Banners

by Diane Carey

  “No,” the Scottish captain agreed. “Not at all.”

  But he was laughing so hard that, outside, his horse answered.

  Stragglers

  GEORGETOWN

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 1

  “IT’S YOUR BROTHER-IN-law, sir,” Mildred announced after she had answered the frantic knock on the locked front door.

  “Nicholson?” Frank Key asked, immediately thinking of Fort McHenry, where his wife’s sister’s husband was second-in-command.

  “No, sir, the other one,” the cook said. “Mr. West.”

  He was in his office in the house’s wing, a comfortable and scholarly place of business, which the children were not allowed to invade, sitting in the green chair that had years ago accepted the shape of his personal rump in its leathered seat.

  Now he missed his children …

  Key stood up abruptly at the appearance of Richard West, brother of Polly’s other sister, a kind if bombastic man several inches shorter and much blonder than Key himself. West was in a dither, and wearing a cloak despite the summer heat, which was wet at the shoulders and hem. Rain.

  “Richard!” Key exclaimed. “What’s wrong?

  “Richard?” Polly appeared from the main hallway, confused at the sudden appearance of West. “What’s happened? Is my sister all right?”

  “She’s anxious. As are we all.”

  “But Upper Marlboro’s all right?”

  “Yes, the British didn’t burn us out, thanks largely to William Beanes. Which is why I’m here—Frank, I need your help. I need a lawyer.”

  “Oh? What’ve you done?” Half-joking, trying to assuage the grooves of concern in West’s ruddy complexion, Key saw instantly that joviality would not work tonight.

  “The Light Brigade was encamped not far from my house,” West said. “When they arrived, William went out with a flag of truce and welcomed them, then dined the general—General Ross, Robert Ross—at Academy Hill. He invited them to make a headquarters of his mansion.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Well, as he was known to be against the war anyway and as Upper Marlboro’s most prominent citizen, he thought he could prevent the sacking of the town by putting up a conciliatory attitude. He even put on a Scottish accent and British’d up.”

  “Clever …”

  “It was, and they left the town intact. After they’d gone, William celebrated by inviting a gaggle of prominents to dinner on Saturday—his brother Bradley, Doctor Hill, and former-Governor Bowie, and a few others. During this dinner they got word that British stragglers were wandering through town, stealing food and horses from the farms. You know how Bowie is—veteran of the Revolution—”

  “Oh, no,” Key uttered, sensing what was coming.

  West nodded. “Oh, yes! Off went William and the governor, marching around William’s land, carrying a rifle! When they found a dragoon in the garden, eating the tomatoes, they seized custody of this man. It was a silly risk! The British had hardly left. Well, they got full of themselves and went out hunting for more stragglers and caught three or four and slapped a guard on them, but some others got away from them.”

  Key pressed his hand to his mouth and looked at his wife in horror.

  West didn’t stop. “The party ended and William and Sarah just went to bed, as if nothing had happened. Some of the stragglers found their way back to the main force and reported what William had done. You can imagine how the enemy reacted. They sent eighty-five cavalry men to capture him!”

  “Eighty-five!” Polly clearly fought to keep her reaction down. She bit her lip as her face reddened and her eyes teared.

  “That’s how angry they were!” West erupted.

  Key put a hand on West’s arm. “Steady.”

  When he saw how he had upset his sister-in-law, West forced better self-control. “Sorry.

  “Please go on,” Key encouraged.

  “They rousted William, Doctor Hill, and the boy right out of their beds. Those two were staying the night, sad for them. William was the main target. They dragged him out of his house, still in his nightshirt, strapped his hands, and slapped him on a barebacked horse, backward! With no britches! Bumping along on a horse’s rump, barelegged!”

  “Oh, God—” Key gasped, suddenly unable to catch his breath.

  “An elderly man with weak knees!” West followed as Key tried to escape to the other side of the office. “They didn’t even let him bring his spectacles! They rumbled him backward like that out of town and all the way to their fleet!”

  “What’s going to happen to him?” Polly asked.

