The Trial and Execution of the Traitor George Washington

by Charles Rosenberg

  So far there had been no real sign of any escape plan. Other than seeing Mrs. Crankshaw go into Daughters Coffee House after Abbott did, and then apparently leave via a rear stairway, nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. Perhaps both Crankshaw and Abbott were at Daughters at the same time by coincidence. Perhaps customers often used the back steps.

  The incident had caused him, after the sentencing, to seek out the Warder to ask about Mrs. Crankshaw. When Black had enquired, the man looked uncomfortable and said only, “Mrs. Crankshaw? A very good worker. Gets along well with the guests. Arrives when she says she will. Stays late if needed. If you want to know more, I’d suggest you talk to Lord North’s office.”

  Black realized that the Warder had just not very subtly told him that Mrs. Crankshaw was a spy, which he already knew. He asked if he could see Mrs. Crankshaw.

  “Not here today,” the Warder had said. “She asked for two days off. She’ll come in the afternoon two days from now and work until midnight.”

  “The night before Washington’s execution?”

  “Perhaps she wants to say goodbye to him. I think she’s become quite fond of the man.” He paused. “As have we all, frankly.”

  He was right. Black realized that he too had become quite fond of the man.

  At the sentencing, Black had seen Hartleb and approached him again about needing assistance. He had again been put off. It gave him to wonder if they were planning to frame him for Washington’s murder. After all, didn’t he need at least some kind of death warrant or written direct order from North in order to shoot Washington lawfully?

  The day after the sentencing—two days before the scheduled execution—Black faced a choice. Either use his room in the Tower as a base from which to patrol inside to try to see what was happening there or sit in the coffee house across the street and watch who came and went, with occasional forays back into the Tower to check it out. He chose to station himself in the coffee house. Since his formal red officer’s uniform would have made him stand out, he wore civilian clothes, but tucked a small pistol into a sack he carried.

  After only an hour of keeping watch, he was rewarded when a middle-aged woman, accompanied by two men, appeared carrying a lumpy object hidden inside a cloth sack. After three guards inspected the contents of the sack the trio was admitted, with one guard accompanying them. Black had been unable to see what was in the sack.

  Black walked over to the guard, whom he knew from many casual conversations as he had gone in and out, and asked who had just entered, and what was in the sack.

  “Oh, that was the sculptor Patience Wright. She makes coloured wax heads of the famous,” the first guard said. “Washington wants one for his widow. Well, tomorrow’s widow, we should call her.” A sad look passed over his face.

  “No, you dunderhead,” the second guard said. “It’s the day after tomorrow. If I can get the day off I’m going to go.”

  “I thought you liked him,” the first guard said.

  “I do, I do. But that is no reason to be denied a public entertainment. I’ll take my children so they may see why they must stay on the straight and narrow.”

  “If we could go back to what was in the sack?” Black said.

  “She’s already almost finished the wax head,” the second guard said. “That’s what was in the sack.”

  “Did she bring tools—knives and chisels and that kind of thing—with her?” Black asked.

  “We counted them,” the first guard said. “When she comes back out, we’ll count ’em again. Mr. Sergeant escorted her to Washington’s cell, so she won’t get into any trouble along the way.”

  “Did you search her, too?” Black asked.

  “No, but a matron will before they get to Washington’s cell.”

  “What about inside the sculpted head? I assume it’s hollow.”

  “I looked there, too,” the second guard said. “There was nothing.”

  “Will you let me know if anything’s missing when she comes back out? I’ll be over in the coffee house.”

  Black went back to his table. Something about the sculptor seemed not quite right. It might do to find out more about her. But when? There was very little time left.

  After a few hours had passed and Patience Wright’s two assistants had emerged from the Tower, but not her, Black decided to visit Washington in his cell. When he arrived, Washington was sitting in a chair and Patience Wright was looking back and forth between him and a wax head she was working on. The head looked, he had to admit, a great deal like Washington. Wright was surrounded by tables that held small knives, chisels and a small metal device clearly intended to heat wax. There were also fine-tipped painters’ brushes and pots of colour in small glass jars, much like those he had seen women use for make-up.

  Washington, upon seeing Black, said, “Colonel Black, may I introduce you to Mrs. Wright, who is doing my portrait in wax. Mrs. Wright, permit me to introduce Colonel Black of His Majesty’s Army, the man who kidnapped me.”

  Black cringed slightly and said, “In point of law, arrested. And pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wright.”

  “Colonel,” she said, “I have little interest whether it might have been a kidnapping or an arrest, but I really need General Washington to keep still and not talk, much as if I were a portrait painter in oil.” She sighed. “Those of us who work in wax are so underappreciated.”

  “Perhaps I can speak with you later, Colonel,” Washington said. “Although there may not be many laters available.” A wry smile played on his lips.

  “Please, General,” Mrs. Wright said. “No smiling.”

  Ignoring her, Black said, “But, General, the newspapers say you are still considering approving the agreement, which would provide you many more laters.”

