Two Crowns for America

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Can I ride her by myself?” the boy asked eagerly as Justin grinned and bent to scoop him onto the wide saddle.

  “Just to the barn,” Simon agreed. “She’s tired enough that I don’t expect she’ll give you any trouble, but remember that she’s a full-sized horse.”

  The boy’s eyes were shining as Justin handed him the reins.

  “Papa, thank you!” he breathed. “Giddup, Sukey,” he said more forcefully as he gave the reins a shake.

  When the mare stepped out toward the barn, as if aware of the tender years of her rider, Justin glanced at Simon in question. “Will you be wanting her later?”

  Simon shook his head and began heading them all toward the house. “I’ll walk to Hastings House this evening. I’ve been in the saddle enough this past week or so.”

  Arabella laughed delightedly and hugged her husband’s arm, rubbing her cheek contentedly against the rough wool of his sleeve as they skirted the ruined flower bed.

  “If that boy doesn’t get a pony soon, Simon, he’s going to drive me mad!” she said. “That’s all he talks about. At least he can use up some of his energy taking care of Sukey, if you’re going to be in Cambridge for a while. Or will you need to keep her up at Wadsworth House, so you’re ready to ride off at a moment’s notice on the General’s errands?”

  “I’ll have to ask,” he replied lightly. “For all I know, I may have to stay up at Wadsworth House.”

  “Oh, Simon!”

  “Well, I am one of his aides, my dear. And there have been some rather interesting developments. Where is Andrew?”

  “He’s upstairs, writing some letters,” Arabella said, steering him firmly into the house. “I’ll fetch him after Justin and I have drawn you a bath. Why don’t you visit with the children while we do that, and then the three of you can talk? I don’t suppose you’ve had much opportunity for baths, on the road.”

  He grinned and kissed the top of her head. “I can think of several things I haven’t had, but I’ll settle for a bath and all the latest news for now.”

  Blushing prettily, she shooed him off with the children, then put a large kettle to heat over the fire in the kitchen while Justin began bringing in more water from the well. Set behind folding screens in the center of the kitchen, the tin bath was ready when Simon joined them half an hour later. He stripped off his travel-stained uniform and immersed himself gratefully while Justin straddled a ladder-back chair and gave him further details of the battle at Breed’s Hill. Arabella briefly disappeared upstairs, then busied herself laying out fresh clothing and brushing up his coat and hat, listening but saying little.

  “I’m sorry to hear that Warren’s body has not been found yet,” Simon said, sluicing water from his eyes and streaming hair. “How are the rest of our casualty figures, now that there’s been time to count?”

  “Something over four hundred killed or wounded,” Justin replied. “It could have been far worse. It was, for the British. They lost at least twice that many. Some say the figure may exceed a thousand.”

  Simon shivered despite the summery warmth of the room. “We’d heard estimates of thirty to forty percent casualties.”

  “It may be closer to fifty percent,” Justin said. “And the officer losses were staggering: nearly one in three, when the expected ratio usually is more like one in eight. A very costly victory. They say that General Gage is still in shock.”

  “Good God, I shouldn’t wonder,” Simon murmured. He fell briefly silent as Arabella toweled briskly at his hair, arching with an involuntary little grunt of pleasure as she shifted her ministrations to his shoulders and back. Only reluctantly did he return his attention to the younger man, signaling Arabella to desist as he gathered himself to get out of the bath.

  “So what do you suppose will be the practical effect of all this?” he asked. “It sounds like we gave Gage a good thrashing, despite the fact that he technically won, but I doubt he’s going to simply pack up and go home.”

  “Actually, he may do precisely that,” Arabella said. She offered her husband a fresh towel as he rose streaming from the bath and stepped out onto a brightly colored rag rug. “Rumor has it that his nerve is shattered.”

  Simon had ducked behind one of the screens, wrapping himself in the towel, but stuck out his head in astonishment.

  “Where did you hear that rumor?”

