Dreams of Glory

by Thomas Fleming

  Footsteps on the stairs. Provost Marshal Cunningham’s growling voice: “I tell you, Parson, it’s the wrong policy. Another day in the dungeon and the bastard would have signed anything we put in front of him. This mollycoddling will get us nowhere.”

  Another voice, in the corridor now: “I disagree, Provost Marshal, and I’m not alone. Remember, the Bible tells us a soft answer turneth away wrath. Kindness, a reminder of His Majesty’s benevolence, is the best way to melt a rebel’s hard heart. It was what changed my allegiance.”

  “Shit,” rumbled Cunningham. “Your allegiance was changed by a few hundred golden guineas. Everyone knows that, Parson.”

  The cell door swung open and there stood the Reverend Caleb Chandler, the same supercilious smile on his long Yankee face. “What the hell do you want, you damned hypocrite?” Hugh Stapleton said.

  “Mrs. Stapleton, how do you do,” Chandler said, doffing his frayed tricorn hat. “All the Americans in New York admire the courage with which you procured better treatment for the congressman.”

  “I forbid my wife even to speak to you,” Hugh Stapleton said.

  “What is the purpose of your visit, sir?” Hannah said, coolly ignoring her husband’s show of authority.

  “I’m here, madam, to bring you whatever help religion may offer to rescue the congressman from his unfortunate situation. Surely a merciful God abhors war. So does a merciful king. Both beings urge Mr. Stapleton to issue a call for peace, to reconcile our divided country.”

  “If I were in better health, sir, I’d get up from this bed and kick you out of here,” Stapleton said.

  In the doorway, Provost Marshal Cunningham shook his head in disgust. “You’re wasting your time and mine, Parson.”

  “Give me a half-hour alone with them. I promise you that you’ll be amazed by their change of heart.”

  Cunningham grunted contemptuously and slammed the cell door. “This is outrageous,” Hugh Stapleton fumed. “Who else but a Yankee would have the gall-”

  Caleb Chandler took a gold case from his pocket. In the same unctuous voice, loud enough for Provost Marshal Cunningham to hear as he descended the stairs, Chandler said, “I’ve dipped into my dwindling funds to purchase this gift for you. A lovely miniature portrait of His Majesty, painted by your late brother in happier days. Major Beckford sold it shortly before he was transferred to Canada.”

  Caleb Chandler opened the gold case. Hugh Stapleton stared in bewilderment from the familiar image of royalty to the Yankee face above it. The supercilious smile had vanished. It had been replaced by a bitter grin.

  “It’s beautiful,” Hannah exclaimed. “You’re so kind, Mr. Chandler.”

  “Yes,” Congressman Stapleton murmured. “So kind.”

  Caleb Chandler stalked down Broadway through the slush and mud of early April. It was twilight. The ruined hulk of Trinity Church loomed on his right, surrounded by charred foundations of other buildings destroyed in the fire of 1776.

  At Bowling Green, he turned down Marketfield Street. “Good evening, sir,” called a female voice from a doorway. “Would you like to come home with me?”

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  Since the end of the Great Cold, a man could not walk a block without getting one of these invitations. The women were all Americans, daughters of penniless loyalists stranded in New York by the endless war. As usual, the encounter reminded Caleb of Flora Kuyper. She was only a few blocks away in the Holy Ground, practicing the same profession in a style and for a price that was beyond the reach of these pathetic streetwalkers.

  “Good evening, sir. A shilling for an hour, two for a night,” whispered another voice from another doorway.

  “No, thank you,” Caleb said, and kept walking.

  “My mother needs the money, sir.”

  Caleb kept walking. There was nothing he could do to help these women. There was nothing he could do to stop the way the machinery of war devoured individual lives. There was nothing he could do to change the way the world worked. It made no sense from the perspective of the tormented present. He could only hope that in a hundred or a thousand years, others would look back on the brutality and cruelty and stupidity, and see a thread of purpose in it all.

  At the moment, he was on his way to risk his life to save a man he disliked while the woman he loved destroyed herself. In spite of this absurdity, a kind of exultance bounded in his chest. He was sure he could extract Congressman Stapleton from the Provost Prison. He was equally certain he could save Flora Kuyper. Not for a long time had that demoralizing voice whispered fool in the corner of his mind. Caleb Chandler the spy had proven that he was cool enough, steady enough, to outwit Walter Beckford and the rest of the officers of the British garrison in New York.

