by Ron Carter
Vergennes drew a deep breath, eyebrows arched. “Nothing of any moment.” Then he suddenly raised one finger. “Except one thing. Reports have arrived concerning General Washington. Has he lately suffered some rather uh, serious setbacks? in or around New York?”
Franklin paused. “He has taken a terrible beating.”
Vergennes waited. Franklin neither moved nor spoke. Vergennes broke the silence. “Where is he now?”
“At my last report, in New Jersey.” As he spoke, Franklin’s instincts rose. He wants desperately to know everything I can tell him about Washington.
Vergennes spoke. “In what condition?”
Franklin weighed his answer for a moment, then answered bluntly. “Terrible. He lost Long Island, New York, White Plains, Fort Washington, Fort Lee, and nearly half his army before he made a forced retreat across New Jersey. I believe he intends wintering in Pennsylvania. Most enlistments in his army expire the end of this month, and I presume a substantial part of his armed forces will leave. At last report they were sick, cold, and short of ammunition.” He stopped. He locked eyes with Vergennes and slowly a smile formed, and he waited in silence for Vergennes’s reaction.
For five seconds Vergennes did not move. His eyes bored into Franklin’s reaching, searching, probing, and then he spoke quietly. “Will he recover?”
There it was! The prologue was ended. The stage was set. The political games had been played. They had finally reached the question on which the relationship between the United States and France finally came to rest, the greatest question Vergennes would face in his entire political career. If General George Washington could raise his ravaged army from the ashes of defeat to stop the British and drive them from America, then he, Vergennes was the man history had chosen to sense the right moment to join forces with the Americans to redeem the honor of France. His name would be remembered forever. Vergennes knew it, and now he knew Franklin knew it.
The air was charged. There was not a sound in the room as Franklin sorted out his answer. He leaned forward, reached to place one hand on the edge of Vergennes’s desk. He spoke softly, with an intensity that came from the depths of his being. “He will, sir. He will.”
Deane felt the hair on his neck lift. Vergennes’s breathing slowed as the words drove deep, past his defenses, past his political foundations, deep into the core of the man. Slowly he recovered, and once again assumed the mask of complete control, prepared to play out the necessary political requirements. Franklin straightened in his chair, his face relaxed, and he was once again humble, affable.
Vergennes stood. “I hope you are correct in your judgment of General Washington. I extend my every hope for his success, and yours.”
The interview was over.
As Vergennes stood at the window watching the coach rumble away in the rain-soaked street, his thoughts ran. He is formidable. I did not find the bottom of him. I must watch—watch.
Inside the coach Deane knocked rain from his hat, then raised his eyes to Franklin, seated opposite him. “I understood most of it, but my French is not as good as yours. What did I miss?”
Franklin raised his head thoughtfully before he smiled. “Would you care for my observations?”
Deane stopped all movement, waiting.
“Usual protocol requires him to hold a social event to announce our arrival, to which the political agents for every country with an ambassador in Paris would be invited. He hasn’t done it and he has no intention of doing it. You will also remember that he referred to our commercial ships being welcome on the usual terms into French ports, and then refused my offer to reduce his offer to writing—a treaty. He conspicuously said nothing about our military ships, and it is clear he means to refuse them access to French ports.”
Deane leaned back in his seat in amazement, and Franklin paused to give him time.
“I mentioned the rumors about munitions and he denied any knowledge of it, yet you have arranged for two hundred cannon and thirty thousand fusees. There is but one place that many cannon could be obtained, and that’s from the French army. Vergennes not only knows about those cannon, he likely picked them out.”
Franklin paused to glance out the rain-spattered windows at the people, wrapped to their throats in heavy coats and mufflers and hunched under umbrellas as they walked rapidly through the cold rain in the streets, hurrying to do their business.
“I inquired as to which other French government offices we should present our credentials, and his answer was instant and decisive. His office only, in private, and none other.” Franklin shook his head briefly. “That brings us to a conclusion. Vergennes is afraid of England. He dare not give us formal recognition by arranging the usual social event for fear it would appear that France is both recognizing us as a sovereign and embracing us. And for the same reason he will not treaty with the United States. Either the social event or a treaty might provoke England to a war with France, which France cannot now win, and you may rest assured, England is watching every port, every ship, every foreigner who enters France. So, Vergennes wants us to remain under the exclusive, private control of his office, and no other.”
Franklin stopped for a long time and Silas Deane did not move or speak.
“With all that, the most critical question raised was his. He had to know what we expect to happen with General Washington and the Continental army. There is nothing more critically important to him than that because he will become famous if he is able to sense the precise moment to join forces with us to defeat the British.”
