The God Machine (5 page)

“They're what my father called the Bake and Brew,” he said. “Where the cooks turn out roasts and meat pies. That's also where they wash the clothes, and there's a brewery t'other side. But, as you can see, they're in desperate need of repair. Juliana and I don't venture out to Pennsbury very often anymore. And those,” he pointed at another collection of outbuildings, “the joiner's shop; the ice house and plantation office, where my steward directs the labor of the manor; the smokehouse and woodshed.”

“It's charming,” Church Elder Jedediah Andrews said. “Quite charming.” He waved his arm across the rows and rows of flowers and herbs, the lavender and lemon balm, spearmint and basil, pink foxglove and cream-colored columbine. A short man, slightly stooped, with a long pointed nose and gold spectacles, Andrews wore a seedy black tricorne over an oily gray wig that seemed molded about his head like melted candle wax. His frock coat was so long it dragged across the gravel pathways of the garden as he hobbled to and fro with the help of an old hickory cane. An invitation to the Proprietor's house, the master of all Pennsylvania, was a coveted thing, and Andrews was acting accordingly.

“My father thought so,” said Penn. “But I'm inclined to be rid of the place. Who can stand the five-hour journey by barge from the city? It's simply too far. And the mosquitoes, the humidity…” He stopped, shook his head, looking back at the two-story mansion. “My father loved it, and the people of Pennsylvania loved him, but his Quaker generosity left the Penn household finances in a state of… What's the word?
Disarray
. Let's leave it at that. If one of your parishioners might be interested in the property, by all means, let me know.”

“About this Hemphill affair,” Andrews said. “These fringe churches and preachers are dangerous, Proprietor. They incite the basest elements in all the new immigrants. It's bad enough we're surrounded by heathens. And now this Jonathan Edwards with his Evangelical Congregationalism. Great Awakening, indeed! Speaking in tongues and…”

Penn sighed. “What happened with Hemphill?”

Samuel Hemphill was a young preacher from Ireland who had come to Philadelphia in 1734 to work as deputy at the Presbyterian Church. It was a time of great religious revival, of fervent evangelism, known as the
Great Awakening, fomented by preachers like Jonathan Edwards. More interested in preaching about morality than Calvinist doctrines, Hemphill too started drawing large crowds. But the dearth of dogma in his sermons didn't endear him to church elders like Andrews. Hemphill was brought before the synod on charges of heresy. Then, an unexpected champion appeared at his side, defending his freedom to preach—Benjamin Franklin.

In reality, few things could have been further from Franklin's theology, Penn thought, than the “terror” sermons of Jonathan Edwards and the other Protestant traditionalists who were whipping up congregations into convulsive conversions. While Edwards and the Great Awakeners sought to reconnect the colonists to the spirituality of Puritanism, Franklin claimed he wanted to bring America into an era of so-called Enlightenment, exalting rationality and reason over faith; pluck and personal merit over class distinctions; tolerance, good deeds and civic duty over dogma. Dangerous concepts to the monarchy. And to the established Churches as well. Hemphill was doctrinally pure by insisting salvation came only through grace. But he was also heavily involved in charitable work. It was this practical manifestation of his faith that had endeared him to Franklin, no doubt, Penn surmised. That odious printer seemed to be behind every charity, every club, indeed every scheme to raise money in the city. Now he was talking of opening a hospital where they would treat common riffraff for free!

“See what he writes,” Andrews said, drawing a newspaper from his coat. “It's a conversation between two local Presbyterians, Mr. S.—Franklin himself—and Mr. T They're complaining about how the newfangled preacher talks too much of good works. Mr. T asks, ‘Isn't faith,
rather than virtue, the path to salvation?’ And Mr. S. says, 'A virtuous heretic shall be saved before a wicked Christian.' It's intolerable.”

“It's no newly forged faith that compels him, I assure you. I hear he's struck a printer's bargain with the preacher. Given Hemphill's popularity, permission to print his sermons will no doubt recoup a tidy sum. Franklin's no fool.”

“I fear, Proprietor, Franklin may be poking fun at you as well,” said Andrews. “This business with Chief Lappawinsoe.”

“What are you saying?” Thomas Penn stopped in his tracks.

