The Trial and Execution of the Traitor George Washington

by Charles Rosenberg

  He went up the back stairway, opened the door and stepped into an empty room with a large table in the middle. He tried to open the door that clearly led into the coffee house itself, but it was locked. He rapped on it, and when no one came, he pounded on it. Rather quickly, a middle-aged gentleman opened it and said, in a fairly heavy Irish brogue, “May I help you? The entrance to the restaurant is around the front. If you would kindly go down the steps you came up and go around and come in proper, it would be vastly appreciated.”

  “I am an officer in His Majesty’s Army investigating a possible crime, and I will come in this way.”

  He brushed past the man, who said, “Well, Colonel, you’ve come to a pub where the Irish like to gather. I don’t suppose you’ll be too popular here, especially if you say who you are, but suit yourself.”

  “Do you know a Mrs. Crankshaw?” Black asked.

  “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

  “I am told she comes here often.”

  The man sighed. “This is a coffee house frequented by the people in the neighbourhood, by people coming and going to whatever they do to earn their daily bread, and by people from all around London because it is one of the finest in London.”

  “Do you know if Mrs. Crankshaw was in the room behind me today?” Black asked.

  “Since I don’t know her, I couldn’t say. A while ago, I was in there m’self doing the books for m’business and drinking coffee. Before that, two hours ago, there was a card game.”

  “Do you know Ambassador Abbott?”

  “The man who they say is trying to negotiate an end to the American war?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  The man laughed out loud. “Now, why would I know such a high-born person, Colonel?”

  “Do you know him, or not?”

  “Neither in person nor by sight.”

  Black looked around the place, saw no one he knew and stomped out via the front stairway.

  Perhaps tracking people was not so easy as tracking deer. At least he had added Mrs. Crankshaw to their list of suspects.

  It was now clear to him that if he were to have any chance at all of foiling whatever escape plot might be under way, he would need assistance. He went immediately to 10 Downing to try to see Lord North, but did not succeed. Instead Hartleb greeted him and told him North was at his home in the countryside. He would pass on the request, but in the meantime Black should just go forward as best he could.

  * * *

  After he left Daughters, Abbott went to the home of Patience Lovell Wright. They had corresponded, but never met. She greeted him warmly at the door and offered him coffee. Abbott was surprised at her appearance. For some reason, he had expected a younger woman. Mrs. Wright instead turned out to be a woman in late middle age, to whose long face time had applied deep creases.

  After they had exchanged greetings, Abbott said, “Lord North has agreed that you may have access to the Tower to complete your bust of Washington. But for one day only.”

  “I would like to have more time, but I can complete it in a day.”

  “Mrs. Wright, I am given to understand from a mutual acquaintance that you are a strong friend of our Revolution.”

  “I am an American, born and bred. I came here less than ten years ago. Our country deserves its independence.”

  “Are you willing to take a risk for your country?”

  “I have taken many already. Some of which badly damaged my business. What is one more? What do you propose, Ambassador?”

  “Is it true that your bust of General Washington is almost complete, but that you need one live sitting to finish it?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, please come to the Tower for His Excellency’s sitting two days before his scheduled execution. No earlier, no later.”

  “Is the day already known?”

  “Not yet. But when it is set, it will be announced publicly, I am sure.”

  “Is that your only request?”

  “No. I assume the busts you make are hollow. I need there to be, inside the bust of Washington, a small, hidden shelf on which something a half foot long can be stored.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “A shelf that dips down from a ridge so that whatever is on it cannot easily be seen when you look inside, but must be felt for.”

  “Something that might hold a weapon?”

  He shrugged. “Something that might hold something a half foot long.”

  “I can do that. Do you want the bust delivered somewhere afterwards?”

  “No. I want you to leave it in His Excellency’s cell, in a corner. If you are asked, you will say you need to do still more work on it. The guards will not know that you are limited to one day.”

  “At what time on that day am I to arrive?”

  “I will be in touch and let you know.”

  “What if he is never executed?”

  “The bust will be returned to you, and I will find a way to be sure that, should you return to America at war’s end, you can sculpt not only Washington, but Jefferson, Adams and perhaps even Franklin.” He had no idea how he would accomplish any of that, but he would try.

  She smiled. “I have already sculpted Dr. Franklin, but I would be highly pleased to do a new one of him and to sculpt the others, as well.”

  They spent almost an hour after that discussing news from “home,” as Mrs. Wright called it. She was of the opinion that the London papers did not report fully on the military successes of the American side in the Revolution.

  As Abbott prepared to leave she said, “Ambassador, when times improve I would be pleased to sculpt you, as well. Without charge.”

  “I would be pleased to accept,” Abbott said.

  Abbott then returned to Mrs. Stevenson’s. There were other things to attend to if his plan was to succeed.

