“Have a lovely holiday in Sicily, sir.”, said George to his

tutor, Mr, Martin “I am sure we shall, young sir. My

wife is Sicilian, you see, and she has family there. Her niece is

getting married, and in Sicily, a family wedding is a command

performance. A Sicilian wedding is nothing if not spectacular.”

It will be hot there, I hope. I shall lie in the sun, drink wine,

eat olives and bread dipped in oil, and let the sun bake the

rheumatism out of these old bones.” “I hope I shall visit it

someday, sir” “Goodbye, George. I must say that I am fortu-

nate to have been hired as your tutor. This past year with you

has been a most refreshing change from my last employment.

Trying to teach that dolt was like trying to teach a pig to sing:

it was a waste of my time, and merely annoyed the pig,” George

snorted a laugh. “Here’s your carriage, sir, to take you to the

ship, and there’s your wife. Bon Voyage.”

George ran to the nearby home of his best friend,

Manfred Ulrich “Manny” von und zu Kirchener, son of the

Prussian ambassador. “Manny, come on. Mr. Martin just left,

and your tutor still has two weeks of his holiday left, so we are

free from studies for a while! Let’s go swimming. Father has

said we may use the embassy carriage today. I’ll get cook to

pack us a lunch, and I’ll get a bag of oats for the horse. Pack a

change of clothes and meet me in half an hour.” With that he

sped back to home.

Greenwich Park was at the middle of a bend in the Thames, and was as familiar to the boys as their own bedrooms,

as they had swum there for four previous summers. The water

was lower than usual, due to a very dry spring. Now, while the

water was usually ten feet deep it still was a good eight feet

deep at this bend pool. “Take care of the horse now, and I’ll

do it when we return to the embassy”, said Manny. I need to

get wet and cool,” Not waiting for an answer, he ran to the river,

removed his shoes, and dove in. He did not surface.

George wasn’t much for diving. Manny, on the other

hand, was a skilled diver, and liked to go deep and hover under-

water facing into the current for as long as he could hold his

breath, imagining himself a fish. After a couple of minutes,

however, George became concerned. He slid into the river and

headed toward the sunken log that lay at the bottom of the

pool, usually at least ten feet down and well below them in the

water. George saw Manny about ten yards upstream, and swam

closer. Had he not been underwater, he would have screamed.

Manny was horizontal, as if hovering as usual. This time, however, he was not moving his arms, legs or anything.

He clearly was dead: impaled through the eye into his brain by

a broken branch of the log which now was less than eight feet

below the surface. George surfaced, swam to shore, and left

his used breakfast splashed on a rock. He ran into the Park,

calling for help. A young man and his female companion got

up from their picnic blanket and ran to him. “What’s the mat-

ter, lad?” “My friend killed himself when he dove in. The log

stuck a branch through his eye! Oh, God, Manny!” “Come on,

let’s take a look. We have to get him out of the water. I haven’t

a change of clothes, but there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to strip

to my shorts. Betty, please remain here.” “Certainly, Edward,”

the girl replied. “How dreadful!” George and Edward ran to

the river and waded in.

“He’s down right here”, said George. “We can lift him by

his armpits and pull him off the branch, then swim him to shore.

Oh, God, how will I tell the Ambassador”!” “Ambassador?

God’s Blood, who is your friend?”, asked Edward. “You called

him ‘Manny’ ,” “He’s Manfred Ulrich von und zu Kirchner, son

of the Prussian Ambassador to England. My father is clerk to

the Dutch Ambassador. We are – were – neighbors and best

friends. Oh, what shall I do?” “Only thing we can do, lad, is to

bring him out of the river, put him in the carriage and take him

home. I’ll help with that, but that’s all. I’ve no wish to meet a

grieving Prussian.”

And soon the hideous thing was done, and George

thanked Edward and slowly drove home, weeping. “Why, God?

Why did you let this happen? Was it pre-ordained that Manny

would die today? Would some vast, eternal plan of Yours have

been disrupted if the pool had been deeper or Manny hadn’t

dived in? “ He did scream: “OH, GOD, WHY?”

He drove home, grateful that Ambassador Kirchner was

away in York for some kind of business for a few days. He

needed time to talk to his father and get himself composed to

deal with this disaster. “You go inside, Son, and get some rest.

We’ll talk about it after dinner. I have lost friends, and know

how you feel. For now, I’ll give you only two pieces of advice

from my own experience: first, it wasn’t your fault. Second, it

hurts. Despite the well-intentioned fools who will try to assuage

your pain with syrupy platitudes, ignore them. Let it hurt. Grief

is natural, suppression of grief is not. It will end when you need

it to end, and now is not that time. Go now and rest.”

He mourned his best friend through the rest of July,

remembering with wry smiles the various mischiefs they had

concocted with the childish wickedness for which little boys

seem to possess genius. He was relieved when the Martins

returned from Sicily, his tutor sporting a deep tan. “Your father

told me of the tragic loss of your friend Manny, George, and I

offer you my most sincere condolences. I met him, of course,

many times, and found him a courteous and pleasant young

man. Of course, he was Prussian, so courtesy was bred into

him. Still, he had that quality the French call ‘joie de vivre’,

and he shared it with others. I shall miss him very much, and

I share your sorrow. If you need more time before resuming

your lessons, just let me know.” “That is gracious of you, Sir,

but I am ready to resume on Monday.” “So we shall, then”,

said Mr. Martin. George had not forgotten the question he had

hurled at God while driving Manny’s body back from the

Thames death site.