  “Oh, the wife of a British officer came to tea the other day and let it slip,” she replied coyly. “Get dressed, or you’ll be late for the General. Justin, please go see what’s keeping Andrew. My guest said,” she continued, “that her husband had been complaining that Gage is all but paralyzed by what happened at Breed’s Hill. He knows it was a victory in name only. Apparently he’s convinced that if he sets foot outside Boston proper, American soldiers will leap out from behind every rock and bush and tree and slaughter his men. He’s never been that keen on fighting against the colonists to begin with, and this is a kind of war he simply does not understand. Parliament will replace him, of course. All the officers say so.”

  “Do they, indeed?”

  Simon emerged in clean white breeches, raking his fingers through his wet hair, and sat on a stool so Arabella could begin combing out the snarls. Andrew had joined them during her recitation, puffing on his pipe, and nodded a greeting to his son as he pulled up a bow-backed chair.

  “I was finishing some letters,” he said, clasping the hand Simon extended. “Welcome home.”

  Nodding distractedly, Simon resumed his conversation with Arabella.

  “About Gage,” he said. “I think I shall pass that on to His Excellency. Speaking of whom,” he added, “I’m glad you came down when you did, Andrew. I had a rather odd conversation with the General in New York, the night we received the official news of Warren’s death. This is likely to sound strange, but do you know whether he has ever worked outside the structure of the Lodge?”

  Arabella stopped combing his hair. Justin looked up from wiping down Simon’s sword and scabbard. Andrew gazed at him placidly with his one good eye.

  “By ‘worked,’ ” the old chevalier said carefully, “I take it that you mean in some other esoteric discipline.”

  “Precisely,” Simon replied. “And I gather, by all of your reactions, that the thought hadn’t occurred to any of you, any more than it had to me.” He cocked his head. “Now I’m not certain whether I should be reassured or apprehensive.”

  “Tell us about this conversation,” Andrew said.

  While Arabella continued to comb his hair dry, pulling it back in a queue to braid it, Simon told them about the dream Washington had related as they sat in the shadows of the garden at Lispenard House.

  “At least I think it was a dream. He thought it was,” he went on, when he had reviewed the basic details. “But the symbolism was more akin to a vision. Of course, that may be the way he dreams. The laurel wreath is not an unusual image for a military man who himself has admitted that he has ambitions—though he denies he ever wanted to be Commander in Chief, and I tend to believe him. Every soldier wants to be the victor. And couching the whole thing in Masonic imagery is not, in itself, out of keeping, since he is a Freemason.”

  “And you say that the sword was put back into his hands?” Andrew asked.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “A potent symbol of being given command,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “And it does sound like something might have been done to it in a ritual context. I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to examine it since?”

  Simon shook his head. “I’ve watched for an opportunity, but it just hasn’t been possible while we were on the road. I’ll keep trying, of course. But the whole thing was odd enough that I even wrote it up, right after he told me about it.”

  “I’ll want to read that,” Andrew said neutrally.

  “Of course. Remind me to fetch it before I head back to Hastings House.”

  As he bent to pull on clean white stockings, Justin glanced thoughtfully at Andre
w, then back at Simon.

  “You know, it’s odd he should make such a point about the sword,” he said. “I had almost forgotten the incident, but something peculiar happened the day he was nominated as Commander in Chief—which would have been not long after he had the dream, or vision, or whatever it was.”

  “Go on,” Simon said.

  “Well, do you remember when John Adams got up to make the nominating speech—and when it became apparent that he was talking about Washington, the General slipped out of the room?”

  “I remember,” Simon said. “In fact, he mentioned something himself, in that connection—how the sense of destiny, of mission, began about the time he received the nomination. You followed him, didn’t you?”

  “I did. He walked right past me. I feared he might be feeling ill. He went into the library and closed the door. I listened for a few seconds, to be sure he was alone; then I looked through the keyhole. He was standing beside one of the library tables with his head bowed and both hands clasped around the hilt of his sword. His knuckles were white, and his shoulders were shaking.

