“Well, I gave you safe passage as I promised!”
“But how did you do it, sir?”
“I poured molten lead into the touch-holes. It took half an hour to clear them and that half-hour was enough.”
“You commanded at the fort, then?”
“That is so. I thought it wise to quit before too many questions were asked.”
“I can understand that, Major.”
“As from tomorrow you can call me lieutenant-colonel.”
Captain Mottram was informed presently of Travell being given that higher rank in the king’s army but no news of Travell’s appointment to an actual unit. He was to remain a passenger on board the Falcon and there was no plan, seemingly, for his employment. It soon appeared, moreover, that the fact of his treachery had become common knowledge.
On 5 May a boat came from the shore in broad daylight with several ladies aboard. They were received by Captain Mottram on the quarterdeck where the oldest of them, a formidable lady, explained the purpose of her visit.
“I am Mrs Esther Hoskins, widow of Colonel Hoskins of the South Carolina Militia. I live at the Galilee Plantation where these other ladies are neighbours of mine and well known to me.”
Captain Mottram bowed but did not reply.
“My son, Captain Luke Hoskins, is serving with his company in the defence of Charleston. Two of these ladies have sons who are similarly employed and one of them, Martha Babcock, has a favourite nephew there who holds the rank of ensign.”
Mottram repeated his bow with bare civility.
“We ask Sir Henry Clinton’s permission to enter the town and take leave of our kinsfolk. We are aware, of course, that the town will be stormed in a few days’ time.”
“What makes you so certain of that?”
“Certain? Of course I’m certain. Everyone knows about it. It is the common topic of conversation. And what else is Sir Henry to do?”
Mottram declined any further discussion of Clinton’s plans but agreed to send the ladies on to the general’s headquarters where they could apply to him in person. He was issuing the necessary orders when Travell chanced to come on deck without the least idea of the ladies’ presence. The scene which followed was highly embarrassing and Delancey, for one, could have wished that he had been somewhere else. Catching sight of Travell Mrs Hoskins drew herself up to her full height and pointed at him with her parasol.
“Really, Captain Mottram. I wonder to see Major Travell here as your guest! What name do we give to an officer who is traitor to his neighbours and former friends—who betrays the town which he is to defend—who is guilty of treachery towards his brother officers and enlisted men—who bites the hand that feeds him—who consorts with the enemy—who is utterly faithless and completely worthless, despised by every true American and spat upon by every patriot—who will go down in history as the lowest of the low? What do we call him, ladies? I call him Judas Iscariot!”
“Judas!” shrilled the other ladies and they were advancing on poor Travell in menacing fashion when Captain Mottram intervened.
“Ladies! If you will kindly proceed to the boat alongside you will be taken to Sir Henry Clinton’s headquarters, where I am sure that you will be treated with every politeness. I must ask you to be as polite to my other guest and to remember that you are all guilty of treason, being in rebellion against our noble sovereign, King George, in whose territory you were born and to whom you owe a subject’s loyal obedience. Good day to you, ladies!”
The painful scene ended, Travell going below without a word and other people all busying themselves with their several tasks. As one of those present Delancey felt some sympathy with all concerned. Is the rebel to be praised who returns to his allegiance? Or is he guilty of a second treachery who goes back on his first? If Travell had gained promotion it was a step in rank, he thought, that had been dearly purchased.
The ladies had been right, of course, about Clinton’s plans. His stranglehold on Charleston had been tightened and no relief was possible. His artillery had come closer to the target area and the defending ramparts had begun to crumble. Finally, on the night of 9 May, the final bombardment began, evidently the prelude to the final assault. Continuing all night, it brought General Lincoln to the point of surrender. From the deck of the Falcon lying quietly at anchor, Delancey and the other midshipmen listened to the thunder of the artillery and watched the whole sky lit up by flashes from perhaps a hundred gun muzzles. From the town itself came the red glare of burning and the crackle of the flames.
“A pity we have no share in this,” said Hyatt.
“But what difference could we make?” asked young Tenison.
“I don’t mean the Falcon,” explained Hyatt, “I mean the navy. The admiral could have joined in the bombardment, couldn’t he?”
“He and the general are not the best of friends,” said Branning, and the others had to agree.
“That’s often the way of it,” said Hyatt. “Sailors and soldiers seldom see eye to eye.”
“But they sometimes do,” objected Delancey. “I’m told that Sir Henry thinks the world of Captain Elphinstone.”
“And he could be right at that,” concluded Branning. “But look over there!”
Shells were bursting now over the town and the noise had become more deafening than ever. It was this bombardment that was Delancey’s introduction to war. While not himself under fire, he had begun to see what war must mean. It had, he thought, a rather frightening sort of attraction.
Delancey was not present to witness General Lincoln’s formal surrender of the town but he was allowed on shore soon afterwards, he and Hyatt going together to see the damage done by the bombardment. They did not expect to see many houses intact. They found, on the contrary, that the town—as apart from the ramparts and gun emplacements—had suffered very little.
