Two Crowns for America

by Katherine Kurtz

  Simon longed to pursue the point directly, also wondering what Ramsay would have had to say about the fall, but only said, “Perhaps it isn’t as odd as all that, sir. We’d recently renewed our acquaintance, after all. What was I doing?”

  Washington shook his head. “I cannot remember. I only know that you were there; I’m certain of it.” He grimaced. “The whole thing was so very odd. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds—just while I was stunned by the fall—but it had that strange quality of time that dreams often have, of seeming to stand still.”

  “Would you care to tell me what you can remember?” Simon dared to ask.

  To his surprise and relief, the General nodded.

  “I believe I would. Perhaps you can make some sense of it. It had to do with the Craft, I think. I remember being in a room that I somehow knew was a Lodge, but there was something—different—about it. There were others present, but I could not see their faces. Nor can I tell you who the presiding Master was. A ritual was in progress, and it was different, even the parts that were familiar. The Volume of Sacred Law on the altar was my own Bible, but there was another Bible as well—very distinctive. I’m certain I should recognize it if I ever saw it again. But so many other things that I simply cannot remember.… Hands holding up a laurel wreath above my head, and—something about swords as well.…”

  His left hand went to the silver sword hilt jutting between them, fingering it distractedly as his voice trailed off. Only after several seconds did Simon dare to press him on.

  “Was it—your sword, sir?” he whispered, trying not to look at the weapon.

  The General started, almost as if he had forgotten the other man’s presence, then slowly nodded as his gaze lifted off into the darkness beyond.

  “I think so,” he finally said, still trying to pin down the elusive memory. “But there may have been more than one. I—seem to remember surrendering my sword when I entered, and later it was put back into my hands, but—” He shook his head, obviously unable to make the memory come into focus.

  “What else?” Simon asked when the General did not seem inclined to say more.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head again and sighed. “It’s gone. I’m certain there was much, much more, if only I could remember.…”

  As the General’s voice trailed off once more and he buried his face in his hands, Simon nodded thoughtfully, wishing he dared make a closer examination of the General’s sword, so close between them. The account was an odd juxtaposition of images, with just enough unusual detail that perhaps it had not been merely a dream. The laurel wreath and the sword seemed particularly significant, perhaps betokening some esoteric sanctioning of Washington and his mission—or a deep-seated desire on his part to be cast in the role of America’s premier military leader.…

  But Washington had not particularly wanted the job of Commander in Chief, and on the strength of soldiering alone, he was not even best qualified. He was not unqualified for the job, if any American was truly qualified, but other men with far more impressive military credentials had been passed over to give Washington the command.

  It was his personal charisma that the Continental Congress had singled out, as well as his record in the French and Indian War—and his practical tenacity, and the ability to pull men together and inspire them to work as a team, regardless of regional differences—essential qualities that went beyond mere tactical ability or strategic expertise. If war came, as seemed increasingly inevitable, it was likely not to be fought according to European rules.

  Which brought one to European considerations, and the tentative plan to guide the American rebellion toward a Stuart restoration. Was Washington’s appointment as Commander in Chief, if ratified at some esoteric level, to be seen as a part of this plan or in opposition to it? Simon wondered whether the Master knew of the dream.

  “It’s a very interesting dream,” he said noncommittally.

  The General sighed and raised his head, lacing his fingers together again to stare down at them, sighing as he nodded. “It was also a very frightening dream, on some levels,” he said. “Words like ‘destiny’ and ‘mission’ keep coming to mind—and have, since I received the nomination as Commander in Chief. God knows, I have always been ambitious in some ways, Major, but I swear I never sought that.” He snorted. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. What must you think of me?”

  “I think,” Simon said carefully, “that you are a man who has been given a very difficult job to do, whether by mere men or by some Divine Providence that we are likely never to understand.”

  The General looked up sharply at that.

  “Do you believe in Divine Providence, then?” he asked.

  Simon considered carefully before venturing a reply. In Freemasonry, both he and the General were Master Masons, sharing the common terminology and symbolism of that noble fraternity, but Simon’s esoteric connections went far beyond the Craft. Judging by what the General had just reported, perhaps his own inclinations ran along similar lines—or could be guided to do so.

  Which raised interesting possibilities regarding the origin of Washington’s dream—if dream it was. Could this be the Master’s work? Neither Simon nor Andrew had received word of such an intention, but communication across the Atlantic was slow. It certainly was possible to shift the framework of conventional Freemasonry to more esoteric function; indeed, the Master’s inner circle derived much of its structure from Masonic symbolism and ritual. If one wished to convey esoteric insights to a man like Washington, how better than in terms already familiar, in a context not likely to alarm? The Master was fully capable of such instruction.

  Of course, there remained the possibility, even more disquieting, that the dream reflected no mortal agency at all. Simon wondered whether this latter had occurred to Washington.

  “I believe,” said Simon, “that the dream you have described can certainly be interpreted in the light of Divine Providence at work. The symbolism is largely Masonic. Following that symbolism to its logical extension, we might postulate that—perhaps The Great Architect of the Universe has placed you upon His Tracing Board, for what purpose we cannot yet know. But if we have faith, we must trust that His purpose will become apparent in His time. As a Brother in the Craft, that is how I would interpret the dream.”

