The Trial and Execution of the Traitor George Washington

by Charles Rosenberg

  “Is she able to tell you who in the Tower is reporting to the government?”

  Laden laughed. “Yes. She herself is doing the reporting.”

  Abbott raised his eyebrows. “She is a double spy?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Why is she willing to risk such a thing? They will hang her if they find out.”

  “Her only son was in the British Army. He was killed in America.”

  “Isn’t she very pro-British, then?”

  “They think so, which is why they trust her. But in fact she believes the war is being fought for foolish reasons by foolish men. She thinks her son gave his life for no reason.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “There is more. She is angry his body was not shipped home to her. She didn’t realize that they do that only for officers.”

  “But the smell?”

  “They store the bodies in rum aboard ship.”

  Abbott wrinkled his nose.

  “Is there anything else you might need, Ambassador?”

  “There is one more thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “The crowds outside the Tower are hostile to General Washington. For example, they throw fruit and vegetables, and sometimes eggs, at him when he walks upon the parade.”

  “There is no way to prevent that.”

  “But there is perhaps a way to cause others, more friendly to him, to appear, too. If there is a trial, they will be needed in the streets. Or even before that, as an indication of popular support for our independence.”

  “Do you expect a trial very soon?”

  “I expect an indictment soon. But a trial? No.”

  Laden raised the coffee to his lips again, blew on it to cool it a bit, waited a few seconds and drank some. Finally, he spoke. “Now you are asking that I engage in sedition. The government does not like crowds who gather for political purposes. Were I to arrange it, they might well come after me. It is not as if I am unknown to the authorities.”

  “You can’t do it?”

  “I didn’t say that. Let us leave the topic for now and return to it another time. If the trial is far away, we have some time.”

  “All right.”

  “Drink your coffee. It’s amongst the best in London and it should finally be cool enough it won’t burn your mouth.”

  “At least it’s not tea, although truth be told, I miss it.”

  Laden laughed. “If you come here and order tea, no one will tell the Continental Congress.” A broad smile cracked his face.

  “Speaking of Congress, Mr. Laden, I feel quite cut off here in London from news of what is happening at home.”

  “You are not accustomed to the weeks and weeks that must go by before news from America arrives?”

  “No. Even when I was in Saratoga, which is hundreds of miles from Philadelphia, it was at most ten days before I got news from home.”

  “There is no ocean to cross in America, Ambassador.”

  “Of course. But I would like to know whether you receive information about events in America that is somehow more current or more detailed than what I can find in a newspaper or learn from someone in the government.”

  “No, alas, I do not. But in recent years our newspapers—we are in the midst of a veritable explosion of new newspapers—have become very adept at ferreting out what is happening in the government, and the government knows better than anyone else what is going on in America.” Laden pointed to a table set against the far wall, which held a stack of perhaps ten newspapers.

  Abbott walked over and rifled through them while Laden waited. “I can see that there are many articles about the war,” Abbott said. “And I take you at your word, that these papers have good information from the government. But it would not be as good as what the Americans themselves know.” He walked back to the table, sat down and added, “Nor as good a source as those the Americans might consult about their plans.”

  “Ambassador, if you are suggesting that Mr. Thompson or others might forward secret information to me or advance plans for operations, they do not. Nor could they without great risk.”

  “Of course.” Abbott paused. “Well, I already buy one or two newspapers every day and I will continue to do so, of course.”

  “Which papers do you read?”

  “It varies.”

  “My advice would be to read at least four each day.”

  “Any four?”

  “No, I would advise you to read the Public Advertiser, the Evening Post, the Morning Post and the Daily Advertiser. The first two are anti-North, Whig-leaning papers. They are opposed to the government and the war, although that doesn’t necessarily mean they are in favour of independence. The latter two might just as well be published by the government itself, like the London Gazette, which is in fact the government’s official paper.”

  “I will endeavour to obtain them.”

  “One word of warning, Ambassador.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Don’t believe everything they say. Their main goal is to sell newspapers.”

  42

  The next day, Abbott again took a sedan chair—he didn’t want to abuse the privilege of using Mrs. Stevenson’s carriage—and paid a call on Richard Washington, the General’s London tailor. The man was stunned to see him but confirmed, after burrowing into some old records, that His Excellency did indeed have a substantial credit balance on his account. He also confirmed that while he had at first made uniforms for the General, in the end he had simply sent fine cloth to him in America to be shaped by a tailor there. However, if he could gain access to the General, he could certainly go to the Tower with a bespoke tailor, measure him and get new uniforms made.

  After some negotiation about price—Abbott saw no reason to waste the General’s money—he ordered three complete uniforms (a blue wool coat with buff waistcoat and knee breeches—the colours His Excellency normally wore), all with gilt buttons, as well as appropriate shirts and undergarments. He also ordered three sets of epaulettes, two without any stars and one with two stars sewn in.

