Benjamin turned, walked to the bed, but didn't sit down. Suddenly he turned.
"You mean his program calculates the probability of the Cold War?"
"Yes."
Benjamin laughed. "But isn't that like predicting rain after a flood?"
"Not quite." Wolfe knitted his eyebrows. "From what I've been able to understand of Fletcher's work, he simply didn't believe it."
"Believe it?" asked Benjamin, confused. "How can you not believe in the Cold War?"
"It's more about questioning the fundamental logic of the MAD doctrine-Mutual Assured Destruction-that supposedly kept the Cold War from turning hot. He doesn't come right out and say so, but he seems to imply that, at least statistically, it simply doesn't make sense. Or put in Fletcher's terms, that it has a high probability of such a doctrine being unstable. And if I'm reading this right, the TEACUP program is calculating that probability at 80 percent."
Before Benjamin could say anything, Wolfe moved the pointer on the screen and slowly dragged the window with the graphs aside, so that the list of files underneath it was now visible. "And I would assume this is the list of his data points from which to calculate that probability."
Benjamin stepped closer, leaned down over Wolfe's shoulder.
There were three columns of file names. On the right, Benjamin recognized a number of books about King Philip's War. In the middle was a single file name: "Gadenhower Data." And on the left was a list of titles he didn't recognize, but they were clearly all about nuclear war: The Effects of Global Thermonuclear War, Thinking About the Unthinkable, The Fallacies of Cold War Deterrence… and a long list of journal articles and white papers.
Benjamin saw that each of the titles had a little X in front of its name… or so he thought until Wolfe suddenly placed his hand on Benjamin's arm.
"Look there," said Wolfe, pointing to the bottom of the list.
"Bainbridge Data," said the bottommost file name on the left. And there was no little X before its name. "And there," said Wolfe, pointing to the last entry in the column on the right.
Stzenariy 55, it read.
"Well, here goes," said Wolfe. He clicked on the "Bainbridge Data" file, and it opened… to reveal nothing.
"Obviously he hadn't gotten that data yet," Wolfe said.
"But he had the Ginsburg book, we know that," protested Benjamin.
"Then 'Bainbridge Data' must refer to some other information about the good Reverend," Wolfe said, sounding frustrated.
Benjamin thought for a moment. "Like his diary," he said.
"Diary?" asked Wolfe impatiently.
"Something Dr. Stoltz told me about at dinner. It's an amazing story. I can't understand why my father never mentioned it, as it surely would have been referenced-"
"Benjamin!"
"Yes, sorry. Anyway, according to Stoltz they discovered something he called the Bainbridge diary here, on the grounds of the Foundation, back in the 1920s."
"And Stoltz told Fletcher about this discovery?"
"Yes. He said Jeremy came to speak to him about the mural in the foyer, but that he was also very interested in anything about Bainbridge, including this diary."
"Then why is the file empty?"
"Because the diary isn't here. Not anymore. It was donated to the Morris Estate."
"The Seaton Morris Estate?" Wolfe asked.
"Stoltz didn't say," Benjamin said. Then he thought of something. "But there's a stamp in the Ginsburg book that identifies it as part of the Seymour Morris library."
"Do tell." Wolfe turned back to the screen. "Well, let's see if this other file is more revealing."
He clicked on the " Stzenariy 55 " file. And when it opened, it did indeed contain something more. But only three words.
Borba s tenyu.
CHAPTER 16
Once again, Benjamin found himself driving through the wooded hills of Massachusetts. The good weather had given way to a typically overcast New England fall day and, though it wasn't raining yet, the threat of a downpour lurked in the low clouds overhead.
Benjamin and Wolfe were headed for the Morris Estate, not far from the Foundation's campus, for a hastily arranged interview with one Seaton Morris: son of the late tycoon, philanthropist, and bibliophile Seymour Morris, now guardian of the original Bainbridge diary-and wealthy benefactor of the American Heritage Foundation.
"On a Sunday?"
"Arthur implied the Morris family owes the Foundation a favor, or many favors," Wolfe said. "But he suggested we arrive no later than ten o'clock. Apparently they're hosting a charity art auction this afternoon, and they want our little tour group out before then."
So, still groggy from too little sleep and too much wine, brandy, and scotch, Benjamin had followed Wolfe outside. He'd noticed Wolfe was carrying his briefcase, and when he'd asked, Wolfe had told him yes, Fletcher's laptop was inside, as he no longer felt Fletcher's room was a "secure site." But he hadn't explained why.
Soon the narrow road was again bordered by rows of maple and sycamore trees, with the occasional paved driveways leading up to stately, isolated mansions. As they drove, they discussed the files they'd discovered the night before on Fletcher's computer.
"I recognized most of the ones about nuclear strategy," Wolfe said, "but not the one titled Stzenariy 55. Which I translate as 'Script 55.' Which means nothing to me."
"And that Russian phrase that was inside?"
"Borba s tenyu?" said Wolfe. "Not a clue."
"Well, I was paying attention to those other files, from the Colonial period," Benjamin said. "Did you notice the one called 'Newburgh Data'?"
"No. Why, does it mean something to you?"
