“I suppose,” John remarked to her that evening, “that to an English lord America must look as provincial Britain did to a senator of imperial Rome.”
It was not a thought that brought her any comfort. From that day, though she did not tell her husband, Mercy was ready to return to America.
They met Ben Franklin in December. His lodgings were quite close, in Craven Street, off the Strand. He lived modestly but comfortably in a pleasant Georgian house, of which he occupied the best floor, looked after by a devoted landlady and a couple of hired servants. John was eager that young James should have a sight of the great man, and urged him to take careful note of everything Franklin said.
Mercy also was excited. Though she knew that Ben Franklin’s experiments with electricity and his other inventions had brought him world renown, her memory of him from Philadelphia was as the author of Poor Richard’s Almanack: the jolly friend who’d gone with her to the preaching. The man with the round, spectacled face, like a kindly storekeeper; the thin brown hair falling to his shoulders; the twinkling eyes.
When the two Masters and their son were ushered in, the man who rose to greet them was still the man she knew. And yet he was different.
Mr. Benjamin Franklin was now in his early fifties. He was fashionably dressed in a rich blue coat with big gold buttons. He wore a spotless white stock round his neck, and a powdered wig. His face was somewhat leaner than she’d expected. His eyes did not twinkle. They were intelligent and alert. He might have been a successful lawyer. There was also in his manner a faint hint that, though ready to welcome fellow colonists, his time was limited.
“Remember, Franklin made a fortune in business before he entered public life,” John had remarked to her the day before. “And whatever he does, he always makes sure he is paid. The British government pays him a large salary as Postmaster of the Colonies—even though he’s three thousand miles away from his duties. And the people of Pennsylvania are paying him a second salary to represent them here in London.” He’d grinned. “Your friend Mr. Franklin is a very cunning fellow.”
Franklin bade them welcome though, remembered Mercy, and made young James sit beside him. Apologizing for his poor hospitality, he explained that he’d been on a tour of the Scottish universities, where he’d met Adam Smith and other Scottish men of genius. “Six weeks of the greatest contentment in my life,” he declared. But he’d returned to find all manner of business awaiting him.
He chatted to them very amiably. But it soon became clear that the Masters were not acquainted with any of the London printers, writers and scientific men whose company Franklin enjoyed, and John was afraid the great man might become a little bored with them; so, hoping to keep him talking, he ventured to ask him about his mission for the people of Pennsylvania.
The Pennsylvanians might be paying Ben Franklin handsomely to represent them in London, but they hadn’t given him an easy task. If William Penn in the last century had devoutly desired to establish a Quaker colony in America, his descendants, who lived in England, desired only to receive their tax-free income from the huge Pennsylvania land grants they’d inherited. The people of Pennsylvania were sick of them and their proprietorial rights, and wanted a charter like other colonies.
But the Penns had friends at court, Franklin now explained. And if the Pennsylvania grant was disturbed, then Maryland and other proprietorships might also be called in question. The British government was unwilling to upset the apple cart. It seemed like too much trouble.
“The further difficulty, which I had not foreseen,” he continued, “is that in the minds of many government ministers, the administration of the colonies is a special department, where the views of the colonial assemblies, beyond local matters, are not strictly relevant. They think that the colonies should be ruled either through proprietors like the Penns, or directly by the king and his council.”
It was now that young James interposed.
“Would not that leave the colonies, sir, in the same position as England was under Charles I, where the king was free to rule as he pleased?”
“You have studied history,” Franklin said to the boy with a smile. “But not quite, I think, for the Parliament in London still keeps watch over the king.” He paused. “It is true that there are some, even friends of mine in the London Parliament, who fear that one day the American colonists will want to separate from the mother country, though I assured them that I had never heard such a sentiment expressed in America.”
“I should hope not,” said John Master.
But it was now that Mercy suddenly spoke.
“It would be a good thing if they did.” The words burst from her almost before she knew she was uttering them, and they were said with vehemence. The men all stared at her in astonishment. “I have seen enough of our English rulers,” she added, more quietly, but with no less feeling.
Ben Franklin looked surprised, but thoughtful. After a short pause, he continued.
“Well, I am of the contrary opinion,” he said. “Indeed, Mrs. Master, I should go further. I believe that in the future, America will be the central foundation of the British Empire. And I shall tell you why. We have the English language, English laws. Unlike the French, we have denied the rule of tyrant kings. And I have high hopes that the young Prince of Wales will be an excellent king when his turn comes. Our government is by no means perfect, but taken all in all, I thank the Lord for British freedoms.”
“I agree with every word,” said John.
“But consider this also,” Franklin went on. “The vast territories of America lie across an ocean; yet what is America if not the western frontier of our freedom-loving empire?” He gazed at them all. There was a light of enthusiasm in his eye. “Did you know, Master, that in America we marry earlier and produce twice as many healthy children as people do in Europe? The population of the American colonies is doubling every twenty years, yet there is enough land to settle for centuries. The farmlands of America will provide an ever-expanding market for British manufacture. Together, Britain and her American colonies may grow, regardless of other nations, for generations. I believe that is our destiny.”
