The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  "And who besides this Gates was definitely involved in this almost coup?"

  "That's always been a little vague, though one of the ringleaders was almost certainly Hamilton."

  "But there's no proof?"

  "Well, not what you would call proof. You see, the group that supported Gates-a General Alexander McDougall, a Colonel Walter Stewart, and a Major John Brooks-had exchanged letters during the whole affair. Some of them came to light years later, and in them they'd used code names to refer to one another. McDougall's was 'Brutus.' "

  Wolfe laughed. "How appropriate."

  "And there were mentions in some of their letters to another group, or club, whatever you want to call it, which supposedly included Gates and some other proaristocracy types, a sort of anti -Masonic society. These letters made reference to another code name, someone they called 'the Indian Laird,' in a way that suggested he was either the founder of this anti-Masonic group, or a very prominent member."

  "Indian Laird?" asked Wolfe.

  "Alexander Hamilton was born in the West Indies. And he was the illegitimate grandson of a Scottish laird."

  "All right, that gets us Hamilton's connection to the conspiracy perhaps. But not Fletcher's interest in it."

  "A prominent New Englander was also implicated in the plot. One Gouverneur Morris. He was famous-or perhaps infamous is a better word-for stating that no successful country ever existed without an aristocracy, and that voting should be restricted to those who owned property."

  Wolfe chuckled, then a thought struck him. "Morris?" Wolfe said with surprise. "As in Seaton Morris's family?"

  "I'm not sure," said Benjamin. "But it would be quite a coincidence, wouldn't it."

  "Like Freud, I don't believe in coincidences," Wolfe said. "So you think Fletcher's interest in the diary led him to Morris, and Morris led him to this Newburgh plot? But still, what does either have to do with Indians or Puritans?"

  "I don't know," said Benjamin. "I don't understand it yet, really." He was quiet for a moment. "But the other night I read over my father's notes about Bainbridge, and there are extracts from two of his letters. In one of them, Bainbridge used this word 'Puramis' in a rather odd context. And my father had made a very curious mark by that word. I'm not certain, but-"

  "Here we are," Wolfe interrupted him, turning into a side road. "Soon we'll have this precious diary in front of us and we can settle all these questions."

  Wolfe turned the car through the gates of the Morris Estate-and Benjamin decided the word "palatial" was perhaps an understatement.

  CHAPTER 18

  Samuel drove through two redbrick pillared gates into the long, graveled driveway of the Morris Estate. As they passed down a lane of overarching oak trees, Benjamin's first reaction was that the grounds looked remarkably like the Foundation-the same Colonial architecture of red brick with white trim, the same carefully arranged flower gardens, the same sense of protected privilege.

  But here there was also a sense of immense personal rather than public power. As they pulled up near the front door, Benjamin noticed that, rather than the typical bull's-eye window in the attic far overhead, there was a stained-glass rendering of a coat of arms.

  As they got out of the car and approached the front porch, he could see a glassed hothouse set apart to the left, and some other smaller buildings farther back, on the right. Benjamin counted two Mercedes, a BMW, a Jaguar, and a champagne-colored Bentley parked in the driveway.

  Before he rang the front door chimes, Wolfe turned to Benjamin.

  "Let's be a little circumspect about what we're here to see," he said. "Seaton knows we're interested in the Bainbridge diary, but there's no reason to focus primarily on just that." He smiled, and once again Benjamin noticed the trace of a certain craftiness in his smile, as though Wolfe was rehearsing his role for Seaton Morris. "In other words, we know it's important, but Mr. Morris doesn't need to. Understand?"

  Benjamin smiled, nodded.

  The door before them was a massive, dark-wood, Gothic portal, book-ended by two enormous urn-shaped flowerpots, which conflicted with the otherwise Colonial architecture of the house. They pressed the bell and, after a two-minute wait, were admitted by a small, thin, and absolutely stone-faced butler.

  Before Wolfe could utter a word, the butler said, "Mr. Morris is momentarily engaged. If you would kindly wait in the library?" He indicated a room through sliding French doors left of the enormous foyer.

