Her eyes widened in doubt.
“Surely they will not accept you without a name?” she said.
In one fluid movement he was sitting up, still holding her fast, Andrew’s good eye riveting her in her place.
“I cannot predict precisely what will happen, for I do not know all the individuals involved,” he said. “But I do tell you that if we, who know the truth of who I am, abide by our stories, the unknown factors will remain at least neutral. We shall leave it to those who do know to accomplish what must be done.” His left hand reached up briefly to touch her forehead with the moonstone.
“Now close your eyes for just a moment, ma petite, and breathe in deeply,” he whispered, in compulsion that could not be denied. “All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well, I promise you. Exhale now, and feel all doubt leave you, and all fear.”
She obeyed, disinclined to do otherwise, and felt the relief he promised. At his command she drew another breath, opening her eyes as she exhaled, now no longer afraid, either of him or of what lay ahead.
“Go down and see to the supper and your guests now,” he said, lying back on the bed again after releasing her. “I shall come down after they have dined, when I have settled better into this body. All is well. Go now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dr. Franklin was the first of their guests to arrive, in the company of Lynch and Harrison. Simon and the General joined them soon after, Simon briefly disappearing to put their horses in the barn behind the house, for snow was falling heavily outside. When they had all thawed in the parlor, with hands wrapped around glasses of hot cider, Simon led them into the library, where they gathered companionably around the table laid before the library fire. Pewter and china gleamed by the light of candles and fire as Arabella served up the simple but hearty fare she had provided. The aroma of a rich chicken stew and fresh-baked bread soon filled the room, along with the spicy-sweet tang of cinnamon and nutmeg from a pudding just come from the oven.
“This is a most excellent repast, Mistress Wallace,” Lynch declared, between appreciative mouthfuls of stew and bread. “I would wish that several ladies of my acquaintance in South Carolina might learn your recipe.”
Harrison, several inches taller than even Washington, and stocky almost to the point of obesity, lifted his tankard of ale in enthusiastic agreement.
“Aye, ’tis plain to see why Dr. Franklin suggested we hold our meeting here, if this is the usual fare in the Wallace household. My compliments, Mistress—and to you, Major Wallace, on your good fortune of a lady not only beautiful but accomplished.”
As Simon raised his tankard in smiling acknowledgment, darting a fond glance at his wife, Arabella dimpled prettily and framed a suitable response.
“ ’Tis clear that the gentlemen of Virginia possess courtly manners as well as physical stature, Mr. Harrison. Tell me, are all Virginians as tall as you and the General, and as flattering?”
Harrison laughed heartily at that, and even the usually sober Washington managed a faint smile, seated between Lynch and Franklin. The easy table banter continued, interspersed with casual discussion about the state of the siege, until a knock at the door called Simon from the table. Very shortly he summoned the General to join him.
“Sir, there’s an express here with dispatches from Philadelphia. He says he has orders to deliver them only into your hands.”
As Washington excused himself and went into the parlor to deal with the messenger, Arabella began clearing away the supper things. As she did, Andrew came down the stairs and paused in the library doorway—only now he was even less the familiar Andrew that Arabella knew. At once she found herself thinking of him as the Professor, and immediately abandoned the table to come to him.
“Ah, Professor, will you take a dish of Indian pudding? Gentlemen,” she went on, turning to address the three men still at table, “perhaps you’ll permit a guest to join us for a few minutes while the General is occupied. Dr. Franklin, I believe you may be previously acquainted with the Professor.”
Franklin had risen as the Professor entered the room, eyes fixed questioningly on the newcomer, and now he came around his chair to shake the other’s hand. An instantaneous and mutually gratified recognition passed between them as their hands touched—not the perceptive Franklin seeing through Andrew’s physical disguise, Arabella somehow knew—and the egalitarian Franklin even gave the older man a slight bow.
“Professor, you are most welcome,” he said. “Please allow me to present two of my colleagues from the Continental Congress, Messrs. Harrison and Lynch.”
The others, too, came to shake hands, listening almost dazedly as Franklin muttered something about the academic credentials of the newcomer. A similar scene was enacted when the General returned with Simon, Franklin hastening to make the introductions before Simon could.
“My dear General, a most illustrious guest has joined us while you attended to your duties. Professor, I am honored to present General Washington, our Commander in Chief.”
Again the flash of general recognition as the two men shook hands, though more bewildered for Washington than it had been for Franklin.
During the desultory conversation that followed, as the company tucked into the promised pudding—save for the Professor, who declined any refreshment—the newcomer let it be known that he was an old family friend visiting from New York for a few days, consulting manuscripts in the possession of the Chevalier Wallace—though, alas, he had missed the elder Wallace by a day and might not be able to stay until he returned. When Franklin casually mentioned the company’s interest in flags, the Professor offered several observations reflecting considerable insight as well as expertise in the subject.
As a result, when supper was ended and Arabella had set about clearing the last of the dishes so that papers might be spread out on the table, the General himself exchanged a few quiet words with his fellow committee members. The Professor had withdrawn into the library doorway with Simon, clearly preparing to retire and leave the committee to their business. It was Dr. Franklin who now ventured nearer, eyeing both men in speculation.