"Well…" Benjamin hesitated. "I believe it refers to the Newburgh Conspiracy."
"Who was Newburgh?" asked Wolfe.
"It's not a who, it's a where. Newburgh, New York, where the Continental Army was camped at the end of the Revolutionary War. And actually it's not really an accurate name, as their camp was closer to New Windsor, and-"
"For godssake, Benjamin," Wolfe interrupted him, "stop being the historian for a moment and just tell me why this Newburgh-whatever is important."
"Well," said Benjamin, "it might be important because it was almost the only military coup ever attempted against the United States government."
" Coup?" replied Wolfe in surprise. "You must be joking. There's never been a coup against the U.S. government."
"I said almost, " corrected Benjamin.
And then Benjamin told Wolfe the story of the infamous-and for many years utterly secret-Newburgh Conspiracy of 1783, when the United States of America almost fell before it ever existed.
***
General George Washington, Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, was miserable.
He was cold. The winter of 1783 was proving to be as bad if not worse than that of 1782. The small hut that served as his headquarters in the camp at New Windsor was little more than a log cabin, and the bitter New York wind entered through a hundred chinks. And this was a windy March, indeed.
He was in pain. The latest set of wooden false teeth fit poorly, stretching his jaw and forcing him to at all times grit his teeth, as though in the extremity of rigor mortis.
He was downcast. Before him on the small rickety wooden table lay two letters: the first was from Superintendent of Finance Robert Morris in the Continental Congress, expressing in polite if adamant terms that there simply was no money in the treasury to pay his freezing, hungry soldiers; just as there'd been no money last month, or the month before.
The other letter was from Thomas Jefferson, appointed but not yet seated in the Congress, and therefore, to Washington's mind, a reliable observer of events there. He complained that the Treaty of Paris with the British had still not been ratified by the squabbling Congress, and that the young Articles of Confederation government was proving just as fragile and powerless as they'd feared it would be: unable to agree on even raising taxes to pay its army, and locked in bitt
er argument over a fundamental issue of their new government that Washington believed was the heart of everything they'd fought and suffered for: the principle of "one man, one vote." Jefferson wrote that the aristocratic members, like Hamilton, were fiercely and apparently unmovably against surrendering any of their power to what they called "rule by ignorant mob." It more than made the general angry; it was disheartening in the extreme to think that some of the rebels and patriots who had been most passionate about independence and democracy in the beginning of the fight did not, when the crucial time came, actually believe in either.
Thus, on the verge of victory and after seven years of bitter struggle for independence, all his dreams for the new Republic seemed to be unraveling.
At that moment there came a knock at the door.
"Yes," he said, not raising his head.
The tall, lanky figure of his longtime aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Colonel Tench Tilghman, entered the room. He strode to the table and threw a parchment down in front of Washington.
"Have you seen this?" he said, barely able to contain his anger.
Washington picked up the parchment. It was a letter, addressed to "All good and patriotic soldiers of the Continental Army, fellow sufferers at the hands of an indifferent and feckless Congress." He read the opening paragraph. Have you not more than once suggested your wishes, and made known your wants to Congress, wants and wishes, which gratitude and policy should have anticipated rather than evaded? And, have you not lately, in the weak language of entreating memorials, begged from their justice, what you could no longer expect from their favor?
"What is this?" Washington asked, not looking up from the paper.
"This… perfidy was distributed in the camp this very morning," Tilghman said through tight lips. "Read on."
Washington continued reading. Can you then consent to be the only sufferers by this revolution and, retiring from the field, grow old in poverty, wretchedness and contempt? Can you consent to wade through the vile mire of dependency and owe the miserable remnant of that life to charity, which hitherto has been in honor? If you can, go, and carry with you the jest of tories and the scorn of whigs; the ridicule and, what is worse, the pity of the world!
Go, starve and be forgotten! But, if your spirits should revolt at this; if you have sense enough to discover and spirit sufficient to oppose tyranny under whatever garb it may assume, whether it be the plain coat of republicanism or the splendid robe of royalty; if you have yet learned to discriminate between a people and a cause, between men and principles: awake, attend to your situation, and redress yourselves! If the present moment be lost, every future effort is in vain, and your threats then will be as empty as your entreaties now.
Now Washington looked up, his eyes heavy and sad.
"It's an incitement to treason, " Tilghman said. "They're calling for a meeting of all officers tomorrow, in the temple. They mean to march on Philadelphia, demand their blood money, and, if frustrated in that claim, disband the government and replace it with a military tribunal." He leaned forward, his hands on the table. "And we know who's scheming hand puts these words to paper."
"Gates," Washington said, with a sigh.
Tilghman nodded vigorously. "He has been hungry for your commission since the war began, we both know this. And he has been hard lobbying at Congress to replace you. Even after his marathon retreat, better to call it flight, from Cornwallis at Camden, he has Hamilton's favor. He sees final power in this maneuver."
"But what proof-," Washington began to protest, though weakly.
"Look at the letters!" Tilghman answered. "If that isn't the imprint of the press in Gates's quarters, I'm an English bulldog. And these sentiments, they're the constant cry of his aide, that artillery man with lead shot for brains, Armstrong."
