This is a story Mom wrote for a class she was taking. She's editted it several times, and it's actually available online at some site. This is her most recent version of it, I believe. If you don't grasp the historical figure she's writing about (she told me who it was before I read it, so I'm not sure that I would've been clever enough to figure it out either...although everyone else has so far), just e-mail me. Here it is...

Once a Pawn in Time

Connie Frappiea

I still find myself contemplating what might have been if I had not made such a foolhardy mistake all those years ago in Europe. It is this question that has plagued me relentlessly and I fear I will go mad if I do not explore it. That is why I have chosen this time to analyze my errors, finally bringing myself to examine how I could have been so easily led, so misguided, and so vulnerable to his diabolical scheme. How did it manifest without my knowing? These unanswered questions are spinning, whirling through my mind; clouding my thoughts. I had always thought myself to be so clever, but he far out-weighed me in the art of deceit. While others still adore him, I feel for him nothing but contempt.

To best examine this particular quandary, I must start at the beginning; reflect on my state of mind, my lack of judgement, and my subsequent descent into my own version of Hell. One that will, most definitely, rival the ensuing justice I will mostly certainly endure after my death. I am bound for Hell and there is no route for escape.

It is his fault, damn him.

It is my fault; I am but a fool.

My life had begun this downward spiral on a glorious day at a street cafe in London. I had been watching a young couple, quite in love, placing their order with the waiter. Their names had been spoken, their orders placed and the entire amount of their feast charged to their room at a nearby hotel. Their name had meant nothing to me, even though the waitstaff catered to them as if they were catering to royalty. My curiosity piqued, I decided I must get a better look at this young couple; maybe I would recognize their faces. I positioned myself close enough to look upon them, still I did not recognize who they were, or understood any better why it was that they should receive such treatment. What I did realize was how very beneficial this chance encounter this would be to me. I can still remember the broad smile that crept across my lips when I realized the young man and I bore a striking resemblance, one that would well afford me. This man quite obviously had the world by the tail. Much of my life, thus far, found me facing the other end, an end that hadn't been very friendly.

Raptly studying the young man at the cafe that night, I familiarized myself with his way of speech, his gestures, his stature, and became him in no time at all. There was little doubt that with a fresh hair cut the proper wardrobe, I would be the spitting image of this man.

I must admit, the procurement of suitable clothing was not as easy as I had anticipated. After days of rummaging through open hotel rooms and scouring mortuaries, I happened upon the best suit of clothing I had ever donned. There, hanging in the vestibule of a prominent mortuary, was the perfect attire for the role I was about to take on. Did I feel remorse for stealing from the dead? Gracious, no! This gent would never again wear these clothes, for he was headed for the furnace of the crematorium, and it was divine serendipity for me that he had passed on in such grand attire.

For the next few days, I made the most of my fortuitous situation, knowing full well, it must be short lived. I dined at the most elegant restaurants in all of London, eating and drinking as a King might, and charging my bill to the young man at the outdoor cafe. Not one waitperson or barkeep questioned my actions! They took me at face value.

Although, it seems, I had not been quite as clever as I had thought. Egotistical as I was, I had convinced myself that I had played the perfect part. I had been wise, limiting my deception to only a few wonderful days, and thought, none to be the wiser. This, in fact, was my greatest error. I was to find out someone had, indeed, been witness to my clever ruse.

Destiny came to my home one evening, with ominous light rap at the door. I crossed the room, dark and sparsely furnished, and opened the door ever so slowly. As I did, the fog that had settled on the evening invited itself in through the crack; it was damp and cold and bore with it that ominous feeling of foreboding; a feeling so ripe with fear that it was almost palatable.

I was quite startled as I cracked the door open further to see who might be out on such a night. There, in front of me, stood a man whose face was familiar to the population of two continents. I was dumbstruck, and he laughed as he entered. I had not bid him to enter, he just floated by me, as uninvited as the London fog. It was a mistake on my part to have ever let him enter.

He seated himself at the table, where I had just poured for myself an evening cup of tea. Through the sooty rays of one small lamp, I watched him. He took charge immediately. Reaching for an empty cup, he poured himself a cup of the steaming brew.