“I beg your pardon, Major. Might I have a word with the Professor?”
The latter turned expectantly, making Franklin a little bow.
“How may I be of assistance, Doctor?”
“It is you who may assist us, if you will, dear sir,” Franklin replied with a bow of his own. “His Excellency has pointed out, and Mr. Lynch and Mr. Harrison agree, that your observations at table displayed remarkable insight into the scope of our present task. As I am chairman, then, they have asked me to invite you to join our committee as an honorary member. We would esteem it a great honor.”
The Professor inclined his head in acceptance—as much the graceful gesture of a prince acknowledging his due as it was a simple statement of agreement.
“The honor would be mine, dear doctor.” He lifted his gaze to include the others in his acceptance. “We are six, then? I assume that Major Wallace also is an ex officio member.”
Thomas Lynch, in the process of pulling a sheaf of documents from inside his coat, sat down and plopped the papers onto the table in front of him.
“Surely you can have no objection,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “He is the General’s aide, as well as our host.”
“No, no, of course not. I think it most fitting,” the Professor replied. “In fact, I should like to offer a further suggestion, if I may.”
“Certainly,” Harrison murmured as Franklin and Washington likewise made signs of assent.
“Very well. We are six now. However, seven is a far more auspicious number for a task as important as the one set before us. To provide that number, and to add an element of feminine intuition and artistic acumen to our deliberations, I propose that we ask our charming hostess to join us, also ex officio. You have no objection, do you, Major?”
No hint of disagreement seemed to occur to any of them. Even Washington, most likely to have obje
cted, after her unorthodox entry into Freemasonry but days before, gave only a nod of placid agreement. There being no dissent, Arabella was invited to take a seat at Franklin’s right, becoming secretary for the meeting.
“Now, I propose that we first consider the ideas we have come up with as individuals, since the committee was named,” Franklin said, surveying the faces around the table and bringing out his own sheaf of notes. “I have prepared several drawings of my own. I invite you all to peruse them and offer your opinions.”
Several more sketches were produced once everyone had looked at Franklin’s; those professing no artistic skill merely described what they liked. The difficulty was that, until now, the thirteen colonies had been operating under at least that many different colonial flags. Indeed, some of the colonies possessed several.
Some of the devices previously used were unique to the New World. Massachusetts had long used various forms of the rattlesnake, symbol of vigilance, which “never begins an attack or, once engaged, ever surrenders,” Franklin informed them. Also prominently discussed was the pine tree, even now being flown on two floating gun batteries guarding the Charles River.
A few designs incorporated variations on the British red ensign, with its canton of union in the upper corner. Most featured written mottoes as well as symbols, apt to look cluttered on a battle standard. To come up with a design that was clear, would slight no one, and would still reflect their united purpose began to appear less and less likely.
“If I may,” the Professor offered, after listening to them talk, and nearly argue, for the better part of an hour, “I would submit that an entirely new design is called for, different from any single colonial ensign and different from any flag flown in Europe—for this is a New World and must reflect the new ideas that will make it flourish.”
Washington leaned back in his chair, distracted and thoughtful. “I have no quarrel with that logic, sir. Many would argue, however, that it may yet be possible to resolve our grievances with the Mother Country. So long as that hope persists, it seems to me that any army I must lead against the forces of the Crown should bear a battle ensign that continues to declare our ties to England, even though her King and Parliament may consider us technically in rebellion.”
“I certainly respect that aspiration,” the Professor agreed. “But despite our fondest wishes and intentions, reconciliation may not prove possible. For that reason I would propose a design that, for now, can carry the symbolism of our ties to England, but which may allow for modification in the future, if separation becomes the only course of action.”
“Then perhaps we might consider keeping the red ensign as part of the design,” Franklin said. “Quartered with something else, perhaps.”
“Yes, but what else?” Harrison wanted to know. “Perhaps it would be better to place some charge on the red ensign—something like Virginia’s rattlesnake, and ‘Don’t Tread on Me.’ Is that not what we want the British to know, after all?”
Washington shook his head—as a Virginian himself, the only other man in the room who could reject his fellow Virginian’s suggestion out of hand without giving offense.
“I have no quarrel with that sentiment, Mr. Harrison,” he said, “but British regiments use charges on the red ensign for their King’s colors. For us to do the same would offer too much chance for confusion in battle, when a flag may wrap itself around the staff or even just hang limp on a still day. Add the complication of smoke and dust on the battlefield, and one red flag basically looks much like the next.”
“Then what about the quartering idea?” Lynch volunteered, returning to Franklin’s earlier suggestion.
Arabella looked up sharply from her minutes. “I beg your pardon, but in heraldic terms, I believe that quartering means something different from what we are trying to convey. It implies a unity of equal entities—which may be the outcome we would hope for, but it hardly represents the present state of affairs.”
“Well, the red ensign conveys that,” Harrison said. “It’s also called the union ensign. The canton shows the union of England and Scotland, the two crosses of St. George and St. Andrew superimposed. In terms of vexillology, that’s the definition of a union.”