  “Yes, I am, and edging closer to approval,” Washington said. “But perhaps edging more quickly towards the gallows.”

  Black bid them both a good day and returned to the café. In late afternoon, Mrs. Wright emerged with a small bag, but without the wax head. Black watched as the guards searched the bag and counted the items inside.

  After Mrs. Wright stepped out into the street, Black crossed over and accosted her.

  “Mrs. Wright, may I enquire why you don’t have the head with you?”

  “How nice to see you again, Colonel Black. Thank you for bringing General Washington here so that I might sculpt him from life. I have wanted to do so for many years.”

  “I assume you are jesting, Mrs. Wright.”

  “How may I be of assistance, Colonel?”

  “Why didn’t you bring the head out with you?”

  “Two reasons. First, General Washington wants his wife to receive it, and this way he can arrange that. He has assured me Lady Washington will pay me if I will send her a bill.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “There is still a small bit of work to do, and I am hoping to receive permission to return tomorrow to complete it.”

  “May I look into your bag of tools?”

  She pulled apart the drawstring that closed the bag and held it out to him. He peered inside and saw only a jumble of the same items he had seen in Washington’s cell. If the guards had counted the same number of items going in and coming out, he supposed he had to be satisfied, although he was bothered by the entire thing.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “May I go now, Colonel?”

  “Of course, and a good day to you, Mrs. Wright.” He returned to the café.

  By evening, he had seen Forecastle and Abbott come and go, each for a very short period of time. But nothing else and no one else of interest. He had considered following Forecastle, but that would leave the Tower unwatched, so he chose to stay where he was.

  Towards midnight, he gave up and went back to his quarters in the Tower to sleep. As he fell asleep, he was still trying to fig
ure out what was wrong.

  When he woke the next morning, he knew what was wrong. He got dressed and went to find the guards. It was the same crew who’d been on duty when Mrs. Wright had arrived the day before.

  After appropriate greetings, he said to the first guard, “If you know, who searched Mrs. Wright yesterday?”

  “Why, like we told you, Colonel, it was a matron.”

  “Yes, but who?”

  “I imagine it was Mrs. Crankshaw. She’s what usually does it.”

  “Bloody hell,” Black said. “I thought she took a few days off.”

  “You’d have to ask the Warder ’bout that,” the first guard said.

  “She was here on and off all day yesterday,” the second guard said.

  “I am going to find her,” Black said. “Do not let her leave before I speak with her.”

  “How will we know, Colonel, whether you spoke with her?” the first guard said.

  Black rolled his eyes. “I will come back and tell you.”

  He went off in search of Mrs. Crankshaw.

  68

  Black looked for Mrs. Crankshaw all through the next day, without any luck. Finally, from his perch at the café, where the owners had begun to grumble about his taking up a table without spending much, he saw her enter the Tower. It was already dark.

  He jumped up and followed her inside.

  “Mrs. Crankshaw, might I have a word with you?” he said.

  She turned and said, “Well, of course, Colonel. What about?”

  “Did you search Mrs. Wright the other day, when she came to sculpt the head of General Washington?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you search her thoroughly?”

  “Thoroughly enough that I think I embarrassed her. Why?”

  “I am concerned that she might have hidden in her clothes something to deliver to the General.”

  “If she did, it was so well hidden, we would have had to strip her naked to find it.”

  “Good that you were thorough, then.”

  “What business is it of yours, Colonel, if I may ask?” she said.

  “If you must know, Lord North has asked me to be sure nothing will interfere with the lawful execution of the General.” It was not quite the truth, but close enough.

  Her mouth turned down into a frown. “You kidnapped him and now you want to make sure he dies?”

  “Frankly, your question makes me wonder if you are somehow working with the Americans.”

  He watched her face closely as he said it, hoping to see a glimmer of guilt. All he saw was astonishment; whether feigned or real, he could not tell.

  “You must be daft,” she said. “My son was killed by the Americans. I have no love for them.”

  “And yet you like General Washington.”

  “It is different, I think, when you get to know a man, even if he is on the other side. I have observed you with him, too. Do you not feel the same way?”

  She had asked a good question, but Black did not feel like answering it.

  “It is I who am questioning you, Mrs. Crankshaw, not the reverse.”

  “If you have no more questions, Colonel, I would like to return to my job here.”

  “You may go.”

  A voice from behind him said, “Do you suspect her of something, Colonel?”

  Black turned and saw that it was Abbott. He’d only ever seen Abbott before from the distance of the coffee house or the back of the courtroom, but his clothes marked him quite clearly. They were even more outlandish than usual, including a ridiculous high wig and a bright green waistcoat. He could not imagine anyone of character wearing such a thing to so solemn an occasion.

  Although Black couldn’t be sure of it, he assumed Abbott had overheard most of his conversation with Mrs. Crankshaw. Perhaps all of it.

  “I don’t believe, Ambassador, that we’ve ever formally met,” Black said. “I am Colonel Black.”

