Dreams of Glory Page 3

  In the lamplight, the skin on Nelson’s neck still looked like underdone beef. It made Major Beckford anxious to get rid of him. He had ordered a jugged hare and some oysters sent up from Sam Francis’s tavern for a late-night supper. Nelson was ruining his appetite.

  “You are to proceed at once to Mount Hope, where you will find four escaped officers in a safe house. Escort them across New Jersey to the usual place, by the usual route. If you’re intercepted, one man must be saved even if it entails the sacrifice of the rest. He’s a major of the artillery named Whittlesey. With the officers, you’ll find a man named Grey, a former captain in the American army. We have proof that he’s a double agent. Kill him.”

  Nelson braced and saluted with some of his old Fusiliers style. “Yes, Major,” he said, with a hint of mockery in his voice. “Glad to have met you, Colonel, though I didn’t get your name.”

  “Simcoe.”

  “Of the Queen’s Rangers? Now, I’m truly glad to have met you, sir. Always glad to meet a real soldier.”

  Major Beckford did not like the implied comparison. “I want you on your way by midnight, Nelson. Don’t stop for a drink anywhere in the city. If I hear of you so much as loitering near a tavern, I’ll cut your pay in half.”

  “I’ll be as sober as a Methodist, Major. I promise you.”

  The two men clumped down the stairs into the night. Beckford again turned to Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe, a forced smile on his round pink face. “Twenty-six, our agent in Morristown, uses a courier who serves in one of the New Jersey regiments. He leaves the messages at a safe house in Bergen, where Bogert or Nelson picks them up. The Americans are notoriously lax about letting Jerseymen go home, with or without leave.”

  “So I hear,” Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe said.

  Was Simcoe telling him that there was nothing Beckford’s spies brought in that was not common knowledge? Major Beckford ordered himself to stop babbling like a schoolboy. He had said and done more than enough to impress Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe with the quality of his intelligence operations. Beckford reproached himself for letting this compact soldier, who had three wounds to prove his courage on the battlefield, intimidate him. Why did he read a mild contempt into Simcoe’s opaque stare? Did the lieutenant colonel remind him of his hero father, Major General John Beckford? These warrior types all shared an unstated arrogance, a presumption of superiority. It was important to remember that they also shared a tendency to brainlessness.

  Major General Beckford had refused to serve in America and had publicly denounced the war as a disgrace to England’s honor. His simple mind had been seduced by the Americans’ self-serving whimpers about taxation without representation and their rights as freeborn Englishmen. In his usual peremptory style, Major General Beckford had ordered his son to resign his commission and return to England when hostilities began in 1775. Walter Beckford had ignored him. By that time, he was convinced that his father was an anachronism, hopelessly ignorant of the imperatives of running an empire.

  Major General Beckford was not a reader. He was unacquainted with his son’s favorite book, Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. The marvelous first volume, in which Gibbon described the opulence and happiness of Rome under the “good emperors,” had illuminated the past, the present, and the future for Walter Beckford. He had read and reread it in 1776, often by candlelight in his tent, between scribbling dispatches and bearing messages and finding quarters and arranging meals for Lieutenant General Wilhelm von Knyphausen, the field commander of the twenty thousand troops that George III had hired from the Landgrave of Hesse and several other German princes.

  Walter Beckford had been almost disconsolate, watching the royal army drive the Americans out of New York and hound them across New Jersey. The war seemed about to end, and he had acquired only the merest scraps of glory. Now, four years later - four bitter, disheartening years for some generals and politicians - Walter Beckford had woven a web of influence and accomplishment that would qualify him to play a leading part in the new Rome that Britain was about to become.

  Beckford had always thought that America would be difficult to subdue. Reading Gibbon had convinced him that this difficulty was a fortunate misfortune for England. The long war had required her to think seriously about her empire. When victory was finally won, she would accept her imperial destiny and govern along Roman lines the islands and continents she controlled. Freedom would be cherished at home, but in the provinces, British power, backed where necessary by bayonets, would prevail. Beyond question, bayonets would be the policy for stiff-necked America. Walter Beckford wanted to rule one of these American provinces, eventually to rule all of them as the King’s proconsul beyond the Atlantic.

