’m glad I trusted my own instincts in the matter.”

  Thomas Penn nodded. “I would hope for you to trust me.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Then may I trust, in turn, in your circumspection? For there is one element of recent events that we have not discussed, at least not yet, because I was not certain you might be ready.” Penn’s tone was serious in a way it hadn’t been earlier in the evening. With that, William understood that he was once again standing before a door, and that the entire day had in some manner been a test of his worthiness to enter.

  “You have my attention, Thomas, and my promise. Any secret you choose to share will be safe with me.”

  “And if that secret is one you already share, what then?”

  William frowned and his brow crinkled, confused. “Excuse me?”

  “I speak of something I know has troubled you. Sadly, I can confirm that you are right to be concerned.”

  “Please. It is late, and no, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Penn studied William for what seemed a very long time. “I fear I have come upon the matter clumsily. Your reticence is understandable—even
admirable. Let me earn your further trust, then, by sharing a great secret first. What you are about to learn is known by very few.”

  The dining table had long since been cleared of everything but their two brandy snifters. Now Penn opened a bureau drawer and withdrew a roll of paper. William noted, with some amazement, that the roll was held closed by a blob of red wax bearing King George’s seal. Penn quickly broke the seal and rolled the sheet out on the table, weighing down both of the mildly curling ends with the brandy snifters. Penn motioned William over to examine the paper closely. It was a strange map of sorts, of the English Isles, with blotches of color that in no way aligned with any cities, counties, or shires.

  “Tell me what you make of this, William.”

  He studied the map intently. But much as he longed to pierce Penn’s mystery, and prove his usefulness, the meaning of the image eluded him.

  “The map is obvious enough, though the markings are not. I can offer this, however. Idle representations do not merit the King’s seal. Whatever this map records, it is something the Crown fears.” He paused. “Or desires? What might that be?”

  Penn looked at him solemnly. “This is a map showing areas where—and I grasp hold of my heart as I say it—good Englishmen and women are taking up magic, to the destruction of us all. Each stain you see is such a concentration.”

  “Of magic.” William blinked, trying to hide memories of the late night experiments of his father’s from being exposed by his expression.

  “Yes.”

  William pulled back from the table. “There is no such thing.”

  “That won’t do,” said Penn sharply. “We both know better.”

  William was not yet ready to yield. His thoughts spun wildly in his head. Father . . . if what Thomas says is true . . . if what has happened to you is happening to others, as well . . .