Caller of Lightning Read online

  “Young Miss Polly, please don’t take fright.” Mr. Overton’s voice floated to her out of the darkness.

  Polly rubbed her eyes, acclimating to this sudden consciousness. She knew she should have been surprised, but somehow wasn’t. For several days now she had felt as if her tutor were somewhere nearby, unseen and unannounced. “Is that really you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I didn’t think you would return to London.” She was finally able to make out the shape of him, standing by the window, limned in moonlight—and now she remembered shutting the casement after all. “You’re hunted by the King’s Guard! They stole all your books and belongings, and were very mean to me.” She sat bolt upright.

  Overton came forward and sat down on the edge of her bed. He was smiling, though to Polly’s way of thinking his eyes spoke more of sadness. “I know. You mustn’t worry about it. The King seeks for the same things that I do and wants something he believes is in my possession. It wasn’t here, so they won’t be coming round again. Neither you nor your mother are in danger.”

  Polly looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t understand. He is the King. Shouldn’t you want to help him, or shouldn’t he just ask for your help?”

  Overton’s half-smile faded. “Were only the world that simple. You are a bright girl; you know better than that.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose I do. But they said horrible things about you.”

  “Well, I’m not that good with people. I misjudge them a lot and have a tendency to say the wrong things. Perhaps I said the wrong thing to the King while I misjudged him?” He sounded tired.

  “Yes, but, you see, they said you were a traitor. Plotting against England!”

  “I am most certainly not an enemy of the Crown. I want nothing but to see the people of Britain healthy and prosperous. The King wants otherwise, from where I sit.”

  “I . . . ” Polly was bright, even gifted, but at just that moment the intricacies of imperial politics were more than she wanted to understand. “I believe you. I don’t fully comprehend, but I believe you.”

  “Good. Because you will find yourself in difficult times soon, Polly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In six years the world will change, to what possible end I cannot predict. There are those trying to guide that change in one direction; I seek another. That is why the King’s Guard hunt me—for what I know, and to steal that knowledge, so the change will come only as the King wills. And though it pains me to say so, on this the King is wrong.”

  Polly pulled her blankets close to her chest. This was something new and difficult to grasp . . . and frightening, she thought to herself. “Will you start teaching me again, now that you are back?”

  Overton stood up. “But I’m not back. I must take a different path, one that leads away from London. You must study by yourself now. And you must study, Polly, for you have gifts, and a role to play in what is to come.”

  “But how can I? They took all your books, and all your devices, and I’ve not seen their like anywhere else. Why did you come back, if only to tell me to do the impossible?”

  “A girl who can open locks with her mind should be less quick to use that word.” This time Overton’s smile was unalloyed. “I give you one piece of guidance, knowing you do not actually need it. Find the Society of Numbers and make your place within it.”

  “But—”

  Polly stopped. She was speaking to an empty room. In the blink of an eye, her tutor had vanished. She threw herself back in the bed, flopping her arms wide. “Isn’t that just a polt in the muns,” she complained to the empty room.

  Part 2:

  A Book

  About a book, in many parts,

  that contains singular secrets

  1757

  Instructions to Benjamin Franklin Esqr. One of the Commissioners appointed by the Assembly of the Province of Pennsylvania to obtain Redress of those several Infractions of the Royal Grant and Proprietary Charter, and other Aggrievances, which the People of this Province very justly complain of.

  In Assembly March 31st. 1757.

  You are to proceed immediately to Great Britain in the first Packet Boat that sails from New York, or by the next convenient Opportunity after your Receipt of these Instructions.

  If thou shou’d be taken by the Enemy, you are to advise the House by the first opportunity . . .

  Aboard

  the Packet Boat

  General Wall

  Nearing England

  July 16th

  13

  Out of the Way,

  Mr. Franklin!

  Seagulls circled above, but that was deceptive. Gulls, Ben knew, often flew as far as eighty-five nautical miles from shore—though even that much distance would be good news, he supposed. After six weeks shipboard, including months lost waiting for the Connecticut coast to clear of French privateers, Ben was eager to stand once more on dry land, and breathe air flavored more of smoke than of salt water.

