Dreams of Glory (28 page)
Authors: Thomas Fleming
“Mr. Chandler, I am, appearances to the contrary, a humane man. I don't wish to kill you, and you have done no spying worthy of the name. Tell me what you know and I assure you that I'll arrange for you to be released on your promise to remain neutral for the rest of the war.”
For a moment Caleb almost succumbed. Why not accept defeat, go home to Connecticut, and try to forget this nightmare? Then he heard Stallworth's voice:
The same gauntlet.
How could he trust Beckford? Once he confessed, he was his creature, to hang or abandon in this hell ship.
The same gauntlet.
How could he trust Beckford? Once he confessed, he was his creature, to hang or abandon in this hell ship.
Caleb shook his head. “I've risked too much to serve His Majesty. I won't yield to your perverse hatred of Americans, Major.”
Beckford smiled and held out his hand. “Mr. Chandler,” he said, “welcome to the gratitude and protection of King George the Third.”
“SAY, STAPLETON,” DRAWLED CONGRESSMAN SAMUEL Chase of Maryland, “did you hear what that slimy bastard Tom Paine called me t'other day? A voluptuary! How's that, eh? A voluptuary! Just because a female can't look into his ugly phiz without losing her dinner, he calls me a voluptuary. How are things in New Jersey, Stapleton? Were you overwhelmed by the rising spirit of patriotism? Did your constituents pledge to you their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor? Hah?”
“They did better than that,” Hugh Stapleton said. “They told me if I didn't find a way to raise our paper dollars to par with specie in three weeks, they'd reenact the Crucifixion.”
Chase chuckled. “Where have you been hiding, Stapleton? We've missed you.”
“Some business I couldn't afford to pass up came my way.”
Chase chuckled even more knowingly. He had replaced Benjamin Harrison of Virginia as the Falstaff of Congress. Chase's shape was virtually spherical, and his complexion was not much different from the color of the brimming glass of French claret he had in his hand. The two congressmen were sitting in the Long Room of the City Tavern, the best hostelry in Philadelphia. A huge fire leaped in the massive fireplace. Delicious odors drifted from the kitchen. The Continental Congress had just adjourned for the day and the room was rapidly filling with delegates.
Hugh Stapleton preferred the company of cynics like Samuel Chase because he could speak frankly to them. When he had returned to Philadelphia two weeks ago, Robert Morris, the city's leading merchant, had invited Stapleton to join him in buying out an importer who had just gone bankrupt and was desperate for cash to pay his creditors. Morris, busy
with a dozen other ventures, had let Stapleton conduct the time consuming negotiations and take title to the man's warehouse. It was a tribute to Stapleton's increasing reputation as a businessman.
with a dozen other ventures, had let Stapleton conduct the time consuming negotiations and take title to the man's warehouse. It was a tribute to Stapleton's increasing reputation as a businessman.
Limping across the room toward them now was Philip Schuyler, who had been Congressman Stapleton's fellow guest at General Washington's dinner table in Morristown. “Mr. Stapleton,” said Schuyler, “I've been looking for you in Congress. Have you just arrived in town?”
“More or less.”
“I've been laid up with an attack of the gout myself. I'm anxious to have a talk about the army. I received a letter from General Washington today. Things are no better in Morristown.”
“I'm at your service,” Hugh Stapleton said, although he had no desire to discuss the army or anything else connected with the government of the United States.
Schuyler gave Chase a rather chilly nod and sat down with several Carolinians at another table. “What's thisâare you turning soldier, Stapleton?” Chase said. “Schuyler enlisting you? Livingston, come help me save Stapleton from Schuyler's clutches.”
Robert R. Livingston of New York, one of the great landholders in the Hudson River Valley, joined them. The elegantly dressed aristocrat was trailed by a half-dozen other congressmen from the middle states. It reminded Hugh Stapleton of the way the English lords promenaded in St. James's Park or at Ranelagh, followed by their crowds of retainers. In his most condescending tone, Robert Livingston told Stapleton that Philip Schuyler had been “hectoring” his fellow congressmen as if they were privates and he was still a general. “He's simply not a politician,” Livingston said.
After eighteen months in Philadelphia, Hugh Stapleton was inclined to think such a remark was a compliment. But he did not contradict Robert R. Livingston. Few people did. “What has been happening in Congress?” Stapleton asked.