  The Morris library was a cross between a typical library from a country estate and a museum. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases, walnut wainscoting between them; a wallpaper with a Zuber Cie Chinese design above that; a tall bay window in the center of the wall opposite the French doors; the wingback chairs, couch, and coffee table neatly arranged before a large marble fireplace, above which was a portrait of an elderly gentleman in Colonial garb… all suggested the mix of intimate comfort and grand display one expected in such a well-pedigreed house. The furniture was an impressive, if eclectic, assemblage of bright, silk-upholstered Chippendale chairs and dark, Sheraton Federal-style tables, with the requisite Hepplewhite bird's-eye maple grandfather clock standing guard in one corner.

  But the real treasure of the room was obviously not its furnishings. Displayed in several long cases set in the middle of the room, with several others along one wall, that treasure was proudly displayed beneath the transparent protection of curving glass.

  Books. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of books. Everything from enormous volumes in heavy leather bindings to small pamphlets and broadsheets to woodcuts and engravings set in tiny frames or displayed simply, unadorned, as if lying about on their printer's desk; all of them arranged with apparent care-and a certain pride of ownership.

  Wolfe went to one of the cases containing over a dozen leather-bound books and began walking slowly along its length, studying the pages to which they were opened.

  "My god," he said. "Benjamin, look at this. Here's an illustrated Bible, dated 1751. And a copy of Newton's Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica! And here's one for you, Institutio Christianae Religionis, by one John Calvin. Collected Sermons of Richard Clyfton, whoever he is. And Magnalia Christi Americana, by Cotton Mather himself. Ha! And it's cheek by jowl with a first edition of Paradise Lost…"

  Wolfe turned around, saw that Benjamin wasn't behind him, but instead had crossed the room and was standing in front of a mahogany secretary. Wolfe walked over and stood beside him.

  "Did you hear me?" he said. He pointed back toward the display case. "There's Newton's Principia Mathematica over there, in perfect condition. And god knows what else." He noticed Benjamin didn't seem to be listening to him. He looked at the piece of furniture Benjamin was studying.

  "What's so interesting about this bookcase?" he asked with some irritation.

  "Secretary," Benjamin corrected. He was looking intently at a small brass plate set above the glass window of the right-hand door.

  "All right," sighed Wolfe. "What's so damn interesting about this secretary?"

  "Look at the name," said Benjamin, pointing to the brass plate.

  Wolfe read it out loud. "I. Winslow." He looked back to Benjamin. "And what is so extraordinary about Mr. Winslow's… secretary?"

  "It's one of a kind," said a voice behind them.

  They turned and saw a man standing in the open doorway. His face was that of a man in his late twenties, firm and tan and confident. But by his receding hairline, the wrinkles in his neck above the tight, button-down shirt collar, even the way he stood, with one hand in his trouser pocket, they could tell he was more likely in his late forties.

  He was exceptionally well dressed in a dark and very subtly pin-striped suit, coal-black alligator shoes, banded tie, and pale blue shirt. His tanned face was clean shaven, his light brown, medium-length hair immaculately groomed. In some superficial ways he reminded Benjamin of George Montrose. But there was none of the sense of bright celebrity here that Benjamin had felt with Montrose. This man d
idn't invite attention, though he was probably used to receiving it; rather, Benjamin suspected that he would prefer to be the quiet observer in any group of people. It occurred to Benjamin that he was the silent hawk to Montrose's loud peacock.

  "I'm Seaton Morris," the man said.

  He took a step into the room, turned, and pulled the two French doors closed with an almost inaudible thud. Then he turned again and walked toward them-or strode might be a more accurate description. His clothes, manner, style, the apparently permanent and friendly slight smile on his face-everything about Seaton Morris exuded confidence and precision.

  He shook first Wolfe's hand, then Benjamin's. Then he turned to Wolfe and said, "I believe what the young man is trying to tell you is that this one piece of furniture is as important, at least historically, as many of the rare books in this room."

