Richard’s change of heart about the American colonies was hastened by that most loyal of officers, the old commodore himself. That officer’s condemnation of the rebels was outspoken but he had almost as low an opinion of the Navy Board. Looking up one day from a letter just received, old Harvey fairly expressed his exasperation.
“Listen to this, Mr Huggins—harkee, Mr Delancey—I am told by the commissioners to charter a 250-ton merchantman from the firm of Oliphant, Rutgers & Son, the same to act as tender to the squadron. I am instructed by the same bunch of lubbers to have the Phoenix repaired at the Beekman & Peck shipyard. I am given to understand that blocks and cordage are best obtained from Mr Schuyler or from Mr McDougal. I am not to pay more than so much for mast-timber. My last payment for pitch was excessive and the warehouse rent comes to more than was paid during the last war. Is it I who am mad or have they taken leave of their senses?”
“You mean, sir,” said Huggins, “that all rentals have gone up since George II’s time?”
“Every child knows that!” shouted the commodore, “but what of the rest? What am I to make of this rubbish and who do they think I am?”
“It would seem, sir,” said Huggins, “that they are a little out of touch.”
“Out of touch, you say? Out of touch? They should long since have been in Bedlam. To begin with, Oliphant, Rutgers & Son are not in the shipping business and I doubt if they ever were. The Beekman & Peck yard is too small for the Phoenix, too small in fact for anything over 150 tons. Mr McDougal went bankrupt last year and Mr Schuyler is dead. As for mast-timbers and pitch, we had a good bargain and better than we shall have again. The fact is, Mr Huggins, that this way of doing business is nonsensical. No man alive can control what happens in New York from an office desk in London. His information is false or out-of-date, his notion is wrong of what is practicable and his instructions relate to some imagined situation which does not exist. I am vexed past the limits of endurance by this pettifogging correspondence. If I am not trusted I shall be happy to resign my charge to someone else. If I am trusted, why can’t they have the good sense to leave me alone? Rather than pester me I could wish that some of these clerks would come out here and see the situation for themselves.”
“I fear, sir,” said Huggins, “that the Navy Board clerks are a slow-witted sort of people in the first place.”
“They are no worse than the rest,” growled the commodore. “The fault is not so much in them as in the system they are to maintain. A man on this side of the Atlantic cannot be directed by men whose offices are in London. Such a scheme does not accord with our only possible means of communication. Ministers may think to control what happens in Ireland—better though it might be if they left it alone—but America is too remote and should be left to those who know what the true position is.”
Having thus conceded the case for American independence, the commodore pointedly asked Huggins and Delancey whether they had no work to transact. If there was in fact much to do—as he ventured to suppose—they had best do it rather than waste time in mere talk. Had that captured privateer Nankee Doodle been surveyed we should know by now whether she would serve as fleet tender. The necessary orders should go out this afternoon … at latest. Reflecting later on the commodore’s words, Richard came to see the rebels’ point of view. Old Harvey had endured for a few months what the American colonies had endured for over a century. What was his exasperation compared with theirs? Of course the Americans had been assisted against the French but the fall of Canada had left them with nothing to fear from that quarter. Now they wanted to control their own affairs and who could blame them? Thinking on these lines, Richard wondered how many others felt as he did? Was this the reason why the war progressed so slowly? He knew that some senior officers had flatly refused to serve in America. He had come to feel much as they did but was in no position to make the same gesture. Midshipmen were not supposed to have political opinions—nor opinions, for that matter, of any sort. No one cared whether they served or not. Richard had his own career to consider and would be wise, he knew, to keep his ideas to himself.
The scene which Richard was afterwards to remember most vividly was enacted in late October at the Merchants’ Coffee House at the corner of Wall Street and Water Street. George Brewerton had just been promoted colonel in de Lancey’s brigade and the occasion was being celebrated at a supper given by Oliver de Lancey (the general). There were only about one hundred and fifty men in the battalion that Brewerton was to command, as Richard happened to know, but that was no argument against holding a party. Those present, apart from the general, Stephen de Lancey and Brewerton, included several other officers of the same brigade, two or three more from the New York Militia, the tongue-tied Lieutenant Huggins of the Royal Navy, a merchant from Liverpool called Stanniforth (Stephen’s partner in some trading venture), a lawyer from Albany called Yates and, last of all, Mr Midshipman Delancey. It appeared that the younger Oliver, who was in town, would be with them at a later hour. The company came together with much doffing of cloaks and clinking of spurs, swords being hung up near the door and a single midshipman’s dirk adding a little to the martial display. With the exception of Huggins, it seemed doubtful to Richard whether anyone present had ever been under fire. The supper was excellent, however, the Negro servants were attentive, and all joined afterwards in the loyal toast, followed by a toast to Colonel Brewerton who replied modestly and briefly. Stephen then proposed “A speedy end to the rebellion.” This led to a general discussion about the war, prolonged by the expert knowledge of all who were present.