  Day after day he had lived on the edge of extinction, never knowing when one of agent Twenty-six’s Morristown network might arrive in New York with the truth about him. Most of the time he enjoyed the danger; it made him feel more alive, more powerful, than the pious, prating chaplain Caleb Chandler had ever felt.

  For almost a month now, Caleb had sat at the bar in the Queen’s Head Tavern, which was run by a husky West Indian mulatto named Black Sam Francis, one of Washington’s most trusted spies. Caleb cadged drinks from Brigadier Samuel Birch and other cavalry officers, and applauded their profane condemnation of Major Walter Beckford.

  Playing the unctuous toady, Caleb had switched his allegiance from the discredited intelligence director to Birch and his cavalrymen. They could not forgive Beckford for making them look foolish and - even more heinous to cavalrymen - disabling half their horses. The brigadier had demanded a court martial. Outraged Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe wanted both Birch and Beckford court martialed. Lieutenant General Knyphausen had resolved the squabble by transferring Beckford to Canada.

  That left the cavalrymen with nothing to discuss but the latest favorite of the Holy Ground, Flora Kuyper. She had chosen for her residence a Negro house run by a black woman who called herself Madam Plaisir. Madam made the amorous quadroon her star attraction and set a price of ten guineas for a night. The customers were more than satisfied. Each was the center of attention at the Queen’s Head the following night as he told his friends the remarkable things Flora was ready to do after a few drinks and a little laudanum. Caleb hung on the fringe of listeners, growing more and more enraged.

  Nothing could be done about Flora until Congressman Stapleton was strong enough to walk out of the Provost. Those were Benjamin Stallworth’s orders. For two weeks after Caleb displayed the token, the Jerseyman was barely able to hobble on his swollen ankles and knees. Two days ago, Stapleton had walked across his cell with a reasonably normal stride. That night, Caleb had told Black Sam Francis to notify Stallworth. Before dawn, a messenger was across the no-longer-frozen Hudson with the word that the plan was in motion.

  Caleb made no secret of his visits to Stapleton. He announced each one at the bar of the Queen’s Head. He said he had helped to capture Stapleton and was vexed at Beckford’s clumsy failure to persuade him to change sides. Caleb was soon reporting that the congressman was becoming much more amenable. He described him clutching the miniature of George III and almost weeping with regret for rebelling against such a good king. What was needed now, Caleb told all and sundry, was a visit from a distinguished officer, who could convince the wavering politician that genuine reconciliation was possible, but if it were refused, the consequences for America would be terrible.

  Who was better qualified to communicate such a message than Brigadier Samuel Birch, commander of the only undefeated arm of His Majesty’s royal army? Caleb poured this suggestion into the ear of the brigadier himself. Birch found his cringing, fawning manner amusing. He was also inclined to look on the turncoat chaplain with a certain superstitious fondness. As Caleb frequently reminded him, he had saved Birch’s life. Riding at the head of the column, the brigadier would have gotten the first blast of those cannon that had been waiting in the woods outside
Morristown on that rainy night a month ago. So the brigadier, urged by his aide, Captain Arthur Quimby, to whom Caleb had retailed the proposition at even greater length, had agreed to join Caleb for a late-night supper in Congressman Stapleton’s cell.

  At the Queen’s Head, the brigadier was entertaining a sizable audience with the story of his visit to Flora Kuyper. It was now a week old, but he could not stop talking about it. “‘Madam, I asked her as we fucked away, ‘is there anything you won’t do?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but you have to keep asking to find out what it is.’ I didn’t find out, so I’m down for another ten guineas tomorrow night.”

  “Perhaps she’ll draw the line when you wear your spurs, sir,” crowed Arthur Quimby.

  “Brigadier,” Caleb said, “our appointment with the congressman. Have you forgotten?”

  He had both heard and not heard those obscenities. They were talking about Flora, but he told himself it was not the woman he loved. At the same time, he knew it was the woman he loved. But Caleb now believed in his personal, purely human power to restore, heal, forgive, without help from God or anyone else. He was sure he could outwit Satan himself, if that shadowy figure had anything to do with this nightmare.

