The Kite and the Coin Toss

By Ron Swan

In an event coined The Signers’ Day of Reckoning, Benjamin Franklin swings from a noose while his son, William, watches. Benjamin and his fellow rebellion leaders meet their ends on July 2, 1782, the sixth anniversary of the ratification of their treasonous declaration.

Over two hundred years later in a province formally known as Pennsylvania, Joshua Franks works as a scientist in a royally sanctioned lab with a lofty goal to use lightning as an alternative energy source to illuminate the villages that stand in destitute, dark contrast to the royal cities they surround and support. While attending a college history class, Joshua soon learns what the government allows to be taught surrounding the failed treasonous revolt. But everything changes on his twenty-first birthday when his parents pass on their most secret and prized possessions, leading Joshua to learn the shocking truth that he is a descendent of Mr. Franklin, and that he may be the only person with an opportunity to complete the task his forefather and fellow revolutionaries started so long ago.

In this suspenseful historical tale, a young man is gifted his family’s greatest secret on his twenty-first birthday that closes the time loop on a mystery over two centuries old.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663217745

Ron Swan

Ron Swan is the author of the suspense novel, Through the Kindness of Ravens, over five hundred poems and lyrics, and three children’s stories. He lives with his wife and two children in Peoria, Illinois, where he enjoys photography and creating artwork. For more about Ron and his writing, visit www.ronswan.com.

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Copyright © 2021 Ron Swan.

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed

did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names,

and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel

are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-1773-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1775-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1774-5 (e)

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iUniverse rev. date: 02/25/2021

CONTENTS

Prologue

Part I: History and How It Happened Heads Will Roll … Or Tales of Freedom

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II: In the Country of New England A Time for All to See

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part III: FHM (For His Majesty)

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Part IV: Accidents Happen

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Part V: When I Lost Her Again

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Part VI: History Repeats, History Completes

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Part VII: On a Path to the Country of the United States Benjamin Franklin Flies a Kite

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

For every man and woman

who has fought for

or fought to maintain

freedom.

Instead of cursing the darkness, light a candle.

—Benjamin Franklin

Catching Lightning with My Hands

I now know

What I must do.

It won’t be easy—

That’s nothing new—

Like counting tyrannized

Grains of sands

Or catching lightning

With my hands.

He owns the cards,

Recognizes the faces,

Deals heavy hands,

Keeps us in our places.

But now it is he

Who has forced my hand.

So count him out

As you count the sand.

For his sands of time,

They are quicksand.

And as each grain counts

For each grain you see,

As oppression’s pressure mounts,

Pushes back to be free.

How much are you willing

To pay to be free?

This cost I am willing

This cost, it is me.

PROLOGUE

Present day, October 24, 2021

Joshua Nolin Franks

Anderson Raines Lightning Lab in the royal city

of George’s Cross, Province of Burgoyne

T he king wants me dead. I should feel hopeless and scared out of my mind right now. And I suppose I do. Still, in this flash of a moment, I find I ponder histories.

Funny thing about histories, we all have them—personal histories; family histories; and even local, cultural, and global histories. We all have them, and to varying degrees, we all share them. The broader a history’s scope, the greater the chance it is shared.

I can think of no history with a broader shared reach than the king’s. As of recent, the king has consumed not only my history but also my future. He has pushed me to the point where I must try to make some global history of my own.

My options are to either die by the king’s hands, the very hands that already have a stranglehold on most of the world or die by my own in my fight for freedom from them. In an attempt to make my decision as a free man, I choose the latter.

Others in history have faced these choices as well.

A moment in history over 240 years ago shared the same opportunity for transformation. It was a time when some very brave revolutionaries, my newfound heroes, faced the same decision.

I’ve always known how their story ended but have only recently learned some truths surrounding it by reading a firsthand account written by Benjamin Franklin’s son William. In it, William, having just witnessed his father’s hanging, provided revelations on how his father and the fellow rebels were resolved to their fates. Their lives were a price they were more than willing to pay in their fight for freedom.

As it was, these so-called rebels paid that price, as they were publicly hanged, drawn and quartered in a single event now known as the Signer’s Day of Reckoning.

Coincidentally, the spectacle occurred in nearly the same location where I am. Back then, however, the city was not known as the royal city of George’s Cross in the Province of Burgoyne, but as Philadelphia. And a map of its time would place it within the colony of Pennsylvania.

I am amazed and equally saddened at how a path taken in a fork in the road at that time could lead to such a history as ours.

