Indeed, there seemed to be a glaring number of mistakes. Which led me to deduce that a message was hidden within those inconsistencies. Soon enough, I discovered a numeric cipher, which, when translated into the Latin alphabet, read ‘Moses Egypticus mined Thoths stone.’ I did not know it at the time, but that curious message would one day change the course of my life.
In truth, ’twas a strange riddle, one I could not penetrate. Though I did strenuously attempt the feat, burning my Betty lamp into the wee hours, books a lonely man’s steadfast companion. From my reading, I ascertained that “Thoth’s stone” referred to an ancient relic known as the Emerald Tablet and that this relic had been much coveted during the Middle Ages. Particularly in alchemical circles. I also knew from my reading of the Bible that Moses, the Hebrew patriarch, was trained in all the arts of Egypt. Was it possible that during ancient times, no less a personage than Moses had this relic in his possession and that centuries later it had been bequeathed to Sir Francis Bacon? If so, what happened to the sacred relic upon Sir Francis’s death?
While those questions bedeviled me, I grew desirous of more animated companions than my growing collection of leather-bound volumes and soon began to patronize the coffeehouses of London. At each week’s end, meager earnings in hand, I traded my black bib and apron for beggar’s velvet, and made straightway for St. Paul’s coffeehouse, where, for a modest admission, I could enjoy the exalted company of poets, writers, and the like.
The ease with which the coffeehouse habitues bandied ideas, both scientific and arcane, astounded me. One night, hoping to impress, I mentioned the Bacon frontispiece and the hidden cipher to a newly formed acquaintance. Aghast, the man informed me that I would be wise not to make mention of this in so public a place. Rather than dampen, this ominous warning aroused my curiosity. Over the course of many months, I gently probed the clientele of St. Paul’s. While a strong brew heightened a man’s faculties, I discovered that, inundated with spiritous drink, that same man’s faculties fled for higher ground. Indeed, I was privy to many a drunken murmuring, the common thread being the Freemasons. One saturated fellow did let slip that the Freemasons were the guardians of a sacred relic that they inherited from a well-known English nobleman. A lofty claim. One I would have rejected outright had it not been for the encryption on the frontispiece. I gently pressed the matter, but my drunken companion refused to give up the prize. Struck by divine inspiration, I vowed to join the ranks of the Freemasons. What better way to siphon from that well-guarded well of knowledge?
In 1726, I returned to Philadelphia and eventually secured an invitation to join the Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons. The secret proceedings were carried out with an air of constipated gravitas, and I was forced to swallow many an amused guffaw. What man would not be struck by the patent absurdity of a Philadelphia merchant claiming descent from sun-worshipping Egyptians? Not content to stop there, my brethren did maintain that the mysticism of the Nile had a guiding hand in the construction of Solomon’s Temple. Even going so far as to claim that behind each of history’s great achievements, there beamed the illuminating rays of the Light, the name they bestowed upon God Almighty. Who but an itinerant simpleton would proclaim as truth such outlandish assertions? Or spout incomprehensible drivel and pass it off as “knowledge.” To my great disappointment, I soon came to realize that the members of the Philadelphia Lodge had no knowledge of Francis Bacon or his sacred relic. However, the inane rituals and silly natterings did serve a purpose, namely to open the doors of Philadelphia’s most exclusive drawing rooms, providing me with the entree denied by birth. Where men of high standing once turned a blind eye, they now greeted me with open arms.
As the years passed, I never forgot the unsolved puzzle of the Bacon frontispiece. From time to time, I would make the acquaintance of a man who intimated that he had knowledge of the sacred relic. More than a few of my esteemed Royal Society fellows implied as much. While I have never profaned the name of God nor purposefully set my sights on Perdition’s pathway, in this one instance, those endowed with a less charitable bent may claim that I did well succeed at both endeavors.
“Astounding. I’ve always thought of Franklin as a brilliant boffin, but I must now add Machiavellian schemer to the list.” There was no mistaking the admiration in Caedmon’s voice. “Care for another slice of pie?”