Still not fully in control of my senses (a word I would grow to despise), I looked upon the man in great awe. Why would this internationally known gentleman be sitting at my table, uninvited and drinking my tea? My obvious nervousness amused him and the look of a cat that is about to devour a mouse spread across his round face.

I tried to gain strength from somewhere deep within to inquire of him, why he was here at my house. Not the home of a King, diplomat, or a Parliament member, but that of a mere peasant, one that had failed at almost everything they attempted to undertake. What could this nobleman possibly be looking for in my humble home?

He pressed the cup to his lips and his dissatisfaction with the blend registered in a grimace. His answer to my question came without prompting. He merely spoke the name of the gentleman whose name I had taken liberties with. It was uncanny how through just in one name, he had spoken volumes. It had been so condescending, threatening, accusing, and condemning. He knew! He knew it all! Delighted in his knowledge, my apparent surprise and discomfort, the corners of his mouth drew into a chilling smile.

I swear! I never spoke a single word that night. His diabolical plot, his ingenious plan had already been conceived before he approached my door. Recounting to me how he had witnessed my chicanery at numerous restaurants, and how well I had learned the man's gestures and speech pattern with little problem, he stated I was a master at my trade. He furthered this assault by adding that he could make good use of such a clever ability. The plan that he had conceived was now being born into reality. He threatened me with the law if I did not agreed to his ways. As I look back, this may have been the lesser of two evils, for there in front of me sat the devil himself.

This spider of a man then began weaving his web of evil, spewing forth the entire plot of his wickedly twisted mind. Had he devised all of this before my unknowing encounter with him, or had my appearance given him the seed of thought with which to carry out such a cruel and calculated plan? Whatever the truth may be, I was about to begin a journey I wished not to be part of.

Before the week had ended, I was sailing aboard a vessel bound for the New World. I was to spend this time aboard ship studying the materials given to me, and was expected to memorize and internalize each piece of work until it was my own. It was I, and I was it. I thought not much of this task, it was easy for me to become almost anything, anyone, and this was hardly a challenge. I found myself wondering who might be affected by such a charade and why this game I was playing was so very important. I was somewhat embarrassed to say; I knew little of the New World and its inhabitants. My only knowledge of these people and their land had been presented in Shakespeare's The Tempest. Nevertheless, I could feel, deep inside me, some kinship to them and I worried about what turmoil might be brought about by my actions.

I was instructed that upon arrival, I was to proceed to Philadelphia where I would meet with one Robert Bell. The old man explained that Bell was somehow related to him (it quite escapes me now as to how), and that Bell was well aware of his plan and had, himself, a syllabus on how to proceed. I was, in fact, a simple puppet, and this was made quite plain to me.

Within a week of my arrival in the New World, Bell and I met and began to do the work laid out for us. A printer by trade, Bell produced the first of many pamphlets containing the works of Thomas Paine. The first being the most celebrated work simply, yet cleverly, entitled "Common Sense". In many ways, it seemed to me quite redundant, forever revisiting what had just been said, and arranged so as to confound and confuse the reader, while all along, making them think they understood and readily agreed with what was being stated. A fine example of this devious tactic appears in this ranting segment of that evil piece:

Though I would carefully avoid giving unnecessary offence, yet I

am inclined to believe, that all those who espouse the doctrine of

reconciliation, may be included within the following descriptions:

Interested men, who are not to be trusted; weak men who cannot

see; prejudiced men who will not see; and a certain set of moderate

men, who think better of the European world than it deserves; and this

last class by an ill-judged deliberation, will be the cause of more

calamities to this continent than all the other three.

It is the good fortune of many to live distant from the scene of

sorrow; the evil is not sufficiently brought to their doors to make

them feel the precariousness with which all American property is

possessed. But let our imaginations transport us for a few moments

to Boston, that seat of wretchedness will teach us wisdom, and

instruct us for ever to renounce a power in whom we can have no trust.