This was Ben Franklin’s prescription. There could be no doubt that he passionately believed it.
“It is a noble vision,” said John.
“Indeed,” and now Franklin grinned, “there is only one thing needed to perfect our English-speaking empire.”
“What’s that?” asked John.
“Kick the French out of Canada and have the whole place to ourselves,” the great man said cheerfully.
He had just spoken these words when a serving maid came into the room with a tray of refreshments. It seemed to be a signal to end the serious part of their conversation, for their host’s mood lightened, as he insisted they all have tea with him before they left.
As they walked back to their lodgings afterward, Master turned to Mercy a little reproachfully.
“I had not known you felt such aversion for the English. I thought you were contented with our visit.”
She felt an instant remorse. She had no wish to bring unhappiness to her dear husband, who tried so hard to please her.
“I scarcely know what came over me,” she said. “I expect Mr. Franklin is right. But the English way of thinking is sometimes hard for me, John, for I am still a Quaker at heart.” And she resolved that, as long as they remained in London, she would do her best to make her husband happy.
Satisfied with this half-truth, John Master asked young James what he thought.
“I think Mr. Franklin is a great man, Father,” he answered.
“You like his views on America’s destiny?”
“Oh yes.”
“So do I.” And as he thought of his son’s liking for London, and the huge possibilities Franklin had outlined for the British Empire, it seemed to John Master that the future looked bright.
That evening as they were eating supper, and they were all in a cheerful mood, Mercy remarked upo
n something else.
“Did you notice what happened,” she asked, “when the maid was serving tea?”
“I don’t think so,” said John.
“He thought no one saw, but Mr. Franklin patted the girl’s bottom as she passed.”
“The old devil.”
“They say, you know,” she smiled, “that he’s quite incorrigible.”
But if Mercy kept her feelings about the British to herself after that, her sense of displeasure remained, and was heightened just before Christmas.
It seemed that their offer of kindness to Captain Rivers, when they’d met him in Bath, had not been forgotten. For in mid-December they received an invitation to dine with his father, Lord Riverdale, the very next week.
Riverdale House was not a palace, but a substantial mansion near Hanover Square. From the two-story hall, they mounted a grand staircase to the piano nobile, where a grand saloon ran from the front to the back of the house. The company was not large. His Lordship, who appeared to be an older, stouter version of his son, was a widower. His sister acted as hostess. Captain Rivers had invited a couple of his military friends. Mercy was placed on His Lordship’s right, where he made much of her, thanked her for their kind invitation to his son, and talked interestingly about the capital’s affairs.
There was plenty to talk about. News had arrived in the morning that across the Atlantic, British forces had defeated the French up at Quebec. Though the daring young British general, Wolfe, had tragically been killed, it seemed that Ben Franklin’s wish was about to be realized, and the French kicked out of the north. When Mercy told Lord Riverdale about their visit to Franklin and his views on the empire’s destiny, he seemed delighted, and begged her to repeat it to the whole company.
Yet if the old aristocrat was charming, the colonel on her right did not please her so much. He was a military man. She did not mind, therefore, that he was proud of British arms. “A well-trained redcoat is a match for even the best French troops, Mrs. Master,” he declared. “I think we’ve just proved that. As for the lesser breeds …”
“The lesser breeds, Colonel?” she queried. He smiled.
“I was out in Forty-five, you know.”
The Forty-five. It was not fifteen years since Bonnie Prince Charlie had landed in Scotland and tried to take back the old kingdom from the Hanoverian rulers in London. It had been a wild, romantic business. And utterly tragic. The redcoats had moved against the ill-equipped and untrained Scotsmen and smashed them.
“Untrained men can’t stand against a regular army, Mrs. Master,” the colonel continued calmly. “It can’t be done. As for the Highland Scots …” He smiled. “They’re little more than savages, you know.”
Mercy had seen plenty of Scots arriving in Philadelphia and New York. They didn’t seem like savages to her, but it was clear that the colonel believed what he said, and this didn’t seem the time and place to argue with him.
A little later on, however, the conversation turned to Irish affairs.
“The native Irish,” the colonel said emphatically, “is little better than an animal.” And though she knew that this was not to be taken too literally, the Quaker in her found such judgments arrogant and unseemly. But no one at the table disagreed with him, she noticed.
“Ireland has to be ruled firmly,” Lord Riverdale said quietly. “I’m sure we all agree.”
“They’re certainly not capable of governing themselves,” the colonel remarked, “not even the Protestant Irish.”
“Yet they have an Irish Parliament, surely?” Mercy asked.
“You are quite right, Mrs. Master,” Lord Riverdale said with a smile. “But the truth is, we make quite sure that the Irish Parliament has no power.”
Mercy said no more. She smiled politely, and the evening continued pleasantly. But this she knew: she had seen the heart of the empire, and she did not like it.
Young James Master didn’t know what to do. He loved his parents. As the new year began, he had talked to his father, but not his mother.