“I have heard it argued in England,” said Mr Stanniforth, “that our regiments here are at a sad disadvantage. In scarlet uniform, with parade-ground training, they are to confront men who are skilled in the backwoods.”
“You may tell your friends, sir, that they are sadly misinformed.” The general refilled his glass and passed the decanter before going on. “Our senior officers mostly fought here in the last war. They know the country better than the rebels can pretend to do, most of whom are townsmen and wearing a uniform almost as conspicuous in blue and white. On this point about wearing scarlet, you must know that there is a special uniform devised for colonial warfare. As for our fighting in too rigid formation, the rebels at Bunker’s Hill were more governed by the manual than were the king’s soldiers. No, sir, I have heard this said before but know it to be false. There are some true back-woodsmen on either side but there is little to choose between recruits from London and recruits from Boston.”
“If we are at a disadvantage,” said Stephen de Lancey, “it would arise more from control exercised over too great a distance. Orders from London can be outpaced by events.”
“Very true, sir,” echoed Mr Huggins before relapsing into silence. There was further discussion and all agreed that the rebels had no monopoly in marksmanship or concealment.
“It is strange, for all that,” said Mr Yates, “that we have heard nothing lately from the north. I had expected by now to have heard of General Burgoyne’s approach. There has been fighting in that direction and there have been a number of conflicting rumours. Is there any recent news? I must confess that I have heard nothing.”
There was nobody better informed and the resulting silence was broken tactfully by Colonel Brewerton, who proposed a toast to the Royal Navy. This was drunk with applause and all looked expectantly at Huggins, who in turn looked helplessly at Richard, who rose reluctantly to reply.
“General de Lancey, officers and guests. I rise to thank you all on behalf of the Royal Navy. We have been most hospitably entertained by our friends here in New York. We cannot claim to have destroyed the rebel fleet at sea because they don’t seem to have a fleet [applause] but we have done something about the privateers of Providence. The result is that we are well supplied, as witness the table before us. Mr Leckie of Hanover Square has had his linen, Messrs Hugh and Alexander Wallace have had plenty of wine for us, Mr William Burton and Mr Michael Pri
ce have not been short of groceries and Mr Hugh Garvie has had the means of printing our invitation cards. The Royal Navy has had some part in protecting your sources of supply [applause] and you can depend upon us for future protection. It is the least we can do in return for your hospitality.” Richard then proposed a toast to the New York Militia and Captain Bradford replied. One way and another it was a carnival evening. It came to be remembered, however, for another reason.
Captain Oliver de Lancey came in abruptly at about half past ten, threw his cloak and sword to a Negro servant and apologised to his father for being late. There was something about his brisk movements and decisive manner which marked him out as the professional, as the man who had recently been in battle. There was something else, though; a note in his voice which reduced the room to an uneasy silence.
“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sir. General Burgoyne and his army have been forced to capitulate.”
There was a moment of stunned silence and then, from the general, the inevitable question:
“But is this certain?”
“Quite certain, sir. Sir William Howe had Burgoyne’s own dispatch and I have just come from his headquarters.”
“I can still scarcely credit it. Do you know how it came about?”
“Burgoyne moved south in the expectation that he would meet another army coming north. He met only the enemy in superior numbers at a point where his communications were stretched beyond the limit.”
“Where was that?”
“At Saratoga, sir.”
“Good God! What now?”
“The likelihood is that France will enter the war against us. Once our forces have been turned about to face this new opponent we shall have none to spare for the reconquest of these American colonies. So far as this present war is concerned I should say, sir, that we have been defeated and that the colonies have gained their independence.”
It was not, of course, as simple as that and those present were unwilling to admit defeat. New efforts would be launched, they said, new armies would be raised and new plans devised. After listening to all this talk Richard came to the conclusion that young Oliver—the only real soldier there—was obviously right. Unlike the rest he knew what he was talking about. He had also realised, as his father had not, that the family estates would all be forfeit and that the chief loyalists would all have to go into exile. Their period of wealth and influence was all but finished. In a few years they would be gone and in a few more years, forgotten. Nor could Richard share the grief that his cousins would soon be feeling. He did not believe that the rule of the colonies from London was really possible. It must break down, as Burgoyne’s campaign had broken down, on the iron facts of distance and time. The party broke up early, the spirit having gone out of it, and Richard left with Oliver, the cousin he hardly knew. As they walked up the street they saw in the distance the brightness of fireworks lit at Ranelagh. Suddenly clairvoyant, Richard gestured in that direction and said:
“That’s all finished, isn’t it? That and the horse races at Brooklyn, that and the cricket matches and the masked ball. Our dream is over and we shall give way to sour-faced Bostonians. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Richard, that’s the truth. But I am luckier than the others. New York has never been my life. I belong, first and foremost, to the 17th Light Dragoons.”
