by Jack Fernley
At the edge of the wharf, Hand and Cromwell bided their time, watching the world unfurl, keeping an eye on the comings and goings at the far end of the yard.
At that end a rough wooden stockade was in place, guarded by grey-green-suited soldiers. Even from a distance, Hand recognised the sentries at the entrance, Paul and Tommy Parsons, brothers from Trenton, Pennsylvanian Riflemen now wearing the uniforms of the Stormtroopers. From their place on the wharf wall, he and Cromwell surveyed the outlines of the stockade, planning the best way of entry.
From the other side came much shouting and cheering. Through the port marched a small group led by two people Hand knew only too well: Hanna Reitsch and Werner Conze. The river of people in the port parted to allow them to pass, onlookers staring, cheering and wishing them well. Like royalty, Hand thought. They are becoming our royalty. He turned away, his gaze far out to sea, turning back only when Reitsch and Conze had entered the stockade, the gate closed firmly behind them.
Later, as the sun set, Hand and Cromwell eased themselves away from their vantage point and made towards the fish-gutting tables against which the enclosure had been thrown up. Clear now of fish and men, the morning’s catch long gone, still the tables and canvas awnings gave off the stench of fish guts, the floor slippery underfoot. Working past these tables, climbing over empty barrels and boxes, they came to a discreet area where the fence of the compound was more rickety, a result of the speed with which it had been thrown up.
Together they pulled at the wooden slats until a gap appeared. There was no need for them to be quiet, because the noise of whatever was happening inside the stockade was overpowering. They slipped through the gap and their faces were immediately illuminated by a luminous golden-orange haze. They had never seen anything like this before.
In front of them, in an open area, a huge furnace fifty-feet high was throwing up yellow flames that licked the night sky. The hungry mouth was fed by coal and coke, white-hot iron running from it, collected in little iron wagons that climbed away to be cooled in hissing vats of water. Their ears were assaulted by the dull thud of forge hammers and the rumbling and clanking of iron chains and wheels. Smut-covered workmen with fierce white eyes moved delicately among the glowing iron, handkerchiefs around their mouths to keep out the sulphurous acid, sweat mingling with the dirt about their naked torsos. Flames, smoke, iron and steel, a pandemonium of the senses. Something new, something thrilling, something terrible.
Hand and Cromwell could not bring themselves to stop watching this show from hell. They had never seen anything like it. Nor did they understand it.
The splashing molten carriages disappeared into a large shed, from which sparks flew and thunderous hammers and drills could be heard, but from their vantage point neither could see inside.
‘We need to get into that shed,’ Cromwell murmured to Hand.
‘There’s no way we can see inside without breaking our cover. They must stop at some stage. We must come back when the work has ceased.’
But at that moment the work did cease. A whistle was blown and all the workers downed their tools. For five minutes the hands cleared the yard of all debris and closed down the furnace. Their work completed, they lined up in a single line at the wall by the entrance.
Then there was a rumbling, a clanking and a hissing, the likes of which neither Cromwell or Hand had ever heard, leading to a monstrous noise, and then, from the shed, it came out.
They could not believe their eyes.
It was some kind of machine. On a platform sat a long barrel, at its end a chimney, smoke rising from it, the platform propelled by a collection of wheels, iron wheels with pistons moving like little arms. A man was stoking the chimney, and another was directing the machine by a ship’s wheel. Behind them, another barrel and then behind that, incredibly, on a second platform, two men stood alongside a cannon.
Scampering behind the machine came four people, Hanna Reitsch, Werner Conze and two others, who made for an odd pair, one short and squat, the other tall and thin.
The machine was moving fast, and then it came to a dramatic halt. There was a shout from one of the men with Reitsch and Conze – they could not hear it over the noise of the steam. But one of the men spun another wheel around so that the cannon now faced not the rear of the engine, but out to Philadelphia bay. He then spun a third wheel and the snout moved up in the air. The man put what appeared to be spectacles to his eyes and shouted at the other man on the cannon.
This man picked up a brass cartridge from the floor of the platform, stuffed it into the cannon and then walked to the rear. Everyone in the yard put their hands to their ears and the man then did something– his body obscuring the view from both Cromwell and Hand – and then leapt clear before – good God! – a most hideous noise, worse than any cannon Hand had ever heard in battle. The cartridge flew out of the mouth of the cannon, high into the air and towards the bay where it landed, destroying a small fishing boat that had been clearly left there for that purpose.
The entire yard screamed in triumph. The smaller of the men threw his arms around Reitsch, while the taller man simply nodded aristocratically before shaking Conze’s hand.
Cromwell and Hand turned to each other. They were lost for words.
FORTY-TWO
‘I’m not sure it was entirely necessary to see off Lafayette.’
‘That preening French cock, I couldn’t bear him any longer. Quoting Machiavelli in French. If he was half the intellectual he thought he was, he could have at least used the original Italian.’ Conze burst into laughter and von Steuben joined in. Conze and Reitsch had returned from the port in high spirits, to join von Steuben in his room at the City Tavern.
