The Trial and Execution of the Traitor George Washington

by Charles Rosenberg

  “I see.”

  “Hence, I advise you to keep no diary, to write only when I am here in your cell and to hand over to me whatever letters you write. I will then see to their delivery by means not likely to be discovered. I do not think, as your attorney, I will be searched on leaving.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hobhouse, for your sage advice. I had not thought on what you have mentioned, although I certainly ought to have. I will do as you suggest.”

  Hobhouse left happy with himself that he had thought of the risk of Washington putting pen to paper and alerted him. But he also thought that Washington was deluding himself as to how easy it would be to avoid being a chip, as he called it, in some arrangement that ended the rebellion. But at least his own instructions were clear. He was to find a way—a miracle, in truth—that might get Washington acquitted. But he, Hobhouse, was to take no role in arranging any grand bargain.

  And he would not. Hobhouse was a man who believed in taking a client’s instructions seriously. Even if, in the usual case, those instructions were often delivered to him by a wealthy man’s solicitor rather than, as here, by the client himself.

  His first task would be to use the substantial contacts of Fletcher Chambers to see if he could find out what was taking place in the Solicitor General’s office. Was a high treason indictment imminent or was the game to be played at a slower pace?

  36

  Mrs. Stevenson had very kindly told Abbott that he might use her side parlour—situated just to the right of the front door as one entered the house—as his office. She also located an old oak desk and leather desk chair and added them to the room’s furnishings, which already included an overstuffed couch and a large table, surrounded by four wooden chairs. “Voila, Mr. Abbott,” she said, dusting off the desk. “Welcome to the very first American Embassy in London.”

  She had also provided him with a box of watermarked paper, a writing box containing three quill pens and a blotter and an ink stand with two full ink jars. There was even a supply of red wax, so that he could seal his letters. Fortunately, he had thought to bring along his own seal, which said Ethan Abbott, Esquire. He would need soon to acquire one with his proper title.

  The day before, he had sent off two letters, both by messenger: a letter of introduction for Hobhouse to Washington, and a carefully worded one to Edmund Burke, explaining that while General Washington was deeply appreciative of his offer of representation, Washington thought an American-born barrister would be most appropriate to the defence argument he planned to make. But, he added, they hoped to seek Burke’s advice going forward.

  Then he’d gone to see Washington a second time, but, except for letting Washington know he’d located a good barrister, it had been very much a repeat of their first meeting. Except that the produce thrown at them as they walked upon the parade—Washington again insisted on walking there for privacy—seemed to have switched from small dried fruit to small vegetables. Washington had said, “Perhaps whoever is paying for this is running out of money to purchase quality imported produce from warmer places.”

  Using messengers, Abbott had again, through Hartleb, attempted to arrange a meeting with North, but had again been put off. Nor, Hartleb said, on enquiry, had the rest of the American delegation arrived. Was it possible no one was coming?

  On his first full day in the “Embassy,” with little else to do, he had finally succumbed to his desire to explore the city. He had first gone on foot to explore the immediate neighbourhood around Mrs. Stevenson’s. Mrs. Stevenson had earlier introduced him to Polly, who had returned home, and he had invited her to go with him.

  “And walk?” she said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Mr. Abbott, no one walks who can afford to do otherwise. I take either our own carriage and driver or a sedan chair. As you will soon see if you insist on walking, if the streets are not filled with effluent—and it’s rare they are not—you will need to step over the dead dogs and cats and move constantly aside to avoid being trampled by cattle, swine and other animals being driven to market.”

  “Even in this area?”

  “Perhaps not on our street, but nearby, certainly. And it is much, much worse elsewhere. Indeed, in some areas the recent construction is so shoddy that bricks fall off the buildings and hit people in the head. Are you sure you don’t want to take our carriage? My mother and I have no need of it this afternoon.”

  “I thank you, but I like to walk.”

  “Well, then please be careful of footpads.”

  “What are they?”

  “Men who rob you on foot, on the street. Sometimes they will try to reach inside your coat for your wallet. Sometimes they... Well, do be careful.”

  “You think I am a bumpkin, don’t you?”

  She blushed. “No, no. A man who has lost a leg in battle cannot any longer be that. If ever you were. But you are not knowledgeable about the dangerous ways of this vast city. How many people live in Philadelphia?”

  He hesitated. “Perhaps twenty-five thousand people.”

  “London is said to be almost a million. Many are poor. Many are desperate. It is our shame.” She arched her eyebrows. “And you look quite rich, sir.”

  “I will take care.”

  “Do, and when you come to your senses, I will be pleased to put convention aside and accompany you in our carriage, even though we are not engaged.”

  That first day, despite his limp, he had walked about for almost two hours, marvelling at the dozens of buildings that crowded together but reached four stories into the sky, the bustling crowds, the street peddlers with baskets hung around their necks selling everything from buns and meat, pies and pickles, to hats and cheap jewellery. There was even a man who sang ballads for a farthing. Nothing untoward had happened to him.

