by Ron Carter
“Sir, we were sent here by General Washington. General Arnold assigned us to your regiment. We finished what General Washington sent us to do, and we’ve got to return to report to him. We can’t talk to General Arnold, so we thought we better tell you.”
“I understand. I’ll tell Arnold.”
“We’re going to move north for a few days with a New Hampshire militia regiment. Eli has found his sister after eighteen years. He needs to see her.”
Dearborn turned to Eli. “Lost her?”
“Our parents were killed. I was taken by the Indians. She was given to a family to raise. I’ve been looking for a long time.”
A smile crossed Dearborn’s face. “Well, it’s nice to know things work out sometimes. Go see her. Get back down to Washington when you can, and tell him what a job we did here.”
Billy answered. “We will, sir.” He turned to go when Dearborn stopped him. “Say, I think you’re the one I’ve been looking for. Were you two there when we stormed the Breymann redoubt?”
“Yes, sir. With your regiment.”
“Aren’t you the one that picked up a German musket and shot an officer who was about to kill you with a pistol. Someone—a sergeant—described a man like you.”
“I remember that. Yes, sir.”
“Do you know who that officer was?”
“No, sir.”
“General Heinrich von Breymann. When he went down, his men ran. I wanted you to know that.”
“When he came up in front of me I didn’t know who he was, sir.”
“Doesn’t matter how it happened. The redoubt was ours the minute he went down.”
“I didn’t know, sir.”
Eli interrupted. “Is Arnold inside? Were you here to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to be all right? We saw what he did at that last battle. Hard to believe.”
“His leg is bad, but I think he’ll recover.”
Eli hesitated for a moment. “Has Gates made out his report on that battle? We heard what he did to Arnold in his other report.”
Disgust showed in Dearborn’s face. “He’s finished with the latest report. Gates never left his quarters during the battle. Morgan and Learned and a few of us helped him get his facts straight this time. General Arnold’s name is in every paragraph of this report. We all helped, but it was Arnold who beat Burgoyne finally. Like it or not, Congress is going to have to give Arnold his due this time. If they don’t, a few of us will pay John Hancock a visit.”
“Thank you.”
Dearborn turned and disappeared back into the hospital.
Billy turned to Eli. A deep weariness had settled on both of them.
“Come on. We better get our things and get some sleep. We have to be in the New Hampshire camp by dawn tomorrow.”
* * * * *
Horace Walpole stood in his tiny, cluttered office, squinting one eye as he raised a steaming mug of coffee to blow, then gingerly sip. He sat down on the worn chair facing his desk in one corner, and raised the cup once more before he set it down on a month-old newspaper that showed a dozen coffee rings and stains. Slight of build, hunch-shouldered, hawk-faced, thinning gray hair, and the most famous and powerful sage and newspaper writer in London, Walpole reached for a copy of a dog-eared, well-worn article he had written weeks earlier, and he scowled as he scanned it again.
“Humph,” he grumbled to himself. “Ah yes, Burgoyne the pompous. Our premiere general was delivered his first lesson in September, and not a word from him since. Either he has subdued the colonies altogether, or they have swallowed him up.” Walpole tossed the document back onto his desk. “With the world scarcely breathing while it waits for war news, we must deal with the wilderness and three thousand miles of the Atlantic for it to get here.” He reached for his coffee cup. “It is so inconvenient to have all letters come by the post of the ocean. People should never go to war above ten miles off, as the Grecian states used to do.”
He was sipping at the steaming cup again when an urgent banging on his office door brought him up short. He set the cup down too hard, and it spilled on his finger and the newspaper. He licked his finger as he hurried to throw the door open.
Robert Lawrence, wrapped in a heavy woolen coat with a scarf piled high under his chin, pushed past him and turned, breathless. “Horace, this just arrived from Quebec. Carleton. He reports that Burgoyne and his entire army are now prisoners of the rebels!”
