Lafayette_Courtier to Crown Fugitive, 1757-1777

by S. P. Grogan

  Having this look and action of being a successful British Colonist, Deane quietly recruited Bancroft as an information source in 1776. The only problem was that by the time Gilbert met with Bancroft in March, 1777, the good doctor was a British agent.

  In their first and only meeting the Marquis and the ‘good’ doctor made a day trip and had crossed by hired portage the Thames to view and walk with privacy the New Spring Gardens in Kennington, later to be known as the Vauxhall Gardens. The setting consisted of several acres of trees and shrubs with pleasant walkways with food booths and other interesting amusement for the urban London citizens who missed the countryside yet could not find the time to travel great distance to gain pastoral respite.

  Gilbert, being an enthused new patriot to the American cause, and in the presence of this third met American, and vouched for by none other than Deane, opened his soul to the doctor, painting a vague outline but no specific picture of his planned adventure, but enough the doctor took him as quite serious. What further cemented Gilbert’s trust in the doctor was that word had been received by post, that the Commissioners had asked Bancroft to join them as the Commission’s private secretary, and that he would travel to Paris on 26th March. British Secret Service chiefs William Eden and Lords Suffolk and Weymouth encouraged, for pay, that Bancroft accept the position. From that point on the British by secret invisible ink dispatches were apprised of all moves made by the American diplomats, since Bancroft in charge of copying the Commission’s correspondence, only had to scribe out a third copy of any document he deemed worthy for his masters.

  “Perhaps when I am in Paris, I can be of further service in your plans?” offered Doctor Bancroft in all false sincerity. To this point in his life, Gilbert easily accepted all statements made by older men who had professions or titles were above reproach. Gilbert nodded acceptance of such a kind offer of support.

  Unknowingly, Daniel had entered the lion’s den. The British Secret Service in association with Lord Stormont’s spies were very aware of the French officers seeking to make trips to America as Deane’s selected contractual hires. In miffed frustration Gilbert had wailed to himself at the slowness of his own venture now fallen into a third place race, slow as the proverbial tortoise, as two groups of French officers, one under du Courdray, the other led by and Thomas Conway [Major Generals to be] had made it past and under the King’s embargo, leaving in late December and early January. And Gilbert through Deane now heard that Franklin himself was going to stick his foot into the ocean flowing of ‘advisors’ by pushing through to Vergennes, the only legitimate request to be submitted by Congress. They did not want this torrent of French officers under Deane’s banner, Congress only sought, with General Washington’s approval, five French engineers! The War Minister in secrecy elevated engineer Louis Presle Duportail to Lieutenant Colonel, gave him a ‘legal’ leave of absence and this French officer and his three compatriots would, Gilbert had again heard through back door gossip, leave this month from France.

  I am cursed by the fates, was Gilbert’s daily cry of woe.

  Gilbert believed, by now fervently, that with no doubt when he appeared on the scene the Americans would welcome his ‘zeal’. This passion to do service he imparted to Bancroft, who by his own instructions from the British, would make the gentlemanly effort to talk the young nobleman out of his silly notion and dangerous plan. And if not, then trap him into treachery that would lead to imprisonment. And the doctor had an idea to this end.

  Dr. Edward Bancroft in August of 1776 did not want to see a war between France and England, his new home, and especially decided that the Colonies should remain part of the British Empire. Money also turned his head and by financial negotiations he had hired into the British espionage system. His general knowledge of the plans of the Marquis had come from several sources: Stormont certainly had been aware of the three young noblemen’s attempts to sign up; that Deane was recruiting them as American officers; that this lark had been suppressed but now the Marquis was making friends with the De Broglie conspiracy (the British knowing only of another group of officers making plans to leave France, not De Broglie’s true scheme to usurp Washington). Those within the British inner circle did not want any high ranked noble, as they saw in the young de la Fayette to in any method join the Continental Army. Such an enlistment would validate the American cause to the French and American public and this being the worst time as most British officials believed some form of reconciliation was still viable.

