He rode back to the Tower gate and waited. It was still dark. In not too long, a phalanx of soldiers carrying bayonets emerged from the gate, marching in step, followed by Washington, surrounded by still more soldiers. Black could barely make him out in the crowd but could tell that he was wearing his uniform and his wig, whereas usually a condemned man was forced to wear a white linen shirt over his clothes and a cap on his head. Lord North must have given his permission.
As Washington walked along, Black caught another glimpse of him amidst the soldiers and saw that two stars had been sewn onto his epaulettes. Perhaps that was what Abbott was taking care of when the cell door was blocked.
To Black’s surprise, Washington was ushered not into a crude wooden cart but into a highly polished coach drawn by four horses. Four soldiers got in with him and two more stood on the running boards. A priest got in on the other side. Perhaps Lord North hoped that if Washington were treated to not only prayer but kindness on his way to his death, he might change his mind about the agreement at the last moment.
Black kept looking for signs of a planned escape but saw nothing, although he did notice Forecastle, also riding a horse, keeping pace with the coach that held Washington and the soldiers who were guarding it.
Black rode behind the coach until it reached Tyburn, some five miles distant from the Tower. When they arrived, he saw that a newly built wheeled platform, set very high above the ground, had been positioned to sit beneath the gallow tree, which was next to the platform, its multiple nooses hanging down above it. It looked as if Washington would be moved from his coach and made to stand on the platform, which would then somehow be pulled out from under him, leaving him dangling. Black was amazed at the trouble they’d gone to. Usually, the condemned man or woman was simply drawn to the place of execution while standing on a crude wooden cart. Then the noose was draped around the prisoner’s neck, and the cart pulled away from the gallows by the same horses that had brought it there, leaving the poor soul to strangle on the rope. The large platform would be harder to move, and Black looked around for the team of horses that would be needed. He didn’t see them. Perhaps they would be brought in later.
Black had been to several executions—there were usually dozens in London every year to choose from, almost all public—but the sight of the waiting nooses always turned his stomach, no matter how horrendous the crime that was being avenged.
The crowd was huge. Perhaps ten times the size of the crowds he had seen before at Tyburn. It seemed divided between those who wanted to see Washington die and those who did not. He could hear people chanting, “His liberty is our liberty” and the treasonous “God damn the King!” While others screamed a more direct “Hang the traitor! Kill him!”
It was quickly becoming a mob, being held in at the back and front, but not at the sides, by soldiers with fixed bayonets.
Black positioned himself, still astride his horse, to the side of the platform. No one challenged him. He assumed his general’s star worked as a kind of shield against enquiry. He looked around for Forecastle and found him, still on horseback, close to the platform. Washington had in the meantime left the coach and, with a soldier’s bayonet in his back, mounted the steps to the platform. His hands were now tied behind his back, his wig still on. The buttons on his crisp, clearly new uniform glinted in the rising sun. The boards of the newly built platform were rough and uneven, and Washington at one point stumbled slightly, then recovered his balance. The hangman began talking to Washington and placed a blindfold around his eyes. The priest started whispering in his ear.
It looked to Black as if Washington was having trouble standing upright. Was it nerves? Suddenly his right leg collapsed, and he fell on his back.
At the same instant he saw Forecastle signal to someone, and half the mob began to push out through the sides, where there were no soldiers, and storm the platform. So here it was, Black thought. They were going to grab Washington and spirit him away. If he got a chance, he’d just shoot him and foil the plot.
Black manoeuvred his horse closer to the platform, where the hangman and the priest were trying to get Washington back on his feet. Black noticed immediately that the heel of the General’s right boot had apparently caught on the edge of one of the rough boards as he fell, and had been pulled completely off by the force of his backward motion. It was then Black saw, sticking out from Washington’s right pants leg, the longer wooden leg he had been told that Abbott wore when he wasn’t sporting a peg.
It came to him in an instant. Abbott and Washington had switched clothes the night before, and their similar height and bulk had made it possible. That was why Mrs. Crankshaw had blocked his view into the cell. Black, like everyone else, had been so fixated on Abbott’s outrageous clothing that he had not looked closely at “Abbott’s” face as he left the Tower the night before.
He moved his horse ever closer to the stage, pushing screaming people aside, many of whom were now fighting and starting to hit each other with sticks.
The executioner and the priest seemed not to have noticed the wooden leg. They had stood Abbott back up, and the executioner, trying to get it done before the mob made it impossible, was putting the noose around Abbott’s neck. Part of Black wanted to let Abbott die. Another part of him wanted Abbott tried for treason and to suffer his very own death. Right up against the platform now, he shouted, “That’s not Washington. It’s Ambassador Abbott!”
The executioner heard him, looked more closely at the face of the man with the noose around his neck and pulled off Abbott’s wig. He stared for a moment, consulted the priest and then announced to the crowd, although most likely hardly anyone could hear him, “I do not have a death warrant for this man. I cannot execute him.”
