Franklin Affair Read online

  R had assembled with the dozen or so other members of the official party in Clymer’s large second-floor office. These were the people who would speak or otherwise participate, either in the first event here at BFU or the second one at Christ Church Burial Ground. There were coffee, tea, and juices and trays of Danish, doughnuts, and low-fat muffins for everyone. It had the feel to R of a platform party robing at a college commencement.

  A major difference, of course, was the fact that only one person was the object of this attention. Wally was present in the form of a mug-sized “Benjamin Franklin” Wedgwood sugar bowl that was filled with his ashes.

  They were carried downstairs and out to the platform by Clara Hopkins for the ceremony.

  “In keeping with the beliefs of the man we honor here today, we will open this service with a minute of silent prayer,” said Clymer, the master of ceremonies for the occasion. Neither Ben nor Wally were churchgoers or believers in much of anything religious, but since BFU had begun its life with the support of many important Quakers of Philadelphia, R and his fellow planners had deemed a Friends’ moment of silence an appropriate way to begin.

  A small group from the BFU band—in blue jeans and similar clothes rather than uniforms—blared out “Seventy-six Trombones” from Meredith Willson’s The Music Man. R could not recall ever having been present when Wally listened to any kind of music. Neither could anyone else on the planning committee. Somebody suggested playing a song from 1776 but R had quickly scotched that idea. So the Willson song was chosen, mostly in the hope that its Pied Piper effect would inspire mourners at the green to join the procession. The idea of trying to add some glass-made music to the band, in honor of Ben’s invention of the armonica, was scrubbed when neither suitable instruments nor players could be located.

  Only the participants on the platform had seats. The mourners below had to stand. This was done for space reasons—the green was small—and also to faciliate the seven-block march afterward to Christ Church Burial Ground.

  R could tell from their reactions that “Seventy-six Trombones” was not a well-known piece of music among the students. But there were several familiar BFU and professional historian faces—including that of Rebecca Lee, unfortunately, as well as those of John Gwinnett, Joe Hooper, and Sonya Lyman—out there in the crowd. He avoided eye contact with Rebecca, but he smiled and nodded at several others while the band played.

  Samantha had left a message at the hotel that she was not coming today because she could not risk letting “my Hancock work get cold.” It was just as well. R had to get to work immediately and intensely on those Eastville museum papers. There would be no time to play or even to make up once again with Samantha—if either party even wanted to. Goodbye, Samantha?

  Clymer had given the four speakers strict instructions to be brief, to speak three minutes or less. Remember, he said, that everybody out there has to stand, and we want everyone to hang in for the procession and the second event.

  Philadelphia Mayor George Rodney, the first speaker, immediately broke the rules. He talked for almost five minutes, barely mentioning Wally or Ben except to express the hope that the coming Franklin Tricentennial would bring millions of “fresh pilgrims to our mecca of U.S. and Benjamin Franklin history.” Then he went off on the need for Philadelphians to come together to fix their public schools. It was the mayor’s albatross and obsession.

  Tom Middleton, who spoke next, came in right at three minutes. He was a president emeritus of the university and the man who had brought Wally to BFU from Yale. They were never close friends but they had had a healthy, respectful relationship that helped them survive many disagreements. The most long-lasting and enjoyable one was over whether Benjamin Franklin really deserved to be called a scientist. Middleton, a distinguished physicist, didn’t think so. He saw Franklin as an extremely talented dilettante who followed his burning curiosity about electricity, the Gulf Stream, and a long list of other mysteries to discoveries that were those of a fortunate amateur. Middleton and Wally loved to debate the issue in private and, once or twice, even did so before small discreet campus groups. (Tom Middleton, as president of a university named for Benjamin Franklin, felt he had to refrain from expressing himself on the issue in public. It would be bad for fund-raising, if nothing else.)

