“A remembrance of your service to your prince, my dear,” he said with a tiny smile.
Arabella smiled back as she closed the coin in her hand.
“And now, Lucien.” The Master returned his attention to the prince. “You have no questions regarding Lafayette? He now could become our weak link if he is not properly prepared.”
The prince arched a reddish eyebrow. “You need have no fears on that count. I sent to Franklin as soon as we made landfall. He will have our marquis well in hand by the time I join them in Paris. I then intend to attach myself to young Gilbert’s party and travel with him back to America. You may be certain that he will be primed and ready by the time he is reunited with his beloved General.”
“Excellent.” Saint-Germain allowed himself a slow, lazy smile, the dark eyes caressing each of them in turn. “I am well pleased, mes enfants. Would that we could spend more time together, but your carriage will be waiting. Please convey my kindest regards to Simon. His, perhaps, has been the most difficult part of all, serving as the anchor point around which the General and all else revolves. I know he will continue to rise to the challenges he is given.”
Chapter Twenty-five
The winter of 1779–80 passed but slowly for Colonel Simon Wallace, who had to wait many long months before he could expect news back from his wife and the others who had pursued Prince Charlie’s gold across the Atlantic.
The previous season’s fighting had been sparse and had wound down ominously. Convinced that Clinton was preparing to shift his focus to the South, Washington had detached the North Carolina brigade and the whole of the Virginia line to reinforce General Lincoln at Charleston—a move that was vindicated when Clinton sailed south from New York with nearly eight thousand men. But then the true waiting began—and the worst winter yet.
Though the General remained housed at the Ford mansion, with his wife and his military family, he had moved the army’s winter camp a few miles southwest of Morristown, into a mountainous area called Jockey Hollow. Within a month winter set in with a vengeance. January snows buried the camp under six feet of snow, cutting off all supplies for more than a week; and even afterward few supplies were available.
As the winter progressed, conditions became even worse than two years before at Valley Forge. The men suffered dreadfully from lack of clothing, fuel, and food. Many stumped about barefoot or on feet muffled in rags, with empty stomachs adding to their misery. During the worst of the isolation, the men were reduced to eating black birch bark, roasting old shoes, and even killing and eating a favorite pet dog. Even the officers went on short rations when times were very lean; and many was the bitter winter night when Martha Washington would find her small kitchen invaded by upward of a score of men—all of her husband’s military family of officers and servants—for it was one of the warmest places available for a staff meeting.
Some few diversions there were, to while away the long winter nights. The rituals of Freemasonry continued to be a staple of winter life in camp, especially among the officers. Occasionally musical evenings could be arranged. The General loved to dance, so he and several dozen other officers put together a dancing assembly, encouraging the girls from neighboring farms to join the military wives. If refreshment was scarce, the conviviality, at least, was plentiful—and dancing helped to keep one warm. Often the General would dance until two in the morning, sometimes for several hours without a break, amazing all onlookers with his stamina.
But not all the nights were filled with such diversions; and even Washington’s favored pastime of tableside chats diminished as the winter deepened and the fare even at the General’s table grew more sparse. When shortages were at their worst, Simon sometimes would accompany the Commander in Chief on unofficial walks about the camp, visiting with the men and offering quiet words of reassurance and comfort. Usually the two of them would talk afterward, on the way back and then in Washington’s office, the General unburdening his fears and his frustrations and Simon offering what encouragement he could.
More poignant moments there were, as well. Returning from one such foray on a snowy moonlit evening, when Simon thought the General had merely drawn apart to answer a call of nature, he discovered his Commander in Chief kneeling in the snow amid a circle of pines, bared head bowed over the hilt of his sword in prayer. Withdrawing quietly to give him privacy, Simon had waited with his own head bowed until the crunch of booted feet on new snow warned him of Washington’s return. The General certainly must have been aware that he had been observed, but he had said nothing, only laying a grateful hand on Simon’s sleeve as he passed, leading on toward the path back to the horses.
Thus did the nights pass—respite of a sort, when the days must be occupied with the never-ending challenge to get the men through another day, scrounging provisions and fighting the ongoing battles to stop desertions. Floggings there were aplenty, but discipline had to be maintained.
Only once did Simon see the facade of confidence and fortitude begin to slip, late in February, when even the officers had been on bread and water for several days. Simon had brought in the latest commissary reports, and no one else was in the office. Washington sighed as he bent his gaze over the dismal figures.
“Stay, Colonel, and close the door. I must confess that I sometimes come perilously close to despair, when I must deal with numbers like these, day after day.”
“General Greene has hopes of foraging livestock farther to the north,” Simon said. “I know you prefer not to take what we need from the citizenry, but men are starving.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Washington snapped. “I am so weary of—”
A knock at the door came simultaneously with its opening, and the General barked at the intruder with uncharacteristic sharpness. “Not now, Colonel Hamilton! I’ll let you know when I’m free.”
Immediately the door closed, and immediately Washington regretted his momentary lapse. Simon said nothing as the General briefly buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on the desk as he rubbed at his eyes. After a moment the powdered head lifted, apology written all across the craggy face.
