It was, members told Stapleton later, the best speech made in Congress in a year. A delighted Philip Schuyler sprang to his feet and said that the chief reason for the breach between the army and Congress was lack of knowledge. There was only one way to remedy it. A committee should immediately be formed to work with General Washington in Morristown on a permanent basis. One of its members should always be in residence, and the others would report back to Congress at regular intervals.
The motion was ferociously opposed by Abraham Clark of New Jersey. It would give the army dangerous delusions of its power and influence if Congress waited upon them like humble servants. If the army wanted anything, let them come to Congress, not vice versa, he shouted. Roger Sherman of Connecticut agreed in his creaky anxious voice. Other New Englanders sounded the same note of alarm at the danger of encouraging the military. Southerners, notably young James Madison of Virginia and Thomas Burke of South Carolina, supported Schuyler’s motion. Were the honorable gentlemen from New England afraid they might be put upon the committee? Burke inquired in his rough Irish way. Were they more worried about forsaking the comforts of Philadelphia than about the dangers of military dictatorship? Samuel Chase of Maryland arose to declare he was ready to go to Morristown and live in a tent if necessary, a lie so outrageous that most New Englanders were temporarily speechless. Samuel Adams of Massachusetts, the leader of the Yankee phalanx (those from rival sections called him Judas Iscariot), rose to put the Bay State behind the idea. The motion to send a committee was put to a vote and carried, seven states to five, with Rhode Island abstaining.
Who would serve on the committee? Philip Schuyler volunteered his services. The New Englanders pushed forward one of their most dependable yes-men, Nathaniel Peabody of New Hampshire. A third member inevitably came from the South, pugnacious John Mathews of South Carolina. Schuyler rose again to note that the duty in Morristown would be severe and the committee should have at least one more member, lest illness hamper its effectiveness. There was in his opinion only one possible choice for the additional member: Mr. Stapleton of New Jersey.
The motion passed unanimously. Hugh Stapleton sat stunned in his seat. He had too many other things on his mind to get involved with George Washington’s problems. He had intended no more than this single gesture to appease his conscience. On the other hand, there was one consolation. Morristown was much closer to Flora Kuyper than Philadelphia, perhaps this goddess of spring would make a winter of politics endurable. Perhaps when he sailed away he could leave behind him an American army that would survive another year or two of war and force the British to quit in disgust. Perhaps he could be both a patriot and a scoundrel.
Outside the red-brick British Headquarters at 1 Broadway, New York traffic was in its usual tangle. Drivers of sleighs and army wagons cursed one another and any pedestrian foolish enough to risk crossing the street. Inside British headquarters, there was almost as much turmoil. Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe’s face was scarlet. His fist descended on Major Walter Beckford’s desk like the gavel of a hanging judge. “Outrageous,” Simcoe roared. “The plan’s been on your desk for two weeks. And you say General Knyphausen hasn’t seen it?”
Simcoe was talking about his plan to attack the American outpost at White Plains, the dress rehearsal for the strike at Morristown that General Knyphausen had demanded. The search for another courier to restore communications with Twenty-six had forced Beckford to delay submitting the plan to the commander in chief. He knew that he had to have his own operation in a state of total readiness if he were going to participate as an equal in the foray to Morristown. Simcoe and his Queen’s Rangers were more than capable of executing a brilliant sortie against White Plains that would win Knyphausen’s soldierly admiration. He might decide to let Simcoe proceed to Morristown without the dubious assistance of agent Twenty-six and his men. The German’s opinion of intelligence work was not much higher than Simcoe’s.
“You seem to have lost sight of the reason you were assigned to General Knyphausen - to provide liaison with the British army. You act as if you’re getting paid by the Landgrave of Hesse,” Simcoe bellowed.
Beckford displayed just enough indignation to repel this accusation. “I assure you, Colonel, all my efforts since I accepted this thankless post have been directed toward serving both armies effectively.”
“I’d like to see some proof that your efforts are succeeding, Major,” Simcoe said.
The lieutenant colonel stamped out of the office. Several agents had reported that Simcoe was abusing Beckford in taverns and at dinner parties all over the city. It was becoming very clear that the commander of the Queen’s Rangers would never share the credit for inviting James to New York. The coup of capturing George Washington would belong to him and his loyalist warriors exclusively. If Walter Beckford were assigned even a minor part in the drama, it would be the role of obstructive paper shuffler, the stupid spokesman of the German dunderhead Knyphausen.
That afternoon, after dinner, Beckford climbed into his sleigh and maneuvered through Broadway’s traffic to the outskirts of the city. There, in a battered-looking farmhouse on the Bloomingdale Road, lived Brigadier Samuel Birch, commander of the British cavalry. Birch’s batman directed Beckford to the barn, where the brigadier and an aide were dueling on wooden horses. Beckford stood in the doorway, watching the fearsome sabers whoosh and clang for several minutes, letting Birch ignore him. Brigadier Birch did not welcome visitors from headquarters. They usually meant trouble.
