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    Ben Franklin's War
    Ben Franklin's War
    Ben Franklin's War
    Ebook111 pages1 hour

    Ben Franklin's War

    By Stephen Eaton Hume

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    After his "wonderful airship" crashes near St. Francis of Assisi’s Home for Foundlings in Quebec City, Ben Franklin is thrown slightly off course in his carefully laid plan to coax Canada into joining the Americans in their fight against England’s rule.

    A motley crew of orphans hides the famous inventor from the British Redcoats during the American War of Independence. One of these orphans, 16-year-old Michael Flynn, is deaf and was abandoned by his parents, who were convinced that his problem was caused by demons who "seized his tongue and prevented him from speaking." Michael leads his best friends, White Rat and Briony, through the dangerous spy portals of underground Montreal carrying secret messages to ensure Franklin eludes the gallows. When Michael’s sign language inspires the great scientist to create a top-secret spy code, Michael and his friends are flung headlong into an adventure they’ll never forget.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDundurn
    Release dateNov 18, 2006
    ISBN9781554884988
    Ben Franklin's War
    Author

    Stephen Eaton Hume

    Stephen Eaton Hume teaches creative writing at the University of Victoria. He has published three picture books: Midnight on the Farm, Rainbow Bay, and Red Moon Follows Truck. His children's novel A Miracle for Maggie, available from Dundurn,was nominated for the Canadian Library Association's Children's Book of the Year. He has also published the biography Frederick Banting: Hero, Healer, Artist for young people.

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      Book preview

      Ben Franklin's War - Stephen Eaton Hume

      Turgot

      CHAPTER I

      I Introduce Myself and Beg Your Indulgence

      My name is Michael Flynn, and I have been Deaf for as long as I can remember. I am writing this with a Canada goose quill (some of the feathers are missing) and a bottle of homemade ink. Please excuse where the ink has splashed from my pen. I would not be telling you this story except I rode in an airship with the great inventor Ben Franklin, and watched men die in battle, and surveyed the stars, all in the space of a week. You may wonder how a fourteen-year-old boy living in Quebec City met the Rebel Franklin. I will tell you, but first I will list some particulars about myself.

      I live in an orphanage, St. Francis of Assisi Home for Foundlings, close by the River St. Lawrence. I own three books, a fishing rod, and a box of treasures. One of my best friends is White Dog. He was raised by wolves. His skin is an unearthly white, and he has a shaved head with pictures of animals tattooed on his skull. My other best friend is Madeline. She is Deaf, like me, and lives in the girls’ part of the orphanage. My favourite teacher is Brother Jean, who believes in Good Works. My enemy is Brother Nessus, who threatens me with the Cauldron of Hell.

      My Books:

      I. The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man’s Recreation by Izaak Walton.

      II. The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan.

      III. Experiments and Observations on Electricity by Benjamin Franklin.

      My Fishing Rod:

      Bamboo from the Isle of Japan, with a whale-bone extension and a brass reel.

      My Treasures:

      I. A bottle of sympathetic stain, otherwise known as invisible ink, for writing spy letters.

      II. Equipment for making flies: head feathers from a mallard drake (they shine in the Sun and attract fish); blue yarn; hair from a horse’s mane; wool from a black sheep; silk from one of Cook’s shawls; thread; fish hooks; scissors; pliers for bending wire; wax, to finish the flies; a spindle of horsehair fishing line; assorted surgeon’s tools I found in a field where the limbs of the grievously wounded were amputated.

      III. A bottle of black homemade ink upon which I have affixed a label, Never Ending, because that is how long it is taking me to write this book.IV. A pocket watch with no hands.V. Seven musket balls melted down and pierced for fishing weights.VI. A Mohawk knife and scabbard decorated with porcupine quills. I use the knife to sharpen the nib of my writing quill and to clean the fish I catch.

      Writing and fishing. What more do I need? Let us begin.

      CHAPTER II

      An Eclipse of the Moon

      The night I met Ben Franklin there was an eclipse of the Moon. The wind came from the south. The English writer Izaak Walton said: When the wind is south,/It blowes your bait into a fishes mouth.

      It was April 2, 1776, my fourteenth birthday, and all I wanted to do was go fishing. I used a special fly for fishing at night. It looked like a silver moth. The trout flew out of the water like birds just to taste it.

      I wondered how high the fish would jump in an eclipse. I cursed my luck that on a night like this I had been ordered to stay inside. All the orphans had. There was a curfew on account of the war with the American Rebels who were camped outside the city. Brother Jean made me swear a solemn promise to stay inside. He knew how much I liked fishing at night.

      So there I was scrubbing pots in the kitchen with Cook. Out the window I had a good view of the river, the Bridge of Ghosts, and the gravestones in the cemetery. The river went almost dry in summer, but in the spring runoff when the snow melted it was a flood.

      Around here we called it River No River. I watched the shadow of the Earth creep slowly across the Moon.

      Cook turned to me. Michael, something strange is going to happen tonight.

      Strange? I shaded my eyes. This meant strange or hidden. I communicated with Cook by reading her lips and talking in home signs, a kind of language of hand gestures that most people in the orphanage understood.

      Like the end of the world strange, she said. The animals are confused. Look yonder by the barn. See?

      A doe was grazing near the paddock. Every so often she would rise and walk a few halting steps on her hind legs. The plough horse was dancing around the corral on his back legs, too.

      Lightning flashed. The doe fled into the trees. And there was thunder. I felt the reverberations in my fingertips. I can tell the difference between musket or cannon fire, the tread of a mouse, or the roll of thunder. This was thunder.

      Out! Cook screamed. She rushed to the kitchen door that had been left ajar. A red rooster had strutted into the kitchen and was leaping around in circles. Get out before I make you into a stew! Cook yelled at him.

      And, I thought to myself, before I pluck your tail feathers to make a pretty fly.

      She shooed the bird out and slammed the door.

      What are you making? I signed.

      Applesauce cake, Cook said. She signed, It feels like the dead want to come out of their graves tonight. Then she stoked the stove.

      Cook was African. She was a slave once. Imagine. What was it like to be bought and sold like an animal? She escaped from Virginia by way of a Maryland plantation in Charles County. As a slave, she planted and cut tobacco. She knew everything there was to know about tobacco. Cook had book learning and religion, too, and as much superstition as her soul could bear. She lived in the attic of the orphanage.

      One time, White Dog and I sneaked into her room. We saw an altar, a figure made of corncobs, and a candle that sputtered in its drippings. The room smelled sweet and spicy, like cinnamon and beeswax. Cook was standing before the altar wearing a strange robe. She had stripes painted on her face. She did not see us because she was chanting and her eyes were closed. We were frightened most to death and left as fast as we could. But I still loved her so. Sometimes she was scarier than the Evil One, and that was why the Evil One stayed away from her.

      CHAPTER III

      My Parents

      Iwas born in Quebec around the year 1762. In which village, I didn’t know. I remembered sitting on my mother’s lap in front of a stone fireplace and looking out

      the window at the snow falling the way leaves from a tree dropped quietly on a river.

      I remembered the silence.

      I remembered my mother and father praying over me, but I could not recall their faces. I remembered that my father used to hit me with a leather belt, as if he could drive out the demon that had seized my tongue. I remembered the welts, and how they burned like the stings of wasps.

      When it was clear I could neither hear nor speak, I was given to a stranger, a man with a long black beard. How old was I? Maybe four or five. I did not remember my mother or father saying goodbye. I was hoisted onto a horse. I was not afraid: I thought I was going for a ride. The stranger sat behind me. He smelled of wood smoke and linseed -oil. We rode for a long time. The sky was dark with

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