“And you were most unfortunately wounded and almost captured on your return,” Beckford said.
“A piece of bad luck,” Simcoe said. “The thing is, we proved that a well-armed force on good horses can penetrate the state virtually at will. Their militia grow more and more timid and supine. What we have in mind is a prize infinitely more valuable than captive loyalists. Many of the Queen's Rangers are from New Jersey and they frequently get intelligence through smuggled letters or secret visits to their families. I dare say it's better stuff than you pick up from your high-priced spies.”
“I only wish you and other commanders were more systematic about sending it to me.”
Simcoe ignored the comment. Beckford found himself recalling a letter he had received from his father, last year, ordering him to transfer to a regiment and prove his courage on the battlefield, instead of wasting his time on “spies and politics.”
“We've learned that Mr. Washington is quartered a considerable distance from his army,” Simcoe continued. “Nearer to us in New York by several miles. I don't think it would be at all difficult for a well-chosen force to carry him off.”
It was all so understated, it took Beckford a moment to grasp the full meaning of the words. Simcoe was proposing to capture George Washington. Decapitate the American army. Make their pretentious rebellion a laughing stock around the world by seizing their great man, the hero who had mesmerized half of Europe, including Major General John Beckford. That dunderhead had recently made a speech in Parliament comparing the Virginia tobacco farmer to Hannibal and the Duke of Marlborough. Capture George Washington! It was a simple, immensely daring ideaâthe sort of gamble that often succeeds in a war.
In the same offhand way, Simcoe began describing the force he would use to execute the coup. “It would require no more than eighty men. Every sixth man would be an officer. We would all wear the white woolen greatcoats issued to the army in Canada. They'll make us all but invisible in this perpetual snow. There's a wood near Morristown that my people know well. We would tie our horses there and debouch from this cover precisely at dawn. Two three-pounders on sleds should be enough to beat down the door of Washington's quarters while the men deal with his guard. In five minutes the general will be our prisoner, on the way to New York.”
Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe munched a pickled oyster. “As for pursuit, I dare say it won't be a problem. My people tell me there's not a horse in the American camp. They've scattered
their cavalry all over Morris County, as far west as Trenton, because they haven't the money for fodder.”
Simcoe's intelligence was excellent. The horseless condition of the rebel army had already been reported to Beckford by agent Twenty-six. The major raised his glass of claret. “To you, my dear sir. To your daring and genius. I believe it will work. Rest assured I will bring it to General Knyphausen's attention immediately.”
Knyphausen was the word, the name, that explained why Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe was dining with Major Beckford. On December 31, 1779, Sir Henry Clinton, the commander in chief of the British army in North America, had sailed south to attack Charleston, South Carolina, leaving Wilhelm von Knyphausen in command of His Majesty's forces in New York. General Knyphausen could be approached only through his aide-de-camp, Walter Beckford, for a very good but painful reason: the Hessian warrior spoke not a word of English. Beckford's father had insisted that he learn German as a boy because it was the language of England's chief ally in Europe. It had proven to be one of the few useful orders the general had given him.
As he toasted Simcoe's daring and genius, Beckford's agile mind was drawing a number of unspoken conclusions. One, the most obvious, was the probability that if Simcoe succeeded, his coup would totally overshadow the mutiny in the American army on which Beckford and his agent, Twenty-six, had lavished so much time and money over the past two years. For the present, Beckford saw it was vital to connect the two plans. Later it might become advisable, perhaps even necessary, to eliminate Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe from the combined operation. That would depend on how much of the credit Simcoe was willing to share with Walter Beckford. His present attitude was not promising.
“I see no difficulty in concerting this stroke with a mutiny we're planning in Morristown,” Beckford said. “In fact, the
two dovetail so neatly I can only wonder why your idea didn't occur to me. Have you mentioned it to anyone else in New York?”
“Only to one of my officers in the Queen's Rangers. I trust him absolutely.”
“I think we'd better adopt a code. Let's call our plan âInviting James to New York.”'
If Simcoe noticed that his plan had become “our plan,” he said nothing. Beckford was about to pour another glass of claret and begin to discuss ways to coordinate the two master strokes when Oskar Kiphuth appeared in the doorway, “Sir,” he said in German, “there is a woman downstairs. She tells me in French that she must see you immediately. She is most agitated. Her name is Kuyper.”
“What's he saying?” Simcoe demanded.
“One of my female agents has come here, contrary to all orders. We have a safe house on Bowrie Lane.”
“I've often wondered about the money spent on female spies. I can't imagine a man telling a woman anything of importance,” Simcoe said. “But I might change my mind if they called on me of an evening. I didn't know you favored the ladies, Beckford. I thought you found boys more enticing.”
“I've long since given up that youthful peccadillo, Colonel,” Beckford said in his most frigid tone. “Moreover, I never mix business with pleasure. I'm afraid we must shorten our feast.”
“Just as well,” Simcoe said. “Hare always gives me a bellyache.”
“Show the lady into the parlor,” Beckford said to Kiphuth in German. He decided he was grateful for the interruption. Simcoe had told him all he needed to know. There was no point in giving him any more details about the mutiny or in revealing the part of his own plan that General Knyphausen had thus far vetoedâthe attempt to assassinate George Washington.
Kiphuth returned to the dining room with Simcoe's cloak. The commander of the Queen's Rangers threw it around his
solid shoulders and said, “Aren't you even going to give me a look at her, Beckford?”