“Yes, the cross of St. George over that of St. Andrew, England over Scotland,” Simon pointed out a little sourly. “Tread softly when you speak of the union ensign to folk of Scots descent, Mr. Harrison. The union of England and Scotland is still a touchy subject among those who fought in the Jacobite Wars.”
“Ah, but surely you’re too young to remember that, Major,” Harrison said.
“Aye, but my father lost an eye in the Forty-Five,” Simon retorted, not looking at the Professor and his steady blue gaze. “Still, I will concede that retaining some form of the union as a symbol of colonial loyalty to the Mother Country probably is a good idea. We could change the red of the field to some other color, I suppose—something to make it different from anything that’s being used by Crown forces.”
“I do believe the major may have hit upon a useful line of reasoning,” the Professor said with a slight smile, drawing all eyes instantly to him. “Rather than a solid field, however, I should rather propose something entirely different, drawing on Mr. Harrison’s notion of unity.”
“You have something specific in mind, Professor?” Franklin asked.
“I do. Take horizontal stripes of red and white: red from the Mother Country, for valor, justice, and the blood we must be willing to spend in defense of the cause of liberty; and white for temperance and purity, the holiness of our cause. Their number should be thirteen—one for each of the colonies united in this struggle—seven red and six white.” He glanced at Washington. “You will agree, I think, my dear General, that such a field could not be readily confused in battle, whatever the wind or the smoke or the dust. Nor does it resemble any current British ensign.”
Washington nodded thoughtfully, and Harrison murmured, “I like it.” Lynch was sketching furiously, shading in the requisite stripes and glancing up eagerly to see what else the Professor might offer.
“Now, in the first canton,” the Professor went on, leaning to oversee Lynch’s sketch, “retain the British union, as Major Wallace suggested, to show that loyalty still exists, that there still is hope that the colonies will not have to break away. But if they do—” The Professor rose and went to Lynch’s side, gently taking the pen from his hand and leaning down to draw.
“If, in the future, the break proves inevitable, then we simply substitute for the British union a new canton of heavenly blue, with a new constellation of thirteen stars, arranged in a circle thus. I should also point out that the circle is a symbol of eternity, thus denoting our aspiration that the new nation shall endure.”
As he sketched it in, the others craned their necks to see, nodding with increasing agreement and enthusiasm as the basic shape took form.
“I like it well!” Washington declared. “I would be proud to lead an army under either banner.”
“And I, to give either flag my allegiance,” Franklin agreed. “I believe we need search no further, my friends.” He cocked his head and scanned around the table owlishly over his half-moon spectacles. “May I take it that we are all of one mind in this? I will entertain further discussion, if anyone has a better idea.”
But no one seemed inclined to debate the matter further, other than to begin considering how soon the first example of the new flag might be made and flown.
“It would be well if we could begin the New Year with a new flag,” the General said wistfully. “ ’Tis hardly a fortnight away, I know, but so is the end of current enlistment.”
“Certainly the need is pressing,” Harrison agreed. “But should we not seek the approval of Congress before we adopt the design as a fait accompli?”
“Congress gave us authority to adopt a design,” Lynch replied. “We can quibble later about technicalities of procedure. The General needs his new flag now, to fire up recruitment. The most immedia
te question, then, is whether someone can be commissioned to produce such a flag in so short a time.”
Casually Franklin turned his spectacled gaze on Arabella, his mouth softening in just the hint of a bemused smile. “Mr. Lynch obviously is not aware, being but new to Cambridge town, that our own Mistress Wallace is a most accomplished needlewoman. Indeed, I was privileged to see several fine examples of her handiwork only last week. I believe the General also is acquainted with her work. Perhaps we might prevail upon you, dear lady?”
Quite taken by surprise, Arabella put down her pen to stare at Franklin. She had, indeed, been thinking how the new flag might be constructed, even sketching at a schematic of the different pieces of the union in the margin of her notes—but only as an exercise in design. Yet Franklin obviously was alluding to the floor cloth she had made for Andrew’s Lodge—and by doing so, he also was making a point of reminding Washington of her very awkward entry into Freemasonry. Uncertain just why, she glanced covertly at the General, who had turned his impassive gaze upon her.
“Dr. Franklin, you honor me by even mentioning my name in this context,” she said tentatively, “and I will admit to some modest skill with a needle. But are you certain you wish me to undertake so important a commission? Perhaps the honor should be offered to the General’s lady, since she is recently arrived in Cambridge. I am told she is also well skilled in needlecraft.”
Washington actually managed a strained smile as he glanced aside at Simon. “You obviously have not told your lady wife about the chaos at my headquarters, Major. If Mistress Washington and young Jacky manage to settle in before Christmas, that will be small miracle in its own right. I doubt she would thank any of us if we were to place this additional burden upon her time and energy—and it is burden, dear lady,” he added, returning his gray-blue gaze to Arabella.
“I would not count it burden, sir,” she found herself replying, “only that I might not be worthy of the task.”
Two Crowns for America Page 17