Walpole gaped, then seized the document. With the skilled eye of one whose long life had been spent putting thoughts into words, Walpole scanned the writing in five seconds, then snatched his coat off its peg on the back of the door. He reached to thrust two coins into Robert’s hand, exclaimed, “Wait for me,” clapped his tall, stovepipe hat onto his head, and was buttoning his coat and wrapping his scarf as he hurried out into the morning traffic in the raw salt air of London’s streets. He fairly trotted the two blocks to the palace gates where the two stiff, uniformed guards swung the gates open to his familiar figure, and he hurried up the cobblestones to the palace door. The guard at the door said, “Good morning, Mr. Walpole,” and opened the door to him without question.
Inside the sumptuous room, Walpole paused to remove his hat as a man wearing an impeccable uniform with the epaulets of a major in the British army strode across the shining, polished floor, boot heels clicking. Faint, muted sounds of a human being in deep agony reached the two of them from down a long, broad corridor to Walpole’s left. Walpole had been down that richly decorated hall many times, visiting the king in both his conference room and his private quarters.
“Mr. Walpole. A pleasure as always. I presume you’ve heard the news.”
“Ten minutes ago. The world is waiting. Might the king have a statement?”
The officer raised a manicured hand to thoughtfully stroke his chin. “I believe it would be prudent to wait. Perhaps this afternoon.”
The groaning and wailing from down the corridor increased, and Walpole turned a knowing eye for a moment to look. He pondered for a time, then brought his face back to the major standing before him. He spoke not a word, but his eyes asked the question.
The major said nothing, but slowly nodded.
Walpole bowed. “I thank you, sir, for the brief but most penetrating interview.”
The major returned the bow. “My pleasure, sir.”
Robert lunged from his chair the moment Walpole rattled the doorknob and walked in.
“Well?”
Walpole quickly hung his hat on its peg, unwound his scarf, and was working with the buttons on his greatcoat before he spoke.
“The king got the news.”
Robert’s eyes were wide. “And?”
“I was not allowed to see him. I interviewed Major Alexanderson. Most poignant.” He sat down at his desk, drew his inkwell from its corner, seized the worn quill, and turned to Robert.
“If you want to learn this questionable business, draw up a chair and watch.”
Walpole’s face drew into a pucker as he searched for the words that matched his thoughts. He bobbed his head once, dipped the quill, and began scratching, while Robert leaned forward, watching in rapt silence.
“At long last we are privileged to receive enlightenment concerning the fortunes of our expeditionary forces in our wilderness colonies across the ocean. However, not from General John Burgoyne, whose presence has lately deafened us with silence, but from General Sir Guy Carleton. You will recall that General Carleton once commanded the Northern army of His Majesty, with General Burgoyne as his second in command. That arrangement was reversed after General Burgoyne’s five-month visit to London, and several trips to the local steam baths and social events with Lord Germain.
“With some sense of ironic justice, I’m sure, General Guy has informed us this morning that General Burgoyne himself, along with his entire army, are now prisoners of our rebellious family in North America. A hasty visit to the king’s palace, and a brief but penetrating int
erview resulted in two observations:
“The king has received the news. And, upon receiving it, the king fell into agonies.”
Walpole straightened in his chair and tossed his quill beside the scrawled words. He studied them in silence for five full minutes, while Robert watched his every expression. Then Walpole picked up his quill once more, to begin the scratching out of a word here, a thought there, adding, refining the flow, the adjectives, until it all fit together to create the impression he wanted.
One line remained unchanged. “The king fell into agonies.”
* * * * *
The clatter of horses’ hooves and iron rims on buggy wheels against the cobblestones brought Ben Franklin to the window of his home in Passy, a small, beautiful, quaint village within easy distance of both Paris and Versailles. Franklin pushed aside the curtain and watched the driver come back on the reins to the two horses. The buggy slowed and stopped with the horses stamping their feet, blowing vapor from their nostrils.