Black yelled to Abbott, “Where did he go?”
“To London, to London to buy a fat pig,” Abbott said, grinning.
Black thought about it. There were many ports from which the delegation could sail to France, but Portsmouth was the most likely since they had a laissez-passer that was good there.
He thought of telling others, but he knew they would dither, and precious time would be squandered. And besides, it had been his job to keep this from happening. He wheeled his horse around, moved away from the platform and headed out at a fast trot. They had a good eight hours on him, but they would have to stop somewhere along the way for the night. If he rode hard he had a decent chance of catching up. Horses were faster than loaded coaches.
On his way out of London, he stopped by his unit’s armoury and picked up a long gun. It was a rifle, not a musket, similar to the type introduced by Major Ferguson several years earlier. He had practised with the rifle before, and it was breech-loading, which meant it could be reloaded and fired far more rapidly than a musket. It was also more accurate at long range. He also took with him a flask of the high-quality priming powder the rifle required plus a pouch of the specially sized balls the weapon used.
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He rode hard and had time to think. Why didn’t the soldiers who took Abbott from Washington’s cell to the coach see he wasn’t Washington? The two men’s faces were quite different. Washington had ruddy cheeks, whereas Abbott’s were pale. Maybe it was because the soldiers had never before set eyes on either Abbott or Washington. But what about the priest?
By late afternoon, he and his horse were both very tired even though he’d managed along the way to exchange his horse twice for a fresh one. The first trade was easy since his horse was so clearly superior. For the second trade he had to add a few silver coins.
In mid-evening, he arrived at an inn in a small town. There were no coaches out front, but he noticed fresh tracks in damp soil, leading to a barn. He rode around the back, peeked through a crack in the door and saw three coaches.
He loaded his pistol with powder and ball, went around and knocked on the front door. He had his pistol in his right hand, not levelled but not p
ointing at the ground, either. The door was opened by a matronly woman who said, “They have been more or less expecting you, General, although perhaps not quite so quickly. They are in the parlour.” She pointed to a room to the side. “You can put your weapon away. They guarantee you no harm and, in any case, General Washington is not here.”
He walked into the parlour, where all of the remaining members of the delegation were seated, all looking rather the worse for wear. This was hardly unexpected. They had spent all day bouncing up and down in a coach being pulled along on bad roads, which pretty much described almost all of the roads in England outside of London and even many in London.
“Who amongst you is the leader?” Black asked.
“That would be me, I suppose,” a portly man with flushed cheeks said. “I am John Brandywine.” The others did not introduce themselves.
“I wish I could say it is a pleasure to meet all of you,” Black said. “But this is not the occasion for niceties. Where is General Washington?”
“We don’t know,” Brandywine said. “He didn’t tell us where he was going.”
“How long ago did he leave here?”
“Perhaps four hours ago,” Brandywine said.
“Was he riding a nag or a fast, fine horse?”
“The latter. It was waiting for him here. And he has money to buy others.”
That meant, of course, the owner of the inn was complicit in the escape, but that could be dealt with later. There was no time for that now.
“Where are all of you going now?”
“To Portsmouth. But two of our three coaches have broken axles and we are waiting for someone to come and repair them.”
In other circumstances, he would have arrested all of them on the spot, as they were also likely complicit in Washington’s escape. But there was no time for that either. Instead, he said, “I hope that happens soon, and I wish you a pleasant journey back to your...country.”
“You’ll never catch him,” Brandywine said. “He is said to be the finest horseman in the Continental Army.”
“I have personal experience with his horsemanship.”
Black went to find the innkeeper. “I would like to have some bread, dried meat and ale and a few dried apples if you have them,” he said to her.
“I don’t know if I wish to give it to you, given your mission.”
“Madam, you are clearly involved in helping Washington escape. I may yet turn you in for treason, but if you want me to give it some thought before I decide to do that, you’d best give me some good food and drink.”
She did.
Black rode out thinking that if Washington had a four-hour head start on him on horseback, he was unlikely to catch up. Perhaps, if he guessed right which port town Washington was heading for, he could persuade the harbour master there to bar the departure of his ship. Although there were also places along the coast where a rowboat could be landed on a beach and Washington rowed out to a waiting ship.
About an hour later, he heard the whinny of a horse far behind him, carried on a gust of wind. He rode off the road into a thicket of trees, tethered his horse and gave him one of the dried apples to eat, hoping it would keep him quiet. He loaded both his pistol and his rifle.
Not long after, he saw a man on horseback galloping down the road towards him. He recognized the man easily. It was Forecastle, who had a long gun slung across the saddle in front of him. In other times and places, Black might have tried to parlay with him and take him prisoner. Not this time. He raised his rifle as the man approached, took aim, tracked him and shot him full in the chest at close range. Forecastle fell from his horse, which continued down the road without him.
Black walked up to him. He was mortally wounded but not yet dead. “Did you know of this plot, this switch?” Black asked.