‘Now to explain these murders,’ Reitsch said. ‘They were necessary to our cause, but we need an explanation that is credible. And I think I have one.’
‘You do? Let’s hear it,’ said von Steuben.
‘We discovered a plot, a heinous plot, the work of this Frenchman. Lafayette had come to the Americas as an agent of the British. He was seeking revenge against the French court that had banished him – the details can be oblique, it matters little, no one understands the Byzantine workings of royal courts, that will suffice. We uncovered the plot; he did not deny it, or the Americans who were part of it. They attacked us, we fought back, they died.’
‘A good explanation, but with a certain flaw,’ said Conze. ‘We have witnesses who would deny it: Hamilton, Greene and Cadwalader, assuming he recovers from Kluggman’s punch. There may be brain damage by the way. Our friend is quite remarkable. That was some punch.’
‘Even better,’ replied Reitsch. ‘Those three are part of it. We put them on trial. Not before we torture them into making a suitable confession. They will not be able to sustain themselves for any length of time; you saw how they shivered with fear in the room. A confession from them is all that we require. And let us be generous. Ewing was not part of it – Sullivan killed him. And if Cadwalader is disabled, let him too be a hero. We need some martyrs for our cause, better for them to supply them than us.’
‘Hanna, perfect. And let us take it one stage further,’ responded Conze. ‘Let us use this to be rid of Washington. He should be part of the conspiracy and in the pay of Howe. That is why he was prepared to leave Philadelphia open. He despaired of winning the war and was prepared to surrender on British terms.’
‘I am not convinced that anyone will think that believable of Washington, Werner,’ countered von Steuben. ‘It is clear he is a man of sturdy virtue. I’ve grown rather fond of him, halitosis and all. He may be stiff, but he has many virtues. History has treated him correctly. Given the quality of the men he had around him, his was quite a remarkable achievement.’
‘Baron, sentimentality is not an easily recognised virtue of yours!’ Conze remarked.
‘Don’t be too surprised, Werner, you should see him with puppies,’ chuckled Reitsch.
‘Washington is a problem for us. We have disposed of him
easily enough, but as long as he remains free, he will be a convenient standard bearer for any opposition. So far everything we have achieved has been easy and predictable, the difficult parts are to follow. To instil National Socialism in this feudal nation may prove to be more difficult than the Führer’s struggle to win over industrial Germany and Austria. We have Congress in our pocket for now, but soon there will be those who disagree with our economic and social policies and they will look for leadership. By his obvious moral virtue, Washington would be an obvious candidate. He may not wish to become an opposition leader, but why gamble?’
‘He’s right, Frederich. Let’s clean this all up.’
Von Steuben sighed. ‘Poor old George, destined not to be remembered as the father of his nation, but as a traitor to it. Werner, have the interrogation experts start their work on Hamilton and Greene. If needs be, Kluggman can give Cadwalader another thump. As you say, a cause needs its martyrs.’
‘Very good. Hanna, an impressive piece of thinking.’
‘Werner, you said that almost without sounding patronising. You’re learning.’
‘I’m learning not to underestimate women, Hanna.’
‘Ah, love and impending fatherhood can work its wonders on even the most jaded misogynist.’
Von Steuben cleared his throat. It was not the time for Hanna and Conze’s tiresome bickering. ‘Now, John Adams tells me that Congress will formally announce my selection as commander-in-chief tomorrow. They will aim for a formal inauguration in the chamber, but I think we need another one of those rallies. The last one was rather successful.’
‘I am slightly concerned, Frederich my darling, that you are enjoying the adulation of the crowds too much. Perhaps I should stand behind you whispering “you are only human”.’
‘You do that very successfully away from the podium, my dear, my feet are in no danger of getting carried away with themselves. I would like to unveil the conspiracy to Congress in the morning and then immediately afterwards to the public at a gathering in front of the State House.’
‘More Churchill? That was quite shameful last time by the way,’ said Conze, admiring himself in the mirror, flattening his hair.
‘You didn’t like that little flourish, Werner? I thought it was rather clever, using our enemy’s words for our own cause. I might use Stalin this time, though I’m not sure he has ever said anything memorable.’
‘I’m all for oratory, I’m all for this unexpected use of, what? Irony, I suppose, but you need to consider your audience. This is not Plato’s academy you are addressing. Nor is it a twentieth-century audience, grown up with mass media. They are simple, uneducated people, illiterate most of them. Keep your words simple. A few phrases they can repeat, chant even, remember always. And give them fear; always give them enemies, real or imagined. Enemies that we alone can protect them from: Indians, free slaves, the British, the French, Jews, Slavs, anyone different.’
Von Steuben paused to reflect.
‘Wise words, Werner. I’ll keep it simple. Now, can we be sure of the confessions by the morning? I would like to bring them before Congress.’
‘Our boys have been breaking hardened Bolsheviks for years, those two will crumble within hours. You will have your conspiracy all neatly wrapped and ready as a gift by the morning,’ answered Conze.
‘Very good. And what of our surprises, Hanna. How goes the work with Krupp and Schmeisser?’