  The name of the university itself was another source of friction between Wally and Middleton. When Middleton came in the early sixties, the school was known either as BFU or Franklin University. Some students, in the spirit of those times, found a way to make mischief by dropping the B. Alumni and parents did not appreciate the humor, and finally Middleton proclaimed that the university, in keeping with its treasured heritage and in deference to its founder and namesake, would forevermore be known as Benjamin Franklin University in all matters formal and informal, and its initials would always be BFU. Items containing “designations designed to distort the university’s name for profane purposes” would be confiscated by campus security, and persons “involved with their dissemination or display” would be subject to disciplinary action. The issue triggered a small storm with some free-speech protest and debate on campus that was chronicled by mostly good-humored publicity in Philadelphia and elsewhere.

  Can anybody think of a more appropriate fight to have in Ben’s name? Wally asked in an Almanack story. The statement brought him a private rebuke from Middleton, but the storm around the profanity quickly passed with the times, and the school had been solidly Benjamin Franklin University and BFU ever since.

  “When it comes time to tally the score of my life as we are doing for Wally Rush today, it is my hope that foremost on the scoreboard will be the fact that I brought Wally to Benjamin Franklin University,” was Middleton’s major statement in his remarks at the memorial. He was a spare man but vibrant and strong, despite, by R’s calculations, being over eighty years old.

  Then Evelyn Ross-Floyd stepped to the microphone. She was a tall handsome woman in her sixties who was as dedicated to Ben as Wally was. She had worked for years on the Franklin papers at Yale and produced two beautifully written books about Ben, mostly from the personal angle. Wally and Evelyn had exchanged thousands of words and ideas about their man through the years. R always believed that Wally was in love with Evelyn, something Wally never denied or, as far as R knew, ever acted upon. Both were happily married to others and there was also no sign that Evelyn was interested in anything more than an exchange of Ben material and thoughts with Wally.

  During her three minutes, Evelyn said, “There have been some great American pairings through the years. George and Gracie, Dean and Jerry, Tom and Jerry, Chet and David, Maris and Mantle, Ginger and Fred, Merrill and Lynch, Barnes and Noble, Rodgers and Hammerstein, franks and beans. I would submit that on the master list should also go Ben and Wally. They were two of a wonderful kind, two men with brains and humor, two geniuses of the real world—and, to be most personal, two of the most important men in my life.”

  R was the fourth and last speaker. He took only two and half of his three minutes, using mostly paraphrased lines from his Washington Post op-ed piece to proclaim the long-awaited coming of Benjamin Franklin’s turn to be appreciated. He gave Wally much credit for spearheading this effort and said, “Ben lives now because Wally lived.”

  Then Clymer shouted to the crowd, “Onward to Christ Church Burial Ground!”

  The band struck up “Seventy-six Trombones” again and, with Clymer and the platform group walking five abreast in front of the band, the procession stepped off for the last act.

  Leading the procession was Billy Heyward, Philadelphia’s popular faux Ben Franklin, a local actor who made a living dressing up and playing Ben Franklin for civic, student, and tourist groups. He had also done some recordings of Ben’s writings and, though he was not of Pat Hingle’s caliber as an actor, R thought he was a serious person. There had been some spirited debate among the planning committee about using Billy this morning. A Quakerlike consensus finally concluded that, cons
idering Wally’s own dress-up exit, such a thing would have appealed to him. Billy might even help draw a crowd.

  But it hadn’t worked.

  As best as R could tell from glancing behind, most of the folks on the green did fall in for the walk. But that was about it, except for people who were out on the streets anyhow and the cops who were stopping traffic at the intersections.

  R’s attention and thoughts went immediately beyond what was there in the present. That’s what always happened to him when he walked in Philadelphia, on London’s Craven Steet, or anywhere else where he knew the history well. It went with being a historian, particularly one trained by Wally Rush. “You must not only be able to see and read history,” went the Wally mantra, “you must also feel it, smell it, hear it, speak it.”

  Now, as they moved west on Market, a major downtown street, R did not really see the stoplights or the cars, the office supply stores, banks, and restaurants. Instead, he saw a narrow brick and dirt roadway teeming with horse-drawn carriages and gentry in long coats and skirts. He saw Ben making his way from his print shop, passing by the home of the Reads, most particularly Deborah Read, who became Ben’s common-law wife. R considered calling out to him, “Hey, Ben, how’s the day going?” At the peak of his own research and particularly at Craven Street, R often had conversations with Ben.

