Dreams of Glory (38 page)

Read Dreams of Glory Online

Authors: Thomas Fleming

“There was more truth in it than I've ever spoken in my life,” Caleb said. “Even when I lied, it was for—for your sake. For your future happiness.”
“Jesus Christ,” the major roared. “We haven't got time to worry about her happiness.” He wrenched Flora out of Caleb's grasp and pushed her against the wall. “Where is he? Coleman. Twenty-six.”
A reincarnated Red Peggy, her wig in place, rushed into the hall from the taproom. “Major,” she cried in her gushy nasal voice, “is something wrong?”
“What is this woman doing here?” the major thundered.
“I have no idea,” Red Peggy said. “A gentleman said she'd be coming. He gave me some money to see that they had a room to themselves. I suppose I shouldn't allow such things but a body's got to live, Major. What with the price of everything out of sight I can't make much serving liquor here—”
“Shut up,” said the major. He turned to his squad of soldiers.
“Search every room, from the cellar to the attic. Look in barrels, chests. He's got to be in here.”
“Let me go with them, Major, to make sure nothing's stolen. You know how soldiers are,” Red Peggy said.
“You get back in that taproom and tell me the name of each man in it,” the major snapped. He strode down the hall, leaving Flora and Caleb alone.
“Please tell me the truth,” Caleb begged her. “Prove to Major Stallworth that you're on our side. The side your father would have wanted you to be on. Liberty's side, Flora.”
“You must think I'm the greatest fool that ever existed,” Flora said.
“You've seen him. I knew it, the moment I saw you in the hall. You had death on your face. You looked as if someone had just condemned you to die.”
“I'd like to see you condemned to die. And him, too. I despise you both.”
The soldiers clattered up and down the stairs as they stood there. Major Stallworth emerged from the taproom looking baffled. Red Peggy followed him.
“All local farmers in there,” Stallworth said. “I know every one of them.”
The major stood there fuming until the soldiers returned from the cellar and the upper floors of the house to report that they had found no trace of the fugitive.
Stallworth muttered a curse. “Does she admit she saw him?”
“Not quite,” Caleb said. “But I'm sure she did.”
The major turned to Red Peggy. “What did the gentleman who met this woman look like?”
“He was tall as you but much more handsome, Major,” Red Peggy said. “He wore a maroon coat and buff breeches, a violet waistcoat. His boots were dark red—”
The major waved her into silence. “This gets us nowhere.”
Flora glared at William Coleman alias Red Peggy. He was
going to get away with it. His voice, his mannerisms, were perfect if slightly gross imitations of femininity.
“Flora,” Caleb said, “William Coleman tried to murder me last night. This man, Major Stallworth, rescued me. Did Coleman tell you that when you saw him?”
“I wish he had killed you. I wish you'd killed each other.”
“He tried to kill me for the same reason he killed Ceasar. To keep you as his slave, his possession. Is that what you want?”
Flora glared at Red Peggy. She remembered Caleb asking her about Caesar's death:
Did you think it was pleasant—left to die in the snow?
She remembered the British officers looking forward to the pleasure of owning slaves. She had thought love was the only defense against William's evil spell. That had been her mistake. Hatred was the answer. Hatred even annihilated Newgate. Hatred was all she felt now for that hideous moment in their death caps with William babbling about love. Hatred, hatred, hatred would be her guide, her God, from now on.
“You're all vile—and stupid. He could be standing next to you right now and you wouldn't know it,” Flora said.
Caleb and Stallworth stared at her, baffled. Stallworth thought she was mocking them and began working himself into a fury. But Caleb saw that her hatred included William now. The Yankee hypocrite had learned to read her eyes, her voice. Flora watched exultation flare on his deceitful face as he made the crucial connection.
William was watching too. Before Caleb could move or speak, he pulled off the red wig, revealing his ugly shaved head. “All these years I thought I was your fate, Flora,” he said. “Instead you're mine.”
“TO THE QUEEN.”
“The Queen.”
Everyone rose to drink the solemn toast. Opposite Beckford, beside Lieutenant General Knyphausen, sat Major General James Robertson, the royal governor of New York. Robertson's head wagged like a signal flag on his shrunken neck. He was almost seventy. Beside him sat one of his “wards,” as he called them—a redheaded American girl with strumpet written all over her. She and several friends provided entertainment at Robertson's all-night parties. When he was in liquor, Robertson acted the fool. Sober, he was one of the shrewdest politicians in the British army. He was drawing the double salary of general and royal governor of New York as a reward for his testimony before Parliament in 1778, when the politicians decided an investigation of the conduct of the war was necessary to assuage public opinion. Robertson had carefully defended certain reputations and shredded others.