  “Then he sank to his knees and bowed his forehead against the pommel of the sword. I decided he must be praying, so I posted myself outside the door to give him privacy.”

  “He probably was praying,” Andrew said. “From what I’ve heard, he prays and reads his Bible daily.”

  “He does,” Simon confirmed. “He gets down on his knees. The question is, was he just praying that day, or was he having some kind of flashback of the dream?”

  “The timing would suggest that perhaps it was a flashback,” Andrew replied. “Receiving the sword in the dream was symbolic; receiving the nomination as Commander in Chief was very real and reinforced the dream. I shouldn’t wonder that he might be shaken. Come to think of it, the same sort of thing could have been happening that night at Peg Mullen’s. Do you remember when everyone stood up to toast him, Simon? I think it had finally dawned on him, and on everyone, just how much was being asked of him.”

  Simon nodded grimly, standing to pull on a fresh shirt. “Now I’m convinced it wasn’t just a dream. I think a closer examination of that sword is definitely in order—and perhaps a closer examination of the man himself, if I can contrive a way without totally spooking him.” He finished doing up the buttons, adjusting the ruffles at his neck. “By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve had opportunity to talk to Ramsay since you got back? I’d like to know more about that fall that precipitated the dream, especially since Ramsay was in it.”

  “Ah, Ramsay,” Andrew said with a sigh. “He’s been a busy lad—far busier than we dreamed. No, he’s said nothing about the General, but it emerges that he and some of our Jacobite brethren here in Boston have not been entirely forthcoming about their activities of late. Your instincts in Philadelphia were well founded.”

  Simon grimaced above the black silk military stock he had been fastening at his throat.

  “What’s he done now?”

  “Well, let us simply say that it’s a development we hadn’t planned on—at least not this soon. It seems that over the past winter, while the rest of us were still doing careful groundwork, certain members of our fearless but unfortunately impetuous Bostonian Party became impatient with the slow progress toward a Stuart restoration. They decided to move things along a little. They sent a letter directly to Charles Edward Stuart. They offered him the Crown of America, if only he would come to the New World and place himself at their head.”

  Simon’s jaw had dropped at his father’s recitation, and he sank wordlessly into his chair again.

  “They offered him the Crown?” he asked after a stunned silence.

  At Andrew’s wordless nod Simon briefly closed his eyes, breathing out with a long sigh.

  “Does the Master know about this yet?”

  “He does. I had his letter waiting when I returned from Philadelphia. Apparently the General’s dream was a first step in damage control.”

  “Then he did cause the dream! And you let me tell you about it, when you already knew?”

  “Yes on both counts, though I knew only the Master’s intent, not Washington’s reaction to it. And I didn’t tell you immediately because I didn’t want to color your account. We’ll discuss that in more detail when you’ve returned from your supper engagement. We haven’t time right now.”

  “Very well,” Simon said, a little dazedly. “Back to this offer of the Crown—has the King replied?”

  Andrew quirked a wry smile. “He has. Ramsay’s coconspirators received his answer while we were all in Philadelphia. Of course he neither accepted nor declined, at this stage of negotiations. His petitioners clearly anticipated this, for they asked that, if he could not yet come in person, perhaps he might send over a personal representative—preferably a Stuart. The King graciously consented to send a cousin. You’d better finish dressing, or you’ll be late.”

  Still shaking his head in disbelief, Simon rose to stuff his shirttails into his breeches and buckle on the sword Justin handed him.

  “It was far too early to actually offer the Crown,” he muttered. “God knows, we all long for the day when the King may come into his own again, but it isn’t at all certain yet that this is the place from which to do that.”

  “Well, Ramsay thinks it is,” Andrew replied. “He also pointed out—and in this, at least, he is correct—that many of the Bostonian Party think it’s time they actually met a Stuart, if they’re to continue working for the Stuart cause. Supporting a de jure King Over the Water is all well and good for people like us, who have met Charles Edward Stuart; but dreams can’t sustain those who have not—not indefinitely, at any rate.”