I am also amazed at how I managed to get my life so tightly knotted within the results of such a history, and all in just the past couple weeks. Two weeks ago, I was a no one, just another cog in the machine doing my royally mandated part to keep the machine running. In that short time since, I’ve turned from a no one into a someone, with the most powerful person in the world wanting him dead.

Two weeks ago, I would have thought my story had begun at my birth. However, I now understand it is merely and hopefully the long overdue end story of a fight for freedom and the end of a revolution that began over two centuries ago.

I apologize for my rambling. But like a clock at the end of its wind, I am exhausted and out of time.

I know I have been vague. I know my story sounds as if I have told it all without having yet told you anything. In my current state, I have merely provided a fifty thousand-meter view, though in doing so, I have laid the groundwork on which my story might run.

My story is one of histories. More significantly, however, it represents the classic battle between the history that makes you and the history you make.

Men make history.

PART I

History and How It Happened

Heads Will Roll … Or

Tales of Freedom

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CHAPTER 1

Friday, February 23, 1781

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

B enjamin Bache wiped his eyes dry. He did not want his mother to notice he had been crying. But he had just discovered the last of his siblings had been sent away and he had just been told to gather his own belongings and change his name.

But, Mother, I don’t understand. My name’s Benjamin Franklin Bache.

No, as I have told you, your name is now Francis Nolin Franks. I know this is hard for such a young man of eleven to understand, but understand you must. Your life and safety depend upon it. I never want you to forget being a Franklin or a Bache, but you must hide your pride within; it is no longer safe to be known as either. Now, finish gathering your necessities as I have asked.

She had spoken in haste. She had spoken firm. She had spoken with tears in her eyes. He had never seen his mother cry.

All his life he had witnessed the accomplishments and benefited from the results of the genius he shared—or at least used to share in last name—with his grandfather, Benjamin Franklin.

At least I am still in his bloodline. They cannot take that away, he thought.

He had watched as his mother supported his grandfather and the revolutionary effort as a political hostess, as well as led in relief work throughout its course.

He had always been amazed how he could find evidence of his grandfather’s inventions, from the church steeple top to the cast-iron woodstove to the streetlamp and peering through his bifocals, no less, when he would let him.

All his life, he had been told how proud he should be to carry the name Franklin, and he had always genuinely been proud of it.

But now, after the recent turn of events, his mother told him to bury his pride inside and gather his necessities. She said he was to go with his Uncle Silas, but he had never known he had an Uncle Silas; nor did he believe the man was actually his uncle. But his mother said he would live with Silas and his wife on a farm in a town southwest of their home in Philadelphia. He had been put into too much of a hurry and had not even caught the name of the town. Or was it that she does not want me to know it yet?

His mother also told him the British Army had captured his grandfather, along with all his other heroes, and their fight for freedom was over.

She grabbed him by his shoulders, turned him square, and then looked into his eyes. And for the last time, she reminded him of his new name. It is no longer safe for you to carry the name Benjamin Franklin Bache. Your new name is Francis Nolin Franks. Francis Nolin Franks. Repeat it back to me.

Francis … N-Nolin Franks.

Again.

Francis Nolin Franks.

He had overheard her tell his uncle that Francis was the name of her brother who died of smallpox when he was four.

He did not know where his other siblings had gone. He had seen three of them—the youngest, Sarah, Eliza, and Louis—go with a lady their mother called Mrs. Cook, an aunt he never knew he had.

His brother William had left with a younger couple. He had heard no name and had not recognized them, and William had left as he collected his things and with no goodbye.

He had thought to himself, Apparently Uncle Silas can only support one of us. I suppose I should be thankful. But that thought had done nothing to stop his head from spinning, nor to keep him from feeling frightened.

His mother kissed him on the forehead one final time and then promised the separation would only be temporary. She would come get him, round up all the kids, as soon as she could ensure their safety.

Those were the words she had told him, but her crying eyes told him otherwise. Though he firmly believed she wished the words true, he equally believed he had just witnessed the first time his mother had lied to him.

The last thing she had said before rushing him out to the horse-drawn cart on which he was to leave was, I love you … Francis Nolin Franks.

She had turned away quickly in an effort to hide her emotional breakdown. Though he had not seen her face, the body language he had witnessed through his own tears had revealed the cracks in the force of strength he had always known her to bear.

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CHAPTER 2

Sunday, February 25, 1781

P rison guard Jonathan Elders made his way up from the captain’s quarters, where he had just learned he had received a promotion.