  “I went to Ross to plead for their release. I had a letter from the governor speaking of the ‘great rudeness and indignity’ with which William was bundled off, but Ross was possessed! Wouldn’t even let me see him. Ross is … he’s bitterly insulted. Personally insulted. Furious!”

  Though Key’s throat was too tight for speaking, by now his mind was reeling with possibilities, angles of argument, points of order, legal machinations, and martial law.

  “Ross allowed me to take Doctor Hill and the boy, but he was adamant to keep William in chains. He’s being held in deplorable conditions aboard their flagship. They mean to put him on trial. If we can’t free him before they leave our waters, he’ll be sent to Halifax and dropped into a British prison. No one ever comes out of that pestilential hole, Frank. He won’t survive.”

  West’s steam seemed to abruptly play out. He moved from one foot to the other and back again.

  “I’ve done all I can,” he admitted. “I’m not tactful. And I don’t have your influence in the government. I don’t know what sanctions we need or anything. Frank, what do you think?”

  The office fell suddenly silent, as if Key were here alone again. He turned away, paced a few steps, paused, and fell into a motionless trance. Not even his brother-in-law dared break the soundless moment. They knew what was happening.

  Slowly, he turned to face them. He felt as if something lost had been breathed back into his body.

  “We need testimonials. If they want him on trial, then we need witnesses. Evidence. Mildred, my hat and cloak, please.”

  “But where do you think you’re going?” Polly demanded.

  Accepting his outerwear from Mildred, Key gestured toward the doorway. He gave his wife a little shrug and a wink.

  “To be a lawyer,” he said.

  The Negotiator

  THE HOME OF LUCY CUTTS

  WASHINGTON, DC

  FRANK KEY AND RICHARD West rode Key’s two best saddle horses to F Street, with the smoldering air of the nation’s burned federal buildings stinging their eyes and assaulting their nostrils. Key had been around the sacked city many times since the burning, but the sight of the sooty hulk of the president’s skeletonized mansion never grew acceptable. He tried not to look, but the ghastly sight inevitably drew his gaze. The scale of the destruction crushed his heart every time.

  The home of Lucy Cutts looked like a garrison camp, surrounded by American dragoons and militiamen determined to guard it against anyone who wished to do the president harm. Shamefully, after the humiliation of Bladensburg and the burning of the capitol, many of those vengeful persons were Americans themselves. With the formal mansion destroyed, nothing more than blackened walls, this was the new official residence, this house belonging to Dolley Madison’s sister.

  Key was waved through the guards, and two of them stood quickly to hold the reins of the horses.

  “Stay here, Richard,” he said to his brother-in-law.

  “Gladly!” West exclaimed, and went with the horses.

  Escorted by a militiaman, Key went wordlessly into the private home. Inside, he heard women talking in another room and deliberately did not follow the sound with either his ears or eyes. If Mrs. Madison were there, he did not wish to disturb her. The tale of her harrowing escape from the presidential mansion—just before General Ross entered, ate the dinner prepared for the president and her, then set
fire to her home—turned his stomach. He had seen President Madison on the battlefield at Bladensburg and been amazed—a sitting president right there in battle—but now he knew to be glad of it, for otherwise the president might have been at his home here in Washington and might have been captured.

  He shook the weight of that avoided tragedy from his shoulders and followed the militiaman through the house to a smoky retreat clearly occupied most often by men.

  There, picking through a stack of papers and sitting on the edge of a desk loaded with newspapers both foreign and domestic, the slightly built President James Madison almost seemed like a child sitting on his father’s desk. His emblematic black coat, white broom of hair, black shoes, and white stockings made this most scholarly and quick-minded gentleman look rather like a puppet seated on a shelf.

  The president was alone, making Key sensitive to disturbing him. How often, in a time of war, could a president find a moment to be alone?

  “Mr. President,” the militiaman announced. “Mr. Key of Georgetown.”

  Madison’s sharp eyes flipped from the papers in his hand to the visitor. “What a surprise,” he said, and slipped down from his perch. “Pleasant to see you, Frank. Is it raining?”