Having performed the essential toasts to the King and Queen, General Knyphausen rose to depart. His normally severe manner always grew more frigid when he was exposed to the casual morality of the British officer corps in America. Knyphausen was another reason why Beckford had selected Alice Fowler as a female escort. Pietistic to the core like most of his men (the German infantry went into battle singing hymns, the British shouting blasphemies), Knyphausen would never have tolerated any moral irregularities in his aide.
“All right, Beckford, now that Attila the Hun has gone off to say his prayers, what's this bold stroke that you've been concocting?” Governor General Robertson said.
“I have no idea what you're talking about, General,” Beckford said.
“You've got a New Jersey congressman in the Provost,” said Major General James Pattison, taking Knyphausen's empty chair. “Is he part of it?” Pattison was Robertson's creature; as commandment of police he had a network of informers throughout New York.
“A piece of good luck, nothing more,” Beckford said.
“Let me tell you something, Major,” Robertson said. “Something I've learned from forty years in the army. The man who does not share the glory with his fellow officers may discover in time that he has no one with whom to share shame.”
“I hope I'll never be accused on either side, General,” Beckford said.
Black Sam Francis, the mulatto proprietor of the Queen's Head Tavern, mustered his waiters and began serving another round of port. It was time to depart. With a smile and a bow, Beckford led Alice to the door and put her in a hack. “Can we expect you for dinner some night soon?” she asked in her plaintive way.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Beckford said.
In the twilight, Major Beckford strolled across the city to the Provost Prison. Gray clouds were massing in the northeast, and the wind had an edge to it. The temperature hovered just above freezing. It would snow or rain tonight; neither would be unwelcome. Bad weather would help keep the New Jersey militia indoors.
The orders, signed by General Knyphausen, had gone to Brigadier Birch at noon. Another set of orders had been handed to Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe, directing him to stage an attack on the New Jersey shore, opposite Staten Island at midnight. “This will lend useful support to an operation of the cavalry under Brigadier Birch and Major Beckford, the details of which secrecy prevents me from describing,” read the etched-in-acid final sentence.
At the Provost Prison, a guard rushed to inform the provost marshal, William Cunningham, of Major Beckford's presence. A massive, florid-faced man, who carried a club at his waist as a symbol of his authority, Cunningham was probably the richest jailer in the British empire. For every prisoner on his rolls he received a stipend from the army budget. Most of the money went into Cunningham's pocket. Very little went into filling his prisoners' bellies.
“How is our congressman today?” Beckford asked.
“Difficult. He refuses to touch the food we give him,” Cunningham said. “It's better fare, let me tell you, than many a poor loyalist is eating in this city.”
“I'm sure it is,” Beckford said. “I want to talk with him.”
The provost marshal escorted Beckford up the twisting stairs to the second floor. The chill emanating from the walls caused the major to draw his cloak around him. “I took it upon myself to deprive the congressman of his greatcoat,” Cunningham said. “Your orders were to make him less than comfortable. It's outrageous for a rebel to own a coat that a British officer can't afford.”
“I agree completely, Provost Marshal,” Beckford said, certain that Cunningham had already found a British officer who was prepared to pay a bargain price for the coat.
Congressman Stapleton rose as they entered his cell. The only furnishings were a slop bucket and a pile of straw for a bed. Stapleton needed a shave. His expensive clothes were wrinkled and dirty. Although the congressman struggled to control it, he was trembling from the cold.
“Mr. Stapleton,” Major Beckford said, “compassion impels me to make this visit. I fear for your health in this place.”
“As well you should, sir,” Stapleton replied. “Having deprived me of my only article of warm clothing.”
“All I need hear from you is a promise to be reasonable and you shall be escorted to my residence, where food and warmth await you.”
“As I tried to sleep in this icehouse, all the while listening
to this son of a bitch beating other prisoners,” Stapleton said, pointing to Cunningham, “my reason as well as my feelings told me only one thing: don't surrender.”
“You'll have your friend General Washington for company later tonight.”
“I'm sure you'll find him no more happy about his accommodations than I am.”
“Nevertheless, I think his presence will make you a more reasonable man.”
Going downstairs, Cunningham was growling like a bear. “You heard what he called me, Major? I'd like your permission to treat him with more severity.”
“Not yet.”
“Is it true, what you said about Washington?”
“If you mention it to anyone, I'll have you court-martialed, Provost Marshal.”
“It will never pass my lips, Major.”
Cunningham's venal face was aglow with admiration for Walter Beckford, the man who was about to make him George Washington's jailer.
At five o'clock, as dusk gathered, Brigadier Samuel Birch sent his aide to report that the last of the cavalry's horses had arrived from Long Island. He mustered 384 dragoons and 36 officers. Beckford rode to Birch's headquarters out on the Bloomingdale Road. In the brigadier's stable, with the wooden training horses behind them like skeletal reminders of death and duty, Beckford stood on bales of hay and described their mission to the assembled officers.
