The First American: The Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin (77 page)

The colonies had
not
refused to contribute their share toward the war effort. The colonial contribution in men was “far beyond their proportion,” in treasure an expense “ten times greater than the money returned to them.” The colonies were
not
the great gainers from the latest war. In fact just the opposite. The new acquisitions of land went to the king, not the Americans; moreover, the new land available for settlement diminished (through oversupply) the value of existing holdings; finally, the colonies in prosecuting the war assumed a heavy burden of debt they would be years retiring. The colonies did
not
escape taxes. “There cannot be a greater mistake than this.” The colonies paid taxes to support civil and military establishments, to fund the debt from the war, and to create various public works—roads, bridges, and the like—that were already built and paid for in Britain. As a proportion of property, taxes in America were greater than those in Britain.

Lastly, the colonies did
not
claim that Parliament had no authority over them. All acts of Parliament had been accepted as such by the colonies—“acts to raise money upon the colonies by internal taxes only and alone excepted.” Put otherwise: “The colonies submit to pay all external taxes laid on them by way of duty on merchandises imported into their country, and never disputed the authority of Parliament to lay such duties.”

Charles Townshend
probably read this piece. If so, the new chancellor of the exchequer, and de facto prime minister in Chatham’s illness, might have taken issue with parts of Franklin’s argument. The king had indeed granted the colonial charters, but since then England had fought a civil war to vindicate the primacy of Parliament over the Crown. The colonies might have defended themselves for the first 150 years, but for the several years after that they were happy for Parliament’s help. To imply that the Americans paid taxes comparable to Britons was
simply ludicrous; Franklin’s standard of comparison—property values—grossly distorted the true tax burden.

But what must have interested Townshend most was Franklin’s reiteration that the Americans did not object to external taxes. Townshend had heard Franklin make this argument in Commons; likely he guessed that “Benevolus” was actually Franklin. Townshend may have accepted Franklin’s characterization of the American mind, or he may simply have wished to see Franklin hoist by his own petard. In either case, Townshend drew up a schedule of external taxes—to which, by Franklin’s reasoning, the Americans ought not to object. The Townshend taxes were import duties: on glass, lead, paint pigments, paper, and tea.

Even had the Townshend program consisted of nothing more than this, many Americans would have complained. By no means was Franklin’s distinction between internal and external taxes universally shared. Yet Townshend went beyond imposing new duties. The revenues from the new duties were earmarked not simply for the defense of the colonies but for the administration of colonial government. The effect of this, as Townshend intended and the Americans immediately recognized, would be to free royal governors and other royal officials from the control of the local assemblies, which heretofore had paid their salaries—and might withhold their salaries at displeasure.

Another alarming measure involved the Quartering Act of 1765, which required the colonies to barrack British troops on the request of the British commander in America. General Gage had so requested of New York, which resisted the request, leading to minor violence between American civilians and British troops. Townshend proposed to punish the New Yorkers by suspending their assembly.

That such measures should emanate from a ministry nominally headed by a friend of America surprised some members of Parliament. But a widespread feeling that the rebellious colonials must be brought into line overrode such surprise, and during the summer of 1767 the Townshend program became law.

During
this period, Franklin found himself distracted by an important personal matter. His only daughter determined to wed a man of dubious character and prospects.

Richard Bache was the brother of a New York merchant named Theophylact Bache, a native of Yorkshire who migrated to Manhattan in
1751 and took up business with his aunt’s husband, a former mayor of New York. The uncle died, leaving Theophylact the business. This proved successful enough to attract Theophylact’s brother over from Yorkshire but not successful enough to support both Baches in New York itself, at least not at the level to which they aspired. Richard Bache accordingly was dispatched to Philadelphia, by now the leading city in the colonies, to open a branch of the business.

Somewhere between Yorkshire and New York the family name, which had been pronounced “beach,” became “baytch,” and it was under this pronunciation that Richard Bache met Sally Franklin shortly after his arrival in Philadelphia. (The pronunciation apparently wobbled, however. Franklin said “beach” at least occasionally, to judge by the misspellings in his dictated letters.) Almost certainly Bache arrived in finer style than Sally’s father had displayed to her mother some forty years earlier, if only because Richard Bache was twenty-eight to Franklin’s seventeen and already established in his trade. But the result was the same, and before long, Sally and Richard Bache were speaking of marriage.

Until now Deborah had managed the affairs of the family with adeptness and aplomb in Franklin’s absence. Rearing Sally had fallen largely upon her shoulders, certainly during the last ten years. But arranging—or approving, rather—her daughter’s marriage was not a responsibility she wished to take on unassisted. As the daughter of Pennsylvania’s most famous citizen, and the (half) sister of New Jersey’s governor, Sally did not want for company. “Sally has friends all about,” her mother explained. Yet this new “addition of her friends,” as Deborah described Richard Bache to Franklin, was special—to Sally, at any rate. Debbie was not quite sure how to deal with him, and so opted for a friendly yet watchful approach. Better this than to try to keep them apart. “I think it would only drive her to see him somewhere else, which would give me much uneasiness.” It was very difficult to know how to proceed. “I am obliged to be father and mother,” she said, somewhat plaintively. She added, “I hope I act to your satisfaction. I do according to my best judgment.”