  “You are correct,” Abbott said. “We have not met before. Permit me to introduce myself, as well. I am Ethan Abbott, and as you apparently already knew, the American Ambassador Plenipotentiary.”

  “Ah, yes,” Black said. “Just as I assume you already knew who I am since you called me by my rank even though I am out of uniform.”

  “I do, at least by reputation. I could not help but overhear you accuse that poor woman of working with us. Pray tell, other than to make General Washington’s last day on earth more pleasant by bringing him his favourite coffee, with what do you think she might be helping us?”

  “Helping General Washington to escape.”

  Abbott laughed. “Have you not noticed? The Tower is now surrounded by troops, and there are soldiers at the entry to every corridor. Even if Mrs. Crankshaw were helping us, which she is not, what could she possibly do?”

  “That is what I have been trying to determine.”

  “Perhaps she is a witch and will turn General Washington into a bird so he can fly out the window of his cell.”

  Black ignored the sarcasm. “Why are you here, Ambassador? This is all but over. General Washington will be roused before dawn, taken to Tyburn and hanged. Rumour has it that you plan to leave before that, not having the stomach to remain and watch.”

  “It has not so much to do with stomach, Colonel, as with refusing to dignify an illegal act by the presence of an ambassador from the country whose honour and dignity are being trampled.”

  Black smirked. He should have ended the conversation, but the soldier in him could not resist, and he said, “I say you are a coward.”

  “Say it how you will, I will now go to see General Washington.”

  “To what point?”

  “To the point that Lord North has made a last-minute proposal on the independence issue that might move General Washington to relent and approve the agreement we have reached.”

  “And if he does not agree?”

  “I will leave at midnight and never return,” Abbott said.

  “I wish you a pleasant trip home.”

  “Good day, Colonel,” Abbott said. “I hope you enjoy the execution. Just remember as you watch that, in the end, you caused it, and you are the one who will be judged for it, even if not here on earth.”

  Black watched him walk away, annoyed at himself for not having responded to the last remark. The truth was that he hadn’t known what to say.

  * * *

  Black patrolled the Tower for much the rest of the evening, alternating between watching the gate, where, as Abbott had said, there were ranks of soldiers guarding the building. He also walked the corridors and dropped by Washington’s cell multiple times. Each time he arrived, there were two soldiers stationed to each side of the door. He asked them the same questions each time and got the same responses.

  “Who is in the cell?”

  “George Washington and Ambassador Abbott.”

  “Can you hear what they are saying?”

  “No, Colonel. They are talking in low voices, and we cannot make out what they are saying.”

  Each time, Black looked through the small, rectangular grille on the cell door and saw the two men sitting face-to-face on straight-backed wooden chairs.

  The last and final time Black visited the cell, it was close to midnight, and he found the door to the cell still guarded, not only by the soldiers, but by Mrs. Crankshaw. She stood there, arms folded, blocking the view into the cell.

  “Stand aside, Mrs. Crankshaw,” he said. “I wish to look inside.”

  “No, Colonel. They are in prayer and have asked not to be disturbed. By you or by anyone.”

  “I will ask again—stand aside.”

  “I will not. Have you no respect for a man’s last night on earth that he might, with a friend, spend it with his God?”

  Black was weighing whether to
just shove her aside when the door to the cell opened and Abbott stepped out. He nodded to Black, shut the door gently behind him and limped away, head down and shoulders hunched. Even his bright clothing failed to hide his distress.

  Black watched him go, then said, “Now I will look inside, Mrs. Crankshaw.” He peered into the cell through the small window. The room was lit only by a single candle, but he could nevertheless see the entire room and see that Washington was lying in the bed, face to the wall.

  “It is still there,” he said.

  “What is still there?” Mrs. Crankshaw asked.

  “The wax head.”

  “Where did you expect it to be, Colonel?”

  Black felt foolish and mumbled his reply. “I don’t know.” He paused and finally spoke up. “I expected the wax head somehow to be in the bed maybe, substituted for General Washington, designed to trick us while he escaped.”

  “You have been to see too many plays,” she said.

  “Perhaps so, and I am tired. Goodnight, Mrs. Crankshaw.”

  He went out through the Tower gate to watch Abbott’s departure. He saw three coaches just starting to move off down the road, the horses’ hooves drumming on the cobblestones, the clatter of the metal-rimmed wheels echoing in the cold night air. He didn’t know whether he wished Abbott and his delegation well or ill, but he did wish he were going with them, somewhere far away.

  69

  Black arose before dawn and dressed himself in his full red officer’s uniform, complete with campaign medals and a brigadier general’s star on the epaulettes. He had received his promotion via letter, without ceremony, three days before.

  Although he had not yet been assigned to any particular role in the King’s Guard, in which he had always been an officer, and although he had no command of his own, he could still requisition his needs from them because they were based in London. As a general, even if a new one, he could take what he wanted. He chose a good horse and saddle, preferring to ride to Tyburn rather than walk behind the prisoner’s conveyance, usually an open cart.