About to put in an order for lemon meringue, Edie reluctantly shook her head at the last. “I’m a little confused. What do the Freemasons and the Royal Society have to do with Francis Bacon?”
“Given his slavish devotion to Bacon and the Bard, Rubin could better answer the question. He is, after all, the resident expert on the Knights of the Helmet. That said, I’ll take a stab.” As he spoke, Caedmon slowly twisted the silver signet ring. As though he was channeling the Templar grand master who wore it last. “During the mid- seventeenth century, there was a resurgent interest in Bacon and his utopian vision for creating a society dedicated to the principles of the hidden stream of knowledge.”
“I’ve heard this tune before.” Edie moved her hands through the air like a symphony conductor. “Alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic. The Unholy Trinity.”
“While the Royal Society promoted the advancement of philosophical, mathematical, and scientific learning, a good many fellows were secretly engaged in the occult. In fact, the most famous member of the Royal Society, Sir Isaac Newton, was utterly obsessed with alchemy.”
Hearing that, Edie nearly gagged on her coffee. “Isaac Newton was an alchemist!?”
“The aim of alchemy is to glean the secret of creation, the Genesis code a tempting lure for any man.”
“And the Freemasons? Where do they fit into the picture?”
“Despite their outrageous claims of an ancient pedigree, the Freemasons were founded in 1717. And it’s no coincidence that the founding members were all fellows in the Royal Society.”
“So, it makes perfect sense for Benjamin Franklin to join the Philadelphia Lodge. He figured the Freemasons might have the lowdown on the Emerald Tablet given their interest in the occult.”
“And while he was at it, Franklin could climb the social ladder and gain entree into the charmed circles of English society. Armed with wit, charisma, and innate intelligence, Dr. Franklin ascended to the top rung, that of grand master. A brilliant move, really. Given the rigid class structure of the eighteenth century, becoming a Freemason enabled Franklin, an autodidactic of humble birth, to hobnob with the creme de la creme.”
“Do you think there’s any chance he actually found the Emerald Tablet?”
Blue eyes gleaming, Caedmon handed her the next page of Franklin’s handwritten missive. “I am keen to find out.”
In 1765, I returned to London a loyal supporter of the king. I leave ten years later an embittered traitor to the Crown. Continually I did urge harmonious accord between parent and child, my efforts for naught. May Providence prove me wrong, but I fear the relationship is now strained beyond repair. My actions this night will further weaken the fragile bond. As fate would have it, the object that has long held my fascination is at the heart of the severance. I speak, of course, of the Emerald Tablet.
Unlike my first youthful sojourn, I arrived in London a Freemason grand master and Royal Society fellow. Soon after my arrival, a fellow Mason, his tongue loosened with drink, let slip that Sir Francis Dashwood had been entrusted with the Brothers’ most sacred relic. The man’s name was familiar enough to me, Dashwood a known confidant of the king. Having caught the scent, I immediately set about to make Dashwood’s acquaintance. As those in the upper echelons will attest, Dashwood is a charming fellow, possessed of a courtier’s manners and the morals of a whore. Indeed, he lived his life ad libitum, always at pleasure’s beck and call. Furthermore, he surrounded himself with a handpicked circle, a privileged gathering of freethinkers, libertines, and artists, all members of the aristocratic class who held to the shared belief that they were exempt from the rules that bound the lower castes.
I secured an invitation to join Dashwood and his compatriots for an evening’s revel. Laughter the most expedient means to gain a man’s confidence, I liberally peppered my speech with bawdy jests and risque witticisms. Over the years, I had perfected the art of playing the fool, the jester often the wisest man at court, privy to all manner of intrigue. To my surprise, I discovered that Dashwood and his inner circle, Freemasons all, spent a goodly amount of time plotting the course of king and empire. Their political discourse exposed a surprising undercurrent, the king’s confidant not as enamored of the royal personage as he did profess in public. In truth, Dashwood held a low opinion of the monarch and expressed disdain for the monarchy in general. With the conceit of