The inhabitants of that unfortunate city, who but a few months ago

were in ease and affluence, have now no other alternative than to stay

and starve, or turn out to beg. Endangered by the fire of their

friends if they continue within the city, and plundered by the

soldiery if they leave it. In their present condition they are

prisoners without the hope of redemption, and in a general attack

for their relief, they would be exposed to the fury of both armies.

Such a perverse way of gaining the unknowing cooperation of those that would read it, was this incredible piece of propaganda! Those who would now, undoubtedly, feel guilty for not being bloodthirsty for revolution would rise to arms.

It is a diabolical mind indeed, who could change the thinking of an entire country without their knowledge. Only an evil presence could single handily -for it is not my wish to be involved, nor that of poor Robert Bell's, either- bring many a man to his knees, asking the forgiveness of God for not having seen the atrocities that the King and his followers -blind followers, according to this work- have beseeched upon this nation and its people.

I must confess that I felt great guilt at the ensuing "awakening" among these people. I felt an even deeper guilt when I heard it said that George Washington had read this work and remarked upon it, "I find Common Sense is working a powerful change in the minds of many men." While many rallied around me, congratulating me on my recognition from Washington, I can remember thinking, "I can only hope this 'powerful change' will led to something good and not the evil I fear it will evoke. What good could come of war?" And I was now sure there would be war.

In the months that followed, I was to release more pamphlets pertaining to the revolution and the collective reflection of the American people. I had become a celebrity. All of the monies that were gathered for the sales of these documents I gave willingly back to "the cause". I could not take this money, this blood money. Men were fighting and dying and I was playing my role, his role, a role I despised.

Night after night I would drink myself to the point of unconsciousness. I refrained from socializing, always afraid I would inadvertently let slip my hidden secret. Once I attended a party of high social stature. Having drank a great deal; I became tired of the copious pats on the back for my work. Growing even more drunk than I had been before, I proclaimed that it was not I who had authored such dribble. Common Sense and the many other works of Thomas Paine, were not my own words, they were the work of an evil tyrant. A tyrant who wished to manipulate the world and that those who read this filth were, like me, no more than simple puppets. Those who stood who had stood in silence as I confessed my sins hooted in laughter. All accept one; One, who stood at the other end of the room, returning my gaze with a glare that cut through my soul. A gaze so frightening, that it caused me to vomit on the boots of my host. Quickly, I excused myself and the indiscretion was passed off as drunken foolishness. But not to him.

On a stormy night a few days after my intoxicated indiscretion, I was to find a piece of wire tightly wound around the headboard of my iron bed, a wire which led to a large vertical length of copper atop my roof. I know not the intent of such a device, I only know it was not placed there by accident. I further realize that only one individual would be able to construct such an apparatus. This would not be his only means of vengeance over the years. For, as I have said before, he is an evil spider of a man.

After my work for him was finished in the colonies, I was summoned back across the ocean to Europe. By spending most of the revolution in the comfort of France, through the graciousness of its King, the old man was readily able to play his game to the height that only he could. Had it not been for his charm and intellect, France may never have entered the American Revolution. The colonist loathed England. England loathed them. England and France loathed each other. He used this petty bickering between the two countries as a catalyst from which to create the justification of the use of their armies, and more decisively, the use of their finances. It was through the later that France found itself without a fiduciary system of finances. France, too, would become burdened with revolution. The King and his wife would pay the price with their lives. The old man had led the King by the hand and delivered him to his executioners.

And now, here I sit in squalor. A drunk, a pauper, a man this time has forgotten. Maybe someday I will be looked upon in a different light. Maybe someday they will find me a visionary, an unworthy misnomer, indeed. I can only hope that they never find the truth.

It all started at that outdoor cafe in London. . . If only I had noticed him sitting not more than five feet from me, watching me, casting me in his play. I was no more than a pawn, a disposable, necessary piece to the game. One that can move about without casting suspicion, capable of inflicting deadly harm to those in its path, even to a King who is unaware of the intent of those in it's close proximity. Had I not been so involved with my own deception, none of this may have ever transpired.

I sit hear in front of my only friend, a heating device that bears the old man's name. From the corner of my eye I notice a spider creeping its way across my floor. Quickly, I whisk it up and toss it into the fire, and spit upon it.