  Taking another endless, meandering stroll around the deck—any excuse to escape the confines of his tiny cabin, and the increasing complaints of his son—Franklin paused when he spotted Captain Lutwidge on the poop deck. The Captain held an ornately decorated three-draw mahogany and brass graduating telescope to his eye, with which he scanned the horizon.

  Ben called out, approaching, “That is an exquisite piece of craftsmanship! Is it a Pyefinch?”

  The Captain replied with a single terse “Aye,” seeking to discourage further conversation without being completely disrespectful.

  “Pyefinch’s glasses are fine, very fine.” When the Captain did not immediately respond, Ben squinted and stared up at the clouds. “I wouldn’t have thought gulls would be out this late in the afternoon. All things considered, might we be closer to land than our last chart estimates indicated?”

  “No, Mr. Franklin,” the Captain sighed. “They sleep on the water if it’s a calm sea.” He lowered the glass and turned to shout at his crew. “Hard to port! Tack hard! What word, barrelman!”

  “Horizon is clear, Captain!” the sailor up in the crow’s nest called down.

  “Fascinating,” Ben said, grabbing the railing as the ship shifted underfoot. “I knew that gulls could fly this distance, but I never dreamt that they took up a kind of residence as well, hunting and sleeping so far from land.”

  Captain Lutwidge managed a half-smile. “I would more say that they come this far out for sport.”

  “Sport?”

  “Give it a moment, you’ll see. Tack harder! I want us back five miles from the Channel in the next hour!” There was a splat on the deck next to the Captain, which he indicated with a tilting glance at Ben. “See, Mr. Franklin? Sport. I think we’re a moving game to them.”

  “Ah.” As he realized the Captain’s point, he found himself looking up more warily. “Speaking of motion, sir, why do we withdraw? We were on direct course for our landfall at Falmouth. This change you just ordered will delay that.”

  “We’re too close to land. We need more time.”

  Ben held the deck railing tightly. “Too close? How is that even possible?”

  “French ships. This stretch of water is one hundred and seventy miles, port to port. From sunup to sundown, even this ship can sail that distance. But a faster vessel, at twenty knots an hour, can make it here from France in plenty of time to raid our side of the Channel and be back for dinner. We don’t have the firepower to outrun such an enemy, so I propose to sneak past them instead—if they are there, which for our safety I must presume.” As he spoke, Lutwidge never looked away from the horizon. “Now if you don’t mind, sir, I would rather focus on the task at hand than spend more time explaining my decisions.”

  “My apologies, Captain, I was not trying to undermine you. I was more hoping to gain some understanding of the logic of seafaring decisions, since this war has changed the rules of maritime travel. I only asked in the spirit of inquiry.”

 
“I understand, Mr. Franklin. To you this is a long and uneventful voyage, with not nearly enough to occupy your attention. But the worst you have experienced, so far, is the General Wall moving slower than you might prefer. That is not the case now: we are at actual hazard. At any moment a black dot could appear on the horizon—something entirely insignificant to you—and I and my crew would immediately be in a life or death effort to escape an enemy with superior firepower. Therefore I find your questions distracting, not deleterious to my standing. Perhaps you might care to wait belowdecks?”

  “Ah. Again, my apologies. I’m afraid I need the air. But I promise to watch quietly, and be no hindrance to anyone.”

  The Captain frowned but said nothing further.

  The next few hours were a practice in staying silent, as Ben camped out by the aft railing and just observed. In that time, Captain Lutwidge ran several drills, getting the crew ready for night sailing into a harbor. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the General Wall sailed hard north, then tacked southeast to position itself to hook due east out of the Strait of Saint George. Watching, Ben gathered the Captain’s plan was to put Ireland at the General Wall’s back, then use the setting sun to cover them—hoping that any French ships waiting in the Channel would find it impossible to see the small postal packet against the sun’s great disc.