“Well, so I've heard. There's talk that the treaty you're invoking with the Lenape is somehow…” He paused, pursed his lips. “… less than fully ratified, if you will, and yet Chief Lappawinsoe is abiding by it. Honorably. Like a virtuous heretic.”

Thomas Penn bristled. He and the other colonial administrators claimed they were in possession of a deed dating back to the 1680s in which the Lenape-Delaware Indians had promised to sell a portion of land beginning between the junction of the Lehigh and Delaware Rivers, “as far west as a man could walk in a day and a half.”

At best the document was an unsigned, ungratified treaty; at worst, an outright forgery. In truth, Penn's land agents had already sold vast areas of the Lehigh Valley. They needed to vacate the land of the Indians before it could be properly settled.

Since Chief Lappawinsoe and other Lenape leaders believed the treaty was genuine, and because they assumed that about forty miles was the most a man could walk through the wilderness in a day and a half, they had agreed to honor the treaty.

“I stand by the deed,” Penn replied. “It's legal and binding. As my father used to say: ‘My prison shall be my grave before I will budge a jot; for I owe my conscience to no mortal man.’ Besides,” he added with a grin, “I have a plan for the Lenape. It's Franklin I'm worried about. What did he do when you censured Sam Hemphill? You did, didn't you?”

“Hemphill was unanimously censured. And suspended,” said Andrews. “And in protest, Franklin resigned from the church.”

“He was never much of a churchgoing man,” Penn sniffed in response. “They say he's taken the vows of a Freemason.”

“His
Gazette
no longer lampoons that insidious cult. Or labels their rituals and secrets a hoax.”

“I'm sure his assaults did much to foment the induction. Indeed, I have heard, through other members of the Craft, that he's searching for the Gospel of Judas.”

“The Gospel of Judas? That Gnostic text! But why?”

“They say that he knows of a version set down at the time of the Twelve. You realize what this would mean to your Church, I assume. If it's found.”

“To all Christians, Proprietor. Heresy!”

“His goading is becoming insufferable.” He waved his white hand by his head. It had grown late and the insects were gathering. “Like the mosquitoes at Pennsbury. Let's go in.”

They moved from the kitchen gardens toward the main house. As they walked, Penn tried to blot out the image of Edwards hobbling behind him. If his father, the Quaker, were alive to see him now, hobnobbing with this… Thomas Penn frowned… this Presbyterian toad. But he couldn't afford to be fussy. He needed to forge an alliance with all those at odds with that odious printer. Franklin was becoming increasingly dangerous.
He was constantly publishing pseudonymous jibes at the Proprietors, saying they were turning Pennsylvania's residents into “tenants and vassals.”

Pennsylvania was a Proprietary colony always had been. In 1681, Charles II had granted a charter to William Penn, Thomas's father, in repayment of a debt, and the Penn family Proprietors not only exercised absolute political power over the colony, with Thomas as feudal lord, they also owned most of the land. But while nearly all of the colonies had started as Proprietary ones, by the 1730s most had become Royal colonies, directly ruled by the king and his ministers. Only Pennsylvania, Maryland and Delaware remained.

Thomas Penn was horrified by the idea of the colony going back to the crown. He was just beginning to convert his huge holdings into currency. Franklin, on the other hand, was a staunch supporter of transforming Pennsylvania into a Royal colony. And the corpulent printer spoke of creating a union of states, like the tribes of the Delaware nation, with representation in Parliament. What was next? That kind of thinking struck at the heart of the system. Unchecked, Penn feared, what might start as a confederation of colonies, an innocent pact, could descend into revolution and chaos.

Meanwhile the Assembly was dominated by Quakers, pacifist in their political leanings, who were angry with Penn for marrying Juliana, an Anglican, and for drifting away from the faith.

Two big issues faced Pennsylvania: forging good relations with the Indians and protecting the colony from the French. It was crucial to have strong allies during the recurring wars with the French.

The politics of the colony were a tenuous balancing act between the people's need for security on the one hand, and the interests of the power elite—the
Proprietors and Assembly—on the other. Maintaining the Indians as allies was costly, for it required vast sums of money for gifts. But while the Quakers opposed military spending on principle, the Penns—acting through lackey governors—opposed anything that cost money, or which might subject their huge holdings to taxes. They needed to attract buyers for their lands, which they did by ceding rights to the Assembly, and by guaranteeing that their tracts were free and clear of Indian claims.

