Читать книгу Arnold's Tempter - Benjamin F. Comfort - Страница 8

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Revolutionary New York was enveloped in an atmosphere of sombre unrest. The English had driven out the patriot families; some loyalists, however, who were persecuted in other colonies sought refuge in New York, but they simply became hangers-on at a huge military camp.

Gayety was forced. The monotony of military cares bore heavily upon the British leaders and at length desperation was traced upon their faces. There was no enterprise. Something must be done or the spirit of militarism would die.

Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander-in-Chief, was fat and short. Punctilious with his officers, formal,—even distant, in his manners—he was not one to inspire enthusiasm. His face was full, his nose was large and prominent, and although an expression of animated intelligence at times pervaded his countenance, still he lacked the rare ability to inspire confidence and conviction. He was simply in command because favoritism had placed him there; he was a drawing-room general.

On a crisp day in November, General Clinton and Lord Carlisle were surveying the landscape from the drawing-room of the Beekman mansion, which was a beautiful seat of revolutionary times, and the chosen country residence of the British Commander.

The blue waters of the bay were whipped into white waves as the nor’east gale swept over the water. The energy of the wind broke forth in sparkling waves upon the bosom of the harbor and Sir Henry explained to Lord Carlisle how the commerce of the new continent would center in this haven that was now controlled by his British forces. He gestured confidently as he maintained that the admiralty had a base in New York harbor from which to fit out its men-of-war and carry on the conflict in any direction.

In the midst of his laborious arguments Sir Henry exclaimed:

“My Lord, there comes one of our forty-four-gun frigates! Zounds! She’s standing right up to the inner anchorage. She may be a messenger from our War Lord, Germaine.”

Sir Henry took up his spying-glass and stepped out upon the portico to see what ship it might be.

Lord Carlisle walked back and forth impatiently, while Sir Henry closely watched the movements of the ship.

These two men differed in their plans for the conduct of the war. Lord Carlisle wished to offer a proclamation to the Colonists, openly conceding everything that the people demanded except absolute independence. But Sir Henry chafed under this means of procedure. He saw that such a course implied the failure of the military to deal with the problem of subduing the Americans. He contended that a decisive stroke must be made by the army before any terms should be offered the rebellious Colonists.

Carlisle spoke impatiently when the ship was looming up in full view:

“I hope that Germaine has sent Barclugh with definite instructions as to our course. We are losing valuable time and opportunity here by reason of our inactivity.”

This last word was a distinct challenge to Clinton, who lowered his glass long enough to look squarely at Carlisle and remark spiritedly:

“There is no use to waste words, my Lord. We cannot afford to sacrifice the reputation of English arms; it would be suicidal. Treat with the rascals? Yes, when they have felt the force of our power. Now that they have formed an alliance with our ancient enemy we must deal them a crushing blow, first.”

Carlisle, however, was insisting upon the right of the commissioners to dictate the policy, yet he did not care how the results were attained so long as his mission to America was successful. Fox and Selwyn would see that he was properly rewarded, provided the Colonies were not lost.

“Very good, Sir Henry,” retorted Carlisle, when the General stood before him in an attitude of defiance, “but the longer that we wait, the farther apart we drift. I am intent upon activities in one way or another.”

“There she comes to,” continued Sir Henry, as he resumed his spying investigations. “By the speed that she comes up the bay, I believe that she may be the Prince Harry, the fastest cruiser of the Admiralty’s register.”

“How deluded these rebels are to hold out against such odds on the sea,” exclaimed Sir Henry, with animation. “How magnificent to behold the seamanship of our sailors! Behold them swarm the yard-arms! There go the anchors to the catheads! She swings to the cable! Her sails are stowed in a twinkling! What discipline! I maintain our sovereignty of the seas and we have no business to beg a settlement except at our own terms,” concluded General Clinton as he turned upon Lord Carlisle, waving his little fat hands and arms majestically.

Carlisle saw where Sir Henry had placed him when he appealed to an Englishman’s vanity, his ships; but he looked at General Clinton through those blue eyes for an instant and fell back upon the only argument that an Englishman could never withstand.

“But, Sir Henry, you do not comprehend,” argued Carlisle, “what an expenditure of treasure this war has already cost the King’s exchequer. Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, says: ‘We shall all be paupers by this everlasting drain on our gold.’ Sir Henry, I represent the financial side of this problem.”

“Well, my Lord,” retorted Sir Henry, “all that I can say to your argument is, that with your money power, as now constituted, having your Bank Governor at the throat of our nation, you will make cowards of us all. We shall lose the toil of two centuries and the sacrifices of twenty generations of Englishmen in colonizing a wilderness. For what? For the dross called pounds sterling! The Colonists are unruly children. Chastise them and then bring them back home and treat them generously.”