Since coming to London, he’d grown in confidence, and also in height. For he was already an inch and a half taller than when he arrived, and the fine new coat his father had bought him was in full retreat up his arms.
“I believe you’ll be taller than I am,” his father laughed.
It was not surprising that James had fallen in love with London. It was, indisputably, the capital of the English-speaking world. The city was so full of activity that, as the great Doctor Johnson was to say: “A man who is tired of London is tired of life.” In his tutor, James had gained a guide; in young Grey Albion, an admiring younger brother. The English fellows of his age accepted him as one of themselves. What more could a boy of rising fifteen want?
One thing. He wanted to go to Oxford. He was still too young. But under the clever handling of his tutor, he was making huge strides in his studies. “There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be ready to go to Oxford in a few years,” his tutor told his father. And truth to tell, John Master had been delighted by the idea. “You’d be doing far better than I did,” he confessed very frankly to James. Indeed, when he remembered the humiliation he’d felt at the hands of his Boston cousins, he couldn’t restrain a smile. Harvard and Yale were fine places; but to have a son who’d been to Oxford—that would be one in the eye for the Masters of Boston!
There was also another consideration. He knew the men in the provincial Assembly, and the New Yorkers close to the governor; and a surprising number of these fellows had been educated in England. An Oxford degree might be a useful asset for the family in the future.
Master talked to Albion about it, and the London man agreed.
“If James goes to Oxford,” Albion told him, “he should live with us in London during the vacations. We already think of him as one of the family.”
There was only one problem.
It was New Year’s Day when Mercy gave John the unexpected news.
“John, I’m with child.”
After so many years it had come as quite a surprise, but it seemed there was no doubt. And with the news had come one other request.
“John, I want to return to New York. I want my child born in my home, not in England.”
He waited a day before he brought up the subject of James and Oxford. He was prepared for her not to like the idea, but not for her dismay.
“Let him go to Harvard, John, but do not leave him here. I beg you.” And even after he had pointed out the advantages of the thing, she had only become more distressed. “I could not bear to lose my son to this accursed place.”
When he informed the boy of his mother’s feelings, James said nothing. But he looked so unhappy that John told him to wait a few more days, while he considered.
And for several more days, John Master did consider the matter, most carefully. He could understand Mercy’s feelings. The thought that he and his son should be parted by three thousand miles, quite possibly for years, was just as painful for him as it was for his mother. Especially after their growing companionship in London, it would probably hurt him even more. On the other hand, James had clearly set his heart on it, and Master had no doubt in his mind that Oxford would be good for his son.
Set against that, however, must be the condition of his mother. A pregnancy was always dangerous, and as a woman got older, he believed it was more so. Should he and James cause her acute distress at such a time? What if, God forbid, things were to go wrong? A vision came into his mind of Mercy on her sickbed, calling for her son, three thousand miles away. Of Mercy’s silent reproach. Of poor young James’s subsequent guilt.
He broached the subject gently with Mercy one more time. Her feelings were as strong as ever. And so there was only one decision, he concluded, to be made.
“You shall return with us to America,” he told James. “And there you’ll remain for some months. But after that time, if you have not changed your mind, we’ll consider the question of Oxford again. I promise you nothing, but we
’ll consider it. In the meantime, my boy, you must make the best of it, put on a cheerful face, and take care not to distress your mother. For if you complain, and distress her,” he added ominously, “then I’ll close the subject forever.”
He did not tell his son that he had every intention of sending him back to England within the year.
And whether James guessed this, or whether he simply heeded his words, John Master was greatly pleased that for the remaining weeks of the winter, James was as kind and obliging as any parent could wish their son to be. They continued to enjoy great happiness in London. And finally, after a fond parting from the Albions, the three Masters took ship in the first fine weather of the spring, to make the long voyage back to New York.
Abigail
1765
MANY NATIONS HAD followed the imperial dream. But by the 1760s, no reasonable person could doubt that Britain was destined for glory. Soon after the Masters got back to New York, news came that the old king had died, and the modest, well-meaning young Prince of Wales had come to the throne as George III. And every year, new blessings were heaped upon his empire.
In America, Britain’s armies had driven the rival French from Canada. In 1763, at the Peace of Paris, the French abandoned all their claims to the vast American hinterland, and were allowed only the modest town of New Orleans down in the Mississippi marshes; while their Catholic allies the Spanish had to give up their huge domains in Florida.
The whole eastern American seaboard was now Britain’s. Except for the presence of the Indians, of course. Recently, when a leader of the Ottawa Indians, named Pontiac, had started a rebellion that had terrified the colonists of Massachusetts, the British Army, aided by local sharpshooters, had smashed the Indians soon enough—a valuable reminder to the colonists of their need for the mother country. But beyond such necessary firmness, the British believed their policy was generous and wise. Let the Indians fear English power, but don’t stir them up. There was still plenty of empty land in the east. Any drive westward into the hinterland could wait for a generation or two. Cultivate the huge garden of the eastern seaboard, therefore, and enjoy its fruits.