  "Winslow made furniture for the 'who's who' of America's patriots," explained Benjamin. "Including this secretary, whose first owner, if I'm correct, was-"

  "Alexander Hamilton," finished Seaton. "In fact, it was built to his specifications, during the Revolution. So it has a number of unique features. Here, let me show you."

  Seaton stepped closer to the secretary and lowered the small writing table, then reached into the exposed recess.

  "This little compartment that would typically hold an inkwell is in fact a detachable box, which you remove by pressing on a hidden spring." He gently pressed his thumb against a concealed button, and the compartment popped out an inch. "Now, if you look inside," and Benjamin and Wolfe leaned down to gaze into the revealed space, "you'll see several additional small boxes, all attached by a chain, which can be used to store special… correspondences." Seaton replaced the box, pointed to the secretary's side panels. "And those panels slide open, for other papers of a sensitive nature."

  "Ingenious," said Wolfe. "The perfect desk for someone writing seditious letters."

  "Of course, the secretary was acquired from Mr. Hamilton's estate after his death. But this house saw its share of just such clandestine activity," said Seaton.

  "You see that fireplace?" He pointed toward the large, tile-bordered fireplace in the wall to their right. "At one time, there was a crawl space inside it, accessed by tilting the brick wall that forms its back on a hidden pivot, which led to a concealed room. Just like in those terrible novels of haunted mansions. But also perfect for hiding attendees of illegal meetings quickly, should there come an unexpected knock on the door. And upstairs," he pointed to the ceiling, "you would discover that not all the rooms seem to be on the same level, what with many risers and steps where they don't seem strictly necessary."

  "More secret spaces?" asked Wolfe.

  Seaton nodded. "And there's a closet in the master bedroom. Move a particular pane of the paneling aside, and you find a ladder that leads down, behind that chimney, into the secret room. And a door in the room leading outside-though from the outside it appears to be an alcove for a statue."

  "A statue of whom, I wonder," said Wolfe.

  Seaton smiled. "At the time the house was built, I believe it was Socrates. Now it's a very bad imitation of Rockefeller's Aphrodite. But it hasn't roused nearly the controversy here it did for him in 1905."

  Seaton pointed to the chairs and couch in front of the fireplace. "Here, please gentlemen, sit down."

  Even as Seaton invited them to take seats, the downpour that had been holding back outside let go. There was a series of terrific flashes of lightning and, a few seconds later, peals of thunder. Rain came lashing against the panes of the tall bay window, washing down in waves across the glass.

  "Looks like you got here just before the deluge," said Seaton. Again, he motioned toward the chairs and couch set before the fireplace.

  The three of them moved to the chairs, Benjamin and Wolfe taking their seats on the silk-covered couch, and Seaton sitting in the rightmost wingback chair. "Can I get you anything to drink?" he asked. "Coffee? Bloody Mary? Mimosa?"

  "Well… no thank you," said Wolfe, catching a look of surprise from Benjamin.

  "This house may date to the Puritans," said Seaton, smiling broadly, "but believe me, we dispensed with their prohibitions a long time ago."

  Wolfe leaned back and fixed Seaton with what Benjamin recognized as one of his supercilious stares.

  "Just how old is this house, Mr. Morris?" he asked.

  "Well." Seaton leaned back, looked about as though taking in the room for the first time. "Actually, it's not the site of the first Morris estate. As I imagine Arthur has told you, that distinction belongs to the Foundation. The manse, as I believe they call it?" Wolfe nodded. "That was the original ancestral hall of the Morris family."

  Benjamin leaned forward. "But wasn't that Henry Coddington's estate first?"

  Seaton laughed. If Benjamin's comment had discomfited him, he didn't reveal it.

  "Yes, that's right. Poor old Coddington put his eggs in the wrong basket, I'm afraid. And paid the price. His entire estate was awarded to Gouverneur Morris in recognition of all his work on behalf of the new American nation."

  "Then how-?" began Wolfe.