Like too many other members of the British high command, the stocky short-tempered cavalryman had come to America to get rich, and was working hard at it. In his files, Beckford had a dozen complaints from outraged loyalist farmers on Long Island who claimed Birch had confiscated tons of hay and grain for his horses, then forged receipts and pocketed the cash he should have paid them.
Another Birch maneuver was the great sheep round-up of 1779. The brigadier had had his dragoons herd over two thousand sheep to Hempstead Plain, where the troopers cut off their ears. Birch then summoned local farmers to claim their animals. Not a man could do so because the sheep, which were allowed to forage on common land, had had the owners’ brands on their ears. Birch declared all the fleecy vagrants His Majesty’s property and sold them for five thousand pounds.
The brigadier finally quit his saber-clanging and dismounted, eyeing Beckford in a most unfriendly way. “Well, Major,” he growled, “what’s the bloody problem this time?”
“Nothing whatsoever, Brigadier,” Beckford said. “On the contrary, I thought you’d be pleased to hear that those troublesome sheep owners in Hempstead have been told to bite their thumbs. My investigation supports your charge that they’re all secret rebel sympathizers.”
“Damn me if they aren’t,” Birch said, barely concealing his amazement at his luck in accidentally selecting genuine rebels to be gulled. “I can smell treason in these Americans by just looking’m in the eye.”
“We could use your expertise in intelligence, General,” Beckford said. “But I’m here to seek your advice on a cavalry matter. A question that requires professional judgment. It’s also highly confidential.”
“Quimby, go find that punk you were fucking last night,” Birch said to his aide, who was still on his wooden horse. “On your way, tell my batman we want two tankards of flip. Do you like that bloody American drink, Beckford? It’ll blow your head off if you’re not careful.”
The barn was unheated, and Beckford was beginning to shiver from the cold. Birch jammed a scarecrow’s stuffed head on a pole, positioned it in front of his wooden horse, and remounted. He swung his saber and took off the right side of the scarecrow’s face. “Now, what was this professional, confidential matter, Major?”
“A certain American commander has situated himself dangerously far from his army. Would the cavalry be willing to risk a winter raid to seize his person?”
“If the cavalry is given a direct order, it will obey it.” Whirsk went the o
ther side of the scarecrow’s face.
“More to the point, could it be done? Can your horses cover eighty miles of snow-covered roads in one night? Or would it be necessary to have a change of horses, at least for some of the party, those immediately guarding the prisoner?”
Chunk - what was left of the scarecrow’s head was split down the middle by Birch’s saber.
“A change of horses would be most advisable. Our mounts have been on short rations and this barbarous cold has done nothing for their health. But what makes you think this idea can succeed? That certain general may be dangerously far from his army. But he surely has his personal guard about him. Three or four hundred picked troops?”
“More like two hundred. What if there were a way to guarantee complete surprise? Not a shot fired until you were within a hundred yards of his headquarters.”
“That would be another matter entirely. We could cut the guard to pieces as they came out of their huts. It would be all over with a single charge. But can it be done?”
“We have men in Morristown who can arrange it. You must realize, Brigadier, that the stroke, if successful, would virtually end the war. The man who executed it would merit His Majesty’s gratitude as would no other soldier in the army.”
“Damn me if I don’t,” Birch said, climbing down from his wooden horse. “I’m not stupid, Major. You want someone in on this who can keep his jaw shut tight and stand ready to pull off the trick when General Knyphausen gives the signal.”
“Precisely.”
The batman arrived with two tankards of flip. Beckford’s stomach almost rebelled. On several trips through New England to set up intelligence networks he had had to drink gallons of the stuff, made of raw rum and egg yolks stirred with rusty pokers. But at least it was hot. He raised his tankard. “To the cavalry,” he said.
“The only branch of His Majesty’s forces in America that has a record of unblemished victory,” Birch said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Major? You want someone you can depend on. Well, you’ve got him. You’ve got him here with Birch and the Sixteenth Dragoons. What about guides? In this bloody weather, one road looks like another. You’ve got to give me good guides.”
“They’ll be the best. Men who know New Jersey as well as you and your troopers know the Holy Ground.”
“By God, the buggers must be bloody mapmaking geniuses in that case,” roared the brigadier.
Back at his office at One Broadway, Walter Beckford found Paul Stapleton waiting for him, his palette and case of brushes and oils at his feet. Paul was dressed in his usual high style, his blond hair craped and rolled. For a moment Beckford felt a demoralizing flush of desire. He paused long enough for it to subside. Dealing coolly, even coldly, with Paul Stapleton was necessary to prove to himself - and to others - that Walter Beckford was a new serious man.
Paul was the reason Walter Beckford had come to America. They had become lovers in London, brought together by mutual detestation of martial fathers, mutual flight from oppressive mothers, mutual passion for art. Through his mother’s relations, Beckford had arranged for Paul to meet Gainsborough, Reynolds, and other English painters. Armed with letters of introduction from Beckford’s father, the lovers had toured the Continent together, visiting aristocrats with notable art collections. When Paul returned to America, Beckford had outraged his father by resigning his commission in the Queen’s Guards and buying a lieutenancy in the nondescript 10th Regiment, which was stationed in New York.