Franklin collected his thoughts. “So. It seems he granted that audience to give us a rather simple set of rules. Avoid all appearances that France and America are in combination. Deal with him only, and in private. Keep our warships out of French ports. Expect no treaties between our governments. He will make his move when he sees fit. In the meantime, we wait.”
Deane drew and released a great breath, but said nothing.
Franklin raised his hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “Our good man Vergennes has effectively boxed us away from creating any open ties with the French government. However, I do not recall a single word that would prevent us from making some ties with the French people.”
He smiled amiably at Deane. “Do you suppose you could acquire a calendar of the high social events to occur this season in Paris?”
Notes
In 1772, the English Privy Council supported Benjamin Franklin’s plan for the Grand Ohio Company, overturning a previous ruling by Lord Hillsborough, who had become a political enemy of Franklin. Franklin’s political demise in England came only a few short months later as the result of his involvement in the 1773 “Hutchinson Letters affair.” Though Franklin felt it was his duty to make the private letters public, he had already had a political quarrel with Hutchinson in 1771 over the Massachusetts agent appointment to England—the same event where Franklin and Hillsborough clashed for the first time. When the letters with the information of how Hutchinson—an American governor—encouraged the English Parliament to pass stricter measures on the colonies were published, tempers flared, accusations flew, and eventually Franklin confessed his involvement to avoid William Whatley, an innocent man, from being killed in a duel. England had no choice but to bring Franklin before the Privy Council in the Cockpit at Whitehall where he was destroyed politically. Franklin struggled on in England for a year, trying to restore his good name, but finally left for America unnoticed. However, as one of Franklin’s biographers, Ronald W. Clark, observes, “But for that [exile], it appears almost certain that he would have remained in Britain, probably for the rest of his life, with results which would certainly have affected the course of history” (Benjamin Franklin, p. 184). A detailed account of Franklin’s political rise and fall in England can be found in chapter eight of Clark’s Benjamin Franklin.
Indeed, it was only after his return to America that Franklin joined the Revolution at age seventy. Though his standing in England was gone, his acceptance in Amer
ica remained strong. The American Congress placed him on both the Secret Committee and the Secret Committee of Correspondence, which was later known as the Committee of Foreign Affairs, and later still, the Department of State (see Clark, Benjamin Franklin, p. 280).
By the time the Americans needed to ask France for aid in the war, there was not another American better qualified than Franklin (see Clark, Benjamin Franklin, p. 281). And when Congress gave him the commission to go to France, Franklin stated to Doctor Benjamin Rush, “I am old and good for nothing, but as the store-keepers say of their remnants of cloth, I am but a fag end, and you may have me for what you are pleased to give” (as quoted in Clark, Benjamin Franklin, p. 297).
By then, France had already started smuggling supplies to America through Rodrique Hortalez and Company, a business front that had been organized by Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, author of The Marriage of Figaro, and Arthur Lee (see Clark, Benjamin Franklin, pp. 294-95).
The facts presented in the novel surrounding Franklin’s journey to France are accurate and are briefly outlined on pages 299-301 of Clark’s work Benjamin Franklin.
The British practice of reading incoming and outgoing mail as described in the novel was indeed standard for the day (see Clark, Benjamin Franklin, pp. 224-25).
Franklin never did see the letter Hutchinson sent to Hillsborough denying support of Franklin’s appointment as the Massachusetts agent in England, but the author included the scene for illustrative purposes in the novel (see Clark, Benjamin Franklin, p. 219).
For additional explanation of the political relationship between America, France, and England in the time frame of 1776-77, see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 226-36; Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 228; Mackesy, The War for America, p. 104.
Griggstown, near Princeton, New Jersey
December 18, 1776
CHAPTER III
The last arc of the setting sun slipped behind the western rim of the frozen world, and for a few moments the stark, lifeless trees became a delicate filigree against the colorless afterglow as dusk came creeping. Vapor trailed behind the head of John Honeyman as he followed the five black Angus steers, and the polled Scottish heifer, and the Guernsey cow down the lane, south from the pasture to the unpainted, clapboard milking shed, with the holding pen beside. Average height, muscled, prominent jaw, with two days growth of beard stubble, Honeyman breathed light in the frigid air to keep from freezing his lungs; his steps crunched softly as his boots broke the crusted snow and ice.
The Guernsey lagged and he reached to poke her hindquarters with the six-foot oak staff he carried, and he said, “Move, cattle cattle, move.” The Guernsey flinched and lunged ahead for a moment, then slowed to a steady pace with the others as they moved down the lane between the two split rail fences.
In the distance a door closed, and Honeyman glanced at the small, square house beyond the shed. A thin wisp of smoke rose straight from the stone chimney to disappear in the still air, and the curtained windows glowed in the twilight; his wife had lighted the lamps, and supper was waiting. Hot mutton stew with fresh-baked bread and butter churned yesterday, and steaming coffee. He licked chapped lips in anticipation. Half a mile beyond his house the lights of Griggstown were winking on, and six miles beyond Griggstown, the lights of Princeton.