Carlisle now paced nervously up and down the portico, evidently thinking of how he would turn the last argument of Sir Henry, when the little fat body of the General fairly bubbled over with pugnacity as he grew red in the face and exclaimed:

“If the War Lord would give me the men to chastise the rebels well, and not listen to the whining Bank Governor, we could wage a successful campaign and make an honorable peace.”

Lord Carlisle held his peace and glared at Clinton.

Now General Clinton turned toward the bay and there beheld events transpiring that turned the temper of his conversation.

“Zounds!” he exclaimed. “They have lowered a boat and are making for the Battery. There must be despatches or important personages aboard.”

He raised his glass and looked upon the boat’s crew approaching the shore.

“We need not bother ourselves,” contended Sir Henry, “Andre will forward anything of importance to us.”

The two representatives of government then returned to the drawing-room to get out of the biting wind and to indulge in a bottle of Madeira for old England’s sake.

At the office of the Commander-in-Chief, No. 1 Broadway, was Major John Andre who had come from the capture of Charleston with General Clinton as Adjutant General of the English Army. He was unmarried and young and affable. His lodgings were in the same house as the General’s office and he dined at the King’s Arms Tavern, No. 9 Broadway, a few doors from his quarters.

As soon as the boat could land from the Prince Harry, no time was lost in forwarding the despatches to headquarters.

A passenger came ashore, a young man dressed in the style of a Parisian of fashion. He had travelled under an assumed name, for even the British naval officers were not to know his mission. The arrangement of his queue was faultless. His satins and sword, his laces and high-heeled shoes, indicated the courtier. But Pierre La Fitte was none other than Roderick Barclugh on his mission for the King of England.

When Major Andre appeared in the ante-room of the headquarters of General Clinton, he extended his hand to this strange gentleman cordially and said:

“I believe that I have the honor of addressing M. Pierre La Fitte.”

“That’s what I am called,” replied the stranger.

“Very well, sir,” continued Andre. “I will take you to my quarters as I understand that you are on a secret mission.”

When Major Andre had received the despatches there was one in cipher marked “important” and it read as follows:

“Whitehall, Sept. 25, 177—

“Sir: I have the honor to send on a particular secret Mission to America, our esteemed Friend, M. Pierre La Fitte.

“He accompanies this despatch and his Identity must be kept a profound Secret.

“Provide him with secret and suitable Quarters and put him in communication with General Clinton and Lord Carlisle at the earliest possible moment.

“Geo. Germaine.

“Adj’t. Gen. John Andre.”

As soon as Major Andre had conducted M. La Fitte to sleeping apartments adjoining his own, and had made the stranger welcome, he sent a courier with despatches and information to the Beekman House that M. La Fitte would be accompanied by himself to meet Lord Carlisle and the General.

La Fitte rested until nightfall when darkness would conceal his movements.

A post-chaise drew up in front of the headquarters and two gentlemen disguised in great-coats emerged from the building and made their way to the carriage.

The three miles to the Beekman House were quickly covered and the secret agent alighted with Major Andre. The two approached the mansion and a sentry challenged them, but the Adjutant was recognized and allowed to enter. A liveried footman announced the two to the General who greeted them eagerly in the reception room.

“We are gratified to have you with us, Mr. Barclugh, and we believe that the nature of your mission will not let you remain in our midst very long.”

“I am glad to hear you address me by my own name, General Clinton,” responded Barclugh. “My voyage has been tedious, indeed, under my assumed name of M. La Fitte.”

The sealed instructions on Barclugh’s mission had been forwarded by Major Andre to the Beekman House and they were as follows:

“Whitehall, 24 Sept, 177—

“Sir: I have the great Pleasure of conveying the King’s Commands, by introducing to you Mr. Roderick Barclugh who is commissioned to act as the Special Secret Agent of His Majesty to the Men of Substance among his Rebellious Colonists.

“When the Duration of the Rebellion is considered, it has been mortifying to his Majesty to have no decisive Blow inflicted to speedily suppress the rebels; and His Majesty commands me to instruct that your Assistance to the Diplomacy of Mr. Barclugh and Lord Carlisle would be most gratifying to His Royal Pleasure.

“It is a great Pleasure to me to have another Occasion of obeying the King’s Commands by desiring you to convey to Lord Carlisle, His Majesty’s approbation of His Lordship’s mission to America.

“I am, sir, your most obedient humble servant,

“Geo. Germaine.

“Sir Henry Clinton, K. B.”

Lord Carlisle was much flattered by the receipt of the King’s encouragement, although Clinton noted in the letter a slight expression of unrest over the lack of results in the war.