  The next day he decided to try to locate one of the specific Friends of America whom Charles Thompson had mentioned. And he wanted to walk there, despite how sore the previous day’s walk had made his leg. After so many days and weeks cooped up on the ship, his walk of the day before had felt exhilarating.

  He recalled that one of the Friends, a man named Joshua Laden, had been listed as living on Cedar Lane. After much searching of a newly printed map of London Mrs. Stevenson had lent him, he found that Cedar Lane was on the other side of London Bridge, in a placed labelled Southwark.

  The first part of his walk was easy going, although he continued to run into the same distractions as the day before, including vendors selling tasty salted meats. When he finally reached London Bridge it was so crowded that he had to thread his way forward amongst sets of slowly moving shoulders.

  In the middle of the bridge he felt someone reach into his waistcoat and grab at the leather wallet that he had placed in an inner pocket. Instinctively, he swung his wooden leg sharply to his right and heard it connect with a crunch to what was likely the shin bone of the man who was trying to rob him. He turned in time to see the man grab the bottom of his leg and crumple to the ground, screaming. Another man, apparently a companion, was moving towards him brandishing a raised club. Abbott tried to hurry away as quickly as his leg would permit, shoving aside people who blocked his way.

  When he looked behind him, the man with the club had closed the gap and was almost upon him. No one else on the bridge, if they noticed at all, appeared to care. Suddenly, two large men, whom he judged from their dress to be constables, appeared out of nowhere, and one of them tackled the man with the club.

  Abbott started to approach the two constables to offer a few coins in thanks, when the one who was still standing upright said, “No need, sir. We saw what happened, and we will deal with it from here.” The man tipped his hat as if that was the end of that.

  After a second’s hesitation, Abbott turned and pressed on across the bridge. Polly had been right. He was a fool for having ignored her. This was neither his city nor his country,
and it would behove him to listen more closely to people who wanted to help him.

  He reached Laden’s place on Cedar Lane without further incident. The address housed a haberdashery. When he went in, there were hats, stockings and other clothing items stacked on wooden shelves that reached almost to the ceiling. There was a boy—Abbott judged him to be perhaps sixteen—standing behind a counter.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes. I am looking for a Mr. Laden. Is he in?”

  “I’m afraid he is out of the city for the day, sir. Replenishing our inventory. May I enquire of your name and whether I might be of assistance?”

  “Certainly. I am Ethan Abbott. I have a letter for him.” He saw the boy’s face fall and immediately added, “Don’t worry. It is good news. If you would be so kind as to deliver this to him, it would be much appreciated.” He handed the boy the letter he had so carefully penned, folded and sealed that morning.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And may I enquire of your name?” Abbott asked.

  “My name is Robert Laden.”

  “Ah, then Mr. Laden is your father?”

  “No. He is my uncle. My father’s brother.”

  Suddenly, Abbott spied, on one of the upper shelves, something he’d been looking for—a three-cornered hat, with only one corner cocked. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to try out that hat there.” He pointed.

  Robert, using a hook, took it gently down from the shelf, handed it to him and said, “With only the backside cocked, this one is called a Monmouth. It’s made of beaver fur. We have other styles as well if this one fails to please.”

  Abbott tried it on, inspected his image in a small mirror that hung on a nail protruding from a shelf and said, “I will take it.”

  They dickered about the price for a few moments, reached agreement, and Abbott paid. As he was about to leave, he handed Robert a small coin and said, “I will ask a favour of you, Robert. Please do not volunteer to anyone, other than your father, that I have been here. I’m sure your uncle would not wish anyone to know I had come.”

  The boy raised his eyebrows, gave Abbott a knowing look and said, “My uncle has shared his interests and views with me. I will keep your confidence, sir.”

  “Thank you. Now of course, there is a chance that someone saw me come in and may make enquiries. If that occurs, please tell them only that I came in, bought a hat and left, but did not tell you my name. They may already know my name, but you do not.”

  “May I tell them which hat you bought?”

  “Of course. Be sure to say it was very stylish.” He winked, and the boy laughed.

  Abbott left, walked to a nearby main street and decided, in part because his stump had begun to ache, to hail a sedan chair for the trip back to Mrs. Stevenson’s.

  On the morrow, he resolved, he would ask Polly to join him for a trip in the carriage. Perhaps to Vauxhall Gardens. A small London guide Mrs. Stevenson had lent him, published by a man named Fielding, called it one of the liveliest places in London.

  37

  As the afternoon wore on—darkness came quite early in London in winter—North found himself once again slouched on the oak bench that stretched round the old holly tree in the yard behind 10 Downing, staring morosely at the gate in the wall. He was bone weary, so much so that he could hardly find the energy to push back against the King, who had now written him three letters suggesting various strategies by which Washington could be quickly tried, convicted and executed.