“It is times like this when I truly begin to appreciate all those times when Lieutenant Carmichael served as our Tyler,” he said quietly. “I have not asked you about him, because I know that he has gone abroad and you can hope to receive no word from him for several months yet, but I cannot help wondering about his mission. It—relates to that other matter that you and I have often discussed, does it not?”
“It does,” Simon replied, “and I regret that I may tell you nothing more at this time. It is—possible that when he returns, we will be ready to move forward.”
The gray-blue eyes searched his; then Washington sighed and leaned back in his chair, setting both hands on the chair arms.
“I pray it will come soon,” he whispered. “Five years is a long time to labor, fueled only by hope. In these dark days, when fatigue and doubt are constant companions, the dream intrudes almost nightly—never in detail, but niggling with the tantalizing prospect of the victor’s Crown, which is always just beyond my reach. I have been blessed with some of the bravest men ever to offer service to a commander—and thus far we have always managed to snatch survival from the jaws of utter disaster, even in the face of momentary setbacks. But how long this can continue, I honestly do not know.”
“You must not expect that reenactment of the dream will prove a magical solution to the problems, that the course of the war will suddenly change,” Simon cautioned.
“No, I do not expect that,” the General replied. “Perhaps I only hope for an easing of my mind, a clearer vision for what can be achieved for these United States. It is such a green and fertile land. If only we could be allowed to live our lives in peace. It has been five years since I left Mount Vernon to take up the warrior’s sword. I had hoped never to have to do that again, when I returned from the Indian Wars.
“Yet here I am, Commander in Chief of what must be the
most amazing ragtag army ever to be mustered in the history of mankind. And thus far we have managed to prevail—just—against the most powerful army in Europe. I tell you truly, Colonel, it mystifies me.”
Their conversation soon returned to the report that had sparked Washington’s unusual diversion. The subject of Justin and his mission did not come up again. Nor did the conversation change anything in the way either man approached the ongoing problems of supply and discipline in the camp.
Meanwhile, even the spring brought little respite. Rations had been cut and cut again to one eighth of normal, and two Connecticut regiments mutinied for full rations and back pay. Their colonel shamed them by pointing out the immortal honor they had won by their performance, patience, and bravery to date—all for naught, if they took to their heels and deserted. The men backed down, but two of the leaders were hanged, and Washington was forced to pardon all except the ones who had actually left camp. The wonder was that he succeeded in retaining any army at all.
Militarily, the winter had seen little activity on either side. Once New York Bay froze over, trapping the British warships in the ice, Washington authorized a surprise foray across the ice to harass the British on Staten Island, giving General Stirling twenty-five hundred men to throw against a British force of about twelve hundred.
But the British discovered the advance in time to pull back in their defensive works, so that Stirling was obliged to withdraw, though with little loss. For their part, the British raided Paulus Hook and Elizabethtown, taking a few prisoners in each instance; but like similar raids into Westchester County, which became known as the “neutral ground,” they had little effect on either side.
Unfortunately, the campaign in the South had more disastrous consequences. Answering the demands of the government of Charleston to defend it, General Lincoln allowed himself to be hemmed in and besieged. (In a similar situation in 1776, Washington had avoided being penned up in New York and had kept his army from being lost, even though the British occupation of New York went forward.)
But Lincoln believed that he could keep the British from entering Charleston harbor. By May 9 he had been proven wrong and was forced to surrender his army of more than three thousand. British losses for the entire siege did not exceed two hundred sixty-five killed or wounded.
Washington would not learn of the Charleston defeat—perhaps the worst American loss of the entire war—for many days, but he had already sent more reinforcements southward under De Kalb: two thousand Maryland and Delaware troops, who would form the nucleus of a new army in the Southern Department.
Amid all this activity, military and domestic, the Master’s Inner Circle finally had begun to report in to Simon. Andrew and Arabella were the first to arrive, very early in May, taking up temporary accommodations in an inn in Morristown until they could brief Simon regarding the events at the Palazzo San Clemente.
“It will be for Lucien to set the scene when he returns with Lafayette,” Andrew said when Simon had skimmed over the scenario for the intended ritual. “And I should imagine that we’ll see Justin and Ramsay any day.”
The pair arrived only days later, even as Lincoln was surrendering at Charleston. Thanks to Simon’s careful backdating of appropriate paperwork, Ramsay’s unscheduled absence had been covered by official leave, the same as Justin’s. Now Simon sent him off immediately to the house where Andrew and Arabella had taken up lodgings to begin preparations. Justin he took into his own quarters at the Ford house, where the two of them talked late into the night and Justin embroidered on the account Andrew and Arabella had given by adding his perspective from among the Bostonians.
“They’re disappointed, as you can imagine,” he told Simon, “but they had no idea what was going on behind the scenes at San Clemente. And Ramsay certainly rose to the occasion after we left Florence. He seems to have made a complete turn-around.”
“And about time,” Simon muttered. “Much of this to-ing and fro-ing could have been avoided if he’d stayed in line in the first place.”