It was another cold February morning aboard the HMS Romney, anchored just off the coast of Philadelphia, and the newly promoted King’s Guard subconsciously braced himself for the cold wind that would hit him the instant his head appeared deck level. Consciously, his mind swam between the ebb and flow—the high tide of happiness about the promotion and finally getting a chance to leave the miserable prison ship, mixed with the low tide of relief that this call to the captain had not been for another disciplinary inquiry. In his long career as a soldier in the King’s Navy, he had become used to the disciplinary floggings, but the scars on his back were still too fresh this time to not issue a sigh of relief. Though he had long been a ship prison guard, the flaring of fresh scars always reminded him how he equally felt a prisoner in life.

He watched on as, in the exhale of his sigh, he could see his breath.

Elders!

As he had reached the deck, Jonathan had not needed to look up to know who had just beckoned him. Miles Westbrook and he had been jailers on the HMS Romney since it left the banks of Mother England for the godforsaken land known as America.

Miles had already gotten back from a day at Pennsylvania’s south shore, from where Jonathan had just learned he too would be going.

So how do you hail now, Jonathan Elders?

I think you know, you bastard. You heard the same bark from the captain this morning, didn’t you?

Ah, so you’re hailed as King’s Guard now too eh, Jonathan Elders? No longer just a lowly prison guard, are ya?

King’s Guard may have a regal ring to it, but I prefer the ring of extra coin in my pocket. To support his statement, he shook his now hopeful, but still empty pockets.

Did he tell ya you’d earned the honor, lifelong service to the crown and all?

Honor, my arse! We’ll just be guarding more prisoners as we’ve done throughout this bloody revolt.

"Ah, Elders, but these prisoners aren’t just any prisoners; they’re the Signers. Among the lot, we’ll be guarding the likes that penned and signed the treasonous declaration—Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, and even General Washington.

Of course, they’ll be hanged by their hands and legs, drawn and quartered, treason against the crown and all, but not before we hang them by their necks first. The king wants to make a statement by silencing the voice of the dissenters.

Pain from the statement his captain had wanted to make during his own recent flogging had just sent another jolt, reminding Jonathan of his lot in life. Miles, don’t you ever get the feeling we are not so different from the prisoners?

Elders, let’s not get on about that again. I know what you mean, but it’ll do you no good and you better not let anyone else hear ya either. Take your mind off of it all and take in this opportunity to witness history from the right side of the rope.

Miles continued, The captain said after we quarter them, they’ll be piled and burned in the town square, ashes upon which’ll stand a statue of the king. A royal spectacle is to be made of the whole event. They’ve already a name for it, the Signer’s Day of Reckoning. An’ did you hear, we’ve already got our marching orders into Philly, to the statehouse?

The statehouse? As if he could see the building on this cloudy day from where they were anchored south of Windmill Island, he glanced toward Pennsylvania.

Aye, that’s where we’ll be guarding them. The Pennsylvania Statehouse, where they signed their bloody declaration, has been turned into their very jail cells, and they’re calling it Hell’s Gate. And get this, they’re building the Signers’ hang stations and gallows from every window, even adding on to fit the lot. Come Signer’s Day, they’ll hang at once from the windows of Hell’s Gate, and in front of the king.

In front of the king? Jonathan scratched his head. He wondered where Miles had picked up all this information, as he had only learned general details surrounding his new duties.

Aye, the whole royal family will be here. They’re sailing from the motherland unto this new world. Going to establish the monarchy here once they’ve a worthy place for them.

Balderdash!

No, ’tis true. It’s what I’ve learned on the day’s venture to shore. Fact be told, our marching orders are to fall in with the Fusilier’s 23rd Regiment. That’s why I’m back, to round up your arse, and the ferry’s waiting.

Ah, it is good to be on the right side of the prison bars and the right end of the noose, Jonathan quipped.

Aye, that it is.

While on the ferry, Miles carried on about the thises and thats, but Jonathan’s mind drifted as the ferry drifted from the prison ship. He looked back at the ship for hopefully the last time, though he doubted it. He had, many a time, felt like a prisoner himself on that damned ship.

He pushed his thoughts away from his own woes and onto the Signers’ lots—all for penning for their freedom; and look where that got them.

Having reached the ferry landing, Jonathan and Miles disembarked and fell in with the awaiting 23rd Regiment. Jonathan had expected to hear Major Mecan’s call to duty, but Miles explained that duty now fell to Major Frederick Mackenzie. Mecan had recently fallen to violent fever. So it was under Mackenzie they marched north up Front Street and then west up Chestnut and into the heart of Philadelphia.