  From his wine rack, Beckford took a bottle of Lisbon Particular, the world’s finest port, and poured two glasses. “Now, tell me more about this plan with which you tantalized me yesterday, at the Coffee House,” he said to Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe.

  Simcoe accepted his glass of port and drank half of it in a single soldierly gulp. “It’s not the sort of thing we could discuss in a public place,” he said. “I’ve been on the lookout for a capital stroke that the Queen’s Rangers might perform before the rebellion collapses of its own inner rot. I want to remind His Majesty and the Parliament of the many thousands of their American subjects who’ve remained loyal.”

  “An admirable sentiment,” Beckford said, refilling Simcoe’s glass. “Everything I hear from England inclines me to believe that when this rebellion is over, Parliament will treat America with Roman severity. My father tells me the term has become popular with all ranks of people.”

  “How is the general?”

  “Still the prisoner of his idiotic politics. I wouldn’t mind so much if his opinions were his own. But politically, he’s a child. All he does is echo the opposition leaders.”

  “A shame,” Simcoe said, demolishing another glass of port. “My older brother fought under him at Minden. He said John Beckford was the best general officer he’d ever seen in action. I’ve often wondered why you’ve been unable to convince him of the justice of this war.”

  Beckford almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea that he would convince his father of anything. The thickness of General Beckford’s skull aside, he barely knew the man. During Beckford’s boyhood, the general had spent most of his time on the Continent with a German mistress he had picked up in Hesse-Cassel after the Battle of Minden. Each year he made a ceremonial Christmas visit to Beckford and his brothers at the family’s Surrey estate. His mother, as far as Beckford knew, never spoke to his father during these visits, although she joined them at the table each night for dinner.

  Beckford slowly shook his head. “We must make him and the opposition in Parliament eat their words, syllable by syllable, by winning without them.”

  “Let’s drink to that,” Simcoe said.

  It was the first flicker of personal warmth Simcoe had displayed. As they drained their glasses, Beckford’s batman, Private Oskar Kiphuth, announced that supper had arrived from Sam Francis’s tavern. Beckford led Simcoe into the dining room. The jugged hare, which Kiphuth was reheating over the coals in the fireplace, filled the room with spicy odors. Pickled Long Island Sound oysters, a dozen on each plate, lay on beds of ice. A bottle of claret was open on the table. Beckford filled two glasses, spread a napkin over his big belly, and urged Simcoe to tell him about his capital stroke.

  Simcoe glanced uneasily at Oskar Kiphuth. “Don’t worry about him,” Beckford said. “He doesn’t understand ten words of English.”

  Simcoe nodded approvingly and began. “As you know, some picked men and myself struck deep into New Jersey last year to free a half-dozen poor loyalists who were being mistreated in the rebels’ wretched jails.”

  “And you were most unfortunately wounded and almost captured on your return,” Beckford said.

  “A piece of bad luck,” Simcoe said. “The thing is, we proved that a well-armed forc
e on good horses can penetrate the state virtually at will. Their militia grow more and more timid and supine. What we have in mind is a prize infinitely more valuable than captive loyalists. Many of the Queen’s Rangers are from New Jersey and they frequently get intelligence through smuggled letters or secret visits to their families. I dare say it’s better stuff than you pick up from your high-priced spies.”

  “I only wish you and other commanders were more systematic about sending it to me.”

  Simcoe ignored the comment. Beckford found himself recalling a letter he had received from his father, last year, ordering him to transfer to a regiment and prove his courage on the battlefield, instead of wasting his time on “spies and politics.”

  “We’ve learned that Mr. Washington is quartered a considerable distance from his army,” Simcoe continued. “Nearer to us in New York by several miles. I don’t think it would be at all difficult for a well-chosen force to carry him off.”