  What was extraordinary, Gilbert had no idea whatsoever that he was looked upon as a major pawn on the political chessboard, in fact perhaps more of a moving knight piece. Gilbert only wanted to go fight and gain glory and any validation was only to his own true worth. French, British, and even American long term strategy and their end games possibilities were not in his immediate thoughts.

  “I have heard,” said Doctor Bancroft, “that you have gained several letters of introduction to take a tour of the fleet at Portsmouth.”

  “Yes, that is so,” replied Gilbert, “though I wonder if I should do so. I would not wish the British to feel I have any secret desire to record ship dispositions and learn plans on their direction of landfall in America.”

  “Hardly secrets, Marquis. Everyone knows two fleets are being prepared, one for General Burgoyne for Canada and General Clinton’s armada back to New York. Where both armies might go when on the continent, now that must be a top secret to uncover? And I fear even the British generals may not know their own final direction.”

  “My only goal is to get to America and be part of the Continental Army that is my firm direction.” Gilbert either wisely, or not knowing if his ship were ever to sail, had remained vague on how he might depart and arrive. Bancroft’s information knew he had been in conversations with both Baron de Kalb and Deane’s agent, Carmichael.

  “Well, that is certainly a great deal in the future and London has so much to offer. A good month or two here will set you well, and I do encourage you to go to Portsmouth, not for visiting the fleet and meeting their admirals but perhaps to go see the hanging of John the Painter.”

  “He is to be hung? Certainly he’s an arsonist, but so soon?

  “Yes, I’m afraid, our good American martyr, in fact confessed quite readily, and boasted so open there was never chance of a dungeon life.”

  Gilbert had scant bits and pieces of the story, as ‘incendiary’ as it was, he laughed inward. He had applauded the man’s daring privately, a poor man’s plot to set fire to the British shipyards to sow fear among the populace, which it did until he was apprehended. To a soldier, terrorism was not a talent for admiration, and Gilbert readily condemned this John the Painter as disreputable villain, regardless he said he had committed such crimes for the American cause.

  What Gilbert was unaware of was that the fire-bug scheme had been supported and in part financed by Commissioner Deane, but when the arsonist went to Bancroft for direct support to assist in carrying out his arson, the doctor now a British agent, not only sent him away, but help to finger him and later exacted much of the brigand’s confession.

  Gilbert stood giving his confidences to a duplicitous man. His enemy stood to his side, and the gentleman within him, had no reason to doubt his credentials. So, blossoms betrayal.

  “You should attend the hanging in Portsmouth on the 10th,” again pressed Bancroft, “there will be quite a crowd expected, well over 10,000, they say. They have even taken the mizzenmast from a ship to use as a gallows so that all might see. Why, I would certainly accompany you if that was your pleasure.”

  Bancroft had a dual purpose in this conversation. If the marquis were to travel the 120 kilometers (75 miles) to Portsmouth, then the doctor could put a fear into the boy on what happens to traitors, and worry him so that if he were to be caught on the high seas, hanging from the rigging might be the outcome. By further evil suggestion, this young man might be manipulated as a French officer to seem to act as a spy for the Americans (with
Bancroft’s false collusion) and the British authorities might then arrest the marquis or deport him, a total embarrassment to the French government.

  In this manner, Bancroft tried his wiles on the marquis, but the nobleman only wanted to spout away of his undying support to the American cause and what he might do when he finally made the trip.

  Gilbert said as they returned to London that he would give thought to the Portsmouth trip, as the 10th was but two days away. His curiosity was more into how the public reacted, that would be as much the entertainment as in the stretching of man’s neck with the warm corpse then being cut into quarters. A brave soldier he sought to be but his recent view of dried corpses at Tyburn Gate held no romance of adventure to see a fresh hanging.

  Gilbert never could comprehend as he moved forward that two governments, for obviously different motives, sought his failure. And by their espionage apparatus how close he had come to be caught and trapped. Other than loyal Bancroft (though suspected by Franklin his secret on spying for America’s enemy would not be found out until the 1860’s with release of British ministry files) there were others willing to hear and sell secrets for money.