  By the time Caleb got the brigadier out of the Queens Head and into a hackney coach, Birch was somewhat drunk. This was all to the good and part of the plan. Brigadier Birch got drunk every night. As the coach lumbered across the city to the Provost he threw a convivial arm around Caleb’s shoulders.

  “Have you tried fabulous Flora, Parson?”

  “Too expensive for me.”

  “She’s worth every penny.”

  “I’m sure she is. But we poor Americans must settle for humbler satisfactions.”

  “God damn it, Chandler, don’t you loyalist buggers ever stop sounding the poor mouth?”

  “Perhaps it’s simply a wish to remind gentlemen like yourself, who have influence with government, of our sacrifices for His Majesty.”

  “Ah, fuck off, Chandler. I told you I’d get you a living from my cousin the bishop, didn’t I?”

  “I’m deeply grateful for it. A chance to preach the gospel to loyal subjects for the rest of my life is all I wish. In the meantime, I must survive. I hope you’ll recommend me to whoever has charge of the secret service fund now if we succeed in getting a signed statement from Congressman Stapleton.”

  “Nobody’s in charge of intelligence as far as I know. Not that it matters. The bloody business just wastes money on buggers like Beckford’s asshole friend Coleman. I knew that prick in London. He’d stick it into anything, male or female, animal, vegetable, or mineral.”

  “But a loyal subject. A pity the Americans hanged him.”

  “Good riddance, I say. I wish we could have hanged Beckford, too. If there’s anything lower than a whore, it’s a spy. I’m in favor of hanging all of them instead of turning them, the way Beckford claimed to do. I bet I know how the bugger turned them and why.”

  The coach stopped. They were in front of the dark stone bulk of the Provost. The East River rushed to the sea a few hundred feet away, white chunks of ice whirling on its dark surface.

  “Now, what am I supposed to say to this rebel bastard?” Birch said as the guard unlocked the gate and saluted the brigadier.

  “Reconciliation, how much all the officers want it. On fair and equitable terms. And the growing impatience, the hunger for vengeance, among the troops.”

  “That’s true enough,” Birch said.

  In Hugh Stapleton’s cell, a waiter from the Queen’s Head Tavern had already laid out their dinner. There were hot meat pies and a sea bass and a haunch of that symbol of English hospitality, roast beef. The congressman rose to greet them with a warm smile. “I was wondering to whom I owed this feast,” he said as Caleb introduced Brigadier Birch.

  “When I heard from the Reverend Chandler how Major Beckford had mistreated you, Congressman, my breast swelled with indignation and shame that such a thing could be done to an American gentleman,” Brigadier Birch said. “I was doubly mortified when Chandler told me that some people thought I was associated in your abuse. I resolved to prove it otherwise, and show you that generosity is the hallmark of Britain’s attitude toward America.”

  “I’m deeply grateful,” Stapleton said.

  “Too bad Mrs. Stapleton couldn’t join us,” Caleb said.

  “Yes. She sends her regrets. She had to hurry home to nurse our younger son through the measles.”

  In the center of the improvised table were a half-dozen bottles of claret and port. Caleb played the jovial majordomo, pouring claret into Birch’s glass at twice the rate he served himself and Stapleton.

  “Chandler tells me he’s managed to change your mind somewhat, Mr. Stapleton,” Birch said as he chomped on veal pie.

  “He’s revived some of my respect for old England.”

  “Then I’m here to revive your affection, sir,” Birch said, raising his glass and draining it. Caleb promptly refilled it.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we share some London friends,” Stapleton said.

  Birch began mentioning names of politicians and officers. Stapleton managed to claim a knowledge of about half.

  “Not one, not one, I assure you, sir, bears any serious enmity to America,” Birch said. “Not one who wouldn’t open his purse to the man who helped end this quarrel.”

  “Ah, you remind me of British generosity, sir,” Stapleton said. “I recall the time I was in London and unfortunately lost every cent gambling at Boodles. Not for a moment did I have to worry about becoming a pauper. My British friends rushed to supply me with money.”

  “And not a cent of interest charged, I’ll wager,” Birch said.

  “Of course not,” Stapleton said.

  “To English generosity,” Caleb said, raising his glass.