  Washington had turned to face him as he spoke, and even in the dim light cast by the torches nearer the house, Simon could see that the General had gone very pale.

  “On—His Tracing Board?” the General repeated, shaken. “Are you saying that, on some level, I have been designated, in some way, to—”

  He could not finish his sentence for the enormity of what he was suggesting, and Simon suddenly felt a great upsurge of compassion for him.

  “I cannot answer that,” he admitted. “I merely point out that you are the Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, and you are in a position to make a very great difference. If The Great Architect of the Universe does have a Master Plan for these American colonies—and I think, as Freemasons, we cannot doubt that there is a Divine Plan for humankind—then it seems not unlikely that you now are destined to play an important role.”

  He smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “On the other hand, dreams sometimes mean nothing at all,” he went on blandly. “Your fall could account for momentary disorientation and even hallucinations. Or perhaps only coincidence is at work. Even when you first had the dream, you had to have been aware that, if the political situation continued to deteriorate, armed rebellion might be the colonies’ only recourse—and that you were likely to play an important role in such a rebellion.”

  “Master Plan or coincidence?” the General said quietly. “A dismaying choice, either way. I almost think I prefer the latter.”

  Off at the edge of torchlight nearer the house, the sentry coughed self-consciously, reminding Simon that he and the General had been here quite a long time, and that others required the great man
’s attention.

  “Well, ’tis a question we are unlikely to resolve tonight, sir—though I do hope that, if you remember any more details, you will pass them on. I should be intrigued to know more about what I was doing in this rather interesting Lodge you’ve described. We have sat together in Lodge on occasion, but somehow I feel that this one would have had both of us wondering.”

  The General allowed himself as much of a smile as he ever did, tight-lipped, mostly in the eyes, sighing as he stretched his long legs out in front of him and then stretched his arms as well.

  “I believe I shall be very pleased to have you on my staff, Major Wallace,” he said, coming to his feet, Simon doing the same. “It will be good to have someone nearby with whom I can be entirely candid. I fear an increasing isolation as I take up my duties—necessary, perhaps, but—” He shrugged and sighed again.

  “For now, however, I suppose it must be my most immediate duty to send a message on to General Ward, acknowledging that I’ve heard the news and am on my way.” He shook his head. “I still find it hard to believe that Warren is dead.”

  Simon ducked his head. “The losses at Breed’s Hill will have been a heavy blow to everyone in Boston, sir. Joseph Warren was particularly well loved and respected.”

  He had not intended to add to the General’s concerns, but Washington looked at him with a start.

  “I am sorry, Major. I had forgotten. You hail from the Grand Lodge of Massachusetts. Warren was your Grand Master.”

  Simon nodded, recalling his father’s account of the mystic apparition seen on the very night of Warren’s death, and decided that the General did not need that complication added to his burden.

  “He was, sir. Brother Warren will be sorely missed. My father and I often sat with him in Lodge.”

  “I never had that honor,” the General murmured, “but I certainly know of his dedication to the Craft. Despite these troubled times, I hope that he may be given a Masonic tribute at his burial. If it should not have taken place by the time we reach Boston, I hope you will inform me when it does occur. I should like very much to pay my respects.”

  “I shall see that the Grand Lodge of Massachusetts is informed, sir,” Simon replied with a slight bow. “It would mean a great deal to them, to have you present.”

  Washington gazed off into the darkness beyond the torchlight washing the piazza, the light playing eerily behind the powdered hair and the craggy profile. He was silent for so long that Simon began to wonder whether his presence had been forgotten.

  “It would mean a great deal to me as well,” the General finally said, very softly. “I wish I had known him. We shall not see his like again for many a year.” His voice strengthened as he went on.

  “But he shall be an example for other patriots who are willing to pay the ultimate price, so that these United Colonies may determine their own destiny. In his memory, and out of respect for the love he bore the Craft and this land, I intend that the comfort and solace of fellowship shall be extended to all brethren, whenever possible. You may say that for me, to the Grand Lodge of Massachusetts.”

  He went back inside then, to pen his message to General Ward. Simon, as he watched him go, found himself wondering how he might contrive an opportunity to examine the General’s sword in private, and whether more specific attentions to the General himself might eventually be necessary, if the sword, indeed, bore evidence that the dream had not been only a dream.

  In the meantime, while it was still fresh in memory, he must write up an account of what the General had told him, lest he forget some important detail. The dream demanded further investigation. He wondered what it would mean to his father, on his return to Cambridge.

  Chapter Three

  The Commander in Chief and his staff spent a restless night at Lispenard House, for the heat was oppressive, on top of the oppressive news. The next morning the General received an official congratulatory address from the New York Provincial Congress.

  “At a time when the most loyal of His Majesty’s subjects, from a regard to the laws and constitution by which he sits on the throne, feel themselves reduced to the unhappy necessity of taking up arms to defend their dearest rights and privileges,” their address read, “while we deplore the calamities of this divided Empire, we rejoice in the appointment of a gentleman from whose abilities and virtue we are taught to expect both security and peace.”

