The crew would be
starting their breakfast soon, yet food was the last thing Ben
wanted. He made his way to the cloth-covered part of the deck. The
thick oaken planks were wet with rain and sea spray. The area he
sought was sheltered from the howling wind. Ben found the air on deck
to be electrically charged and more invigorating than usual, exactly
what he needed to settle his stomach and pounding head.
Ben sat down on a deck
chair and spread a heavy wool blanket over his legs to shelter
himself from the cold ocean spray.
“Do you believe in
God, Doctor Franklin?” a deep voice asked.
Ben jumped, flailing
his arms out of his lap. He hadn’t realized he was not alone. He
squinted through his bifocals to make out a gaunt man, completely
dressed in black, occupying a nearby chair. He was as emaciated as a
saint but with the haughty countenance of a bishop. It was the
Reverend William Smith.
“Reverend, I
fervently hope that not only does He exist on such a foul day as this
. . . but that He has a benevolent nature,” Ben replied.
The Reverend sat back
and pulled a blanket up around his neck. “Well spoken,” he said
with a chill in his voice.
Ben had learned long
ago that there was no gain to be had in debating religious faith with
devotees such as the Reverend. It wasn’t that Ben didn’t believe
in God; it was simply that he didn’t have proof. And Ben needed
proof of things. He could think of only a few aspects of his life
that he was willing to take on faith. The love of his late wife came
to mind. But then, that belief hadn’t been based entirely on faith
either, for she had had ways of proving her love to him. God was a
different matter altogether. A painful memory flashed of Ben praying
to God to spare his son Francis from the pox, but the four-year-old
succumbed. While this certainly wasn’t proof that God didn’t
exist, though, it had shaken his faith. However, Ben knew that, like
any true believer worth his salt, the Reverend would have an
explanation for God’s lapse. Ben decided to change the subject.
“That bolt of
lightning was close just now,” Ben said. He gazed out at the clouds
that flashed in the distance.
“Aye, a bit too close
for comfort,” the Reverend said. “But we can thank the Almighty
for the effectiveness of your lightning rod. Lord knows how many
ships were destroyed by fire before you were inspired by Him to
invent it.”
Ben had not been
certain that the clergyman would even know about his invention.
Smith’s reply encouraged him to go on.
“Thank you,
Reverend,” he said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, even
through men such as me. Though I am sure He’s familiar with how the
rod works, I wonder if you are?”
The Reverend sat up a
bit. “I know only that the lightning bolt was somehow prevented
from striking the ship,” he replied.
“Oh no, the lightning
almost certainly struck our ship just now,” Ben explained. “Our
mast is the tallest point for miles at sea. When I began studying the
behavior of lightning, I noted that it always seeks the highest point
in the landscape. Not only that, but also that lightning always seeks
its way to the ground. My lightning rod simply creates a safe channel
for the lightning to pass through the ship, so as not to endanger the
vessel or its cargo. If the lightning were to strike a mast, there
would be damage or fire. And if the damage were severe enough, it
might even sink the ship.
“My rod is placed at
the highest point on the ship and attracts the lightning. But that
alone isn’t enough to prevent catastrophe, for I also found that I
needed to channel it through the ship to the water. A thick metal
cable runs from the lightning rod to below the water line to
accomplish this.”
“A truly marvelous
invention,” the Reverend replied. “Thanks be to God. But I
thought you said that lightning always seeks the ground. Wouldn’t
you have to run your metal cable back to the Colonies for the rod to
be effective?”
“Excellent,
excellent,” Ben exclaimed, “that is just the sort of question a
man of science carries within him like a man of the cloth seeks to
understand the mysteries of his faith . . . but I do beg to remind
you that our country is now called the United States of America.”
“Oh, yes! Force of
habit,” the Reverend exclaimed.
“Perhaps not a bad
habit to maintain until your mission is accomplished,” Ben said.
“Your Anglican Church does not support independence for the people
of the United States.”
“That doth vex me,”
the Reverend replied. He sunk back in his chair.
Ben resumed his
explanation animatedly. “You will observe Reverend, as I did early
on, that lightning is an electrical fluid that has no trouble
traveling quickly through the air. Through careful experiments, I
also found that this electrical fluid travels through water, albeit
more slowly. Hence, there’s no need to run a cable back to shore so
long as we are connected to the earth by water. Scientists around the
world have taken to calling this electrical fluid ‘electricity’.”