“No,” Forecastle wheezed. “I organized the riot.”
“Where is Washington going?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you tell me I will let you live and tell the next house to send a physician to your aid.”
“I still don’t know.”
Just then, Forecastle’s horse returned. The long gun that had been across the saddle was missing, no doubt fallen off somewhere along the way.
“I am sorry to do this,” Black said. “But there is no point in leaving you alive to report to others about any of this.”
He searched Forecastle, found his pistol and loaded it with power and ball from the man’s own saddlebag. He put Forecastle’s hand into the grip of the pistol, put it to his head and helped him pull the trigger. He dragged the body a little way into the woods, put the pistol back in Forecastle’s hand and left the body where it lay. There was no time to cover it up with leaves. He soon got under way again.
By midnight, he was exhausted. He moved far off the road into the woods and found a deep depression in the ground in which he could shelter himself. Fortunately, it was not a cold April.
* * *
He woke up at first light stiff and sore. He ate a small amount, quenched his thirst and started out again with his rifle freshly loaded. He could only hope Washington had also had to rest.
Suddenly, the wind changed direction and he could smell the sea. That meant, he recalled from knowledge he had acquired during military exercises in the area, that he would soon come to a major fork in the road, where one direction led west and then south towards Portsmouth and its naval base, the other east and south towards the small village of Langstone. In Langstone there were several places at which a small boat could be landed and take Washington out to a waiting ship. He sat for a moment, thinking. What would he do if he had been planning Washington’s escape? It seemed logical that Washington, as a fugitive, should be told to head for the less-populated place. The only question was whether those who had actually aided his escape had been able to arrange for him to be met at the chosen place by those who would spirit him away to France, or wherever it was they intended to take him.
When he reached the fork, he took the road to Langstone.
He rode hard all day, pushing the horse, and knew he was getting close when the smell of the sea, which had been coming and going with the breeze, changed to steady and grew ever stronger. Finally, he crested a hill and could see a man in an outlandish costume about to board a small rowboat that was pushed up on a narrow beach. It had to be Washington. He was less than a hundred yards away.
Black took the rifle from the saddle, lay down on the ground, snapped the frizzen back, refreshed the priming powder from the flask and closed the frizzen. Then he pulled the hammer back to full-cock position and raised the gun to his eye. He was a good shot, and he had practised marksmanship with an identical rifle the year before. He looked down the sights on the barrel and fixed his aim on Washington’s back. There was no wind, and the man was standing still, presenting an excellent target. He placed his finger on the trigger, paused for a second, then moved his finger away.
He remained there on the ground, looking through the sights, watching as Washington boarded the boat. He stayed that way until he saw the oarsmen begin to pull the boat out to sea. Then he rose, dumped the powder out of the rifle, blew out the small amount that remained and put the gun back across the saddlebag. He mounted and turned his horse back towards London.
If he had later been asked his reasons, he would have said that while the King could lawfully kill Washington for having committed treason against him, he, personally, had no such reason. Nothing had been done to him, and he had become ever more revolted at the idea of serving as Lord North’s personal assassin. Besides, having captured Washington in the first place, it seemed like it ought to be his right to set him free.
* * *
On the way back to London, Black stopped again at the inn where the delegation had been staying. To his surprise, they were all still there, waiting for someone to come and repair
their broken coaches. Black told Brandywine that he had been right. He had not been able to catch up with the General.
Over dinner, he asked them a question. Had Washington told them how he and Abbott had managed to make Abbott look like Washington and vice versa when they each had such different colouring?
“He did explain it,” Brandywine said. “They put rouge on Abbott’s face and a kind of white powder on Washington’s, using a small brush.”
“Where was the brush hidden?”
Brandywine hesitated. “General, I will tell you, but only if you swear on your honour as an officer that you won’t tell anyone else.”
“I won’t. I swear.”
“All right, then. In the hollowed-out interior of a wax head that was in Washington’s cell, there was a small shelf carved out that was hard to find unless you knew it was there. It held a small brush, which the artist—I think her name is Mrs. Wright—had concealed in the bottom of her shoe and left on the shelf.”
“And the rouge and white powder?”
“Smeared on red and white areas of the wax head, so they weren’t able to be detected unless they were touched. All Abbott and Washington had to do was put a little spit on the rouge and rub the brush across it. The powder needed no moisture. They touched up their lips, too.”
Black smiled. “I knew there was something about that head. But here’s my final question. Why did Washington agree to escape? He seemed bound and determined to make a grand speech and become a martyr to the cause.”
“His Excellency told us Abbott persuaded him he would be of much greater use to our country alive than dead.”
“Anything else?”
“Abbott told him his plan smacked of vanity. The General apparently likes to think he is not vain.” They all laughed uproariously.
“What happened to Abbott?” Brandywine asked. “Washington told us Abbott had solemnly promised not to let the charade get too far, to reveal to the executioner who he really was before they put the rope around his neck.”
The Trial and Execution of the Traitor George Washington Page 35