“You heard what happened to that boy Daniel Rees,” added Penn. “Some Freemason ritual. A prank, Franklin called it. Burned to death by a bowl of flaming brandy. Bradford's paper charged Franklin was responsible for encouraging the misguided tormentors.”

“I saw the piece in the
Mercury
. Terrible,” Andrews acknowledged. The two men had drawn up to the mansion's back door. Penn opened it and they stepped off the porch into the lesser rear hall.

Thomas's father had built the Georgian manor for elegance and comfort. Erected of local red brick, the mansion had been more than large enough to accommodate the great William Penn, his wife and their children and a half dozen servants as well. A large center hall provided a waiting room between the governor's suite and the family parlor. On the second floor were three bedrooms and a nursery.

Penn led Andrews into the best parlor, a cozy wood-paneled room with white trim and a large roaring fireplace, framed with glazed mustard tiles. “A terrible fate,” Penn continued. “To be set afire that way.”

“God rest his soul,” Andrews said.

“I wonder if the brigade put him out.” Penn laughed thinly. It was a bad joke. Franklin and his Junto club had started the first volunteer fire brigade in the colonies. And the first lending library. He was filling the people
with dreams. Dangerous dreams. “It would be a shame if something were to happen to Franklin,” remarked Penn.

Andrews looked up. He took off his tricorne and straightened his greasy gray wig. “God forbid.”

“Yes, God.”

“Of course,” added Andrews, “Philadelphia is a dangerous city. It was bad enough when I was a boy, with barely two thousand inhabitants. Now what is it? Twelve thousand. Fifteen? Today…” He shook his head. “…anything can and does happen, I'm sure. What with all these new immigrants.”

“Yet, if such a misfortune were to occur, it would not do if it ever were to wind its way back to us.”

“No, of course not.”

“No,” Penn repeated. “I have something cooking in the Bake and Brew that cannot be disturbed.” He motioned for Andrews to sit by the fire. “Some brandy, Church Elder? Or a touch of Madeira?”

Andrews propped his cane against the wall by the fire. He sat down and stretched out his legs. “I wouldn't deprive you of company.”

Penn smiled and poured two glasses of brandy. He carried them over and gave one to Andrews, who sniffed at the lip of the glass.

“No,” Penn continued. “We have to augment our forces. And we need something oblique. That's why I've decided to make a pact with the Catholics.”

“I thought you were trying to suppress them. Especially when they opened that chapel three years ago.”

“The Quakers of the Assembly thought otherwise. They're protecting their rights to free worship. I have agreed to give up my objections.”

Andrews laughed. He took a big sip of his brandy. “For a price, to be sure.”

“Why, Church Elder, you surprise me.” He smiled, raised his glass. “To the King.”

Andrews struggled to his feet. He lifted his brandy. “The King.”

They emptied their glasses and Thomas Penn moved to refill them. “You know that my father, William, was a Jacobite.”

“It was bandied about.”

“He supported King James. I still have some Catholic friends, and they have grown even more fond of me lately, what with my new softened position. The Catholics have an excess of zealots, I'm sure, who would do almost anything to show their love for the faith.”

“Their Knights are renowned,” Andrew said, sitting down once again. “Though expensive, I'm sure.”

Penn stepped up to the fireplace. “I told you, I have a plan for Lappawinsoe, and all the Lenape-Delaware. The financial fortunes of the Penn family will soon turn. We will neutralize Franklin and his Royal-colony cronies by expanding our holdings considerably. And by expanding, we'll dilute the presence of these new religious sects, and disperse the flood of new immigrants away from Philadelphia.”

“What kind of plan?”

Penn lifted his glass of brandy and warmed it by the fire. “The treaty with the Lenape says the distance a man can make his way through the bush in a day and a half. How much would you say that is?”

“Thirty miles. Maybe more.”

“Are you familiar with Edward Marshall, Solomon Jennings, or James Yeates?”

“Yeates? That crazy vagabond.”

“But an excellent walker.” Penn smiled. “The course has already been blazed. Tomorrow, accompanied by several young Indian observers, the three of them will depart from that chestnut tree in the corner of the field where the road from Pennsville meets Durham.”

“Near the Wrightstown meetinghouse? At the northernmost boundary of Markham?”