  65

  The negotiations dragged on for several more days. By the end, they had reduced to a six-page list the things the American and British governments would agree to do or not do in order to ignore the issue of independence, at least for the time being.

  After the last negotiation session closed, with the final draft in hand, Abbott found himself once again in the library at 10 Downing with North.

  Over sherry, North assured Abbott that he could secure the consent of both his cabinet and Parliament to the overall agreement, including the list.

  “What of the King, my Lord?” Abbott asked.

  “If he will not accept it, I will resign.”

  “In which case you will be off at your country house, but His Excellency will be on his way to the gallows.”

  “My friend—and I hope I can call you that now—I expect to be able to persuade the King. You and I have had faith in each other over many things these past weeks and months. I ask you to have faith in me for this, too.”

  “All right.”

  “Now it is your turn. Can you persuade Washington?”

  “I believe I make small progress each time we speak. I will see him later today.”

  “If he consents, can you persuade your Congress?”

  “I think so, even on the issue of the currency.” That was a reference to something they had struggled over in the negotiations. They had agreed that while the British would issue no special notes to circulate in America, neither the states nor the Congress would put any image or words on money, whether paper or coin, that glorified the rebellion, those who led it or fought in it, nor buildings, places or ideas associated with it. Images must be limited to anodyne things, such as the Greek gods or landscapes.

  They parted with warm assurances of mutual respect, and Abbott went to see Washington.

  As was typical in recent weeks, he was thoroughly searched on entering.

  He presented Washington the final agreement, and Wash
ington sat down at the small table in his cell, put on his reading glasses and studied the document for quite some time. Finally, he handed it back and asked, “What news is there of the Revolution?”

  “I have written to the foreign affairs committee of the Congress every week, Excellency, telling them, in guarded terms, of our progress. And they have also written back almost every week, in the same tone. We are all, I think, aware that, despite being in sealed pouches, the British are reading every word.”

  “What do you learn from those reports, even if carefully worded?”

  “From those and what I read in the London newspapers, as well as a few American newspapers that have been brought here, the war is much the same as when you were kidnapped. It is something of a stalemate, although the British have won a major victory in the South at a place called Guilford Courthouse.”

  “What of the French alliance, Colonel?”

  “The French fleet is still eagerly awaited but has not yet come in force.”

  Washington pointed at the papers still held in Abbott’s hand. “Perhaps then, these terms are the best we can do if we do not want the war to go on for many years, killing our people and emptying our treasuries.”

  “That may be, Excellency.”

  “Colonel, on many levels, the terms are acceptable—the border arrangements, the withdrawal of British forces, the trade agreement. It lacks reparations for all they have done to us, but that might be overlooked in order to end the war.”

  Abbott felt his face flush. Was Washington about to bless the terms?

  “But the list of dos and do nots is not practical and will surely lead to endless disputes and, in the end, to renewed war.”

  “To what type of practicality do you make reference, Excellency?”

  “Will the British send commissioners to monitor that our printing presses are not about to turn out money with the wrong images? Will we in turn station people at Portsmouth to be sure British warships are not heading to our waters instead of to France?”

  “These are practical matters that could be worked out, Excellency.”

  “Perhaps so. But the real problem is that agreeing to this list of dos and do nots is beneath the dignity of a great nation, which we are and shall be. The list is so constraining that it screams out that we are not independent. I will not countenance it.”

  Abbott sighed deeply. He found it difficult to speak.

  Finally, Washington said, “I know you have poured your heart and soul into this matter these last weeks, Colonel. You are a hero to me and to your country. I thank you. Now I must begin to work on the speech I shall deliver from the gallows.”

  Abbott held back tears and said, “Excellency, you must first be sentenced. And there is the chance of clemency. But you will not go to the gallows if either I or Lieutenant Forecastle have any say in it.”

  “I have given my consent for your efforts, and if they succeed, they do. If they do not, they do not.”

  “For the sake of the Revolution, they must.”

  66

  The Chief Justice called the courtroom to order, announced the case and said, “George Washington, do you have any statement to make before sentence is imposed?”

  Like everyone else in the courtroom, Hobhouse waited to hear what, if anything, Washington would say. He had offered to assist Washington with his statement, and the offer had been politely declined. He glanced around and saw that the courtroom was full, with an entire section set aside for reporters. He also saw Abbott, wearing a bright green waistcoat; North’s assistant, Hartleb; and, to his surprise, Edmund Burke.

  Washington had been granted permission by the court to be seated in the dock. Now he rose and said, “My Lord, I have been brought here against my will, captured at my headquarters. I am a prisoner of war, not a criminal, engaged in lawful combat for my country, much as every general who wears British red is doing at this very moment across the sea in America.