Franklin was concerned to know the character and prospects of Sally’s suitor. Yet he appreciated the handicap his absence from home placed him under in this regard, and he did not want his handicap to become his daughter’s. In May 1767 he could not know when he would be returning to Philadelphia, so he referred the matter to the combined judgment of Deborah, who knew Sally best, and William, who was in a position to find out something about Richard Bache. “I would not occasion a delay of her happiness if you thought the match a proper one.”

But he could not leave the matter at this—after all, Sally was his only daughter. “I know very little of the gentleman or his character, nor can I at this distance,” he wrote Debbie just a month later. He worried that Bache might have developed a wrong impression.

I hope his expectations are not great of any fortune to be had with our daughter before our death. I can only say, that if he proves a good husband to her, and a good son to me, he shall find me as good a father as I can be. But at present I suppose you would agree with me that we cannot do more than fit her out handsomely in clothes and furniture, not exceeding in the whole five hundred pounds of value. For the rest they must depend, as you and I did, on their own industry and care, as what remains in our hands will be barely sufficient for our support, and not enough for them when it comes to be divided at our decease.

Per Franklin’s request—and doubtless from a fraternal feeling as well—William inquired of Bache’s business. Bache himself confessed to some recent financial reverses that left him temporarily illiquid; this prompted William to investigate further. What he found occasioned grave worry. It seemed Sally was not the first woman Bache had wooed, nor even the first in Philadelphia. He had initially fallen for Margaret Ross, one of Sally’s closest friends. But two untoward occurrences had prevented the consummation of the romance. The first was Bache’s inability to prove his worthiness to John Ross, Margaret’s father. Ross investigated Bache’s finances and discovered they were substantially less sound than Bache made them out to be. As William Franklin learned secondhand, and described to Franklin, Ross declared not only “that Mr. B. had often attempted to deceive him about his circumstances, but that he was well convinced he was not, before this unlucky affair [the recent reverse to which Bache owned up] happened, worth any thing if all his debts were paid. In short, that he is a mere fortune hunter who wants to better his circumstances by marrying into a family that will support him.”

William conceded that the nature of the evidence against Bache was such that one could not know exactly where the truth lay, but on their face things looked bad. “I think it evident that these bills have involved him in a load of debt greatly more than he is worth, and that if Sally marries him they must both be entirely dependent on you for subsistence.” William closed with an admonition revealing his sense that he had touched delicate issues. “Do burn this,” he told his father.

The second, and definitive, development that had prevented the marriage of Bache and Margaret Ross was the young lady’s sudden death in August 1766. This not only released Bache from a relationship that seemed stalled, but threw him into Sally’s arms, for according to subsequent family tradition, Sally received a deathbed request from Margaret Ross to take Margaret’s lover as her own and marry him. Perhaps the romantic-tragic aspect of this request was too much for Sally; perhaps she simply found Bache as charming as Margaret had. In any case, she then fell for Bache (if she had not already), and determined to marry him.

Franklin was torn by the situation. He did not wish to prevent Sally’s happiness, but neither did he want her to marry a ne’er-do-well. In May 1767 Bache wrote Franklin a detailed accounting and explanation of his financial affairs. Evidently he was persuasive, for Franklin wrote back: “I received yours of the 21st of May and am truly sorry to hear of your misfortune. It must however be a consolation to you that it cannot be imputed to any imprudence of your own.”

Franklin went on to make Bache’s misfortune a test of his devotion to Sally. Bache was young; through industry and good management he might in a few years recoup his loss.

But in the mean time your own discretion will suggest to you how far it will be right to charge yourself with the expense of a family which if undertaken before you recover yourself, may forever prevent your emerging. I love my daughter perhaps as well as ever parent did a child, but I have told you before that my estate is small, scarce a sufficiency for the support of me and my wife, who are growing old and cannot now bustle for a living as we have done….

I am obliged to you for the regard and preference you express for my child and wish you all prosperity; but unless you can convince her friends of the probability of your being able to maintain her properly, I hope you will not persist in a proceeding that may be attended with ruinous consequences to you both.

This was hardly a blessing on the match, but neither was it a veto. Had Franklin been on hand, he might have taken a stronger stand. Yet from across the Atlantic he could not reasonably do so. Sally knew her mind, while her father did not quite know his—on this subject. Setting aside his misgivings, she went ahead with the marriage.