  The western tip of Cornwall came into view, just a shimmer in the shadows, right as the sun’s lower rim touched the horizon.

  “Ship sighted!” The barrelman yelled down from above.

  Lutwidge cursed and slid open his glass, scanning the eastern horizon until he found the vessel in question. “All quiet on the deck! Looks like . . . ” the Captain quietly counted to himself, “fourteen guns, I’d wager. Converted schooner—fast-running, based on her trim. No sign they’ve seen us yet, so we’re going to go in riding the mirage line. With any luck, by the time they load their guns we’ll be blowing right by them. Have all passengers and belowdecks bodies crowd the stern wall!”

  On hearing that, Ben started to speak, but Captain Lutwidge broke in first. “Say nothing and you may remain to watch, Mr. Franklin. I imagine you’d just try and sneak back up the minute you thought we weren’t paying sufficient attention, anyway.”

  Two sailors ran below to relay orders, and the deck fell silent. Ben had grown used to the rowdy chatter of sailors at their work. By contrast, this sudden quiet was eerie; as they sailed into the Channel, dusk nipping at their heels, all he could hear was the rhythmic slap of waves against the coursing hull, the snap-and-rustle of the packet’s sails, and the thin high cries of the gulls overhead. Through it all, Captain Lutwidge held their bearing, signaling his commands through hand gestures and whispers to the bosun that were passed down the line in further whispers as well.

  The ship sped on. As it approached land, Ben could clearly see the French merchantman-turned-privateer sailing at an angle away from them—Lutwidge’s tactic had worked. The General Wall had gone undetected.

  As the sun finally vanished below the horizon, and the world tilted from day to night, the packet slid smoothly into shallower waters below a series of camouflaging cliffs.

  Ben grinned and shook his head. The world was full of wonder, to his perception. It had been a honor and an education to witness such seamanship. Catching Captain Lutwidge’s eye, he bowed with sincere respect, then headed below deck to relax.

  The ship’s night captain, Captain Kennedy, stopped him as they passed each other in the narrow passage outside his cabin. near. “No lights tonight, Mr. Franklin,” he spoke softly. “There is still danger that we might be overrun before morning.”

  Ben nodded. “As you direct. But I don’t understand, please, why are we being so quiet? Surely they are far enough away?”

  “One would think so, but it is surprising how far sharp noises can carry across open water. The French might not hear what we say, or where we are, but an unfortunate noise could alert them to the fact that they are not alone. So, we stay quiet. Once we near Falmouth, they will not follow. We have the larger navy; they won’t risk trying to catch us in sight of the coastal forts.”

  Ben nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”

  He headed into his cabin, one of two besides the Captain’s. William was already in his hammock and inclined towards convivial discussion, whether from relief at their safe passage or proximity to their voyage’s end, or both, Franklin could not say. He was simply grateful to feel a natural warmth to their connection again for this while, however long it might last.

  Hours later he stared out the cabin window, from the rear of the ship, at the dark waters of the Channel. It was a rarity for him to have trouble kipping down when he wished, but despite being tired, sleep was proving elusive. Perhaps it was the hushed voices of the crewmen on watch that kept him up, or William’s snoring; whatever the cause, it was quite a long time before he finally felt himself nodding off.

  At that moment a light flashed across the water behind the ship and the loud ring of a bell echoed across the water. Then came Captain Kennedy’s voice, a series of shouts at the top of the man’s lungs, slicing through the constant slap of waves hitting the hull. “Hard starboard! Cut the mainsails tight, full jib! Ready about! Now, now, now, lighthouse port!”

  William remained oblivious, but Ben’s eyes snapped fully open, all chance of sleep banished. He threw on a coat and, struggling with creaking knees and a hip that refused to cooperate, limped his way up to the main decks.

  The boat, which had been all but asleep a moment before, was fully active now. Captain Kennedy took just enough note of Ben’s presence to wave him aside. “Out of the way, Mr. Franklin.” Kennedy spoke quietly, but his manner brooked no debate. Ben nodded and scurried to the back railing, grabbing hold. The coastal lighthouse and cliffs loomed above them, far too near for safety.