  Washington’s gracious answer only added to his popularity.

  “At the same time that, with you, I deplore the unhappy necessity of such an appointment as that with which I am now honored,” he said, “I cannot but feel sentiments of the highest gratitude for this affecting instance of distinction and regard. May your warmest wishes be realized in the success of America at this important and interesting period; and be assured that every exertion of my worthy colleagues and myself will be equally extended to the reestablishment of peace and harmony between the mother country and these colonies, as to the fatal but necessary operations of war. When we assumed the soldier, we did not lay aside the citizen; and we shall most sincerely rejoice with you in that happy hour, when the establishment of American liberty, on the most firm and solid foundations, shall enable us to return to our private stations in the bosom of a free, peaceful, and happy country.”

  Washington spent several days in New York, first confirming General Schuyler in command of all the troops destined for the New York department and then assessing the local situation. If Tryon, the newly returned royal governor, tried anything hostile, Schuyler was to stop him. He was also cautioned to keep a watchful eye on the local Indian agent.

  The new Commander in Chief and his party now pressed on toward Boston, following the usual post route northward to New Haven via King’s Bridge and onward across Connecticut. Welcoming groups and entertainments accompanied him all along his route of travel. On entering Massachusetts he was met by a committee at Springfield and was feted thence all the way through Worcester and Marlboro. His last stop before Cambridge was Watertown, on the morning of July 2, where the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts gave him an official welcome.

  But he did not dally at Watertown, for he was already a day behind schedule. He would learn, on arriving at his destination, that the delay had caused no little confusion. Though the fledgling American Army at Cambridge had only a few months’ experience on which to draw, being formed almost exclusively from local militia and minute companies, some of the officers knew that the arrival of a new commanding officer is usually an occasion for military display and pageantry.

  Accordingly, troops had been mustered to welcome him the day before, dutifully parading with as much panache as they could manage without proper uniforms and with little formal training, only to be dismissed when he did not appear. They had lined up again the next morning; but when it began to rain, and with no assurance that the new commander would make his appearance that day either, the troops again were dismissed.

  As a consequence, no fanfare accompanied the new commander’s actual arrival in Cambridge, just after two on the afternoon of July 2. The weather had cleared by the time the General and his escort rode into the sleepy college town, but only a few idlers were about to note the event. Washington himself was “a good deal fatigued” by the time he was directed to Wadsworth House, the home of the president of Harvard University, where quarters had been prepared for him and his staff.

  Word of Washington’s arrival spread quickly, however, and it was not long before the New England officers began calling to pay their respects, among them the stout, sharp-nosed Major General Artemas Ward, whom Washington would supersede. With Ward came an invitation to dine that evening at Hastings House, where Ward had his headquarters on the other side of the college yard. Once the confusion of arrival had been sorted out, with assurances that a proper military welcome and transfer of command would take place the next day, the Commander in Chief was glad for a few hours to rest before making his supper appearance. In the meantime his staff m
ight do what they liked.

  Thus released from formal duties, Major Simon Wallace availed himself of the opportunity to visit his family for a few hours, for his home was in Cambridge, not far from the Commons. He saw the parlor curtains twitch as he drew rein outside the green wrought-iron gate, but he had to duck his head to bend down and lift the latch. By the time he had ridden through and could look again, the door had been flung open and three young children were racing toward him: two boys bracketing a girl, like stair steps, all of them dark of hair and very fair of skin.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  The mare tossed her head in alarm and snorted, rolling her eyes and jigging to the side, causing a dismayed shriek from the little girl as flower beds were flattened under steel-shod hooves. But the shriek brought the other two into more decorous behavior as their father swung down, handing the mare’s reins to the older boy and scooping the younger onto a shoulder as another figure appeared at the door.

  She was wearing one of his favorite gowns: a day dress of pale green muslin sprigged with a darker emerald shade. A fichu of ivory lace covered her bosom, caught at the center with the cameo brooch that had been his grandmother’s, and pearl drops bobbed from her earlobes beneath the smooth coils of raven tresses. A little lace cap completed the ensemble, framing a pair of dancing black eyes.

  “And good afternoon to you, Mistress Wallace,” Simon said, smiling widely as he swept off his hat and made her a formal little bow, careful not to dislodge his younger son.

  Arabella Wallace laughed delightedly and ran to him, embracing him around the boy and lifting her lips to his welcoming kiss. Behind her Justin had also appeared in the doorway and came to assist with the horse as Simon bent to give his daughter a kiss as well.

  “Ah, it’s good to be home, my dears, though I’m afraid it’s only for a few hours. General Ward is entertaining His Excellency to supper this evening, and it will be a preliminary briefing for the new arrivals as well as a social occasion, so staff are required to attend.” He glanced at his elder son. “Charles, if you ask your Uncle Justin very nicely, I expect he could be induced to give you a leg up, so you can ride Sukey back to the barn. I’m sure she’d appreciate a good feed and a rubdown.”