In a small cabin in a rural part of Penn's Woods Commonwealth, Poor Richard worked briskly at his desk. The snow was nearly all gone in this early March warmth. Nothing else but bird chatter could be heard above the rapid scribbling of his quill against parchment. This year's almanack was nearly complete, and he'd have it done a day early, because being on time was already late. He dipped his quill again in ink and then paused in the momentary quiet, the tip just above the parchment.
Something was wrong. As he strained his senses, he realized that the chirp and cheers from outside had fallen to silence.
He pushed back from the desk slightly as his perception ranged even farther and he felt five figures approaching the cabin with ill intent. An eyebrow raised.
With care, he put his parchment into his jacket, stood up and began making his way to the door, just barely reaching it before a cry was raised outside.
"Traitor!"
The writer frowned, then opened the door and stepped out on the porch, the door closing behind him. He was unarmed, with naught but his quill held loosely in his hand by his side. Arrayed around the front of the house, distinguished by the epaulets and other regalia they wore on their uniforms, were four common soldiers and a lieutenant from His Majesty's Royal Army, their sabers drawn and pointed at him.
The British.
"Oh ho!" he chuckled. "Welcome, gentlemen. To what do I owe the pleasure of making your acquaintance?"
"Traitor!" the lieutenant huffed again. "By order of General William Howe, on behalf of His Majesty King George III, you are placed under arrest, to be detained at Fort Island Battery until further notice."
"How... troubling," the man drawled as he pushed his bifocals up his nose, glancing at each blade burnished against him. "I don't suppose we could engage in a dialogue on the matter?"
"Ha! I have nothing to listen to from a treasonous coward!" the lieutenant yelled back. "Take him!"
At the order, the soldiers all leapt at him as one. Though their steel was sharp, the quill deflected and parried each attack with ease, for in the right hands, the quill is indeed mightier than the sword. And this stateman had the right hands.
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As they clashed, the philosopher observed the energy and techniques of his opponents. There was a uniformity to their approaches which spoke to a uniformity to their training. A unyielding nature. Domineering. It smelled of ...
Tyranny.
Indeed, it was His Majesty's Royal Army's Sword Technique, first through seventh forms. It was something the man was familiar with, being as well-read as he was. But like many scriptures, arts, and lessons from the Old World, it lacked that quintessential quality that the man prized above all else.
Freedom.
Having now taken the measure of his opponents, the publisher gathered his energy and activated his own technique, a technique he developed himself in this beloved land of his, that reflected his values and virtues. If he could hold them off without effort, then just a single form would be needed for now.
The Way of the Just Turkey.
In mere seconds, there was only a single adversary left, one of the common soldiers, huffing and puffing from his exertions against the superior forms. The freemason paused, reexamining his challenger's energy and movements. It was superficially similar to the Royal Army's, but there was something underneath...
"Oh ho! I did not expect to see a soldier with The Claw of the Red Dragon technique. Tell me, Welshman, why submit yourself to the English that had conquered you? Why are you His Majesty's Dog?"
The young man's eyes widened in great surprise, then frowned. "How could you understand? You publish your grievances and complaints in the papers on a weekly basis, stirring up your folk. So far from the seat of the Empire are your precious fraternities. Too much trouble for imperial power to reach here. But rebellion under the King's nose, a few days from the palaces? The Cymry have long since known the keep such objections quiet."
"But surely you can feel the Way of the Universe shifting? For Freedom and away from Tyranny. It may not be this century or next, but one day the Celtic peoples will rise up against the English, sure as can be."
The soldier's frown deepened. "But there is naught I can do now."
"No, I suppose not," the elder said, suddenly appearing behind the soldier with The Way of the Silent Turkey and knocking the boy out.
With only his gallinaceous presence left, the bird chatter started up again and the postmaster considered the situation aloud. "The presence of these soldiers, if the British are already making moves against our movement, we'll have to accelerate our schedule... Tommy Boy will need an editor for that declaration of his... But immediately, others are likely also to be arrested or detained. At the least, Morris, Ross, and Rush are still in the city. I must warn them and the mayor. Hmm... If I run, I'll get there in less than an hour, and it'll be less conspicuously than a flying quill art."
Gathering his energy for The Way of the Industrious Turkey, the author took off at a blur, faster than any mortal horse, towards Enduring Brotherly Love City.
His city.
For he was Benjamin Franklin, polymath, and it was March 1775.
Stars?