  “Are you sure you want three sets of everything?” the tailor asked. “It will take up most all of the credit.”

  “Yes,” Abbott replied. “You see, I suspect that at a trial, the government may at some point attempt to embarrass him by taking away his uniform and putting him in prisoner’s clothes. I want to have a spare to use in that event.”

  “All three are to be delivered to General Washington?”

  “No, two are for him—the two with the starless epaulettes—and are to be delivered directly to the General in the Tower. The third is to be delivered directly to me for safekeeping. I will give you the address.”

  Abbott handed him a folded letter he had prepared earlier in the day, anticipating it might be needed. “Here is a letter that you may show to the jailer to permit entrance to the Tower and access to General Washington.”

  “Thank you, Ambassador. I must ask, though, is any part of this transaction to be considered confidential?”

  Abbott thought a moment before answering. “The fact that I have been here to order new uniforms is not. The fact that I have ordered a spare is.”

  “Is there anything else, Ambassador?”

  Abbott thought about the two additional suits of clothes he had ordered from the other tailor, but the man had seemed a bit stuffy, and he also wanted something truly à la mode, so he said, “Yes, I would like a suit for myself in the very latest fashion.”

  “You have come to the right person for that. I will need to measure you, of course, and learn exactly what type of thing is of interest to you.”

  “Of course. By the way, the suit I have on is a bit tight. I have gained weight since getting off the ship. Please make the new one for me a bit larger. I like some room in my clothes, and I seem
to be eating well here, so I’ll probably go on gaining weight.”

  As Abbott was measured, and they discussed styles, the tailor asked, “Are you interested in being dressed in the macaroni fashion?”

  “You mean like the fops I’ve seen who return from the Grand Tour in Italy and dress in outlandish colours—pink waistcoats and bright green coats, with a mass of flowers on the lapel and a ridiculously high wig?”

  “Yes.”

  Abbott laughed. “No, I’m definitely not. Just something that’s the latest fashion, on the bright side, but not macaroni.”

  “The green waistcoats are really quite attractive.”

  “All right, I will have the green waistcoat, but not the colourful coat.”

  “Excellent choice. And new wigs, too, perhaps? You are not wearing one at the moment, I see.”

  “Also a very good idea. I managed to pack only two in my trunks, and they are rather old and I see now hardly stylish enough for this city. Do you have a suggestion of where I might procure them?”

  “Yes. Try Ravenscroft’s at 3 Serle Street. They make fine wigs, including for high-placed barristers and judges.”

  When the tailor had finished taking his measurements, he said, “Very well, Ambassador. I assume you will want all of these as soon as possible. And, of course, speed can cost extra.” He smiled.

  “Prompt will be fine. And you can always deliver the first one for the General before the other two sets are ready.”

  “Of course. I just thought extreme haste might be needed.”

  “Why?”

  “You have not seen the latest edition of the London Advertiser?”

  “No.”

  The tailor reached behind a counter and handed Abbott the paper.

  The lead reported, “Mr. George Washington, an American rebel leader from the colony of Virginia, has, this day, been indicted for high treason.” It went on to quote Lord North as stating that, although he had met with the American Ambassador Plenipotentiary, who was now in London “suing for peace,” regrettably, “negotiations for an end to the conflict do not appear promising.” Abbott realized as he read it that Laden was correct. He would need to read the papers every day, without fail.

  Abbott thanked the tailor, handed the paper back and said, “I think the General would like his order expedited.”

  “And your own, too?”

  Abbott thought for a second. He would certainly want to be well dressed for the trial. “Certainly. If there is not enough money in General Washington’s account to cover the expectation, you can just add it to my bill.” Abbott thanked the tailor again and left.

  As he walked down the street, he asked himself, had he misheard North? Had not the man said quite clearly he’d try to delay the indictment? It was not until he was far down the block that he uttered the longest stream of profanity he’d used since the pain of his amputation.

  He came upon a bootery, went in and ordered three pairs. He had failed to ask Washington his boot size, so he just guessed it was about the same as his. If they didn’t fit, he could bring them back.

  He walked aimlessly for almost an hour, thinking through what he had to do. Then, realizing that the stump of his leg had again begun to ache—it seemed to be happening more and more frequently—he hailed a sedan chair and took it to the government guest house for his meeting with his delegation. It was almost two o’clock.

  When he arrived, they were all waiting for him in the parlour—the same one where he had met with Burke at a time that now seemed like a year ago, even though it had been only a few days.

  Four of the five members of the delegation were there—the two clerks, as well as Henry Pierce and John Brandywine. The physician, Forecastle, was not present.

  Before they had even had a chance to fully introduce themselves, Brandywine—a man of middle years whose flushed face and rosy cheeks seemed to communicate a love of both products reflected in his surname—said, “Mr. Forecastle regrets his absence from our meeting. He examined General Washington late last night and wanted to see him again this morning.”

  “Is he ill?” Abbott asked.