As they marched by drum cadence, a phrase popped into Jonathan’s head. He had been thinking on what he’d like to say to the damned Signers. He thought it was the cadence that set the words right in his mind. They rolled in cadence in his mind, as if they marched in step alongside him.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, fill’d with death, ya pens’ll hang ya.

The words repeated in his head as they marched.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, fill’d with death, ya pens’ll hang ya. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, fill’d with death, ya pens’ll hang ya.

In no time, they reached the corner of Chestnut and Fiefth. Having reached their destination, Jonathan and Miles fell out from the regiment’s line, who still had miles to march before reaching their day’s destination.

Standing before and facing the Pennsylvania Statehouse, Jonathan glanced up to the tops of the scaffolds at its entrance. They looked like bones, only on the outside of its body.

Taking in all the windows, he turned to Miles, who had instantly picked back up his rambling mouth from where he’d left it at the ferry.

When Jonathan finally spoke, it startled him. I can’t count like a merchant, but you need not be a merchant to see not a window, come gallows, for each of the soon-ta-dangles. They’ll be sharing ropes.

Aye, but that’s why they’re building up. And look here, he replied, pointing to what looked like a castle moat. They’re digging down to make room for the dangling feet from the lower windows as well.

Eager to see the lot worthy of such attentions to have become the exclamation point in the king’s statement, Jonathan made his way into the makeshift prison, with Miles still jabbering in tail.

Entering what must now be the guards’ main office, he spied several other guards gathering at a table on the far left. He knew the guards had seen them enter, but they made no effort to acknowledge the newcomers.

Miles instinctively drifted toward the lot, but Jonathan’s eyes scanned the surroundings and landed on the only closed door. He glanced back to the other guards, noting how they appeared to gather at the farthest point from the closed door.

Miles must have shared with the guards what he understood to be Jonathan’s intentions, as three of them appeared to then direct Jonathan to said door, as if to affirm it was where he should go.

He opened the door to a hall and then continued down, with intent to do his first official rounds. As he walked, he thought, Signed for their independence—hell, they signed their own death warrants, and my promotion papers. They’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered in the very city and from the very building where they signed—the fools.

As he reached the end of the hallway, it curved and opened up into a grand room filled with makeshift cells. The rough-and-ready structures still had the awkward appearance of offices, remnants of their former lives, but now made adequate cells. Jonathan scanned through the bars of the three large cells and spied the lot of the crammed prisoners. Even as prisoners, however, they carried a surreal and stately air about them. He’d seen thousands of prisoners in countless prisons in all his years, but something about these felt different.

The chant of the prisoners’ fates he had repeated in his head throughout the day had reared its way back into his mind like the never-ending drone of marching feet, only this time he was thankful. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, fill’d with death, ya pens’ll hang ya. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, fill’d with death, ya pens’ll hang ya!

Compelled to mock these stately fools, fools who had so carelessly written deadly words with poisonous ink, he walked toward the man who he had believed had held the pen that drafted the deadly declaration. Thomas Jefferson was the name he recalled.

Though the man may have looked the part, strong in conviction and bold enough to dare drafting their treasonous declaration, the man, Jonathan would later learn from Miles, had not been Thomas Jefferson, but the general himself, George Washington.

The prisoners had been stripped of visible rank, and the general stood dressed as if to work the fields. The clothes were fit for that but failed to make their wearer fit the role. The general stood tall, and though a prisoner, his presence still managed to inherently demand respect. He had seemingly not even taken notice of the guard’s entrance.

In fact, none of the prisoners had even seemed to take notice of his existence.

Not even at my new post for a quarter hour, and I’ve been completely ignored twice.

Now standing before the prisoner he had singled out, he stared directly into the man’s eyes. He had to look up to do so, and a chill ran down his spine as he realized he was peering into eyes far more fearless than his own.

He looked back toward a rustling in the hall, comforted to find his fellow King’s Guard comrades had gathered at the entrance looking on. He would later learn, they only wanted to see if he had felt the same chill they had, and they had just been comforted in recognizing that he had.

On a roll for mistaking things, at the time he mistook their comfort as strength to build up his own courage. So, within earshot of his fellow comrades, he rounded up enough nerve to face the prisoner and finally spew the mantra that had bounced in his head all morning. It was the first time he had spoken it aloud beyond his own earshot. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, fill’d with death, ya pens’ll hang ya!

He had directed the verbal jab at the one prisoner but believed his words had pierced all ears present.

As it was, the prisoner had remained unaffected and lost in his own thoughts.