“After that cannonade,” said Hyatt, “I expected to see total destruction.”
“I think the gunners were under orders about that,” said Delancey. “The general wanted the town for his own use afterwards. This is where he means to billet his troops.”
“And the shops are reopening for the benefit of those new customers,” observed Hyatt. “Are the people really friendly towards us, do you think?”
“They will be so long as we are here in force. One or two of the girls have looked at us with interest.”
“You noticed that? There are some angry looks, however, from some of the older folk. They have some chimney-stacks to repair, some tiles to replace. Those who stayed in their cellars should have come to no harm, though.”
“Anyway, it’s good to be ashore.”
“We are luckier in that respect than Colonel Travell. Were he to land he would be dead within the hour. Do you think he will be given a command?”
“No,” replied Delancey after a little pause. “Were he to be taken prisoner, you see, he would be hanged by the rebels. The general would not want that to happen. Travell might have a staff appointment in New York but would our senior officers trust him?”
“Having changed sides twice, you mean, they might expect him to change sides again?”
“I think they might have their doubts.”
Sir Henry Clinton sailed for New York on 8 June, leaving Lord Cornwallis to complete the conquest of South Carolina. Travell, however, was left on board the Falcon, idle and depressed. He was tall, thin, dark-haired and dark in complexion, with a rather melancholy air but with an occasional flash of vivacity. Mottram regularly invited him to dinner and Delancey was present on one such occasion towards the end of June. Over the dessert Bancroft asked Travell whether he was a native of the southern colonies.
“No, sir. I come from Philadelphia and all my active service has been in the north. It was there, as one of the rebel officers, that I came to realise that we had lost the war.”
“But, surely, Colonel,” Maxwell protested, “the rebels, your former friends, have French help now. We have taken Charleston, to be sure, bu
t Lincoln had come near to taking Savannah. King Louis has given them great encouragement.”
“But look at the difficulties General Washington has to face! The continental currency is practically worthless. His supply system has broken down, so much so that the quartermaster general has resigned. The troops can neither be supplied nor paid. Their numbers are dwindling, recruits are few and some units may well mutiny. It is a miracle that the army exists at all. Its morale has never been lower.”
“You were fighting, you thought, in a hopeless cause?”
“I was fighting, sir, in a war that should never have taken place. It could have been avoided with only a little patience on either side. I must confess, however, that I did not reach this conclusion unaided. I have had the honour of serving with a more senior officer who is—as I believe—the best soldier now serving on either side. He had come to the conclusion that a British victory would be in the best interests of the colonists themselves.”
“And did he think that such a victory is likely?” asked Captain Mottram.
“He knew that he could bring it about, provided that General Clinton would follow his advice.”
“He must be a remarkable man.” Bancroft’s tone expressed disbelief but Travell replied with emphasis:
“He is the greatest man I have ever met, possessing untiring energy, exceptional courage, quickness of decision and instant grasp of any situation. He has an instinct for war which amounts to genius.”
“Has he no human weakness?” asked Maxwell wonderingly. “He has a weakness for money, a love of luxury, a passion for thoroughbred horses and too great an interest in the other sex. These faults do not affect his brilliance as a commander in the field.”
“You say, sir, that this officer’s advice would bring us victory?” asked Mottram. “Do you know what his advice would be?”
“Yes, sir, I do. He would advise against the dispersal of our troops between north and south. He would urge a concentration of all our forces against Washington, securing all points at which the Hudson can be crossed. The rebel supplies of bread come from the country east of that river, their supplies of meat come from the west. Hold the line of the Hudson and Washington must either fight or surrender.”
“But if he fought, sir, could he not still win?”
“Not if my friend’s advice were followed in another particular. He suggests that the British should offer to recruit all of Washington’s men, honouring all arrears of pay, undertaking to give them twenty guineas down with half-pay for seven years after the war has ended, offering a hundred acres of land to each private soldier and ten thousand acres to every general. In America, he says, money will go further than arms.”
There was a shocked silence as Travell finished speaking, broken when Bancroft asked whether this plan would not involve a colossal expense. Travell replied promptly: “Do you think the present campaign is cheap, supported as it is by supply lines across the Atlantic? What does it cost to keep our armies in the field? What must we allow for keeping our ships in commission? We pay millions to fight Washington’s men. The officer to whom I refer maintains that it would be cheaper to buy them. I think myself that this is the fact.”
“On this principle,” objected Maxwell, “we should be using American troops to fight our battles.”
“We are doing that already,” replied Travell, “and they have British deserters on the rebel side as their opponents!”
“Such a situation,” exclaimed Mottram, “as a novelist would hardly dare invent!”
“But what is so strange about it, sir?” asked Travell. “We were all British until about five years ago. Have our natures so changed in the meanwhile? This war has been senseless from the beginning. It is time that the killing gave place to a quiet discussion among men who should be neighbours and friends as well as relatives.”