  The Washington plan was not shaping up as he had hoped. Truth be told, he had not planned carefully for the game that would need to be played out upon Washington’s capture and return to England. It had seemed so unlikely to succeed when he’d authorized it—he’d assumed that most likely both Black and Washington would die in the attempt—that careful planning hadn’t seemed pressing. Now it had become a lark that had come home to roost. He smiled at his own mixed avian metaphor.

  He could hardly remember what he had expected to happen if the kidnapping succeeded. But the gist of it was that Washington would be returned to America as part of a grand bargain that would give the colonists most of what they wanted in exchange for their staying in the Empire, at least for now. But he had certainly expected someone like Dr. Franklin to arrive as the prime negotiator, not the overly tall fop, Mr. Abbott, whom he’d not yet met in person but had had described to him in sufficient detail such that he already disliked him.

  “First Minister? May I interrupt you?”

  It was Hartleb.

  “Yes, of course. What is it?”

  “The two gentlemen you asked to see are both here.”

  “You’ve put them in separate rooms, as we discussed?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. I will meet first with Mr. Abbott. You can bring him to the library. I will arrive after he’s been seated and served. Have you had him followed, as we discussed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He has been exploring London, as one might expect of someone from a provincial place coming to this great city for the first time.”

  “You know, Hartleb, there are those in the Foreign Office would like to see him restricted to the guest house.”

  “I know, but I think your idea to let him have his freedom here, so he can get a sense of this great city and what belonging to the Empire means, makes sense.”

  “Thank you. Has he engaged in any entertainments?”

  “He has been to two plays, neither one of them especially ribald.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He has gone into some of the less savoury areas of the city, across London Bridge, into Southwark.”

  “He’s had no trouble yet?”

  “Almost. He was accosted on London Bridge by a man who apparently tried to snatch his wallet from inside his coat. And he was about to be clubbed.”

  “And?”

  “Our men intervened.”

  “Do you think Abbott suspects the men were ours?”

  “Our men say he gave no hint of it. They pretended to be constables who just happened to come upon his troubles.”

  “Perhaps he will now realize the danger he puts himself in by walking about like that and use coaches or chairs.”

  “I suspect Philadelphia is much safer, although he has certainly now learned his lesson about this city, and he has so far avoided going out at night.”

  “Where was he going south of the bridge?”

  “He went to a hat store on Cedar Lane. He was hatless when he entered and, after only a few minutes, left with a three-cornered, cocked hat.”

  “That was all?”

  “When our men went inside, there was only a young boy at the counter. He said the man had come in, bought a hat and left. He said the man didn’t volunteer his name, and that he had never seen him before.”

  “It’s passing odd to travel all that way to buy a hat. Perhaps we should look into that store and who owns it and frequents it.”

  “I’ve already examined the property tax records to confirm the name of the owner. He is not on our list of those helping either the Americans or the Irish.”

  “How good are your lists?”

  “Quite good, I think, although we are always adding to them.”

  “Where is Abbott dining in the evenings?”

  “He’s with his landlady, Mrs. Stevenson—Dr. Franklin’s former landlady—and her daughter.”

  “All right. Please put Mr. Abbott in the library. I shall arrive shortly.”

  38

  North had given careful thought about how to approach a negotiation with Abbott, a man unknown to anyone in the government and, so far as he could determine, a man with no diplomatic experience. It would have been so much easier to deal with Dr. Franklin, even though he could be unde
rhanded and difficult, while capable at the same time of charming the fur off a rat.

  He had decided to make Abbott feel at ease and important while simultaneously making it clear that Washington’s life was at grave risk if an agreement wasn’t reached quickly. He knew his enemies might call his strategy manipulative and cynical, and perhaps they were right when they argued those qualities were his stock-in-trade. But he judged his approach had served both his King and the Empire very well indeed.

  The library, a small room on the second floor, was the perfect place to begin the wooing of Abbott. North had created the room and caused it to mimic the inner sanctum of a posh London men’s club like White’s—glass-fronted bookshelves, deep leather chairs, side tables in rich, carved woods, with large glass ashtrays for those who might wish to indulge in a cigar. A small marble bar filled one corner. Only gaming tables had been omitted.

  North waited a bit before entering, to be sure Abbott understood who was waiting for whom. When he finally strolled in, Abbott was seated in one of the big chairs, a glass of sherry already in hand. The man wore an elegant black velvet waistcoat, topped by a maroon coat of wool with silver buttons and, below, leather breeches. A cocked hat, presumably the one he had bought in Southwark, lay on a table. A silver-headed, ebony cane was leaning against his chair.

  On seeing him, Abbott put down his glass, stood up and said, “Good afternoon, your Lordship. It is indeed a pleasure—and an honour—to make your acquaintance.” He bowed slightly.

  What struck North was how large the man was. He had been prepared, from Hartleb’s account, to meet someone tall, but not someone who looked as if he could break your neck with his bare hands.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ambassador. My thanks for coming on such short notice, and when night is almost upon us.” Abbott was not, of course, an ambassador from anywhere. He was the representative of a great treason, but why not use his rebel title if it would flatter him?