“Nothing but declamations from the fanatics of Yankee-land,”
Chase informed him. “They say every man who has earned a dollar from the revolution is a traitor. Death to ag-grandizers and monopolists! I tell you they're enough to make me think Maryland's greatest mistake was joining this confederacy.”
Chase informed him. “They say every man who has earned a dollar from the revolution is a traitor. Death to ag-grandizers and monopolists! I tell you they're enough to make me think Maryland's greatest mistake was joining this confederacy.”
“The radicals here in Pennsylvania echo the Yankees' cry,” Livingston said. “They've threatened Robert Morris and other merchants on the street.”
“There's no question those fanatics are a disgrace to the province,” agreed lanky James Wilson in his Scots burr. Dismissed from Congress by Pennsylvania's radicals, Wilson was getting rich as a lawyer. His chief client was America's ally, France, for whom he often acted as unofficial spokesman. He proceeded to do some impromptu pleading on the spot. “There's surely no crime in making an honest profit from a well-conducted business,” Wilson said. “But there are some among us who would endanger our alliance with Franceâthe one thing that keeps us politically aliveâto make a few rotten dollars.”
“Why, damn you, Wilson,” Chase roared. “Are you referring to the gentlemen of Maryland?”
“If the shoe fits so that you recognize it at the first pinchâ”
They began a violent argument about several thousand pounds of flour that had been bought before prices began to rise at a gallop and stored in Maryland by the French ambassador to supply the French navy when it operated on the American coast. Chase and some fellow Marylanders had seized the flour a few months ago and resold it to the American army at a huge profit. “How can we hope to persuade a French fleet or a French army to come to our assistance,” Wilson raged, “when we can't honor a simple contract?”
“Oh, pshaw, Wilson,” Chase said. “'Twas just good business. Your client can buy again at the new prices. His Most Catholic Majesty can afford it.”
For a moment Hugh Stapleton thought of the starving army in Morristown and the tall, diffident Virginian who was trying
to hold it together. He looked at the complacent faces around the table and wondered why they could not see where the United States of America was going. Down, down, down into ruin and defeat. Something stirred in Stapletonâa confused but nonetheless real regret for what was happening. He almost became angry at these politicians, so busy looking out for themselves. The impulse was stifled by the realization that he was no different. During the past year he had spent far more hours fretting over his privateers and his profits than he had spent thinking about Congress.
to hold it together. He looked at the complacent faces around the table and wondered why they could not see where the United States of America was going. Down, down, down into ruin and defeat. Something stirred in Stapletonâa confused but nonetheless real regret for what was happening. He almost became angry at these politicians, so busy looking out for themselves. The impulse was stifled by the realization that he was no different. During the past year he had spent far more hours fretting over his privateers and his profits than he had spent thinking about Congress.
But for Hugh Stapleton the time for conscience-stricken reproaches was almost over. For the past two weeks, as he toiled over inventories and accounts receivable, his imagination was in New Jersey, recalling sounds, sights, touches from his most recent visit to Flora Kuyper. He had stayed with her for two nights and found her as amorous, as eager to please him, as adept at agreeable conversation as she had been on his first visit. He had used the press of business as an excuse to return to Philadelphia and see if time and distance altered his feelings for her. The delay only confirmed the intensity, the insistence of his desire. Within a month, when spring sunshine melted the ice on the Delaware, he would say good-bye to this floundering rebellionâand his sullen New Jersey wifeâforever.
At the dinner table the talk had turned to the British invasion of the Southern states. Several congressmen condemned the Southerners, particularly the South Carolinians. They had failed to support Georgia the previous year, when the British overran it. Now Charleston was under siege and the response of most of the Carolinians seemed equally apathetic. “Not one in twenty of their militiamen have turned out,” Robert Livingston said. “I heard confidentially from the President of Congress that Governor Rutledge wrote demanding to know what aid South Carolina can expect from her sister states. Unless he got an immediate answer, he said, he was prepared to negotiate a separate peace.”
“Can you blame him?” bellowed Chase. “Has South Carolina seen any evidence that the rest of the country gives a damn for her? I sympathize with Rutledge. In fact, if a member of the British ministry entered this room at this moment, I wouldn't hesitate to treat with him on Maryland's behalf, let Congress fulminate how they please over it.”