  It was all so understated, it took Beckford a moment to grasp the full meaning of the words. Simcoe was proposing to capture George Washington. Decapitate the American army. Make their pretentious rebellion a laughing stock around the world by seizing their great man, the hero who had mesmerized half of Europe, including Major General John Beckford. That dunderhead had recently made a speech in Parliament comparing the Virginia tobacco farmer to Hannibal and the Duke of Marlborough. Capture George Washington! It was a simple, immensely daring idea, the sort of gamble that often succeeds in a war.

  In the same offhand way, Simcoe began describing the force he would use to execute the coup. “It would require no more than eighty men. Every sixth man would be an officer. We would all wear the white woolen greatcoats issued to the army in Canada, They’ll make us all but invisible in this perpetual snow. There’s a wood near Morristown that my people know well. We would tie our horses there and debouch from this cover precisely at dawn. Two three-pounders on sleds should be enough to beat down the door of Washington’s quarters while the men deal with his guard. In five minutes, the general will be our prisoner, on the way to New York.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe munched a pickled oyster. “As for pursuit, I dare say it won’t be a problem. My people tell me there’s not a horse in the American camp. They’ve scattered their cavalry all over Morris County, as far west as Trenton, because they haven’t the money for fodder.”

  Simcoe’s intelligence was excellent. The horseless condition of the rebel army had already been reported to Beckford by agent Twenty-six. The major raised his glass of claret. “To you, my dear sir. To your daring and genius. I believe it will work. Rest assured I will bring it to General Knyphausen’s attention immediately.”

  Knyphausen was the word, the name, that explained why Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe was dining with Major Beckford. On December 31, 1779, Sir Henry Clinton, the commander in chief of the British army in North America, had sailed south to attack Charleston, South Carolina, leaving Wilhelm von Knyphausen in command of His Majesty’s forces in New York. General Knyphausen could be approached only through his aide-decamp, Walter Beckford, for a very good but painful reason: the Hessian warrior spoke not a word of English. Beckford’s father had insisted that he learn German as a boy because it was the language of England’s chief ally in Europe. It had proven to be one of the few useful orders the general had given him.

  As he toasted Simcoe’s daring and genius, Beckford’s agile mind was drawing a number of unspoken conclusions. One, the most obvious, was the probability that if Simcoe succeeded, his coup would totally overshadow the mutiny in the American army on which Beckford and his agent, Twenty-six, had lavished so much time and money over the past two years. For the present, Beckford saw it was vital to connect the two plans. Later it might become advisable, perhaps even necessary, to eliminate Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe from the combined operation. That would depend on how much of the credit Simcoe was willing to share with Walter Beckford. His present attitude was not promising.

  “I see no difficulty in concerting this stroke with a mutiny we’re planning in Morristown,” Beckford said. “In fact, the two dovetail so neatly I can only wonder why your idea didn’t occur to me. Have you mentioned it to anyone else in New York?”

  “Only to one of my officers in the Queen’s Rangers. I trust him absolutely.”

  “I think we’d better adopt a code. Let’s call our plan ‘Inviting James to New York.’”

  If Simcoe noticed that his plan had become “our plan,” he said nothing. Beckford was about to pour another glass of claret and begin to discuss ways to coordinate the two master strokes when Oskar Kiphuth appeared in the doorway, “Sir,” he said in German, “there is a woman downstairs. She tells me in French that she must see you immediately. She is most agitated. Her name is Kuyper.”

  “What’s he saying?” Simcoe demanded.

  “One of my female agents has come here, contrary to all orders. We have a safe house on Bowrie Lane.”

  “I’ve often wondered about the money spent on female spies. I can’t imagine a man telling a woman anything of importance,” Simcoe said. “But I might change my mind if they called on me of an evening. I didn’t know you favored the ladies, Beckford. I thought you found boys more enticing.”

  “I’ve long since given up that youthful peccadillo, Colonel,” Beckford said in his most frigid tone. “Moreover, I never mix business with pleasure. I’m afraid we must shorten our feast.”