The carriage door burst open, and Silas Deane stepped to the street. He dug coins from a leather purse, paid the driver, and turned to hurry up the brick walk to Franklin’s door. At his rapid knock, Franklin called, “Come in, Silas.”
Deane pushed the door open and was unbuttoning his heavy overcoat while he spoke.
“You’ve heard the news?”
“About Burgoyne?”
“We defeated his whole army! They’re all our prisoners, he with them.”
“So I’m informed.”
Deane tossed his overcoat over the back of a chair. “All of France is celebrating. You’d think it was their victory, not ours.”
“In a way, it is.”
“This changes everything! The question is, how do we best use it?”
Franklin nodded. “Well said. Any suggestions?”
“Somehow we’ve got to see King Louis. I doubt he can find a way to avoid joining us now.”
Franklin gestured. “Take a seat. Coffee? Chocolate?”
Deane shook his head.
Franklin went on. “We’ll see the king, but all in good time. First we’ve got to persuade Vergennes to put this before the king on exactly the right footing. France has to recognize us as an independent nation, with rights and powers to treaty. Then they’ll have to agree to declare war on England, not just assist us with men and equipment. And finally, they’ll have to sign an open alliance with us with mutual guarantees. They’ll provide sufficient men and ships to defeat England. Getting all that done in the right order will take some thought.”
“Have you heard from Vergennes?”
“Nothing significant. I’ll arrange an audience with him as soon as we’ve done a few things.”
“Like what?”
Franklin gestured to his desk in the corner. “I received a letter from Lord Stormont in London. Apparently he heard about the loss of Burgoyne’s army several days ago. His letter openly asks us to meet with him at once, to discuss what we must have to put aside our differences and return to the English empire.”
“Have you answered it?”
“No. At the time, I didn’t know what to say. I do now.”
“What?”
“At the moment, nothing at all. I think Vergennes ought to see that letter. The quicker the better. If anything will bring him into line instantly, it ought to be the thought that we might be making arrangements with England to rejoin them. We can’t forget that Vergennes’s one great dream in life is to avenge the humiliation France suffered when they surrendered to England to end the Seven Years’ War. That was 1763. For fourteen years they’ve waited, and it’s my judgment they see us as their last great hope to give England what England gave them back then.”
“Then let’s get the letter copied and delivered.”
“We will. But with it will be two other documents. I received the news about Burgoyne from Jonathan Austin. You’ve met him. He’s a ship owner who has substantial trade with France. His report is far too long to set in print, so I’ve already drafted a twenty-two-line statement for Vergennes. The other document we’ll need is nearly finished. It’s a detailed summary of what Britain lost when we defeated Burgoyne.”
Franklin paused to take a deep breath. “It’s impressive. Did you know they lost nine thousand two hundred and three soldiers—British, German, Canadian, and loyalists—killed, wounded, or captured? Plus deserters? They gave up more than one hundred forty cannon, and close to ten thousand muskets. Gunpowder also, and tents, uniforms, food supplies, shoes, boots, money.” Again he paused and a faint smile showed. “Among the prisoners were four members of their parliament!”
Deane reared back in his chair. “We got four of their parliament?”
Franklin chuckled and nodded. “A tragedy, wouldn’t you say? I’ll have that document finished by two o’clock. Would you care to accompany me to Versailles to deliver all three documents to Vergennes today?”
In the cold midafternoon sunlight, Deane waited while Franklin laboriously lowered his seventy-two-year-old body from the carriage to the cobblestones, then turned to tell the driver to wait. They walked to the front door of the building housing the foreign ministry offices of Comte de Vergennes, and five minutes later were seated across the ornate desk from the slender, immaculate Vergennes.
Franklin nodded graciously. “My thanks for allowing us to visit on such short notice.”
“It is my pleasure. Was there something pressing?”
