by Jeff Shaara
“Dr. Rush has been my friend for . . . years. He put his signature to the Declaration of Independence, spent so many months in the congress working for our cause. I cannot just ignore his sentiment. It is one matter to dismiss the voice of a man like your Mr. Conway. I don’t fear those who are blind with ambition. Their blindness will lead them to failure, to mistakes, to unwise alliances. But Benjamin Rush is not of that cloth. He resigned as surgeon general of this army because he could not tolerate the inefficiencies in that department. While we have desperate need of his service, I have to respect his decision. This . . . I’m not certain I can respect at all. At the very least, he could have had the courage to sign his name.”
He turned, looked at Lafayette, saw Tilghman there, Hamilton behind him.
“What response is appropriate, gentlemen? I cannot prevent men in this army from believing in their own abilities, and I cannot prevent any man in this country from having his say. This may be my just reward. If my efforts do not meet those of the commanders who now find such favor with the country, then this intrigue against me is justified.” He looked at the faces, saw the outrage that he was too tired to feel himself. Tilghman said, “If you do not respond, sir, allow us to speak in your place. Allow your men to send their own message to the congress, or to General Gates, or to whoever else will spout such insubordination! No one in this camp will follow anyone but you, sir!”
Lafayette said, “I am ashamed, sir, that I believed General Conway to be an adequate commander. It is an embarrassment to me that French officers continue to infect this army with their zeal for glory. It cannot be ignored, sir!”
Washington sat down, settled heavily into the chair.
“Your loyalty is noted. I will handle this matter in a way most appropriate. You are dismissed, gentlemen.”
He knew they would continue to protest, could not hear it just then. The room emptied, and he sat alone for a moment, but there was no time for the luxury of daydreaming. He called out, “Mr. Lafayette, if you please.”
Lafayette returned, and Washington said, “I have heard nothing of progress in our negotiations with your king. Do you have any information, have you received any word?”
“Sir, I would have informed you at the first moment. I regret, I have heard nothing as well.”
Washington sat back in the chair, looked at the desk, the scattering of papers, said, “We are in a desperate time. I appreciate your outrage and your loyalty, Mr. Lafayette. But I cannot summon energy for such causes while this army endures.” The anger rose up, unstoppable now, and he rolled his hand into a tight fist, pounded slowly, softly on the desk. The words came out in a low hard growl, “I do not comprehend how the congress can hear our pleas and continue to ignore them so.” He paused, rubbed his hands together, held on to the anger, pushed it away. “This army is dying, Mr. Lafayette, a slow, quiet death. We are weaker daily, and even if we survive the winter, I do not believe the coming of spring will bring a miraculous cure. We cannot clothe the men, we cannot provide the means to protect them from the cold. And if that is not sufficient cause for despair, now there are difficulties with the food. We cannot always be faulted for sickness, but starvation is another matter. I cannot comprehend that the congress will not provide for the survival of this army, that these men, these very good men, will be allowed to suffer so.”
“Surely not, sir.”
Washington thought a moment, said, “We need your assistance, Mr. Lafayette. It is no longer about money or credit or ships filled with gunpowder. It is about soldiers, the power of your nation to turn this war against our enemy. I do not see how this army can be brought to the field in three or four months and face the might of General Howe again. Your king must understand the need, must certainly know that an alliance with America is desirable.”
“I’m sorry, sir. There is little I can offer, except hope.”
“Well then, Mr. Lafayette, let us pray for the abilities and the wisdom of Dr. Franklin.”
28. FRANKLIN
DECEMBER 1777
There was a fly in the ointment, and his name was King Charles III. The Spanish monarch was the nephew of Louis XVI, and a man of fragile sensitivity about his place in the hierarchy of European politics. The question put to him by the French government, whether or not he would enter a war with the hated English, put Charles squarely on the spot. His response was more of a personal message to his uncle at Versailles. Charles understood that an alliance with France did not change his stature as the lesser power, that his uncle King Louis would likely reap the greater glory and the greater spoils of any victory over the English. Worse, the Spanish seemed to feel they had much more to lose if America gained her independence. Certainly the American people would continue to flex their muscles, would look toward Mexico, perhaps, or other Spanish territories that America would find desirable to add to her own lands. And Charles had little confidence that he could maintain control over the colonies of Central and South America, or his islands in the Caribbean against what might become the new fashion of the day, distant colonies rising against their oppressive monarchs. The arguments swirling around him in Madrid were too strong for him to take any risks beyond his own borders. It was a rare opportunity for Charles to have the last word with his uncle Louis. His response was no. The Spanish would not join any alliance with the Americans.
DECEMBER 31, 1777
Franklin received the word from Vergennes on the last day of the year, the final capstone to a miserable holiday.
He had left the other two envoys in his house, would not even discuss the matter, the words choked away by the heat of his anger. He had grabbed his coat, wrapped himself against the cold, moved out through the bleak and desolate gardens. He knew Temple was watching him from the window, the young man always concerned for him. Yes, I would be concerned as well. This old man cannot endure many more years like this one. Failure does not contribute to longevity.