  Commissioner Deane tried to recruit George Lupton to accompany Gilbert to America, but Lupton, a loyalist sympathizer, begged out. Lord Stormont’s spies sent in their notes. Lupton filed a report, but Bancroft thought little of de la Fayette’s chance of success and made it a postscript to his letter to his superiors. Within a wagon load of information nestled the one obvious fact, unseen.

  King George the III, every day read government dispatches, much of it from the War Minister’s dispatch box bringing news emanating from the entire realm of the British Empire. Of late communications of interest were sparse from the American Colonies as the warring armies were in winter quarters. Light skirmishes between loyalists and rebels did not draw the interest of the English King.

  “What is this?” The King held up a note of paper, prepared by his Secret Service. He read:

  “A French noble of great rank who holds close the respect of the King and Queen of France has been in our country of late. He has been heard speaking in high praise of the Americans and has even made expressions of wanting to join in hostilities against us. We have yet to determine the name of this personage and would have done so except that our man who has been on watch at the French Ambassador’s residence has not reported in and has gone missing.”

  “Missing,” said the King, astonished. “What says this ‘missing’?’

  “We are looking into it, sire. Many of the men we use in this practice are not the most reliable.”

  “Well, what about this Frenchman, do we know who he is?”

  “Of all those ennobled in the country, there are only two of high rank we know of: the Prince do Poix and the Marquis de la Fayette, they are nephews of the Ambassador. And if you recall they made their appearance before you last week, and are again to be at court this Friday.”

  “Well, if one of them is a “scoundrel”, we shall by our will hear it out from him. Perhaps a tour of the Tower will be of some service. Remind me again before they are before me on this date. We shall not have deceit used against us. No, by God!”

  Well meant, but the King was two days too late. Gilbert had fled England.

  63.

  THE MORNING OF 9 MARCH, Blasse—Camus brought a post letter delivered to the Ambassador’s front door. The servant waited as Gilbert read,

  The Good Mother requests your presence. The birth is close at hand. —K.

  De Kalb was telling Gilbert Le Bonne Mere, The Good Mother, re-christened La Victorie—Lafayette’s ship, was ready to sail. Time could not be wasted. Gilbert’s whole being changed indeed like an expectant father hearing the doctor’s summons.

  “We must go as soon as possible. Begin my packing. I will go to Ambassador Noailles and manufacture some acceptable excuse. I will have his office book passage. Then I must write Doctor Bancroft and bow out of our trip to Portsmouth, as enjoyable as a hanging might have been.”

  Blasse had gone to the curtained window and looked into the street. “And our friend, the spy? To whom will he pass on the news of your sudden absence? Rumors you don’t need will fly and efforts may be made to impede your actions.”

  “True, but what shall be done?”

  “By your leave, sir, I will take care of that inconvenience.”

  “Nothing unsavory.” Gilbert did have his moral code. Even cur-like spies deserved the court of judgment not a garroted neck in a dark alley, an image Gilbert certainly could see at the hands of his manservant.

  “Yes, sire, nothing fatal shall happen to our watcher; that I shall promise.” And Blasse departed to his tasks.

  Before the witching hour, with a heavy fog, smelling like a dead cat, well laid over the Thames River the closed carriage, with no markings, barely to be seen, rumbled down Bishops Gate Road clacking across the misted London Bridge into the Borough known as Southwark. Now across the river, the carriage, with two men sitting on top in the driver’s box, turned on the muddy street, Bank Side, against the River, past The Bear Tavern at Bridge-foot and the Anchor Ale House which once served the players of the long since destroyed Rose and Globe Theatres, past side streets called Horseshoe Alley and Goat Street.