In irony, as his fellow guards had heard the message, they had already started talking about how the world would come to hear his words. They would listen. And this lowly King’s Guard would find celebrity as the man who had bellowed what would become the catchphrase of the bloody war.

Jonathan, however, had come to realize that the men in this prison were driven by powers beyond his comprehension. Their strength bled unhindered through the bars and sent the second chill down his spine for the day.

Riding the wave of hearty responses from the other guards, he repeated his phrase, ending it this time with his own declaration, Declaration of Independence? Tis more the Declaration of In-th’end-dance—the dance you’ll be doing at the end of a rope, you damned soon-ta-dangles. To be a fool not uncommon. But ahhhh, give a fool a pen, he snarled, and he’ll give uncommon reason to earn a date with the noose. I, fool with a pen, I, King’s Guard Jonathan Elders, will introduce you to your noose. In fact, I’ll even entertain you with one of my favorite tricks. I’ll throw the rope ’round the sun. On a roll, he gestured a noose being pulled around his neck and the subsequent act of being hanged.

He tried to cap his statements with a hearty laugh, but his voice only cracked. His words were strong, but his voice turned weak, and the man to whom he had directed the gibes remained unaffected.

Courage spent, he made his exit and joined Miles and the other guards, who were already placing bets whether they would ever hear their king repeat the words of one of his servants, a lowly prison guard.

CHAPTER 3

A s the guards left, the chatter of distraction resumed between cell mates.

However, the man of mistaken identity, George Washington, whose eyes had held no fear and whose ears had ignored the guard’s shining moment, stood stolid.

His mind had drifted to an excerpt from one of his captain’s journals, noting how his soldiery had marched through snow for days, to the point their shoes had worn out and their bare feet had left blood in the snow.

Then General George Washington recalled the name of a soldier he considered a hero, Captain Nathan Hale.

This young captain had been a Yale graduate, but it was in his capacity as a spy George found himself reflecting. Nathan had been betrayed by a traitor to the revolution and called out by Tories who identified him. Rumor had it one of the Tories may have been a cousin of his.

Captain Hale had been awarded an execution without trial, and it was at his introduction to the noose where he was said to have quoted Addison’s Cato. His final words, How beautiful is death when earn’d by virtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it that we can die but once to serve our country?

The general’s reflections flowed to others’ actions and quotes inspired by the scent of freedom. Freedom, he thought, had been so close they could smell it, and they had risked everything to reach it, but fate would never allow them a taste. Then Washington remembered Patrick Henry’s fiery declaration, Give me liberty, or give me death!

He knew that Patrick Henry was in the same cell and turned to find him in the back carrying a distractive conversation with John Adams, distractive, George assumed, only in its ability to dull his mind of his impending fate.

The general stared deeply into the eyes of Patrick’s fiery words. He could feel an answer in them, but it had been elusive. Then it hit him, "Give me liberty, or give me death?" The key was in asking to be given death, seemingly by the very hands that prevented giving liberty. Acting on the epiphany, he approached Mr. Henry, hoping to both clarify his thoughts and, if they rang true, inspire this downtrodden lot of fellow soldiery.

Mr. Henry.

He noticed Patrick Henry’s head had popped up immediately. He had also seen John Adams had turned typically, head angled down, eyes pierced by the interruption of a good distraction. The piercing eyes had relented some, perhaps George thought, as he had realized who had instigated the interruption.

General Washington continued, Mr. Henry, did you mean all you so fervently spoke when you declared to be given liberty or given death? Still wrapped up in sorting his thoughts, he had asked it half-rhetorically and half in question.

Regardless, Patrick Henry responded, In certainty, sir. And each time I say it I mean it more!

Snapping out of his thought cloud, George detected a touch of defensiveness in Patrick’s tone. He replied accordingly, I have no doubts of your, nor any of these men’s’—he gestured to encompass all in the prison around him—shared conviction that liberty is a cause worthy of death. Where I myself have long echoed your sentiments, I find myself in conflict.

George witnessed the impact of his statement as he noticed Patrick, and all within earshot, appeared to stand in shock and disbelief. In his mind, he predicted, asked, and then prepared to answer the question he believed going through their minds. Does our leader now doubt the value of our cause?

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Benjamin Franklin had been over in the corner of the cell writing with a pencil stub in a journal he previously had stashed in his shirt. He was afraid the guards would take it all away, his homemade journals and pencils, if they had the chance. He had been writing all he witnessed, to capture and provide a true historic reference, a true depiction of the events and mood he sensed in this company of freedom’s would-be heroes. A voice in the back of his mind told him