“Well, one can’t fault patriot zeal,” Justin said, “so long as it’s properly focused. Speaking of which, have we any idea when Lafayette will be arriving?”
“Soon, I should think,” Simon replied. “Andrew said that when he went through Paris, he’d heard it was all but certain that a French expedition would be leaving very shortly, with the marquis in the advance party. Lucien planned to attach himself to that party as part of Lafayette’s staff and do his best to encourage early action. That’s been Lafayette’s aim for some time, of course—to return to Washington’s service.”
That return came only two days later, on May 10, when the ebullient Lafayette rode into Washington’s Morristown camp armed with his King’s instructions and commitments: the promise of six thousand French infantrymen soon to be on their way, with arms, clothing, and ammunition. The expeditionary force would be led by Lieutenant General the Comte de Rochambeau but would be considered an auxiliary corps of the American Army, and hence under Washington’s command.
Delighted, Washington greeted his young friend as a returning son. Lafayette, in turn, threw himself into the General’s arms with Gallic exuberance, then spent the rest of the day and evening closeted with the Commander in Chief and various of his officers while they acquainted one another with the most recent state of affairs. The Prince de Rohanstuart had traveled amid the marquis’s party as one of his aides, now wearing French uniform and introduced as Major Rohan. Simon was among the General’s aides invited to sit in on parts of the briefings, and Justin also was in evidence.
The General’s table was more festive than usual that evening, even if the fare was still frugal. Simon was in attendance, of course, as was the prince; and Justin, too, was among the few junior officers present. After supper and its attendant table talk, when the General’s military family began to disperse, the marquis asked privately whether he might have the honor of the General’s further presence in his quarters; his aide, Major Rohan, was prepared to open a very fine bottle of brandy, which, alas, was enough for only a few. Perhaps Colonel Wallace would join them to help assess its quality?
The atmosphere relaxed further as soon as the four had repaired to Lafayette’s quarters. The General did not seem to notice that the marquis’s aide casually locked the door behind them as he closed it, or that Justin had followed them and taken up guard duty outside the door. As Lafayette drew four chairs around a small table and bade his guests sit, the prince produced crystal glasses from a traveling canteen and set them on the table, filling them from a dark-green bottle. After distributing them, Lafayette took up his own glass and raised it in salute to his Commander in Chief.
“I drink to your very good health and to old friendships, mon cher général,” he said happily.
“And to the survival of these United States,” Washington replied. “Gentlemen.”
He lifted his glass slightly to all of them, and everyone drank the toast. It was a fine brandy. When Simon had savored its flavor, he set his glass aside and glanced at the prince, sitting directly across from him. The prince nodded and reached behind him to pull Lafayette’s Bible from under a cloak. This he handed to Lafayette, who set it gravely on the table before Washington.
“I have come with more than the promise of troops, mon général,” the marquis said softly. “I am told that this means something to you beyond the sacred words it contains.”
Washington’s eyes had widened at the sight of the book, and now he turned a questioning gaze to Simon, sitting at his right hand.
“Forgive the somewhat dramatic introduction, General,” Simon said. “Both these gentlemen are party to what is unfolding and are here to assist you. If you will be so good as to lay your right hand upon the Volume of Sacred Law, much will be revealed.”
Jaw tightening, Washington returned his gaze to the book, then slowly reached out to lay his palm atop it. He stiffened as he touched it, his eyes closing, then was silent for a long moment before brea
thing slowly out, his head bowing over the book. After a moment he looked up at them uncertainly.
“I remembered,” he said softly, his fingers caressing the silver corners and clasp of the book. “Not all, but much more. Gilbert was in the dream.” His gaze flicked to Lafayette, his brow furrowing. “But I had not even met you when I first had the dream.”
Lafayette shrugged sheepishly, but with no evasion. “My own awareness of all that is unfolding is but new, mon général. But you yourself started me on the road by which I may hope to understand. Since leaving you nearly two years ago, entered as an Apprentice in the Great Work, I have been further instructed regarding the Master Tracing Board from which we all take our instruction. I am awed and humbled to have been deemed worthy to assist in this great endeavor.”
Washington’s jaw had dropped as Lafayette spoke, and now his gaze flicked warily to the prince.
“And what of you, sir?” he whispered. “I know you for a Master Mason and a friend of the American cause, but it seems there is more to which I have not been privy.”
The prince inclined his head, one hand toying with the stem of his glass. “I apologize for the need to mislead you when first we met, General. My full name is Lucien Rene Robert, Prince de Rohanstuart. I am a distant cousin of Charles Edward Stuart. When I first made your acquaintance, I had come to America to meet with certain Bostonians who had written to my cousin and offered him the Crown of America, as inducement that he should come to the colonies and use this as a base from which to take back the throne of his ancestors.”
At the General’s beginning start of protest, the prince held up a hand. “Please allow me to finish, General. For a variety of reasons His Majesty had declined the offer at that time, but already Providence had placed you upon the Master Tracing Board. In what capacity we still cannot be certain, but dux bellorum of these United Colonies you certainly were to be, as was confirmed by your appointment as Commander in Chief.”
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