“But what do you
believe to be the source of this ‘electricity’, as you call it?”
the Reverend asked. “The Bible tells us that lightning is sent down
from Heaven by God.”
A slight shiver
traveled Ben’s spine. Was it the cold sea spray or a sense that the
Reverend was once again testing his religious beliefs?
It had not been so many
years since scientists had been treated as heretics and persecuted
for their belief that natural forces might be studied for the benefit
of mankind. Now, in modern-day 1776, in this age of enlightenment, a
fragile truce existed between religion and science. Ben believed the
truce had occurred in part because of advances in natural
philosophy—the science of the natural world and medicine.
The revelation that
tiny creatures seen through the microscope by Van Leeuwenhoek and
others in the last century might be the cause of human diseases was
gaining wider acceptance. With increasing frequency, descriptions of
these microbes and their associated diseases were being published in
the proceedings of the Royal Society in London.
Ben had a personal
stake in understanding the spread of disease and in making others
aware. Smallpox had claimed the life of his beloved son Francis over
forty years ago, and still claimed the lives of thousands each year.
It was disheartening
that despite the advent of effective inoculation against smallpox,
the Church continued to consider the medical technique to be
inconsistent with the established canon. Ben had stormed out of more
than one sermon when the clergyman had condemned vaccination as
unholy.
“Reverend, you may if
you wish, believe that lightning represents the wrath of God . . .
sent down to avenge the sins of mankind,” Ben said. “But I
believe that this electrical fluid is simply another natural force—no
more mystical than the powerful flow of water through a stream that
the miller uses to turn a wheel and grind the grain from the field.
Mankind has learned to harness many natural forces. While it is wild
and dangerous today, I believe that electricity may someday yield
tangible benefits to mankind . . . if we can learn how to channel it
appropriately.”
The Reverend appeared
to be deep in thought. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “What
do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid
on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He
has also set ignorance in the human heart; so that no one can fathom
what God has done from beginning to end,” he said.
“Ecclesiastes,” Ben
replied. “But what do you mean by it?”
“Ben, don’t you
see that there might be mysteries that are not intended to be known
to man? That God has intended for some things to be taken on faith?
That your natural philosophy both cannot, and I dare say should not,
attempt to provide a proof for everything under the Sun? That by
attempting to do so, by requiring proof for everything, you denigrate
God and His power?”
“No, I don’t see it
that way at all, Reverend,” Ben said. “I believe that God would
want mankind to discover the intricate workings of the universe that
He has created for us to live in. I believe that He has designed us
to be probing, intelligent beings; designed us to yearn to discover
and elucidate the hidden workings of the universe—not designed us
as sheep, blindly following established doctrine.”
The Reverend looked as
if he might object but said nothing.
Ben went on. “Take
your own situation as an example. You do not believe that the
Anglican Church is right in backing the British in this conflict over
our freedom, correct?”
The Reverend squirmed
in his seat. “Aye.”
“And the Church would
say that you should accept their decision blindly, that it is God’s
will, correct?”
“Aye.”
“But you do not see
it that way. You have seen the injustices inflicted by the British on
our people. You have thought independently and asked yourself why God
would want things this way. The answer we agree upon is that God
would want our people to be free. It is the Church that has a
different goal, the Church that has a need to maintain the status
quo. Your Anglican Church claims to know the will of God in this
matter . . . but do they? Once you start asking questions, as you
have, once you start demanding proof of things, as I do—then you
will ultimately find the correct answer: that the will of God and the
will of the Church may not be one and the same.”
“Yes, I see your
point,” the Reverend replied, “but what of God’s true will?
Would it not be one of the mysteries that cannot be proven? Isn’t
God’s will ultimately something that must be taken on faith?”
Ben didn’t have an
answer to his question, but during the time they had talked, the
storm had abated enough that his appetite returned.
“Reverend, what say
we see what the cook has prepared for breakfast?”
“Nay, I’m not yet
ready to eat, sir. I’ll sit out here a bit longer, contemplating
what the Lord may have in store for me.”
Ben bid the Reverend
good day and headed for the galley.