Washington leaned back, ran a hand through his hair-hair that had once been a vibrant red, but which had gone a steel gray in the course of the long, frustrating war; a war that had been a much nearer thing, and a much longer campaign, than he'd ever imagined.
"The fools," he said finally. "The British are but sixty miles away, warm and content in New York. If they caught wind of such dissension…"
"Arrest him," Tilghman said with vigor. "And Armstrong. In fact, put his entire staff in chains. They must know of this."
Washington frowned. "And fulfill the slander of 'tyrant'?" He shook his head. "The men are ragged enough, Colonel. One of the officers was hung in effigy in the Sixth Regiment just Tuesday last. Mass arrests would put match to powder."
"Then what would you have?" asked Tilghman, exasperated. "Let them march? Toss out the Congress? That would bring civil war, and the redcoats would happily sup up the leavings. All would be lost!"
Washington pushed back from the table, stood up, walked to the small potbellied stove in the corner upon which steamed a small porcelain pot of tea. Offering a cup to Tilghman, who declined, he poured himself one and sipped at it, his eyes unfocused, thinking.
Finally, he turned to Tilghman. "Do nothing to impede them for now," he said.
"What!" Tilghman could barely speak. "But then-"
"Let them assemble," Washington said. Then he smiled. "It's addressed to all officers, isn't it?" Tilghman looked at him blankly. "The last time I glanced at my shoulders, Colonel, I was an officer in this army, too."
Washington's lamp burned late that night, and anyone looking through one of the frosted windowpanes of his modest quarters would have seen him at the table long into the cold darkness, writing with a steady and energetic hand.
The next morning dawned as bleak and chill as any of that March. Rising even earlier than usual, Washington dressed slowly, putting on his full dress uniform, complete with red sash and bright rows of medals. When he was ready, he threw on his greatcloak-the same he'd worn that fateful Christmas night in the crossing to Trenton, though now considerably more frayed and patched-and left his quarters, walking slowly across the crunching ground to the long, narrow wooden building his men had completed just a month before; a place meant to serve as the one warm sanctuary in camp where men might gather to drink and play at cards, and which had been named, with a certain ironic military humor, the Temple of Virtue. Adjusting the coat upon his shoulders, he opened the door and entered.
The room was warm from the large stove in the center, and musky with the scent of canvas and leather and men too long from the niceties of bath and soap. Rows of churchlike pews faced a small lectern set at the front of the hall; the pews, he was distressed to see, were full with all ranks of his officer corps.
There was a cacophony of voices as he entered, men shouting, declaiming, some standing as if ready to come to blows. And then a few saw him at the doorway, and nudged their neighbors, and so on until the hall fell almost silent. All heads turned as he walked slowly down the center aisle of the hall, and most displayed a look of shock. Other than the hiss and crackle of wood in the stove, for a moment the only sound was the slap of his boots on the floorboards.
Behind the lectern stood, of course, Major General Horatio Lloyd Gates, also in full dress uniform. Clearly, Gates was as shocked to see him as anyone else in the hall. He'd been about to speak when Washington entered.
"General Gates," Washington said, standing next to him.
Gates was at first flustered, then remembered himself and saluted. "General Washington," he said nervously.
"General," Washington repeated, "do I have your permission to address this assemblage?"
Now Gates looked terrified. "Of course, General Washington," he said. "Uh… please," and he moved aside from the lectern.
Washington moved behind the podium and surveyed the room. He waited until he had every pair of eyes upon him. And then, with a movement deliberate and graceful, he reached into his greatcloak's pocket.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country."
There was absolute silence. He realized mo
st of the men in the room didn't even know he wore spectacles. And he saw that his comment had had the desired effect, their faces expressing shame in the face of Washington's humble admission of all he'd given to the Cause these past seven terrible years. As he looked around the room, here and there men dropped their gaze, unable to look him in the eyes.
He then drew his speech from his pocket, the one he'd labored all night to produce. But even as he read from it, he knew it was unnecessary; he could feel the shift in the room's sentiment. He knew that when he finished, thanked them for their attention, and left, they would never be able to pledge themselves to open rebellion again.
CHAPTER 17
"Astounding," Wolfe said when Benjamin had finished the story. "That certainly wasn't covered in my high school history of the Revolutionary War."
"Nor anyone else's," said Benjamin. "For decades after the war, it simply wasn't spoken about, by either side. Once the Treaty of Paris was signed and the war successfully over, certainly the conspirators didn't want their names associated with such a betrayal. And for Washington's side… well, he thought the country too fragile to know it had survived its birth by a pair of spectacles.
"And years later, when some of the facts came out, the argument was it had all been something of a joke, a tempest in a teapot. Other historians, however, my father for instance, have taken it more seriously. He thought Hamilton's group didn't necessarily want a real coup, just the threat of one, a 'crisis' that would allow them to establish martial law, get the money the army was owed, and establish a more powerful and restrictive central government, and not the general democracy of Washington, Jefferson, Franklin… well, the majority of the Founding Fathers. But true democracy was something Hamilton and a few others had been opposed to ever since the Revolution began."
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