  “But if I must nonetheless provide a defence for my actions, it is this. Every Englishman born in the King’s realm is guaranteed certain rights of life and liberty. In America, those rights were taken from us, and that sundered the bonds that once connected us, and made His Majesty’s former colonies into free and independent states.”

  Hobhouse looked over at the Attorney General, who looked apoplectic that this treason was being spoken aloud in a British courtroom for all the world to hear. The Chief Justice could stop it as inappropriate, of course, but he did not.

  “The King,” Washington continued, “whom I respect and honour in his person, acting through his government, which I concede he does not entirely control, being a limited monarch, has taxed us without our consent, cut off our trade with all parts of the world, suspended our legislatures and our laws, quartered armed troops amongst us and in our homes, and deprived us in many cases of the precious right to trial by jury.”

  He paused. “I commend this court for providing me the sacred right to a jury trial, although I am being tried for a crime I could not under law have committed. I am a soldier of another country, now a prisoner of war, arrested for the lawful act of defending that country.”

  Hobhouse was impressed. Washington had managed to list many of the main grievances set forth in the rebels’ Declaration of Independence while moving the blame away from the King. Were the court to recommend clemency to the Crown, it might well help persuade the King to sign the document. But blaming the government, which was actually in charge of granting clemency, might do exactly the opposite.

  Washington was finishing up. “For those who wish a complete list of the grievances which have sundered our relationship, you need look no further than our Congress’s declaration of our independence, which was promulgated in July of 1776.

  “I thank the court for its consideration for me and its kindnesses, including permitting an ageing man to stay seated during the trial. God bless you and God bless the King.” He sat down.

  Hobhouse smiled. He had always known that Washington was a great general. He had not known that he was also a wily politician. No speech could have been better crafted to persuade the judges to grant clemency while letting the King off the hook. Indeed, he knew that was so because three of the four had spoken privately of their support for the rebels’ cause. His father-in-law, who dined regularly with many of the judges who sat in the Bailey, some of whom were old friends, had told him so. In the meantime Washington’s speech would encourage British reporters to go and read the Declaration of Independence again. Washington had in effect repromulgated it to the world.

  The Chief Justice said nothing in response. As he was about to speak, presumably to hand down the sentence, the Attorney General, without rising, started to say something that Hobhouse could not make out. The Chief Justice must have heard, though, because he said, rather sharply, “Mr. Attorney General, the Crown is not entitled to make a reply to a prisoner’s statement before sentence is imposed.

  “I will now impose sentence. The prisoner will please rise.”

  Washington rose and looked, so far as Hobhouse could tell, at peace with himself and with the world. Hobhouse felt as much as heard a hush descend on the courtroom.

  The Chief Justice looked down at a piece of paper in his hand, as if the sentence were unfamiliar to him and he needed to remind himself of it. He looked directly at Washington, standing now in the dock, and said, “George Washington, you have been found guilty by a jury of the crime of high treason against our sovereign Lord George III, King, by the grace of God of Great Britain, France and Ireland, as the crime is stated in the treason statute of 1708, 7 William III, chapter 3.

  “The court chooses, due to the severity of the offence and the need to make an example to others, not to recommend clemency.”

  He paused, looked down again at the paper and said, “Pursuant to our laws, you are to be drawn to Tyburn three days hence and there hange
d, cut down before you have died, disembowelled until you be dead, quartered, your head severed, the parts to be distributed according to the wishes of the King.”

  Hobhouse looked at Washington and saw only calm in his face.

  The Chief Justice said, “Does the prisoner wish to say anything further?”

  “No, my Lord. I have said what I wished to say.”

  The Chief Justice looked to the Sheriff, who was in the courtroom loaded down with all of his silver and gold medallions and seals of office, and said, “The Sheriff is to take the prisoner to a secure place and remove him three days hence to Tyburn for the sentence to be carried out at dawn. God save the King.”

  Hobhouse watched Washington being taken from the dock under guard. He knew Washington would be going back to the Tower. Abbott had told him earlier that morning that he had persuaded North there was still a chance, if Washington were treated with great respect until the end, that he might change his mind and bless the agreement.

  The courtroom was by then in an uproar of noise and argument. Hobhouse heard one man say to another that Washington’s speech had been a masterful statement of the colonists’ case, while at the same time contrite. The man he was talking to laughed uproariously and said, “Contrite? No, it was a simple ‘I spit on your laws.’”

  For himself, he could only think that his chambers’s tradition would require him to go and witness the gory event.

  67

  Black had, the day before, attended Washington’s sentencing. He had known from a young age what a traitor’s death entailed—the children in his school had even joked about it, as children will—but he had never before heard the sentence visited upon someone he knew. Indeed, upon someone with whom he had come to have, from his near-daily visits, if not a friendship, at least an involvement in an odd kind of joint endeavour that would affect them both, for however long each might live. In Washington’s case, that was, of course, not likely to be very long.