Just before Christmas, the usual stiffness in his joints had erupted into an attack of gout, and the painful swelling in his feet and knees had threatened to keep him confined to a chair. He walked with a slow limp, tried to ignore the severe pain in his left foot, his severely swollen toe suffering the tightness of his shoes. But he would not stay indoors, could not face the pitiable Deane, who had reacted to the news by collapsing into tears. Lee was worse, suspicious still of anyone and any event that did not focus on him, and Franklin knew that in Lee’s mind the collapse of the French alliance would produce a conspiracy, that somehow Lee would conjure up demons that would convince him even Franklin was profiting from Spain’s refusal, some bribe perhaps, a bizarre exercise in fantasy from Lee’s illogical mind. No, Mr. Lee, sometimes events just . . . happen. There need not be any greater reason, any despicable plot, any intent by some force of evil to point its rotten finger directly at you. We are dealing, after all, with monarchs, men who control their own fate only if they control the fate of everyone around them. It is a challenge to even the most enlightened, and despite their greed for artwork and the splendor of their palaces, there is little to suggest enlightenment in the minds of these despots.
He had reached the edge of the property, stopped at a low stone wall. He felt his shoulders slump, thought, It is not necessary to be so angry at Arthur Lee. He is no more to blame than I am. Well, perhaps I am to blame, after all. I relied on faith that Vergennes is dedicated to an alliance. Despite Mr. Lee’s lack of trust, we agree on one thing. We had expectations of success, and we were handed failure.
He looked back at the main house, realized he had come too far. Now, you old fool, you must walk that far again. He flexed his foot, the pain shocking him, tearing up through his leg, and he nearly lost his balance. He eased himself to the wall, sat slowly, the cold in the stone rising through him. He took a deep breath, looked at his hands, deep red, numb from the cold. You truly are an old fool. There is supposed to be wisdom in age, and you stumble out into a winter morning with no more thought than an anxious house pet. H
e looked up, tried to focus on the skeletons of tree limbs around him, absorbed the silence, thought, Not a bird, not a single furry varmint. They’re tucked away no doubt in some warm nest. Your intellect has sunk below the level of the dumb beasts. The silence was broken now, Temple rushing up the path toward him.
“Grandfather! Let me help you!”
The young man carried a blanket, wrapped Franklin, and he didn’t protest.
“Come inside, Grandfather. It’s too cold for a walk.”
Franklin felt the young man’s hands lifting him, and he tried to shift his weight, ease the pain in his foot. They began to move, Temple holding him tightly by the arm. He wanted to say something, but the sadness was overwhelming him. He was limping even more than before, and after a few steps, said, “We have failed, it seems. A fitting conclusion to our efforts, a long walk in the desert of winter.”
Temple seemed not to hear him, said, “Grandfather, Mr. Deane is still waiting to speak to you. He is concerned about you.”
“Hmm, yes, it is his nature. What of Lee?”
“Mr. Lee is gone, sir. He said he would seek some new solution to our difficulties.”
“Wonderful. I shall await that with childlike glee.”
They were close to the house now, and Franklin could see the door opening, Deane stepping out.
“Doctor, you should not venture out so.”
“Yes, Mr. Deane, my grandson has imparted that lesson already.”
They climbed the short steps, and Franklin could feel the heat from the house, saw the fire in the hearth, limped his way back toward his chair.
Deane sat across from him, his customary place, waited for Franklin to warm his hands, then said, “Doctor, we have another course.”
Franklin flexed his fingers, rubbed at the redness.
“What do you suggest? We can always pack our bags and move this expedition to Moscow, spend our remaining days courting the favor of Empress Catherine.”
Deane made a small grunt, looked at Temple, who stood behind Franklin’s chair.
“Mr. Franklin, would you allow me a private moment with your grandfather?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Temple was out of the room now, and Franklin was curious, saw a different expression on Deane’s face, hard, angry.
“Doctor, I wish you to cease this course!” The words came out in a burst, and Franklin was surprised, said, “What course is that?”
“You are not the victim in this matter. Yet you behave as though the French have given affront to you alone. I would rather spend our energies in constructing a positive result for our nation, than . . . forgive me, Doctor . . . than in wallowing in our own personal despair.”
He had never seen Deane angry before, felt himself swelling up with responses, but the force of Deane’s temper kept him quiet.
“As you know, Doctor, I have been in discussion with Paul Wentworth. He has been in Paris for some time, representing the interests of the British ministry. He wishes to speak to you.”
Franklin knew that Deane had been approached by British representatives, had kept far away from any of that. It was a risk to his relationship with Vergennes that Franklin would not take.
“Doctor, Mr. Wentworth claims that there is a movement afoot in the British cabinet to find the avenue toward a reconciliation with America. There is considerable regret that this war has gone beyond anyone’s expectations. Without the French alliance, what choice do we have but to consider some agreement with England that might prevent further bloodshed?”
“Are you suggesting that we enter into a discussion of surrender terms?”
“No, Doctor. And neither is Mr. Wentworth. He has not gone so far as to state it plainly, but I believe there is great fear in London that our alliance with France is close at hand. He has communicated a desire to interrupt that by forging some agreeable treaty between England and America.”