  “Hello, sir.” Key extended his hand. “Sprinkling a bit.”

  The president shook the hand and closed the room’s door after the militiaman left. “Do you have time for tea and sandwiches?”

  “Actually, I must decline this time,” Key began. “I need your help.”

  “Certainly. What about?”

  “I’m going on an adventure, Jemmy. I’m going behind enemy lines.”

  When Key left the Cutts residence, he was no longer in the company of his distraught brother-in-law, who was too close a friend to William Beanes to keep composure in negotiations. Now he was accompanied by the blessing of the American government from Madison himself, and a steady presence in the form of an American prisoner-of-war agent. John Stuart Skinner rode beside him, assigned by the president to accompany Key into the crucible of the enemy. Skinner seemed young and rash to Key, at first, only twenty-six years old with a puff of wavy black hair and shaded dark eyes, and was rather restless, a surprising characteristic for a negotiator. He had carefully sown amicable relations with the British, which he clearly did not want ruffled by the whims of a Georgetown civilian. Key knew the other man was doubtful of this mission’s success. Skinner was not encouraging about Ross or Cockburn’s giving way in a matter of honor. Key was doubtful himself, but other than Skinner there was no one more attuned to communing with the British, which Skinner had been doing for years as inspector of mail incoming from Europe and as an agent for prisoners of this war.

  The two men chatted as young men do, but neither delved deeply into making plans for their mission. Almost as if they were simply travelers on a tour, they discussed ridiculous things—agriculture, music, satire, their law educations in Annapolis, differences in the law between Key’s thirty-five years of age and Skinner’s twenty-six.

  Skinner let Key set the agenda, which helped get things done quickly, so quickly that Key nearly forgot in the whirlwind that he was on his way to meet face to face with the enemy—not just the enemy, but the highest commanders of the assault on the United States. How had this happened? How had he gone from a mediocre militia volunteer to an ambassador very nearly to the throne room itself? Even arguing before the Supreme Court had not been so shriveling. His innards twisted up and stayed that way. No less than William Beanes’ very life was in his hands. If he failed, there would be no appeal. The revered surgeon would spend his last days languishing in a stone cell.

  Prisoners

  CHESAPEAKE BAY

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 7

  CHESAPEAKE BAY WAS THE way to the open ocean from the active harbor and ports of Baltimore and Washington. A wide and pleasant waterway, the river welcomed many fishing and boating enthusiasts in normal times. Banked by rich woodlands, the river was picturesque, yet also one of the most traveled catalysts of commerce in the world. Or at least it had been, before.

  Frank Key was aware of the significance of this particular waterway as the packet sloop secured by John Skinner moved past Annapolis. This was not an American waterway today. It was in the charge of the king of England, blockaded and occupied by His Majesty’s ships of war. He felt his knees quake a little as the packet bobbed under him and he tried to stay on his feet. Soon, though, he was forced to take an uncomfortable seat on a low-slung deckhouse, while Skinner had no trouble at all riding the rocking horse.

  The closer they drew to the British armada, the more Skinner talked.

  “We’ll be appealing directly to General Ross, if he’s there,” the agent said. “I don’t know him, so I won’t recognize him to introduce you. We’ll probably be presented to Admiral Cochrane. Now, that’s Alexander Cochrane, the supreme designer of the British military action on this continent. It’s not Admiral George Cockburn. They are two different men. You must keep track of that, because they may both be present.”

  “Everyone on the coast knows about Cockburn,” Key acknowledged. “The man with the torch. The ‘-burn’ in his name is well fitted.”

  “Yes, that’s him,” Skinner said. “And be sure to pronounce his name Co-burn, and not Cock-burn. He’ll throw us overboard if we say Cock-burn.”

  “Oh …”

  “I hope your famous silver tongue is well polished. This will be no courtroom.”