‘Schmeisser says he is ahead of schedule. The prototype for the new rifle has worked well in its firing tests. Krupp says that the factory at Boone Town will be ready to start manufacturing in October. By late autumn, the Stormtroopers will be armed with automatic rifles and then we will roll them out to loyal units afterwards. The Frankford Mill has proved itself with the necessary gunpowder and the Pattison Brothers are keeping to their schedule for the delivery of the brass cartridges. We have been impressed by their industry. There is hope for this country after all.’
‘The modified Brown Besses have worked well so far. I must say little Schmeisser is something of a genius,’ said Conze.
‘They’ll deliver Lee an easy victory over Burgoyne at Saratoga. We have played our cards well with that one, I think. Once that victory is achieved, we will take the main army to New York and defeat Howe, and have this war won by spring if not by the end of the year even. Six years earlier than the first time. And what about your little surprise they are working on down at the docks? When will that be finished?’
‘Soon. Werner and I have just come from a demonstration. It is looking good. Perhaps we’ll take you down there the day after tomorrow. It may be ready by then, but I do have something that will certainly be ready tomorrow.’ Reitsch moved over to the corner of the room and brought back what appeared to be a blanket. ‘The same factory that made the banners for your return from Elk, one of our League of American Girls’ factories actually, will have something special for you to unveil tomorrow. This is the sample pattern we worked to.’
On the table she unwrapped the blanket. There were thirteen red and white stripes and in the left-hand corner, a red square and in its centre a black swastika. ‘This will be the flag of the United States of America, the Swastika and Stripes.’
FORTY-THREE
The following morning Jefferson awoke fresh and early. He had seen off the infection and his spirits were buoyed; he was ready to take his place at the heart of things again. He may not have agreed with the decision to remove Washington, but he could see its logic, cold and heartless as it was. But he was determined that von Steuben answer the charges. The fight for independence was nothing if it was not a moral crusade. He was determined to address Congress that morning, but first he would do the right thing and call on Washington.
The Congressman walked towards the City Tavern where he knew rooms had been booked for Washington.
It was not yet nine in the morning and already the tavern was bustling. He was used to this. Throughout the course of the war, whenever and wherever he had come to call on Washington, he would find his lodgings surrounded by well-wishers, petitioners, business people, salesmen, worried mothers, all looking to grab a moment with the general to press whatever claim they had on him. Yet, there was something different about this crowd.
It was larger than usual, but oddly without the confusion and chaos that would normally surround it. And he soon realised why: a group of grey-green Stormtroopers were keeping the people orderly, in line. He walked through the crowd, a few recognised him, by his height alone, the bony frame already famous, and he placed himself at the head of the queue.
‘Guten morgan, Jungen!’ he said.
The two Stormtroopers, young men, peach-fuzz chins and acned skin, looked at him, confused.
‘What?’ asked one.
‘Ah, I said good morning. I thought by way of the uniform you would be Hessians.’
‘Nah, we’re Philly boys an’ proud of it, part of the new unit the SS Philadelphia.’
‘Really, oh, I had no idea. Would you let me through, boys, I have come to see General Washington.’
‘General Washington ain’t here, sir, you won’t find him in the tavern.’
‘Why all these people then? Are they not here to see the general?’
‘No, they’re ’ere to see the baron,’ said the other lad. ‘He’s staying here.’
‘Of course,’ thought Jefferson out loud, ‘of course he is. Well, do you know where General Washington might be?’
‘No idea. He ain’t here, that’s fer sure. Try the State House, might be someone there can help yer.’
Jefferson withdrew gracefully. Sucked back into the press of the crowd, he eased himself back down Second Street and towards Chestnut. It should have been a walk of a minute or so, but the numbers of people heading towards the tavern made it difficult. Those and the occasional well-wisher, happy to shake one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence by the hand and wish him a fine morning.
Even the broad avenue of Chestnut wa
s full of people. The whole of Philadelphia and its surrounds seemed to be making its way to the City Tavern. Outside the State House, the large swastika banners still floating dreamily in front of the brick walls, there was some building work going on. A stage was being erected and what appeared to be scaffolding. At the front doors, two Stormtroopers stood on guard.
‘Good morning, lads!’ he called out to them.
They appeared confused and one said in German, ‘Kein Einlass. Nur Kongressabgeordnete.’
This is confusing, he thought, these are Germans it would appear, and he marvelled how chiselled, how much more athletic they were than the Philly boys he had just come from.
‘I am a delegate. Ah, Ich ein Delegater. Ich. Delegater. Thomas Jefferson, mich.’ He pointed at his chest, but the boys were not for moving. Luckily at that moment, from inside, John Hancock walked by, spotted Jefferson struggling and came over.
‘Soldaten, erlauben sie diesem mann in. Er ist Thomas Jefferson, ein wichtiger Delegierter.’
The two soldiers immediately gave a strange right-armed salute, clicking their heels at the same time, and allowed Jefferson to pass through and into the hall.
‘I thought you were a master of languages, Thom,’ laughed Hancock.
‘French, Spanish, Italian, Greek and Latin, yes, but I have never felt the need to learn German, John.’