  “Just as well,” Simcoe said. “Hare always gives me a bellyache.”

  “Show the lady into the parlor,” Beckford said to Kiphuth in German. He decided he was grateful for the interruption. Simcoe had told him all he needed to know. There was no point in giving him any more details about the mutiny or in revealing the part of his own plan that General Knyphausen had thus far vetoed - the attempt to assassinate George Washington.

  Kiphuth returned to the dining room with Simcoe’s cloak. The commander of the Queen’s Rangers threw it around his solid shoulders and said, “Aren’t you even going to give me a look at her, Beckford?”

  “It’s somewhat irregular. Her identity is a secret. But . . .”

  They went down the stairs to the second floor and Beckford pushed open the parlor door. Flora Kuyper was facing the fire. She turned to confront them. Her thick, dark hair was unpowdered and uncombed. She was not wearing rouge, but the cold air had added a faint flush to her oval cheeks, which were streaked with tears. Even in disarray, she was one of the most beautiful women Beckford had ever seen.

  “Ah, Beckford, what hard duty you perform,” Simcoe murmured. “Let me know the moment you have some word from Knyphausen.”

  With a brief, somewhat mocking bow to Flora Kuyper, Simcoe continued down the stairs to the street. Beckford strode into the parlor, slamming the door behind him. “What is the reason - what can justify - this extraordinary visit?” he demanded. “You’ve been told never to come here. This house is watched day and night. The Americans are well aware of my role in the army.”

  “Caesar is dead, murdered. I want to know who killed him, you or William?”

  “Dead? Are you sure?” Beckford said.

  “Here’s a letter from the man who says he discovered his body. A chaplain named Caleb Chandler. Is he one of your agents?”

  Major Beckford was not used to interrogation from Flora Kuyper. He was not used to the way she was looking at him. The submission, the mixture of fear and gratitude he usually saw in her dark green eyes, with their exquisitely long lashes, had been replaced by a startling mixture of anger and hatred. He snatched the letter she had drawn from an inner pocket of her cloak, without answering her.

  “It’s addressed to my husband. They don’t know about his death,” Flora said.

  Beckford gestured to her to be silent and swiftly read the Reverend Chandler’s neat, firm script. The first page described his discovery of Caesar’s body in the snow; the second page dealt with the aftermath.

  At first, I was told by members of Ge
neral Washington’s staff that nothing could be done to solve the mystery of Muzzey’s death. I considered this a double outrage, an example of the prejudice against the Negro race so prevalent in America, and the indifference with which the army’s officers regard the death of an enlisted man. I immediately protested. Now we are to have an investigation of this murder. Whether the culprit will ever be found is another matter. The deed was done in the dark of night, and the drifting snow effectively covered the tracks of the killer. The motive could not have been robbery. Private Muzzey had in his pocket a dozen gold sovereigns (remarkable in itself) which had not been touched.

  I write to you not only to communicate the melancholy news but also to inquire into the possibility of your shedding some light on this sad event. Perhaps you know the source of the uncommonly large amount of money that Private Muzzey had in his pocket. Perhaps you or some of your other slaves had heard from him since he entered the army. Any information you can give me would be most gratefully received. I am determined to bring his murderer to justice in spite of the army’s negligent attitude.

  At the completion of the investigation, Congressman Hugh Stapleton has kindly agreed to take the body to your farm for burial. I gather Mr. Stapleton is an old schoolmate of yours. He recalled, when he heard your name, that Caesar was your personal servant for many years. I thought you and your other slaves would want to pay your last respects to him rather than have him tumbled into the common grave the army uses for enlisted soldiers.

  Your most obedient servant

  Caleb Chandler

  Chaplain, 2nd Connecticut Brigade

  “This could not have come at a worse time,” Beckford said.

  “Did you kill him?” Flora asked again.

  “Of course not. Why should I kill the best courier in my network, the only dependable one, when I’ve never been in worse need of communicating with Twenty-six?”

  “Then it must have been William.”