  "Did we wind up in here?" finished Seaton. "There was a great deal of millennial activity after the war. You know the sort of thing, utopian societies, eager to expand on the ideal of the new America; or in some cases I suppose convinced it wasn't ideal enough. Anyway, one of Gouverneur's daughters-Rebecca Morris-became involved with one of them. It was called New Cairo, or New Egypt, something exotic like that. When she died, childless, she bequeathed the property and everything on it to the group, and so it passed out of the family holdings, and we were forced into this more… humble abode. The old manse has had a great many incarnations since then, as I'm sure Arthur informed you." Seaton smiled. "But you're not here for the family history lecture, are you. What you're interested in is over there."

  He rose and walked to one of the display cases in the middle of the room, and Benjamin and Wolfe followed him. He led them to the middle of the case.

  "The Bainbridge diary," he said, softly touching the rounded dome of glass.

  Beneath his hand and a thick layer of glass, and supported on a wooden bookstand, was a book a little over a foot high and perhaps almost as wide. Open as it was, the cover wasn't visible.

  What was visible was the first page of the book. Its edges were blackened with age, and the paper appeared to have been damaged in spots by damp and mold. Age had also faded some of the black ink lettering on the page, which was written in a careful, flowing script.

  As Benjamin and Wolfe gazed down at it, Seaton asked, "Do you know the story?"

  Benjamin started to nod, but Wolfe said rather abruptly, "No, not all of it. Would you mind?"

  "Not at all," Seaton said. "It's fascinating."

  "The Foundation, and before that the Coddington Estate, stands on the grounds of what was, in the 1600s, something called the Bainbridge Plantation. It was one of those religious communities-from what I've been told, Harlan Bainbridge, the founder, was something of a fanatic, a thorn in the side of the other Puritans. So, like Moses-or I guess Brigham Young and his Mormons-Harlan led his followers out into the wilderness. Back then, that was anything west of Deerfield, I guess. And they built a compound. It was extraordinary, really. But then the entire camp was wiped out by Indians-"

  "In 1675," interrupted Benjamin. "By Wampanoags." He was looking at Seaton, not the diary. "Or so the story goes."

  Seaton returned the look. "Yes," he said. "Exactly. It was tragic. Not a soul survived."

  Seaton looked back down at the diary. "Anyway, after the Indian 'troubles' were settled, Coddington built his estate there-apparently he had provided some sort of financial support to Bainbridge's group, and the deed was in his name. He built the main house that's still there, what they call the manse, and the family lived there for a hundred years. Until my ancestors came into the site after the Revolutionary War. But nothing much was really known about the Bainbridge Plantation, as it was
apparently called, after their extermination." He looked up at them again.

  "The Morris family also inherited the Indians' displeasure with the 'White Man's' presence," he continued. "Seems there was a sacred burial ground nearby. They continued to agitate about it, bothered the commune when they were there, and the women's institute after them. Never let up, really. Until finally there were no official Wampanoags left to complain."

  "And how exactly-" Wolfe pointed to the diary.

  "Oh, yes. Well, as you know, the Foundation-though it was called the Heritage Institute for Good Government back then-was officially established there by the 1920s. They undertook some excavation to expand the main building. Imagine their surprise when they encountered a tiny, buried crypt, and inside the crypt a box, and inside that box," he pointed, "this book."

  There was a short silence as all three of them contemplated the diary. Benjamin thought it seemed completely indifferent to their scrutiny: ancient, weary, eternal.

  Seaton leaned over the case and began reading out loud the carefully inked lines weaving across the dull, yellowed page: "And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains; and said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?"

  Seaton looked back up at them. "It's from Revelation-," he began.

  "Six fifteen," said Benjamin. He looked up at Seaton. "I remember because it begins with the lines everyone always quotes from Revelation. You know." And he recited, still staring directly at Seaton. "And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and lo, there was a great earthquake, and the sun was as black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon was like blood."

  "Well, yes," Seaton said. "But of course it's also written there, at the bottom of the quote."