  By the time they reached the dessert, a brimming bowl of syllabub, Brigadier Birch had drunk enough wine to stop noticing when his glass was being filled or from which bottle. This permitted Caleb to select his port from a bottle marked by a dab of red ink on the label; it had in it a mixture of laudanum and other narcotics guaranteed to immobilize the brigadier.

  “Reconciliation,” Birch said, clutching the table. “Certainly, every gentleman. But the troops. Ver’ impatient, sir. Cut a swath if we don’t restrain’m. Believe me, don’t let resentment of Beckford - goddamn buggering - say, Chandler, that wine is the damnedest-”

  The brigadier’s head crashed onto the table. Quickly, Caleb and Hugh Stapleton hoisted him onto the cell’s cot and threw a blanket over him. From beneath the cot the congressman pulled an exact duplicate of the brigadier’s uniform, cut to his larger physique by another Washington spy, the New York tailor Hercules Mulligan. The congressman added a wig and a tricorn hat trimmed with silver lace, and posed for a moment. Caleb nodded.

  He draped Stapleton’s arm around his shoulder and they practiced walking together. Stapleton let his knees buckle, making him look as if he were the same height as Birch.

  “Remember, you’re drunk,” Caleb said.

  Caleb kicked the door and roared, “Sergeant of the guard. Turn out.”

  The sergeant came running and hastily opened the door. “Our prisoner’s drunk himself to bed,” Caleb said. “The brigadier’s in the same condition. Leave these dishes and silver here until tomorrow. If there’s as much as a spoon missing, you’ll pay for it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said as Caleb lurched past him, Stapleton-Birch clinging to his shoulder.

  “Here’s for your trouble,” Caleb said, and thrust a guinea into the soldier’s hand.

  “Many thanks, sir. I’ll run ahead and make sure the carriage is ready.”

  Caleb and Stapleton-Birch reeled down the prison stairs singing a royal army song, “Brittons Strike Home.” At the gate, they could hear the sergeant saying, “Driver, the brigadier’s comin’. Look lively.”

  “The British Coffee House,” Caleb called as they climbed into the
carriage.

  They continued their singing until the carriage bounced onto Broadway. There Caleb ordered the driver to turn north. “There’s the sweetest little bit of American fluff out on the Bloomingdale Road that I want you to meet, Brigadier,” he said loud enough for the coachman to hear them.

  “I’m just in the mood for it,” bellowed Stapleton-Birch.

  They sloshed through the mud of this country road for a half-hour. When they began to ascend Harlem Heights, Caleb called to the coachman to stop. “We must have missed the house in the dark,” he said, climbing up on the box. He put a pistol to the driver’s head and added, “Don’t make a sound, my friend, and you won’t get hurt.”

  Stapleton drove the carriage into a nearby field and helped Caleb bind and gag the coachman. They left him sitting upright in the passenger compartment. Caleb slipped a guinea into his pocket, twice as much money as he would have earned from an ordinary night’s work.

  They labored through fields and over fences to the Hudson shore. The congressman found the walk exhausting. Twice he had to sit down on a rock to regain his strength. Peering into the black night on the river, they could see nothing but floes of ice drifting past them. At last, they heard the faint lap of oars, the occasional chunk of a floe against a hull. A whaleboat with a half-dozen oarsmen emerged from the darkness. From its prow, Major Benjamin Stallworth growled, “Mercury.”

  “Mars,” Caleb replied.

  Caleb helped the congressman into the boat, but he did not follow him. He stood for a moment, wondering how he could resist it. One step and he would be on his way back to Morristown, where George Washington would shake his hand and call him a patriot. The same single step and he would be chaplain of the 2nd Connecticut Brigade again, watching men being lashed five hundred times for robbing a henhouse, kneeling beside dying youngsters in the hospital, trying to give them faith when he had none. Maybe that was why he was able to resist taking the step. But the other reason was there, too. Flora’s voice, between a chime and a sigh, singing “Plaire à celui que i’aime.” He needed her to help him remember with a certain affection, perhaps even with love, that other man, the fool who believed in moral meanings and spiritual purpose. Besides, he had promised Flora that he would rescue her. He needed to keep that promise to sustain the man he had become, the spy with the steady nerves who enjoyed danger.