“How agreeable?”
Deane shook his head.
“He is vague about specific terms. Which is why you should meet with him. He is considered to be the most influential member of the British officials in Paris. I certainly understand your fear that the French would know of this.”
Franklin thought a moment, said, “He is more than an influential official. Count Vergennes considers him to be the chief British spy in France. If I was to meet with him, it could cause a stir at Versailles.”
“That might be unavoidable, Doctor.”
Franklin sat upright, stared into the fire.
“It might be more than that, Silas. It might be most desirable. The French have every reason to hope for American independence, whether they risk their own necks or not. But if America seeks a renewed alliance with England, if we can secure some peace that sits well with both congress and King George . . .” He looked at Deane now, felt the energy returning, his mind awakening. He slapped the arm of his chair, said, “Silas, contact your friend Mr. Wentworth. I wish to meet with him. I am eager to hear his propositions.”
“I can arrange some discreet location, Doctor. We can make every effort to prevent Count Vergennes from hearing of it.”
“No, Silas. I wish the meeting to take place right here, in this house. As for Vergennes hearing about the meeting? I am depending on it.”
JANUARY 6, 1778
Franklin was polite to the extreme, welcomed Wentworth into his parlor with a smile, could not help thinking of the seductive graciousness of the spider. He did not know Wentworth other than the casual passing in London, the man serving as the colonial representative to Rhode Island. Wentworth’s only other connection to the colonies was by family, a cousin to John Wentworth, the last royal governor of that colony. But now, neither Wentworth nor his cousin had any official connection to America. Both their positions had been erased by the start of the war.
Wentworth carried himself with the stiffness of an English aristocrat, the attitude of a man who must force himself to endure the company of anyone of a lower station. Franklin enjoyed Wentworth’s discomfort, made all the more entertaining by the man’s purpose for being there. Wentworth’s mission was, after all, to convince Franklin that there was a real hope that England and America could set aside their differences and ignore nearly three years of astounding violence.
Franklin had purposely allowed Wentworth to make his case, allowed the flood of patronizing words to fill the room, all the carefully rehearsed platitudes and expressions of mutual benefit. After nearly twenty minutes, he could feel that Wentworth was tiring, the man’s voice, and his ingratiating smile fraying around the edges. Franklin waited for a pause in the man’s presentation, said, “Your loyalty to your king is admirable, sir.”
The comment seemed to puzzle Wentworth, had nothing to do with what he was saying.
“Doctor?”
“You are a most loyal English citizen. Your king would be proud.”
“Thank you, I’m sure.”
There was silence now, and Franklin knew he had changed the course of the man’s entire presentation.
“Tell me, Mr. Wentworth, it must be a maddening experience for the ministry to deal with such rabble as we find in congress.”
It was a casting of bait, and after a moment Wentworth said, “I admit to you, Doctor, that I share the curiosity of many in Parliament how such a body of men, who claim to represent their nation, can so readily reveal those affairs of state which should be kept private. There has not been a single example of a private correspondence between my government and yours that has not suddenly become a topic of display for your newspapers, or posted in every town square. How does any government expect to conduct its business by revealing every policy and every negotiation to its people?”
Franklin shrugged. “That’s a question I cannot answer, sir. Some in your Parliament would claim that government can only be accomplished by men of breeding, that men of congress must be men of title. Certainly, most men who perform the duties that Mr. Deane, Mr. Lee, and myself have attempted here, w
ould, in your government, be men of title.”
Wentworth took the bait again.
“Absolutely, Doctor! I see we are of the same mind on this matter! What you are so delicately proposing, sir, is that you gentlemen could be disposed to accepting King George’s terms if there was, ah, ample reward.”
“Mr. Wentworth, I have proposed nothing of the sort.”
Wentworth smiled now, said, “Ah! Yes! Well, very good, sir! Your message is received and shall be delivered.”
“You are certainly mistaken, sir. But since you have mentioned the word, what are the terms, exactly, that your government is proposing?”
Wentworth seemed to be enjoying himself now, said, “Very good, indeed, sir. You are a master at diplomacy. Quite simply put, sir, it is a matter of fact that an alliance of England and America creates an empire that is unequaled in the world. There is mutual benefit in matters of defense and in matters of commerce. The marketplace alone that we each bring to our respective merchants and craftsmen is extraordinary! We share the common language, which, to be frank, Doctor, is a decided advantage for you, I’m sure!”
Franklin laughed at the man’s joke, thought, If anyone was unclear if you were a spy or not, you have just provided the evidence. How else would a man of no acquaintance know of the inefficiency of my French?
“Doctor, I must assume that you represent the views of your congress, and carry considerable weight there.”
“I would not say that, sir.”
“Ah, of course. Nonetheless, Doctor, I will speak as though you do. The ministry is prepared to withdraw the demands placed upon the colonies by the various acts put into place since 1763. Since these acts were so odious to you, and seemed to produce such hostility to the crown, the king himself is willing to concede that they were enacted in error.”
Franklin could not hold back, said, “Why did you not consider this to be an option three years ago?”
Wentworth seemed surprised by the question.