Franklin glanced above Vergennes’s head at the huge oil painting of King Louis XVI, then back to Vergennes. “Not pressing, but significant. I’m sure you’ve heard of the downfall of General Burgoyne?”
Vergennes’s expression remained calm, controlled. “Yes. A few days ago.”
“It seems his defeat has shifted the affairs of the world somewhat. I didn’t know if you were aware what his surrender cost the British, so I took the privilege of making a somewhat detailed list.” He chuckled. “It seems we are now holding captive four members of the British parliament. I doubt any of them expected that outcome when they joined that august body.”
He leaned forward to lay the document on the near edge of the polished desk. “In addition, I’ve prepared a brief extract of the message I received from America, outlining the details of Burgoyne’s surrender.” He laid that document on top of the first one.
“And, I thought you might take an interest in this letter received lately from Lord Stormont in his official position as England’s ambassador to France.” He also laid that letter on the desk.
Vergennes caught himself in time to retain control. He did not reach for the Stormont letter. He smiled mechanically. “The letter concerns France?”
Franklin shook his head. “No. Not directly. It simply asks what we Americans want, short of total freedom, to come back to the British empire. I haven’t answered it because I didn’t know what to say. I’m still not certain.”
Vergennes straightened in his chair. “I very much appreciate your consideration in sharing all this with me. May I have time to study this matter out?”
“Of course. I will be delighted to hear from you when you are ready.”
Back in the carriage, Franklin leaned out the window to call orders to the driver. “Would you drive down a short distance and stop?”
“Where?”
“It doesn’t matter. Near a tavern, if you can find one. You can drink some hot rum while we wait.”
Forty minutes later, with Silas Deane becoming increasingly nervous, Franklin suddenly leaned forward, peering out the carriage window. The unmistakable, slender figure of Vergennes hurried from his building to a waiting carriage. Franklin adjusted his bifocals as Vergennes slammed the carriage door, and the horses lunged into their collars to set the carriage in motion, rocking as it sped up the street.
Franklin turned to Deane. “You can go inside and get the driver now. Vergennes has left for Paris to show our handiwork to the king. It shouldn’t take long.”
At noon two day
s later, a messenger appeared at Franklin’s door, hat in hand. “The Comte de Vergennes, foreign minister of France, inquires would it be possible for you to visit his office?”
Franklin raised his eyebrows. “When?”
“At your earliest convenience. Hopefully today.”
At half past two o’clock, Franklin and Deane took their places opposite Vergennes in his office. Vergennes leaned forward, forearms on the desk, fingers interlaced.
“The king received your documents most favorably. He has authorized me to deliver the following message. He is determined to acknowledge the independence of the United States, and to enter into a treaty of amity and commerce, as well as any others that are appropriate. He committed France to support your rise to independence with every means and power available.”
Deane gaped. Franklin smiled. They’re ready. They’ll go to war with England, and they’ll give us the men and the ships we need. “It is most humbling. I presume that proper documents will be prepared to make this arrangement known to the world?”
“The king requests the honor of your presence at an official signing. Six days from today at eleven o’clock in the morning, in this office. The king will appear personally to attach his signature and the official seal of France.”
On the sixth day, the street in front of the French foreign ministry offices was jammed by ten-thirty a.m. Soldiers of the King’s Guard lined the walkway from the street to the door, and political figures of every nationality crowded the streets for fifty yards in both directions. Franklin’s coach was delayed ten minutes covering the last one hundred yards.
Inside, Vergennes’s office was crowded with dignitaries from most European countries, each dressed in finery intended to outshine that of the man next to him. Powdered wigs abounded. King Louis was cloaked in a mink-lined, bejeweled robe that cost the people of France most dearly. The room quieted when Franklin walked in. He was dressed in a simple homespun brown suit, white stockings, square-toed leather shoes. His long, thinning hair was brushed back, hanging loose, and his bifocals were perched on the end of his nose. No one in the room presented a more striking figure.