Chapter 5
CHARLOTTE
THE year 1778 found Richard still in New York and his contemporaries may well have thought him lacking in zeal for action. The circumstances which kept him to his desk were partly official, partly private. In the first place, old Harvey finally quarrelled with the Navy Board. His official correspondence, in which there had been a note of impatience from the beginning, became more vituperative as time went on. Following the dispatch of a final letter which was highly improper, and which Richard knew to be ill-considered at the time, he was relieved of his appointment. With him on the homeward voyage went his secretary, Mr Greenway. His successor was Commodore Edward Affleck, who made a rapid assessment of Mr Huggins, whom he replaced, and then asked Richard to stay. For his part, Richard came to realise that he had become essential to the commodore’s office, having a knowledge of New York which no one else now possessed. Affleck was having difficulties with Howe’s second in command, that “penurious reptile” James Gambier, and did not know one contractor from another. It was clearly Richard’s duty to remain at least for the time being. This was what he told himself and even came to believe, but he had another motive and one quite apart from the interests of the service. He and Charlotte de Lancey had rather more affection for each other than their cousinship could entirely explain. When he first acted as her occasional escort she had not been particularly attractive. Girls of sixteen often pass through a plain phase and this had certainly been her fate. Apart from that, she was clearly an heiress, far above him in social position and quite beyond his aspirations. She was now eighteen and extremely pretty. Her parents had so far accepted Richard as a poor relative, assuming that Charlotte regarded him as almost a brother. As her future husband they already had someone else in mind: Nicholas Bayard (aged 26) whose family was of an importance comparable to theirs. Charlotte had no particular liking for him but the match was thought eminently suitable and that indeed it was.
So far in his life, and for years afterwards, Richard had assumed that marriage must wait until after he had reached the age of thirty. There was no certainty that he would have anything to offer even at that age; only the most remarkable good luck could make him an eligible suitor in the meanwhile. Recognising this, he had given little thought to girls. Nor had he much occasion to meet them socially before his arrival in New York. He had gained confidence since then, improved his manners and looked to his appearance. But the social customs of the time gave him little opportunity of meeting any young lady except as one of a group. Such opportunities as there were in the ballroom were limited and fleeting. A young man was expected to change partner at every dance and pay compliments to each partner in turn. To dance repeatedly with the same young lady was tantamount to announcing an engagement. All that happened, moreover, was under the eagle eye of mother, aunt or elder sister. There were ways, nevertheless, by which a preference could be shown and Richard was certainly Charlotte’s favourite for a time and perhaps for as long as half a year. This halcyon period began with a stolen kiss at a ball given at Hick’s Tavern by some officers of the 60th (Royal American) Regiment. There were, of course, more formal occasions, such as the Governor’s Ball on the king’s birthday, to which Richard was never invited, but he was present at other receptions as a de Lancey relative. The ballroom at Hick’s Tavern opened on a small garden and it was here, on a moonlit summer night, that Charlotte was kissed. A minute later she had returned to the dance floor, remarking on her need for a breath of fresh air. Two minutes later she was dancing with Captain Mitchell of the New York Militia. There was no basis for scandal.
Unable to meet except very briefly, Richard and Charlotte began to correspond in secret, using as messenger one of the de Lancey servants, a young Negress called Susie. The letters were innocent enough but Susie came to realise that she was in a position to ask for more money than she had actually been paid. Charlotte, a spirited girl, boxed Susie’s ears for insolence with the result that her most recent letter was delivered to her mother. Mrs de Lancey was naturally upset, fearing that some rumour would reach the Bayards and spoil all chance of the intended match. After lecturing Charlotte at length she told her husband of the letter and what its tone seemed to suggest. The result was a painful interview between the general and Richard, the former in resplendent regimentals, the latter in his uniform as a midshipman. In his character as an old campaigner, General de Lancey could not take too moral a line. As against that, he made it clear that there was to be no further social contact between Richard and Charlotte.
“There are some people, more especially in New England, who would come to the hasty conclus
ion that Miss de Lancey’s reputation had been compromised. I do not think as poorly of her or of you. That she has been imprudent I must allow. That you have been ungrateful to your cousins here must be evident, even to you. But that is, I believe, the extent of the mischief. You are not to meet her again, young man, and I shall hope to advance the date of her engagement to Mr Bayard. She will forget her present or recent infatuation in a matter of weeks and my hope is that you will presently be stationed elsewhere.”
“I owe you an apology, sir, for my seeming ingratitude. You and your family have shown me every kindness, more than a distant relationship would account for. I cannot thank you and Mrs de Lancey sufficiently for all that has made my life here so pleasant. I deeply regret that any error of mine should have resulted in any possible disadvantage to Miss de Lancey. My intentions, I assure you, were entirely honourable and I should presently have done myself the honour of asking for her hand in marriage.”
“I am glad to hear that this was your intention, Mr Delancey, but you can hardly suppose that your proposal would have been welcome. In the first place, you are, I assume, as far as ever from holding commissioned rank?”
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