However, Clinton did not take all of the burden of blame on himself; Lords Howe and Cornwallis had made some of the mistakes in the Jersey Campaigns and he was willing for the diplomatists to take a hand at the subjugation of the rebels, for a while, at least. They had talked much, as usual; now let them try their skill at results.

Sir Henry had to give some instructions to his Adjutant, so he turned to Roderick Barclugh as he remarked:

“Excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Barclugh. I have some urgent matters to dispose of.”

“Certainly,” returned Barclugh as he took up a discussion of affairs with Lord Carlisle, asking:

“What is the situation here, my Lord?”

“Oh, it’s hard to convince these military people,” answered Carlisle as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of General Clinton and Andre.

“I presume so,” assented Barclugh, dryly, as he shrugged his shoulders. “But what have you done, my Lord, on your mission?” asked Barclugh.

“Oh, nothing but to wait for you,” answered Carlisle disgustedly.

“Well, we must do something very soon, or know the cause,” declared Barclugh as General Clinton approached them.

“Gentlemen,” remarked General Clinton, “we might better retire to the Council Chamber and discuss our matters there. Shall I send for Mr. Eden, my Lord?”

“Never mind Eden, General,” replied Carlisle. “Mr. Barclugh is anxious to conclude with us and be about his own mission. I know that he is impatient at least to be out of New York,” replied Carlisle bluntly.

“Very well, very well, gentlemen,” assented Clinton as he led the way to the staircase and bowed to the other two in Pickwickian fashion as he said:

“After you,” and he bowed and gestured toward the staircase with his chubby hand.

A bright fire crackled in the fireplace of a nearly square room where the diplomats were to hold council with the Commander-in-Chief; a round table in the center contained a large map of the Colonies; a half dozen straight-backed bandy-legged chairs stood around carelessly; and a corner closet with a glass door was well stocked with a choice selection of Madeira.

Here were three representatives of English authority presented with the problem of subduing the rebellious Colonies. Each one, however, had his own pet theory of serving the King, ostensibly for the glory of the King, but primarily to gain glory for himself.

Clinton could see no means of ending the war except by military subjugation; Carlisle was entirely for conciliation and Barclugh was bent on subornation. All of these theories were launched upon the Colonists at the same time by the subtle minds of George III and his advisers.

Barclugh was impatient to begin the discussion, so he pulled his chair up to the table and began to tell his story unceremoniously:

“Gentlemen, my mission is to create a diversion among the men of substance in the Colonies, and I shall do it on a commercial basis. If the military can do its part and pound the army of Mr. Washington into a defensive position and at the same time subjugate the southern Colonies as is planned by the War Lord, I will overcome the men of substance by means of finance and commerce. Their commercial instincts will overshadow the phantom of independence. The merchants will desire peace and the old order of stable money and settled commerce. They cannot resist the consideration of self-interests. Then Lord Carlisle and his commissioners can proclaim that the Colonists may have all of the political freedom and the representation that they desire, as long as they keep up their allegiance to the throne of England.

“But above all where the Colonists will fail,” concluded Barclugh, “will be in their lack of gold. When the gold of England is put in the balance, the men of substance will see the hopelessness of their cause.”

“Right you are, Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Lord Carlisle. “We can grant them a few titles of nobility also which they will not be able to resist.”

“But gentlemen,” added Clinton, “the military could put the forces of Mr. Washington on the defensive at once if we could only take that stronghold of West Point. That is our stumbling-block. Our ships could control the Hudson and cut New England off from the rest, if we could ascend above West Point. There lies the key to the military situation. West Point is the Gibraltar of America.

“But,” continued Clinton, “how do you propose to reach Philadelphia, Mr. Barclugh?”

“My plan is, General Clinton,” replied Barclugh, “to embark here, on one of your ships which will take me to the east shore of the Chesapeake Bay and land me in the night. I shall make my way by land through Delaware to Wilmington, thence to Philadelphia. My story shall be that I was landed by a French privateer that was cruising in these waters.”

“Very well laid, sir!” exclaimed General Clinton, rubbing his hands. “I have the very ship, the Vulture, Captain Sutherland, that can take you on board at once and proceed on the mission.”

“Gentlemen, I can conceive of nothing but success in the plans of Mr. Barclugh,” said Lord Carlisle, “and I propose that we drink to his success.”

The three plotters stood around the table and General Clinton filled each one’s glass from the buffet with his rarest Madeira, then raising his glass, the Commander of His Majesty’s forces in America, proposed a toast, which was drunk in silence:

“Confound their politics,

Frustrate their knavish tricks,

God save the King.”

After a few civilities exchanged by the King’s representatives, Roderick Barclugh was conducted aboard the sloop-of-war, Vulture, which was commanded to sail for the Capes of the Chesapeake and land its passenger at the earliest possible moment.