  Had the carriage turned in the opposite direction, which was a bad idea all around, it would have followed Red Riffe Street towards St. Savior’s dock and into St. James Island. Anyone going that way, especially in a fine built vehicle would never be heard from again, for it was a place of cutthroats that even the brave feared. Had the carriage traveled away from the River, along Turnpike Road, a short distance to St. George’s Fields they may have stopped for a pint or a concert, or during the day duck-baiting at the Duck and Dog Tavern; that is, if they were more interested in running into whores and rogues, where rowdy highwaymen would carouse before drifting into the shadows to waylay unsuspecting victims.

  Actor-playwright David Garrick had immortalized the D & D debauchery in his play of 1774, The Maid of the Oaks:

  St. George's Fields, with taste of fashion struck,

  Display Arcadia at the 'Dog and Duck';

  And Drury misses here, in tawdry pride,

  Are there 'Pastoras' by the fountain side;

  To frowsy bowers they reel through midnight damps,

  With Fawns half drunk, and Dryads breaking lamps.

  This was not the night’s destination or mission even if the two men in the carriage, one of them, the driver being Gilbert’s man Blasse-Camus, could indeed handle himself. But this night they were looking for seamen, of a particular kind.

  And they found them, the long boat tied down on waterman stairs leading up from the Thames at the Old Barge House, near Bull Street. One man was guarding the boat and Blasse could see two dark clothed lumps in the boat, bound and moaning. His companion guessed the press gang was working Gin Row on the Narrows near Morris’s Causeway, a hellish place of river and feces stank, and of hopelessness.

  The Royal Navy’s Impress Service and Gin Row fit hand in glove as a symbiotic devil. The five acts of Parliament against the gin trade, the last in 1751, had reduced the unlicensed craze that had begun in 1688 when war and politics shifted allegiances from French brandy to English grains. Those addicted had been pushed out of London proper, with the eradication of Beer Street and Gin Lane, and the dregs were left to scrounge for sustenance in bad gin draughts, which made the idled men targets of the Navy’s impress ‘officers’ who made ‘hot press’ raids far up the Thames when there was a lack of ready sailors to man the Royal Navy warships. And such were the times with the war in the Colonies escalating and especially two fleets at Portsmouth about ready to sail, but woefully undermanned.

  Blasse’s companion, a man called Driggs, saw the press gang first. Blasse had found Driggs, an amiable sort of wharfman, drinking the night before at the Three Cranes Tavern on Thameside at the Vintry Warf. This was where shipments of Bordeaux wine were barged in from the river�
��s mouth and off-loaded (and ‘cranes’ referred to the hoisting cross beams to lift the red wetted freight) and in such service, Driggs knew enough low French to accept Blasse’s false tale and without question the coins rendered.

  “What ho,” shouted Driggs, to the three men, who were just then tying up and gagging a young man, a gash to his head, who did not wish to be trussed so against his will.

  “And who are you, strangers,” a rough man, dressed in the loose garb of the main deck walked out of the alley a belay pin in hand as a cudgel, swinging it hand to hand.

  “Just two men with a proposition, if you be interested. Have you filled your night’s quota.”

  “What’s it to you?” The swarthy, hard man, definitely the gang boss, walked closer, wary.

  “Look in me coach, there’s money waiting for you.”

  The press man walked in careful steps, strides, not afraid, as one had to be a bullyboy to beat up the innocent. He edged the door open and glanced in.

  Inside was an unconscious man, with an old knot on his head and a new knot of persuasion. He was bound tight. The pressman could smell the heavy odor of port wine upon the man’s clothes.

  “What’s this?”

  “My wife’s brother. He’s a seaman like you, off a merchant man, his last trip out and back. The Azores, as I recall. But when he makes harbor he’s a mean drunk and beats his children fierce. My wife and our sister-in-law have had enough of this misery.”

  “And you want what of me,” and pointing to his gang, which just pulled their victim into the street where he lay writhing in agony, unable to tear apart his bonds which cut into his wrists. His yelling for help went unheard by all around, including Blasse and Diggs. They were not here for rescue, the opposite in fact.

  “My wife and I have saved up enough money to pay for a good long sea trip, and were hoping you might take the man back to his vocation. I heard his boast that he was a great sheetman in the forecastle.”