  Now Ben turned into the courtyard halfway between Third and Fourth to the house a couple of hundred feet off Market where he, Deborah, and various members of their extended family lived. The house was destroyed in the early 1800s, but the Park Service had constructed an underground Franklin museum and other tourist structures on the site. R imagined the real thing, the way the house and the courtyard looked when Ben was there.

  Then, when the procession turned up Fourth, there came into R’s imagined sight pairs of wigged, arguing men on their way south toward the State House, later called Independence Hall, for debate on the Declaration of Independence.

  About the time they got to Arch Street and turned back west toward the burial ground, R realized that he had not said more than a few words to his march companions, Clara Hopkins, who was carrying Wally’s ashes on his left, and Evelyn Ross-Floyd on the right. If it had been a Georgetown dinner party back in Washington, he would have been in trouble for not talking to the ladies in proper alternating order.

  “I loved what you said about Wally,” R said to Evelyn.

  “Thank you, R. You were right in saying Ben is finally getting the attention he deserves. I blame most of what happened before on Adams and Jefferson, don’t you? They poisoned the well, and it’s taken us this long to clean it up.”

  R agreed and turned to Clara.

  “Don’t drop it,” he said, nodding toward the bowl she was holding tightly with both hands against her stomach. Clara was given the honor of carrying the ashes after Harry Dickinson had argued that it was poignantly fitting for a pretty young woman to perform that duty; Elbow Clymer had then persuaded everyone that Clara was the perfect particular young lady.

  “That’s not funny. I once dropped a bowl of hot bean soup at a fancy party my mother was having,” Clara said to R. “I’ve had nightmares about it ever since.”

  R smiled and asked Evelyn why, above all other reasons, had Adams hated Ben so? Evelyn was known for abhoring small talk. She wanted only conversation about worthy subjects—which to her meant mostly only matters concerning Ben and the American Revolution.

  “Jealousy, pure and simple. Ben was a man of the world, of the mind, and of science, as well as of politics and diplomacy. Adams was a man of Quincy, Massachusetts, who loved the law, the Revolution, and the sound of his own voice. Most everybody loved Ben, but few people other than his wife, Abigail, loved John.”

  Back to Clara. But before R could say anything, she said, “I won’t be around tomorrow, in the unlikely event you need me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m going over to Eastville for a job interview. They’ve got an opening for director. I just found out about it yesterday, so I’m late to the chase. Of course, I wasn’t sure I was even going to need a new job until—”

  And at that moment Billy Heyward, aka Ben Franklin, motioned for the procession to stop. They had arrived at Christ Church Burial Ground.

  • • •

  Clara and Evelyn moved forward with Elbridge Clymer to a small two-foot-high wooden platform. It had been erected at the back side of the red brick wall around the burial ground so everyone in the expected crowd of thousands could see the ceremony.

  Clymer grabbed the hand microphone from a portable public address system. Waving his arms, he asked the crowd to fan out in front of the platform. R looked around. He doubted there were even a thousand people there in the street, which the police had blocked off from traffic.

  “As you know, ladies and gentlemen,” Clymer said, once everyone had gathered. “We are here at the northwest corner of Christ Church Burial Ground, a remarkable two acres of history that is the last resting place for more than four thousand people from our revolutionary and colonial past.”

  Clymer faced to his right toward a black wrought-iron fence that spanned a ten-foot-wide break in the brick wall. “I know I don’t have to tell you that one of the four signers of the Declaration of Independence buried here is the one, the only, Benjamin Franklin.”

  There was applause. Somebody yelled, “Let’s hear it for Ben!”

  A cheer rose. “Ben! Ben! Ben!” And another and another.

  Oh, my God, how Wally would have loved this, thought R.