Some congressmen at the table were shocked by Chase's boast. Since 1776, when the British almost forced New Jersey to drop out of the war, the idea of any of the supposedly united states signing a separate peace had been anathema. But Livingston, whose family had been one of the rulers of New York before the revolution, was unruffled. “I'd negotiate for New York, Chase, and outbribe you ten to one.”
The waiter came and went with fresh bottles of claret and Madeira. The congressmen were all a bit drunk by the time dinner was served. A goose, a turkey, a ham, and several succulent meat pies were among the main dishes. French Burgundy went down in literally staggering quantities. “Tell us what you found at Morristown, Mr. Stapleton,” Robert Livingston said.
“The total opposite of this plenty,” Stapleton said, gesturing to their feast. “General Greene told me the commissary had only enough flour to bake a single day's supply of bread. There wasn't a piece of fresh meat in the entire campâ”
“Good God, you sound like Schuyler,” Samuel Chase said. “A little hardship has never done soldiers any harm. It toughens 'em for battle.” He began needling Robert Livingston for his frequent meetings with Peggy Shippen Arnold, wife of Major General Benedict Arnold.
“Aren't you worried about the danger of retaliation?” Chase asked. “I hear Arnold is a dead shot. But I suppose she's worth the risk.”
“You're an incorrigible rumormonger, Chase,” Livingston replied. “The lady has consulted me on matters purely political.”
“Ho,” roared the Marylander. “And what are you consulting her on? I'll wager it's a mattress.”
Before her recent marriage to General Arnold, the blond, moody Miss Shippen had flirted with Congressman Stapleton at several dinner parties. Now, comparing her in his mind to Flora Kuyper, he infinitely preferred Flora's dark beauty to Peggy's pale good looks. Peggy was too familiar, too American. In the play of somber light between Flora's black hair and her green eyes, in her European sophistication, there was the promise of more than pleasure. She was a woman who could enrich a man's soul. She was a world that a man could explore and enjoy for a lifetime.
After dinner Hugh Stapleton excused himself from the inevitable round of toasts and hired a small sleigh and driver from the City Tavern's stable. He directed the driver to a house in narrow Strawberry Alley and advised him to seek shelter in a nearby tavern until he called him. A knock on the door produced a wary request for his identity. As soon as he said, “Hugh Stapleton,” the door was opened by a husky, middle-aged man with a bad limp. “How be you, Congressman?” said Captain William McPherson with a broad smile.
“I'm fine, Mac. How's the leg?”
“Not so good as new. But it'll hold me on the quarterdeck,” McPherson said.
On his last voyage aboard Hugh Stapleton's privateer
Common Sense
, McPherson's right leg had been shattered in a running fight with a British cruiser. Ignoring his wound, he had beaten off the enemy and outsailed him to safety. There were few tougher shrewder ship captains in America than this Belfast-born Scotsman. The congressman had paid his doctor's bills and living expenses during his convalescence. Although he had made a hundred thousand dollars on privateering during the past year, McPherson was broke. As fast as he made money, he threw it away on faro and girls.
Common Sense
, McPherson's right leg had been shattered in a running fight with a British cruiser. Ignoring his wound, he had beaten off the enemy and outsailed him to safety. There were few tougher shrewder ship captains in America than this Belfast-born Scotsman. The congressman had paid his doctor's bills and living expenses during his convalescence. Although he had made a hundred thousand dollars on privateering during the past year, McPherson was broke. As fast as he made money, he threw it away on faro and girls.
“Hey, Sal,” the captain shouted, “fetch me the port and two
glasses.” He winked at the congressman. “Wait'll you see this one.”
glasses.” He winked at the congressman. “Wait'll you see this one.”
A high-bosomed redhead swept into the room with the port and glasses. She wore a fashionable French gown without stays or petticoats, and it revealed her figure to a startling degree. She patted her hair and smiled as McPherson introduced the congressman. “She can't cook worth a damn,” McPherson said. “We eat all our meals at the Pewter Platter. But she does everything else well enough, right, Sal?”
“Sure I don't know what you mean, Captain.”
She flounced out of the room. “Scotch-Irish from Reading, out in the back country. Father kicked her out of the house and she turned up in Philadelphia, naturally. Reminds me of Polly, the redhead I had in New York in '74. You remember that one?”
“Yes, of course,” Hugh Stapleton said. For a few seconds he was uneasy. Was he about to wander the world like McPherson, picking up his women wherever wind or weather beached him? No, Flora Kuyper was not a casual flirtation.
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