“ Why, God? If you are all-loving and

all-powerful, why do you allow disasters like this to happen?”

He had posed the question to Mr. Martin, who had answered:

“A good exercise for the student. Let me know when you have

an answer that satisfies your Calvinist mind.” George continued pondering the question until one dayduring a session with Mr. Martin on Socrates, the tutor askedhim “why do you suppose Socrates was so fond of answeringa question with another question?”

“Because, Sir”, answeredGeorge, “that way the student finds the answer for himself and thus remembers it better.” “Precisely!”, exclaimed the tutor.

”Now, George, I haven’t forgotten your question about why

God allows bad things to happen.. Apply Socrates’ method:

Instead of an answer, what is the right question in response?”

George thought for several minutes, pacing back and

forth. “I think I have it. The question is this: ‘Suppose God did

as you propose, and intervened to keep bad things from hap-

pening to me. What if you have asked Him to intervene as well,

and keep the same bad thing from happening to you?” “Ah”,

replied Mr. Martiin. “But that begs the question of why bad

things happen at all, doesn’t it You are on the right path, but

still haven’t reached your goal.”

It took another week of deep thought and mental explo-

ration before George exclaimed “I have it!. God does not create

evil, to test us or for any other reason. We create it, and that’s

where free will enters the equation. God declared all things

good, but gave us the freedom to reject the good and create its

opposite. Why? He could not do otherwise, because God is

Love, and Love by its very nature does not coerce. Man has to

be free to choose between them, or otherwise he is but a slave

to the inevitable.

This is where the Catholics are egregiously

wrong. They say that neither Jesus nor Mary was capable of

sin. But if that’s true, then it cannot also be true that Jesus is

as human as we are. I say that of course He was capable of sin.

What makes Him different is that He did not yield to it. Where

is the virtue in not doing that which one is incapable of

doing.?” “You are indeed a fledgling theologian, lad, and you

are destined for the ministry!” exclaimed Mr. Williams. “I shall

speak to your father at once, and ask him most fervently to

have you enrolled at the University of Glasgow.”

September 1, 1707 Dockside, Glasgow

Third and final year beckoned, and George was eager for it to begin in two days. He had proven to be a true scholar, hungrily devouring every subject offered him. He was as happy as he’d ever been: What could go wrong? He soon found out. His walk took him to the docks, where he saw a sleek warship tied up with her boarding plank deployed. Part of the fleet here to enforce the Act of Union, her crew was ashore for leave, making close acquaintance with the taverns and whorehouses of Glasgow. Phoenician sailors, he thought, had enjoyed the same entertainments in Tripoli and Carthage centuries ago. His reveries were interrupted by a uniformed sailor of the Royal Navy, and some other uniformed men.

“Hello, young man. And where might ye be from, then?Be ye English, or Scot like me, or, mayhap, something else?” “ I am an Englishman, sir, and proud of it.” “Don’t call me ‘Sir’, Lad. I’m no officer. I’m a bosun’ I am, and work for a living.” The other sailors, about six and all armed, laughed as expected, though it was also a joke as old as the Phoenicans. “Englishman, are ye? And where in England?” “London. si . . . er. London, Mr. Bosun” More laughter, including from the bosun. “My father is secretary to theNetherlands ambassador. I’m here to begin my third year at the university on Monday.”

“I’m afraid ye’ll be missing classes, Laddie. Ye see, ye’re no longer a gentleman scholar, ye’re a seaman in Her Majesty Queen Anne’s Royal Navy. Come aboard now, and we’ll sign ye in, Mr. . . . What’s ye’re name, lad?” “George Cheesman is my name, and you’ll not take me aboard that ship! I’m an English subject and a free man!!” “Well, now, as to that. Ye may be a scholar in other fields, but I warrant law isn’t one of them, is it?”“No. If you must know, my field is theology. I’m studying for the ministry.” “Are ye, now? Well, that’s a noble profession and no mistake, but God will have to wait for ye. For the next few years, at least, God for you will be me and any man above your rank aboard. As your rank is lower than whale dung, ye’ll do as ye’re told by anyone aboard. As to coming aboard, ye’ll walk voluntarily or be carried horizontally, but either way, ye’ll come aboard. Ye see, ‘tis all legal as can be. The law says that all adult young male subjects of the English Crown are subject to impressment into the Navy. Resist too much, or escape and be captured, ye’ll hang. So, young sholar, what will it be?” George remembered his father once telling him a maxim of diplomacy: “When there’s nothing you can do about it, that’s the thing to do.” “I’ll come”, he said. And did. As he walked aboard, he recalled Dante’s legend inscribed above the Gate of Hell: “All Hope Abandon, Ye Who Enter Here”. It was an accurate preface of what was to come.