  Clymer, looking about as happy as R had ever seen a college president except during football team victories, waited until it was quiet again before continuing.

  “Ben’s grave is just inside. People have come here for years and, as many of you know, a custom has grown up of tossing a penny on his gravestone for good luck.”

  Again, the crowd chanted, “Ben! Ben! Ben!” and R thanked God for creating college students.

  “Our cherished Wally Rush wanted something special done with his ashes. Doctors Hopkins and Ross-Floyd will now carry out Wally’s wish—”

  Clara Hopkins had a Ph.D.? It didn’t matter but R simply hadn’t known.

  “—but they will do so in accordance with the request of the overseers of the burial ground that the penny tradition be followed and no new precedents be set.”

  Bill Paine had negotiated what happened next. Clymer moved away, and Clara and Evelyn took his place in front of the microphone.

  Clara lifted up the glass bowl. “Wally’s ashes are in here.”

  Evelyn held a penny between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. “This is a penny.”

  Clara lowered the bowl; Evelyn removed the lid and dropped the penny inside.

  There was absolute silence.

  Clara shook the bowl, moving the contents around.

  After only a few seconds, Evelyn reached down into the bowl and took out the penny, now covered with the ashes of Wally Rush. She held it briefly high over her head, turned back toward the burial ground, stepped down, and walked toward the iron bars.

  Somebody hollered, “Go! Go! Go!”

  The crowd picked up the chant: “Go! Go! Go!”

  Evelyn reached her right hand through two of the vertical bars and, with an underhand throw, tossed the ash-laden penny onto the flat surface of the five-inch-high white stone slab that covered Ben’s grave. There was an identical one next to it for his wife, Deborah.

  The only words were on top of Ben’s:

  BENJAMIN

  And FRANKLIN

  DEBORAH

  1790

  Wally was correct in his letter to R about a much more extensive epitaph Ben had written for himself that he chose not to use. Etched later in a wall behind the graves, it said:

  The Body of

  B. Franklin,

  Printer,

  Like the Cover of an old Book,

  Its contents torn out,

  And stript of its Lette
ring and Gilding,

  Lies here, Food for Worms.

  But the Work shall not be wholly lost,

  For it will, as he believ’d, appear once more,

  In a new & more perfect Edition,

  Corrected and Amended

  By the Author.

  He was born on January 6, 1706

  Died 17__

  Evelyn was a good shot. The penny landed flat and near the center of Ben’s stone.

  Clymer cued the band. It played and the crowd sang:

  “For he’s a Wally good fellow,

  For he’s a Wally good fellow,

  For he a Wally good fe-ello . . .

  That nobody can deny.”

  “Let’s hear it for Wally!” someone yelled. It was a kid standing right behind R, probably Wally’s student.

  “Wally! Wally! Wally!”

  Then, “Ben! Ben! Ben!”

  “Ben and Wally! Wally and Ben! Ben and Wally!”

  Clymer let the cheering go on a little while and then signaled for quiet, pointed once again for music, and led everyone in the first verse of “America.”

  “My country ’tis of thee,

  Sweet land of liberty,

  Of thee I sing.

  Land where my fathers died,

  Land of the Pilgrim’s Pride,

  From every mountainside

  Let freedom ring.”

  Clymer signaled for quiet again and said, “Listen.”

  From all directions came the sound of bells ringing. How he got all the downtown Philadelphia churches to do this on some kind of cue, who knows?

  R, not a man of emotion and tears, lost control and lowered his head in embarrassment. Not since childhood had he cried in public.

  • • •

  R was in a loose, informal cluster of people headed south toward the BFU campus and, by invitation, to have food and drink at the president’s house. He was talking to no one, paying attention to no one. His thoughts were elsewhere—on Wally, on how wonderful this Wally day had been, on Clara, on the potential awfulness in the papers from the cloak, and, again, on how these streets once rocked with the noises and smells of revolution and freedom. Ben, regardless of personal sins, was here when the chips were down, and so were Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and, yes, Adams. Even Hancock. America, America! From every mountainside let freedom ring indeed . . .