“It'sâsomewhat irregular. Her identity is a secret. But ⦔
They went down the stairs to the second floor and Beckford pushed open the parlor door. Flora Kuyper was facing the fire. She turned to confront them. Her thick, dark hair was unpowdered and uncombed. She was not wearing rouge, but the cold air had added a faint flush to her oval cheeks, which were streaked with tears. Even in disarray, she was one of the most beautiful women Beckford had ever seen.
“Ah, Beckford, what hard duty you perform,” Simcoe murmured. “Let me know the moment you have some word from Knyphausen.”
With a brief, somewhat mocking bow to Flora Kuyper, Simcoe continued down the stairs to the street. Beckford strode into the parlor, slamming the door behind him. “What is the reasonâwhat can justifyâthis extraordinary visit?” he demanded. “You've been told never to come here. This house is watched day and night. The Americans are well aware of my role in the army.”
“Caesar is deadâmurdered. I want to know who killed himâyouâor William?”
“Dead? Are you sure?” Beckford said.
“Here's a letter from the man who says he discovered his body. A chaplain named Caleb Chandler. Is he one of your agents?”
Major Beckford was not used to interrogation from Flora Kuyper. He was not used to the way she was looking at him. The submission, the mixture of fear and gratitude he usually saw in her dark green eyes, with their exquisitely long lashes, had been replaced by a startling mixture of anger and hatred. He snatched the letter she had drawn from an inner pocket of her cloak, without answering her.
“It's addressed to my husband. They don't know aboutâhis death,” Flora said.
Beckford gestured to her to be silent and swiftly read the
Reverend Chandler's neat, firm script. The first page described his discovery of Caesar's body in the snow; the second page dealt with the aftermath.
At first I was told by members of General Washington's staff that nothing could be done to solve the mystery of Muzzey's death. I considered this a double outrageâan example of the prejudice against the Negro race so prevalent in America, and the indifference with which the army's officers regard the death of an enlisted man. I immediately protested Now we are to have an investigation of this murder. Whether the culprit will ever be found is another matter. The deed was done in the dark of night, and the drifting snow effectively covered the tracks of the killer. The motive could not have been robbery. Private Muzzey had in his pocket a dozen gold sovereigns (remarkable in itself) which had not been touched.
I write to you not only to communicate the melancholy news but also to inquire into the possibility of your shedding some light on this sad event. Perhaps you know the source of the uncommonly large amount of money that Private Muzzey had in his pocket. Perhaps you or some of your other slaves had heard from him since he entered the army. Any information you can give me would be most gratefully received. I am determined to bring his murderer to justice in spite of the army's negligent attitude.
At the completion of the investigation, Congressman Hugh Stapleton has kindly agreed to take the body to your farm for burial. I gather Mr. Stapleton is an old schoolmate of yours. He recalled, when he heard your name, that Caesar was your personal servant for many years. I thought you and your other slaves would want to pay your last respects to him rather than have him tumbled into the common grave the army uses for enlisted soldiers.
Your most obedient servant
CALEB CHANDLER
Chaplain, 2nd Connecticut Brigade
“This could not have come at a worse time,” Beckford said.
“Did you kill him?” Flora asked again.
“Of course not. Why should I kill the best courier in my networkâthe only dependable oneâwhen I've never been in worse need of communicating with Twenty-six?”
“Then it must have been William.”
“Twenty-six. Call him Twenty-six. I want no one to know you have any connection with him. I very much doubt that he'd do such a thing without consulting me. However unpleasant Caesar probably was to him, as he was to me and everyone else who knew him, Twenty-six needed his services. He's always been a practical manâ”
“Then it must have been the Americans.”
“They seldom kill spies surreptitiously. They prefer to hang them. They're always trying to teach the faithful a lesson. I'm inclined to think the murderer was someone with a personal grudge against Caesar. I'm sure he had enemies by the dozen in his regiment. They wouldn't dare attack him in daylight. But in the dark even a behemoth like him could be downed by a man who knew how to use a bayonet.”
Flora began to weepâviolent sobs that Beckford found intensely irritating. “My dear Flora,” he said, “you're not helping matters with this excessive grief. He was only a slave, after all. What are you outâtwo or three hundred pounds? We'll pay you in full for him.”
“Caesar was ⦠a member of my family. I ⦠I promised him his freedom. I ⦠youâthe two of usâled him into this business.”
“No one led Caesar anywhere. He did only what pleased him. He was as arrogant a bastard as I've ever seen. And untrustworthy. I've thought for some time he might be a double agent.”
“What if he was? He had no reason to love you. He only despised you less than the Americans.”
“I hope such a sentiment doesn't inhabit your lovely breast, my dear.”
The unspoken threat calmed Flora considerably. “I'm loyal,” she said. “But am I safe now? Was Caesar carrying a message that implicated me?”
Beckford paced the parlor for a moment. He had long since learned that in intelligence work almost every reverse could be turned to some advantage if the director of the operation did not lose his head. An intelligence chief needed two things: good nerves and a comprehensive plan. Walter Beckford was confident that he had both. He picked up the Reverend Caleb Chandler's letter.
“This odd mixture of sympathy and indignation that you've received from Chaplain Chandler is the best possible proof that the Americans don't suspect you. They're having a Continental Congressman deliver Caesar's body. They'd never put a man like that within our reach if they thought you were untrustworthy. If you behave well, we may gain more than we've lost from his misfortune.”
“What do you mean?” Flora said, staring morosely into the fire.
“This congressmanâHugh Stapletonâis high on our list of disaffected Americans. We're quite certain he's a plum ripe for the plucking. He could be very useful to us in the aftermath of the mutiny. Why don't you charm him into confiding his private thoughts on politics to you, then keep him dangling until we're ready to draw him into our net?”