"It's the day of the Norse god, Tiw, which is Mars in French," said Quincy.

"Indeed," agreed Franklin. "But there is something more."

The servants had arrived to remove and replace the plates. When they had passed the platters of duckling, truffled foie gras, quail, rabbit and legumes, they topped off the wineglasses and departed. Only then did Franklin take the floor.

"I once attended the meeting of another such club, in another time and place," Franklin began. "It was nearly thirty years ago, in 1754, that I had reason to leave my home in Philadelphia and travel to points south. At that time, there was no inkling that one day-a day not far in our future-we colonists would revolt against the mother country and form a new republic. Indeed, at the moment we were having more trouble with the French, who were fortifying the Ohio River Valley. And with the Indians, whom they were also fortifying, with French weapons and Louisiana rum.

"In a few years, a young soldier named Washington would fire the first shot in the French and Indian War. As that war soon dragged all of Europe, even India, into a Seven Years War leading to our own revolution, it would truly become the first 'shot heard round the world.'

"In January of that year, I'd just attended a summit of some of these disgruntled Indian nations-only to learn, on my return to Philadelphia, that I'd been appointed deputy postmaster for the colonies, an important role. As there was another Indian conference looming in a few months, at Albany, I determined it would be a prudent time right now for me to make a quick tour of postal facilities throughout the southern colonies. Among the most important of these was Annapolis, on the Chesapeake Bay.

"My reputation as an inventor preceded me-as the discoverer, only a few years back, of harnessing lightning from the skies. The instant the Maryland Gazette announced the new deputy postmaster's arrival in the bustling waterfront community, I received a flood of invitations from political, social and scientific societies.

"The most mysterious of these was from a group of gentlemen claiming to be none of the above. Rather, they represented themselves as amateur musicians, many of Scottish descent, who met twice a month to compose and perform music. As these meetings always took place on Tuesdays, they had dubbed their little group 'The Tuesday Club.'" As Franklin began his tale, the only sound to be heard was that of cutlery scraping on plates.

The Tuesday evening that I joined the group was a dismal, rain-splashed night on the waterfront. The founder of the club, who greeted me at the door, was a native of Edinburgh, a recent transplant to our shores: one Alexander Hamilton-no relation to our congressman and war hero by that name. The Hamilton name is a powerful one in Scotland. I soon had cause to understand what that might mean, in the grander scheme.

The members, whose names I've long forgotten, played amusing songs all the night. We were dubbed with secret names-I was called Electrico Vitrifico, I recall, for my bringing of the power of lightning to earth. They had made a model of my glass 'armonica for playing watery tunes. There was a supper, much drinking of alcohol, and between, some Freemason ditties were sung. Since I'd been a chartering member of Philadelphia's lodge in the 1730s, I recognized myself to be among the brethren, and felt well at ease. There is nothing better than the camaraderie of a club.

It was late that same night, after most of the young gents had returned to their households, when I found myself alone with Hamilton's inner clique, as it were. It was then that I came to pose the most important question: "What song is it that you've asked me here to listen to?"

The members, by all appearances, were exceedingly pleased by my remark. They stood one by one to sing, a cappella, a familiar rondel or canon of ancient origin. First they sang in French, then in English, a song like this:

Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, Dormez-Vous? Dormez-Vous? Sonnez les Matines, Sonnez les Matines, Din-Dan-Don, Din-Dan-Don.

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? Brother John, Brother John,

Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing, Ding-Ding-Dong, Ding-Ding-Dong.

As each singer finished his repeats of the song he took his seat, one by one, until only a sole singer was standing, singing the last chiming bell. When he, too, was seated, the men all looked at me in silence. Only the sound of rain could be heard, pattering on the roof. I was the first to speak:

"Simple ditties like this one, gentlemen," I said, "have long been used to communicate hidden meaning across time and place. In the case of 'Frere Jacques,' as I now perceive, it is a meaning that may, indeed, have been hidden for a hundred years or more. Not only a secret is hidden-perhaps even a conspiracy of sorts, from the Latin conspirare, 'to breathe together'-suggesting a mystery of the kind that oughtn't be more than whispered. But I believe I do comprehend your mission, and I shall assist you, my brethren, in any way I can."

They applauded this comment, and each man came up in turn to give me a "brotherly" handshake. When the others had departed, their leader, Hamilton, offered to see me home in his carriage. As we drove to my lodgings, only the sounds of the clopping horse hooves on cobbles broke the silence. Despite the wintry season, you could smell the fresh aroma of salt in the air.

"My dear doctor," Hamilton addressed me as we moved through the deep black velvet of the Annapolis night. "I wonder if you do understand completely what we meant tonight, in singing that old nursery song for you?"

"Why yes, I think I do," I told him. "You've sung me a charming French song, with a very poor English translation. For in French, I do not need to point out that the word 'Jacques' does not mean 'John' as it might in English-it means James. And 'matins' are not 'morning bells,' but a canonical hour of both the Catholic and Anglican Churches-the call to prayer, just after midnight, with the related offices of devotion.

"Brother James," I went on to suggest, "would be James the Greater, brother of Jesus in Holy Scripture, who founded the first Celtic Church in Spain (Santiago, as they call him there) as well as those ancient parish churches of the French Pyrenees.

"You are mostly Scotsmen here by origin, are you not?" I added. "It seems to me that the Scots, in recent memory, have been aligned with only one dynasty of great power and ancestry, and with whom the Scottish royal families have intermarried on numerous occasions-that is, with the French. There was Mary of Guise, who married the king of Scotland two hundred years ago-and then her daughter, Mary Queen of Scots, who married the French dauphin. And of course, young Mary's Scottish son, James Stuart, the successor to Queen Elizabeth who became King James I of England." I turned to Hamilton in the darkness of the carriage, and added, "Given the canon of the song, this is the true 'James' that your chantey refers to-is it not?"

"It is," Hamilton replied quietly. "It is, indeed."

It took no Doctor of Philosophy to read the meaning in that message. But it did take a bit of initiation into other hidden significance. The Tuesday Club was asking my future aid, as a brother, in the time of their need…

Franklin paused in his story to look about the room of attentive listeners, then he added with effect, "This very same chanson was delivered to me, only this morning, from Scotland. I at once recognized its import-for nearly thirty years ago, I'd been warned by a club of Scotsmen, an ocean away from here-a warning that has now come home to roost.