The war, and Edward Gibbon’s history of Rome, had changed everything. Ambition - his vision of ruling humbled Americans, of possessing a proconsul’s power over this immense continent - had forced Beckford to see that his infatuation would be fatal to his career. Sodomy was not popular in the officer corps of the British army. A general’s son might be immune from prosecution, but the habit exposed him to insults and character assassination. So Beckford, not without a wrench, had ended his affair with Paul Stapleton.
For a while he had frequented the houses in the Holy Ground to publicize his change of allegiance. Now he was in the process of acquiring an American fiancée, a logical step for a would-be proconsul.
“You’re late, Becky dear,” Paul said.
“I’ve told you not to call me that, even in private,” Beckford snapped.
“Sorry,” Paul said. “It’s hard to break old habits.”
“Not if one has the will, the determination. Let’s go. The general can be impatient.”
They rode up Broadway past acres of charred and crumbling ruins. The Americans had burned the west side of New York City in 1776. Trinity Church was a gutted hulk. On the corner of Barclay Street, a crowd had gathered. A woman and a tattered boy with rags for shoes were wailing over the body of a man in the snow. “Another refugee frozen to death?” Paul asked.
“No doubt. Ten or twelve have been dying every night lately.”
“Why don’t you stop them from living in the cellars of those burned-out buildings or give them some fuel?”
“The British army isn’t a poor-relief society. We didn’t ask them to flee to our protection. Do you think you’ll finish Knyphausen’s portrait today?”
“Probably. Why? Do you have another commission?”
“Yes.”
“Someone with ready money, I hope. I’m tired of taking promissory notes.”
“The general will pay promptly. I’ll see to it,” Beckford said. “So will your next subject.”
“Who is he?”
“You’re sitting beside him.”
“A miniature for your lady love, Miss Fowler?”
“By no means. A formal portrait.”
“What’s the occasion? Most of my subjects want to commemorate a martial feat. I don’t think you have one to your credit.”
“I’ll have one by the time you finish the portrait. It will be substantial enough to win a display at the Royal Society if you take the job seriously enough to do your best work.”
“You’re inspiring me.”
They were crossing Harlem Heights. To the west, beneath its foot-thick gray armor of ice, the Hudson sluiced from the heart of the continent. The reddish-gray Palisades, splotched with patches of snow, loomed above the silent river.
“Look at that view,” Beckford said. “There’s nothing in England to compare to it.”
“I prefer a summer landscape, myself,” Paul said.
“You Americans lack a sense of grandeur,” Beckford said. “Vision.”
In a few minutes, they reached the white-columned Morris mansion. The black-uniformed Hessian sentry ran down the steps to lead their horses to the barn. In the house, General von Knyphausen greeted them and declared himself pleased with his portrait, even in its semi-finished state. Beckford quickly translated this good news for Paul. It was encouraging to see the general in such a jovial humor. Knyphausen sat his aide behind his desk and assumed the sitter’s pose in front of the parlor window. While Paul painted, Beckford plowed briskly through the usual business - courts-martial and European correspondence, commissary and police reports. New York was under martial law, which meant the commander in chief was responsible for its internal order as well as for its defense.
Beckford stuffed the routine papers into his portfolio and with a small flourish produced another document. “You’ve asked me several times about Colonel Simcoe’s projected attack on White Plains,” he said in German. “I’ve finally extracted a plan from him.”
“Read it to me,” Knyphausen said, staring uncomprehendingly at Simcoe’s beautifully inscribed sentences. The colonel had had his plan copied by a professional clerk; it must have cost him several pounds.
“I don’t think it’s necessary, General. It’s a rather impertinent document. After outlining his plan, for which he says he will need a regiment in support, Colonel Simcoe argues most aggressively that the attack is unnecessary. He says he’s consulted one of the English generals - he declines to name him - and the officer agrees. He ends by implying th
at if you don’t give him permission to strike at Morristown immediately, he’ll rely on the English general’s approval.”
Knyphausen’s pale eyebrows rose. “You mean launch an unauthorized: unbefugt. It had an explosion of outrage in it.
“Not only would it be insulting to you - it would demoralize and endanger the men I’ve placed in the American camp - with your encouragement and advice.”
“Of course.” Actually, Knyphausen had allowed Beckford to develop his intelligence network entirely on his own. But he was complacently willing to accept the credit for it.
“We’re close to accomplishing a feat that could end the war, General. I don’t want to see you deprived of your just share of the honors you so richly deserve,” Beckford continued.
“I think you had better arrange to watch Simcoe and his friends a bit more closely,” Knyphausen said. Then he nibbled at the bait Beckford was dangling in front of him. “Is there some way we could make the attempt without this fellow Simcoe?”
“We could use cavalry,” Beckford said.
“Why don’t you talk to Brigadier Birch about it?” Knyphausen said.
“An excellent idea, General.”
Erne ausgezeichnete Idee, mein General. The German words echoed triumphantly around the high-ceilinged room.
Dreams of Glory Page 25