“May I assume, sir, that this officer of distinction is about to resume his allegiance to the king as you have done?” asked Mottram.
“He should have done so already,” was Travell’s reply. “He and I were to come over at about the same time. The silencing of Fort Moultrie was his idea and he arranged my transfer so as to make it possible. I should not have revealed as much as I have had I not assumed that he was now in our camp.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mottram gravely, “what we have just heard from Colonel Travell is of the greatest importance. We must repeat no word of it until the colonel tells us that the matter is no longer secret.”
“We are all grateful, sir, to the colonel for taking us into his confidence,” said Maxwell, “and he has given us much to think about. One thing I have learnt is that, in war, you learn all about your own difficulties and conclude too readily that your opponents have no troubles of their own. It is easy, in fact, to give up at the moment when your enemies are on the point of collapse.”
“Very true, Mr Maxwell,” said Mottram, “and this must be a lesson for all of us.”
The conversation became more general and Travell was heard to remark that time was heavy on his hands. He had thought to spend his idle hours in learning French but he had no books in that language to study. Afterwards, when the party was breaking up, Delancey went up to him and asked, with some hesitation, whether he could be of help. “I am fluent in French, sir, but with a provincial accent.” Travell accepted this offer and lessons in oral French led to something like a friendship or as much of a friendship as can exist between a youth and a much older man. Soon after Falcon sailed, on 14 July, Delancey expressed his hope that Colonel Travell would be given a command or at least a staff appointment. Travell, who was evidently depressed, said that he had little hope of it.
“You see the difficulty, youngster. Clinton will never trust me. But, apart from that, how can he appoint a recent recruit, recently an enemy, to any post which anyone else could possibly want? How should he prefer me to an officer who has served loyally since the war began? And how would my appointment be received by officers who were to serve under me?”
“You told us, sir, of a more senior officer who may by now have returned to his original allegiance. Were he received with respect, your own position would be greatly improved, would it not?”
“I counted on that but am no longer so sure. That friend of mine is lucky in that his recent marriage has brought him some Tory friends. The young lady to whom I am engaged has no such connections and may well think poorly of me for quitting the rebel army. She should have received my letter before now. For all I know, her next letter to me may be the last I have from her. She may judge me harshly but what else could I have done? Which way was I to turn, and what should I do now? And when, to begin with, should we reach New York?”
“In about the third week of August, sir, if the present wind holds.”
“I almost dread the day, glad as I shall be to see the end of this voyage.”
The Falcon reached New York on 18 August and dropped anchor in the East River. There had been no recent fighting in the vicinity, the rebels having been beaten off in an attack on Staten Island some months before. The town looked as prosperous as ever, and Delancey looked forward to going ashore. In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Captain Mottram, sending for him, explained that Vice-Admiral Arbuthnot’s orders were that he should remain for the present on board the sloop and that he would be sent back to England when opportunity offered. His disappointment in this was more than matched by that of his friend. Travell was equally ordered to stay in the ship, being told indirectly that this order was for his own safety. Were he to land the probability was that he would at once be challenged to a duel by some American hothead who had heard about the events which led up to the fall of Charleston. It was thought possible that he might be posted to the West Indies but no actual appointment had been made. There was no news of any important desertion from the rebel army. To make matters worse, moreover, Travell received a number of cruel letters from complete strangers. People, who could accept his changing sides, could never, it seemed,
forgive his betrayal of Fort Moultrie. Travell showed none of these letters to Delancey but it was easy to guess their contents from his angry or sad reaction. It was as easy to guess that he had received no letter from the lady to whom he was engaged. He could now obtain French books from the town but it is doubtful whether he did more than glance at them. He was a man whose career was apparently finished. For his own part, Delancey was in almost equal despair about a career which had scarcely begun. He had, however, the advantage of youth and could resume, with Maxwell’s help, his studies in navigation. He might not achieve promotion but he could at least try to deserve it.
Chapter 7
THE TURNCOAT
WHEN Captain Mottram sent for Delancey one day in autumn it seemed for a moment that his detention on board the sloop was to end. That was not the purpose of the admiral but he was given, instead, a temporary attachment which would provide him at least with a change of scene. Captain Mottram vowed him to secrecy and told him that he was to serve for a short time on board the sloop Vulture (18 guns). “Captain Sutherland has recently asked for a French interpreter and has now accepted my assurance that you would prove suitable. That ship is to proceed on a secret mission, the details of which are known to very few. You may remember an occasion when Colonel Travell, dining as my guest, told us of a more senior officer of the rebel army who might be expected to return to his allegiance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He did not tell us that officer’s name but he evidently supposed that he would come over to our side in the immediate future. The time for this move on his part has, seemingly, arrived. Our object is to ensure his safe passage from the rebel lines to ours. If you recall what Colonel Travell said about this officer’s known abilities you will understand what importance must attach to this operation.”
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