  “Perhaps so,” Brandywine said. “Forecastle did not really say.”

  “Did he mention the General’s condition to any of the rest of you?” Abbott asked.

  All shook their heads in the negative.

  It seemed odd to him that none of them had enquired of the physician after His Excellency’s health, but he let it pass.

  Just then, Jarvis, preceded as usual by only a perfunctory knock, entered and asked, “Would any of you gentlemen like tea or some other beverage?”

  To Abbott’s relief, no one did.

  As soon as Jarvis had shut the door behind him, Abbott said, “I do not think our conversations here are likely private.” He gestured at the door. “I suggest we reconvene at the home in which I’m staying. The guest house has a carriage here that I expect they will let us use. It can hold several of us, and the rest can follow in sedan chairs.”

  As they departed, Abbott turned to Jarvis, who had been hovering by the front door entreating them to stay and arguing that they would be much more comfortable at the guest house, and said, “When Mr. Forecastle returns, would you be so kind as to ask him to join us at Mrs. Stevenson’s? I assume you know the address.”

  “I do know it, Excellency, and I will direct him there.”

  “Thank you.”

  On their way there, Abbott chose to share the carriage with Brandywine and Pierce, while the others took chairs. Brandywine, he learned, had been the long-time secretary to one of the delegates who served on Congress’s Committee of Secret Correspondence. That committee, Abbott knew, was initially charged with corresponding with sympathizers in other countries.

  “So, Mr. Brandywine, you have some experience in diplomacy, then,” Abbott said.

  “Yes, you could say that. Indeed, I wrote some of the letters that went to our various friends in England.”

  Abbott thought of asking him if Laden was one of those friends but decided against it until he could get to know Brandywine better. And trust him. There was something odd about Brandywine, indeed about the entire delegation, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

  Pierce was something of a mystery. He said that he was really not a diplomat but had been sent in case Abbott and the others needed protection.

  “From what?” Abbott asked, although he was beginning to think protection might indeed be needed.

  “From whatever you might need to be protected from here,” Pierce said and flexed his biceps, which Abbott could see bulge even through the man’s jacket.

  Abbott looked up to see if the coachman was within earshot, but he appeared not to be. Nonetheless, he decided to ask no more questions as they bumped along, and they remained mostly silent until they arrived at Mrs. Stevenson’s.

  43

  To Abbott’s amusement Mrs. Stevenson had hung a small sign on the parlour door that said, “American Embassy.” By the time everyone finally arrived, she had found additional chairs so all could gather around the table, and shortly thereafter brought in coffee and small cakes.

  “Mrs. Stevenson,” Abbott said, “in due course my government will want to reimburse you for the refreshments, and so forth.”

  “There is no need for that, Mr. Abbott. I am not political, but yours is a cause I know Dr. Franklin supports, and so it is one I am pleased to support, as well. I need no reimbursement for these small favours. I will now leave you gentlemen to your work.” She left and closed the door behind her.

  “What news do you bring from home?” Abbott asked of the group. “And how many days after I left did you depart?”

  “We left four days later,” Brandywine said. “And as the news of His Excellency’s kidnapping has spread, so, too, the outrage has spread apace. If we do not resolve th
is war here through negotiation, then no matter what the outcome on the formal battlefield, the war will go on forever.”

  “Has politics intervened as yet?” Abbott asked.

  “No,” Brandywine said. “So far, all are united in demanding Washington’s return without conditions. Only then people say should we negotiate.”

  “And the army?”

  “Our generals, of whom we seem to have a plethora, are already jockeying for the position of commander-in-chief even while saying out loud that the rank should be left vacant until His Excellency returns—that only he can lead us to victory.”

  “That is to be expected. Was that all between the time I left and the time you left?”

  “No,” Brandywine said. “In the days before we sailed, there was a furious battle being played out in the newspapers. Radicals were demanding some kind of retaliation, although no one said exactly what. Cooler heads were arguing that we should first give your mission a chance to succeed.”

  Abbott scrunched up his brow in puzzlement. “Since we are already in a war with Britain, what kind of retaliation could they possibly be talking about?”

  Brandywine shrugged. “One newspaper demanded that captured British officers be investigated for spying and hanged. Like Major Andre.”

  “If they do that, it will not make our mission any easier,” Abbott said.

  “No, and many people made that very point in response.”

  “What about the Congress?” Abbott asked. “Is the battle being played out in the newspapers being played out there, too?”

  “We do not know,” Brandywine said. “They had not yet formally reconvened, and members were still arriving back from the faraway states. But we would expect so.”

  There was quiet in the room. Abbott knew that they were likely all wondering the same thing: Would those demanding action win out, and what kind of action would be undertaken?

  Brandywine broke the silence. “We also have additional instructions for you, Excellency.”

  “In writing?”

  “No, it was thought too risky for us to travel with them in that form. They are instead in our heads.”