  At the mouth of the Potomac, he spotted the sails of the English flagship, and two hours later that British vessel was anchored and sending down a rope ladder for Key and Skinner. Key looked up from the rowboat they had sent for him, utterly intimidated by the tall black countenance of the ship-of-the-line, with its dooming gun-ports up and down the whole side. Skinner was up in three seconds, carrying the leather satchel with their papers inside. Key took somewhat longer, even with nothing to carry, his own weight pinning the rope-and-plank contraption to a concave posture fitting the side of the enormous ship. The planks didn’t fit his shoes, forcing him to climb in an awkward side-on manner, and the prickly hemp rope made his hands raw. Rope ladders were the most unwelcoming devices ever invented.

  Fortunately, two seamen were there to pluck him from his torment and roll him onto his feet on the ship’s deck. Unlike the lightly rigged American schooners and packets, this ship was a puzzle of ropes, miles of it, webbed upward, across, diagonally, coiled and hanging from pins, running to and from huge wooden blocks up to wide yards holding bundles of sail canvas that looked nothing like the elegant square sails they were when working. Impossible to interpret, the rigging itself was intimidating. Add to that the huge guns sitting heavily on their trucks, waiting.

  “Welcome back aboard the Tonnant, Mr. Skinner,” a chubby midshipman said as he met them, in a crisp English accent with impeccable enunciation, but a pronounced lisp he was working to mitigate. “You and your companion are invited to take repast with our officers. If you will follow me, and do take care where you step.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pelham,” Skinner responded mechanically. “Lead on.”

  Into the dark guts of the warship they climbed, and were led toward the back of the ship where the officers lived, as foreign a place as Key had ever imagined, and frightening in many characteristics. The heavy scent of oil and hemp, of gunpowder and fresh-sawn wood, told of the ship’s recent battles and even of her daily life. Everything around him spoke of assault, violence, and martial purpose—to conquer. The dim surroundings were lit only by light from portholes or open gun ports, or from glass prisms ingeniously set in the deck to bring the light of day below. The populous English crewmen were everywhere, but, like rats, managed to remain in the background, as if in a painting.

  How disturbing to think that poor Beanes was imprisoned somewhere in the dark decks even farther below. Key went cold at the thought and tried to retain his presence of purpose.

  In a cabin clearly for officers only, lit by a hanging lantern
and a bank of windows that made up the very back of the ship, certainly the only glazed windows aboard. There was a table set with pewter plates and cups, and laid out with a meal much more sumptuous than men of the sea must normally have, even officers. Key knew he was looking at food plundered from burned towns and ravaged farms, the primary means of provisioning employed by the British during their occupation.

  At the head of the table was a strong-jawed commanding officer in his fifties, with hair graying just on the sides, holding a nautical chart. Was this—

  “Admiral Alexander Cochrane, allow me to present Mr. Francis Scott Key, emissary of the President of the United States.”

  Skinner motioned to Key, but did not make any gestures toward the admiral.

  Key made a small bow. “Admiral.”

  “Mr. Key, welcome aboard the HMS Tonnant.” The admiral had a very soft voice, slightly high, offset by a firm sense of his own authority. He nodded toward a younger commanding officer at the table, a man probably in his forties. “Please be presented to Rear Admiral Edward Codrington, in command of the Fleet.”

  Codrington, Cochrane, Cockburn—Co-burn … Key felt himself start to sweat under his jacket.

  “Please do be seated,” Admiral Cochrane invited. “Midshipman, let’s have some wine for these gentlemen.”

  Unsure of what to say or when to bring up the subject of Beanes, Key and Skinner simply took seats at the table, Skinner to Cochrane’s right and Key beside Codrington. Surprisingly, the subject of an impending attack on Baltimore was not evaded as their meal was served, but was treated as if it were just an exercise of rhetoric. The Admiral and Codrington openly talked about a land assault at North Point, which would take the British troops overland to Baltimore, while ships of war made a simultaneous bombardment and invasion by water. They theorized about men and artillery, infantry movements, various targets from Chesapeake Bay to New Orleans. Wasn’t it indiscreet to discuss the conquest of the nation right in front of that nation’s emissaries? Key supposed such discussions were so natural to them, and they were so self-confident, that perhaps they were proud of their plans. They were courteous enough to refrain from asking the Americans what they thought or knew about Baltimore’s defenses, luckily.