The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [45]
“I can speak for myself,” Penigault replied dryly, sticking out his hand. Franklin suddenly understood that he was blind. He clasped the outstretched fingers and gave them a brisk shake. “Good to meet you both. Monsieur Du Pratz, I much enjoyed your volume on the habits of the Natchez Indians. I hope I can expect a longer work from you in the future?”
Du Pratz smiled. “When our present troubles are resolved, God willing,” he replied.
“Come, come,” André Penigault muttered. “Enough time for back patting later. We have business now. And speaking of which, Mr. Franklin—no offense intended, of course—but what would you say if I did this?” He put his hand over his heart.
Franklin smiled. “I should say a few things,” he replied. “I should ask you some questions. For instance, do you sincerely declare that you love mankind in general, of any profession or religion soever?”
“I do,” Penigault and Du Pratz said in unison.
“Do you think any person ought to be harmed in his body, name, or goods, for his mere speculative opinions or his external way of worship?”
“No,” they answered, again together.
“And do you love truth for truth's sake, and will you endeavor to find and receive it yourself and communicate it to others?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” Franklin said. “Then I propose we call this meeting of the Junto to order and waive the other standing questions, as I gather you have urgent things to tell me.”
Penigault nodded, seeming satisfied.
“Have a seat,” Du Pratz said. “Can I offer you wine?”
“Something a little more stimulating, perhaps? Tea or coffee?” Franklin suggested.
“I am supplied with neither, though I can offer you a certain Indian tea which has much the same effect.”
“Cassina?”
“Yes.”
“We drank that often enough in Carolina when trade ran thin. That would be wonderful.”
“Angelique?” Du Pratz called.
“Sir.” A young Indian woman entered the room with several cups and a steaming pot. It seemed Du Pratz had anticipated the request.
A few moments later they all sipped at the strong, black tea. This had a more roasted taste than what Franklin was used to, with a certain burnt bitterness that was unusual but good. He felt its effect almost immediately, jostling the sluggish parts of his brain.
“First,” Du Pratz said, “I must tell you I received a message by way of aetherschreiber from the Junto.”
“Sir?”
He handed over the letter. It was in Thomas Nairne's hand, written in the coded language they had last agreed upon.
“Have you translated it?” Franklin asked.
“Yes. It's a general communiqué to all of the Junto officers. Its contents—” He grimaced, then went on. “Oglethorpe's forces were routed. All of the Carolinas have fallen into the Pretender's hands. Nairne still holds Fort Montgomery, but he expects it to fall very soon.”
The worst thing Franklin could imagine hearing, and there it was. He put his head down in his hands.
“So quickly,” he murmured into his palms. A great hole had opened in the world, and he and all he loved had fallen into it. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he remembered the soldiers at Fort Moore, cheering for him, all confident that a few weeks of Indian fighting and the magic of their wizard Franklin would save them and make the world as it had been. How many of them now lay dead, crippled, prisoners without arms and legs, cursing him now?
Good God, what had become of Lenka? He'd left her with Nairne. She would try to fight, knowing her.
“How bad. How bad was it?”
“Of Oglethorpe and his part of the Continental Army, we know nothing. Nairne thinks him dead. Governor Nairne plans a sally from Fort Montgomery and a march through Apalachee land to here, and he expresses the hope—”
“That I have done my job and brought the French to our side,” Franklin finished grimly. “Does King Philippe know of this? Anything of it?”
“I do not think so, no.”
“About that,” Robert said. “How is it you receive messages when neither the Coweta nor the king have received any in months?”
Du Pratz raised an eyebrow. “I cannot say about the Coweta. But Nairne expresses the