  Kennedy leaned all his weight into spinning the boat’s wheel and grunted, yelling “Hard alee!”

  Ben was almost thrown over the railing by the force of the tack, barely catching himself in time. Kennedy spun the wheel fast in the opposite direction and the General Wall did something Ben wouldn’t have thought possible—as it hit a wave coming back off the shoreline, the ship tilted precariously, then seemed to almost jump into the air. The coastal winds caught the sails and the packet slammed forward, speeding away from the rocky doom that had nearly wrecked it.

  Just as Ben regained his balance, he heard a boom and a splash. “Is that a cannon?” he shouted at the Captain.

  Kennedy glanced back in exasperation. “Please, Mr. Franklin. Go belowdecks! We will let you know when it is safe to come up.”

  A second boom and splash sounded, closer this time. Instinct took over in response to imminent danger. As Ben fumbled his way towards the stairs, barely able to stand on the pitching deck, he stretched both arms to the sky, fingers cramping as if the very air was cloth that he could seize and hold and pull. In his mind’s eye he saw a vast grayness descending on the sea; and, as he pushed with everything in him, as he had once pushed against lightning in a storm, he commanded the single word, “Nebula.” With that, the energy to stay awake flooded out of him, and he dropped to his knees in a dizzy stupor. Hunger surged as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

  Sailors ran around him, desperately manning rigging and righting the ship as a fog bank overcame them from nowhere. In seconds, the air was so thick it was hard to see more than a few feet in any direction.

  “Father?” Franklin felt William’s hands on his shoulders. “Do you need help? I awake to a ruckus and find you up here. What is wrong? Are you ill?”

  “Food,” Ben muttered. “Cabin.”

  William struggled to get his father standing.

  “All quiet!” Ben heard Captain Kennedy command. “The fog plus the darkness will cover us.”

  The two Franklins stumbled downstairs, William propping up his unsteady father. Once back in their cabin, William settled Ben into his hammock. Weak beer from the pail and some hardtack would h
ave to do. Dipping the bread in the beer, he offered it to Franklin, who consumed it eagerly. He slowed down once the feeling that his stomach was going to cave in on itself subsided. The relief of this sensation, combined with general exhaustion, overcame him, and he fell into fitful sleep.

  Some hours later, as an unseen dawn lit the fog with a light gray glow, Ben woke. He saw that William had not returned to his own hammock, but was instead asleep on a stool, leaned back against the wall. How he didn’t fall over, Ben wasn’t sure. He chuckled quietly at the sentiment. Above him he could hear telltale sounds of sailors moving around on the deck. They were making no attempt to maintain silence, so all danger must be past.

  Over the next few hours, the ship came fully alive. Soundings revealed that they were near land, so they proceeded carefully through the fog. Ben felt giddy. Soon he would be standing on the shores of England once again. Even William came up to enjoy the morning air and check on his father. As much as he had protested that this journey was not one he wanted to undertake, in his heart of hearts he was beginning to feel otherwise.

  The soundings kept showing that they were closer, and Ben kept glued to the bow, checking his pocket watch and watching the gray fog before them. It was just about to strike nine o’clock in the morning when the fog lifted, rising from the water like the curtain over a stage. As it did, it revealed the town of Falmouth, surrounded by the greenest of fields and resplendent with life and commerce, its welcoming harbor full of ships.

  All the activity around him ceased. To the crew, having seen nothing but water for long weeks on end, there was something magical about arriving. Forgotten was the war, the ceaseless rocking of the waves: here, at last, was England.

  “ . . . The bell ringing for church, we went thither immediately, and with hearts full of gratitude, returned sincere thanks to God for the mercies we had received: were I a Roman Catholic, perhaps I should on this occasion vow to build a chapel to some saint; but as I am not, if I were to vow at all, it should be to build a lighthouse.”