“We're about to attempt something which, if it succeeds, will end the war: the capture of Mr. Washington. My spies at Morristown have penetrated his Life Guard. All the men on duty tonight will be in the King's service. We should therefore have no difficulty in achieving total surprise.
“To break down the door of Washington's headquarters, should anyone have time—or the presence of mind—to barricade it, we have a mine constructed by Major Whittlesey of
the engineers.” Beckford gestured to his batman and was handed the cask of powder, with the protruding spear that Henry Whittlesey had devised. “The insertion of this metal tip in the front door will activate a clock mechanism inside this barrel which will cause it to explode in sixty seconds.”
Awed exclamations of delight. Beckford could see and hear similar adulation as he told the story to His Majesty and his court at Windsor. A triumph of British daring, scientific genius. He could see his memoirs being sold by the thousands in bookshops across England.
An Account of the Capture of George Washington and the Effective Ending of the Rebellion in America,
by the Right Honorable Major Sir Walter Beckford.
The major stepped down and let Brigadier Birch discuss the tactics of the mission. That done, the companies were paraded in the fields west of the Bloomingdale Road and formed into a column of fours. In a half-hour they were across the frozen Hudson conferring with the commander of the British fort at Powles Hook. He reported that his latest patrols had found the countryside quiet.
As they came out of the commander's quarters a drizzle began to fall from the night sky. “A good omen,” Beckford said. “Rain will wet their powder and leave Washington's Life Guard helpless. Your troopers can cut them down at their leisure.”
“A pleasant prospect,” Birch said. “Are you sure you want to risk yourself to plant the mine?”
“Quite sure,” Beckford said.
Brigadier Birch had finally realized that this operation was going to succeed. He was casting about for a way to put himself at the head of the list of its heroes. But no one was going to thrust the spear trigger into the door of Washington's headquarters except Walter Beckford.
They set out, a long line of men with heads bowed against the weather, silent except for the jangle of bridles, the squishy thud of their horses' hooves in the wet snow. The advance
guard rode a half-mile ahead of them and regularly sent back troopers to report. The road was clear for the first ten miles. Just beyond New Bridge the advance encountered two farmers coming home from a tavern, drunk and singing Dutch songs. Both were cut down, their horses seized. A mile farther on, they met a loyalist farmer on his way to New York with a sleighload of provisions. He cried out, “God save the King,” seconds before a saber split his skull.
Behind Beckford and Birch there was an abrupt crash, an eruption of curses, the whinny of a horse in pain. Birch called a halt. They galloped back to find a fallen horse, a badly injured man. “General,” said one of the officers to Birch, “the men tell me the horses are getting hard to manage. I think they're breaking through the crust of snow and it's cutting their fetlocks to the bone. Another ten miles and they'll be completely crippled.”
“We'll slow our pace and see if that improves matters,” Birch said.
They plodded forward to Hackensack, where the advance guard waited for them on the green. They told the same story. At least ten horses so badly crippled they could barely hobble. Officers reported at least fifty other horses in the main column in the same condition. They found a candle in one of the deserted houses near the town green and examined the legs of another twenty or thirty horses. On almost every animal the fetlock, the lump of flesh and sinew just above the hoof, was sliced raw.
“Are you sure of those reserve horses?” Birch asked. “We're going to need them.”
“They're waiting in the barns of Great Rock Farm, just twenty miles away.”
Birch ordered the advance guard forward again. The drizzling rain continued. Soon Beckford's horse was in trouble. Twice the animal stumbled and the major hauled him erect with a savage pull on the bridle. Beside him, Brigadier Birch's horse crashed to his knees and collapsed. Birch commandeered
a horse from a dragoon in the next rank and ordered him to double up. “We may have to fight on foot,” Birch said. “What a goddamn bloody mess.”
“You read your orders, Brigadier. They explicitly stated that you were to make this attack at all hazards,” Beckford said.
“Make it we shall,” Birch replied. “But I may have a few words with you when we get back to New York.”
Three horsemen loomed out of the night. “Where's Major Beckford?” bawled a captain. “We have a man here who says he's one of his agents. He claims our plan is discovered and we should turn back. The Bergen County militia is gathering behind us and Harry Lee's cavalry is coming at us from Morristown.”
“Where is the fellow?” Beckford said. “Let me see him before you cut his throat.”
“It's Caleb Chandler, Major,” said a familiar voice. “So help me God I've risked my life to save you. The woods along the Warwick Road are thick with cannon and infantry for two miles north of Morristown. I saw Lee's cavalry parade at Jockey Hollow.”

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