  Simon shrugged distractedly into the clean white waistcoat Arabella held for him and began doing up the buttons.

  “I suppose there is a logic to that argument,” he admitted. “But it was wrong of Ramsay to take such a decision on himself. And the timing could hardly be worse. Most of the colonial leaders are not ready to break with England, regardless of the fact that they’re prepared to fight for their rights. You heard them in Congress. Whatever our personal feelings about the man who wears the English Crown, he is not yet seen as the true villain in this piece; it’s Lord North and the Parliament who’re to blame. What does the Master have to say about all of this?”

  “Naturally, he would prefer that Ramsay had not acted prematurely. Having said that, I am given to understand that the man being sent by the King bears the Master’s mandate as well. I believe he may be one of our counterparts in Europe.”

  “Is he to deal with Ramsay?”

  Andrew shrugged, containing a faint smile. “In part, perhaps. Let us simply say that, as ever, the Master has his own approach to resolving problems, and that his perspective may take a longer view than does ours.”

  “Indeed.” Simon ducked his head and left arm through the green riband baldric that was his insignia as a staff officer, letting Arabella adjust the ends on his left hip. “Who is this cousin the King is sending?”

  “His name is Prince Lucien Rene Robert de Rohanstuart. I doubt you’ve heard of him. His Stuart blood is from the wrong side of the blanket, and several generations back; but blood is blood, after all. His grandfather died in the Nineteen, fighting for King James, and I knew his father at Culloden.” He watched Justin wrap a crimson officer’s sash twice around Simon’s waist and tie it in the front. “In any case, the King was quite specific regarding who should be sent to escort the prince back. He asked for Justin. That’s why Ramsay had to own up to what he’d done.”

  Simon heaved a heavy sigh and sat down again, enduring the powder Arabella dusted on his hair, for the evening’s dining would be formal.

  “Ramsay accepted that?” he asked, suppressing a sneeze.

  “Ramsay has no choice. The King requested it—though I suspect the Master’s hand in the choice. After all, the King has never met Justin; he’s only heard of him through us. In any event, since we were already sending Justin to
Europe, it couldn’t be more convenient for us. But he’ll go to the Master before he goes to the prince—just in case anything vital has changed in the three months since the various letters were sent. Then, if the plans still stand, Justin will collect the prince as planned and return with him on the first ship available.”

  “Well, it’s an ambitious assignment, even without the complication of Ramsay’s insubordination,” Simon conceded. He slipped his stockinged feet into the silver-buckled shoes that Justin set before him instead of boots. “But far be it from me to question the Master’s wishes—or the King’s. Justin, are you really willing to take this on?”

  “Am I willing?” Justin gasped, as Andrew laughed aloud and Arabella smiled.

  “If he were any more willing,” Andrew said, “I should be obliged to box his ears to knock some sense into him. Tell me what young man of Justin’s age would not relish such a mission: to be sent to the Old World under secret orders to bring back a prince!”

  As Simon shrugged, clearly still dubious at this radical change of their plans, Andrew clapped him on the shoulder. “I shouldn’t worry on Justin’s account, son. He has a sound head on his shoulders. You’ve trained him yourself, after all. And unlike the good Ramsay and our other Bostonian friends, he knows how to follow orders. As for the rest, let the Master sort that out.”

  “Whatever you think best,” Simon said, standing to look around for his uniform coat. “You can be certain I’ll want to talk more about this when I return. Right now, however, I’d best think about getting back to my other master. It doesn’t do for junior officers to keep their superiors waiting—and among the array of generals gathering tonight, a mere major is very junior, indeed.”

  “Well, at least they’ll not be able to fault you on your appearance,” Arabella said, producing a different coat from the one he had worn home. “This is the new uniform being adopted for the Continental Army. Do you like it?”