The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [259]
The house was empty, the maid away at the market. He shuffled through the papers on his desk, glanced at the empty coffee cup. He had made the attempt several times to brew his own coffee, the result never to his liking. There was always someone there to take over, Temple, certainly, or Silas Deane. He sat back in the chair, adjusted the discomfort in his legs. I am indeed forsaken. Alone and . . . coffeeless.
Deane had been gone for over a year, recalled by a congress that had been flooded with the tirades of Arthur Lee. Lee had accused every American in France of corruption and thievery, and though Franklin was included in the list, Lee had the good grace to blunt the language of those particular accusations. But Deane had few important friends in Philadelphia, and Franklin had watched him depart under a heavy yoke of defeat. Deane already knew that Lee’s accusations would carry great weight in the congress, and Franklin felt sincere pity for this man, who had labored through such arcane difficulties of trade and finance. Now, he would have little help in defending his honor. For a long while, Franklin had believed Arthur Lee was settling into some sort of annoying, harmless insanity. But Deane’s recall was serious, the man never likely to receive his due, an otherwise decent man who might now be made the scapegoat for any impropriety Lee wished to raise. Deane’s departure was an affront as well to the French, who trusted the man and had relied on him to help engineer the delicate negotiations of trade.
The congress had put its best foot forward and replaced Deane with John Adams. Adams had arrived in Paris a man clearly out of his element, and everyone in the French court was quickly aware of it. He spoke no French, and seemed unable, or perhaps unwilling to learn, and Franklin had found himself in the strange role of interpreter. Franklin knew he had Adams’ respect, but he also knew that Adams was a man accustomed to carving his own path. With Franklin so firmly entrenched as the primary negotiator with the French, Adams had bristled at accepting a role he had not been expecting, that of Franklin’s subordinate. Franklin had seen immediately that the Massachusetts lawyer truly had no idea what his job was supposed to be. In a short while, Adams had learned to grumble less and support Franklin by adding his flair for neatness to the somewhat sloppy office management of Franklin and his grandson. But Adams had never warmed to Paris, and after several months he was gone as well, returning to Massachusetts to tend to the affairs of his home state.
Franklin thought of rising from the chair, working the misery from his legs, but the soft leather had captured him completely. He reached over to the inkstand, picked up his pen, looked at the tip, a blob of ink hanging precariously. He studied it for a moment, then realized he was wearing white pants. He eased the pen back to the well, thought, That would never do. Placing an indiscreet smear of ink on myself would probably result in a sudden visit from the king. Or worse: Madame Brillon.
He grunted, pulled himself up from the chair, one hand on the desk, supporting himself. The gout gave him both good days and bad, and today seemed to be neither. He picked up the coffee cup, shuffled slowly toward the kitchen, thought, I should not allow Temple such freedom. This is when I require him most, not just when the visitors parade through here. I can endure the people. It’s the coffee that gives me such difficulty.
His grandson had been whisked away to Paris, the guest of some society belle in the village. He was gone often now, and Franklin had come to realize that if he did not give the young man specific instructions, Temple would interpret that to mean his presence was not required. Franklin moved into the kitchen, thought, He should decide