For a moment he stared at the rolling hills past Princeton, beyond which lay the great river, and Trenton, and his thoughts ran. He’s there. With his army. Or what’s left of it.
The cattle plodded into the small holding pen, and Honeyman swung the weathered gate closed and dropped the latch ring over the two posts. The steers and the heifer walked on to the feed manger and waited while Honeyman plowed through the black, crusted muck, ducked between two fence rails to reach the stacked, dry grass, and forked the feed manger half full. He waited for a moment to watch them bury their muzzles in the brittle stems, and he heard the grinding begin. He drove the wooden pitchfork back into the stack, ducked back between the rails into the pen, and spoke to the cow, waiting patiently beside the door into the small milking barn.
“I’m coming,” he said to her. “Won’t be a minute.” Her udder was firm, full, and beginning to drip when he opened the door, and she walked into the darkness to the stanchion and again waited while he struck flint to steel. He caught the spark in tinder, blew softly, thrust a splinter of dry wood into the lick of flame, and lighted a lantern. He hung the lantern on a heavy wooden peg driven into the great center post that supported the ridgepole in the low roof and forked dry grass into the cow’s manger. She thrust her head through the opening and began working the grass while he closed the stanchion and dropped the locking block into place.
Honeyman settled the heavy wooden milk bucket beneath the cow, sat down on the one-legged milk stool, and pulled a cloth from inside his coat. Quickly he wiped the tight udder, then thrust the cloth back into his coat. He blew on his hands to warm them, and settled into the rhythmic pumping, listening to the gentle hiss as the first streams of milk hit the bottom of the bucket. The smoking froth quieted those that followed. He leaned his forehead into the warm flank of the cow, hands working rhythmically, and watched the milk rise steadily in the bucket, yellow in the lantern light. Quietly, unexpected scenes and memories from long ago came, and he saw them and felt them, and he let them come.
Young, strong—being brutally forced into involuntary servitude in the British army—into the wilds of the north woods—ordered to kill the French and the Indians with them—rising to become personal bodyguard of General James Wolfe—the battle at Fort Quebec on the Plains of Abraham—Wolfe’s daring strike—the insistence that his men form in ranks to fight the French at point-blank range—Wolfe mortally wounded by an unseen rifleman—the surrender of the fort—the end of the war—the regiment being mustered out—his growing rejection of the British and all they stood for—the treaty of 1763—the French surrendering all claims to North America—withdrawing.
He continued the rhythm of the milking while his thoughts moved ahead.
Meeting the Irish girl—their marriage—four children—building their small farm in Griggstown—establishing himself on a small farm as a weaver and a cattle dealer—watching the British slowly but surely begin to tighten their grip—the hot anger it stirred in his soul—the slow realization that he could not stand by and let them crush the colonies—waiting, watching for his chance—the appointment of General George Washington as commander in chief of the Continental army June 15, 1775, in Philadelphia—going to find General Washington—their private conference—his secret offer—the acceptance by General Washington.
The offer Honeyman had made, and Washington had accepted, was that he would pose as a hard-core Tory, loyal to the Crown, doing all he could to help the British. Speaking out hard and loud against the Americans, in church, in town hall—anywhere. Handing out British proclamations against them. Giving British soldiers lodging, food, drink, aid, support, comfort—selling them beef for their troops. Watching American movements and reporting harmless information to the British. Gaining their trust, their confidence—anything to gain their trust and confidence.
And all the while he was posing as a loyal subject of the Crown, he would be watching the British like a hawk. Memorizing troop movements—ammunition magazines—supply depots—the names and ranks of the officers—morale—fortifications—cannon placement—anything, everything. He would report his information directly to General Washington. How? He would find a way. And if General Washington needed anything, he would send a secret message. No one other than Washington and Honeyman, either British or American, was to know of their arrangement.
What if the Americans came to arrest him or burn his farm? That was a risk he would take. The sole protection would be for Hannah and the children. General Washington wrote a letter, signed and sealed, to be held in secret by Honeyman’s wife, ordering that no one was to harm or molest her or her children. She was told only that should anyone come threat
ening, she was to use the letter as a last means to protect herself, or the children, from harm.
So far Honeyman had been arrested by Tory-hating Americans twice, beaten once, and had hidden once for two days in the Bear Swamp south of Princeton from a mob that came at night with torches and tar and feathers. His terrified wife had gathered the children and faced the threatening mob in the light of the torches, but had told them nothing about her husband, using instead the letter for protection.
In the shadows cast by the lantern light, Honeyman stripped out the udder, rose from the milking stool, pushed it into the corner with his foot, and picked up the smoking milk bucket. He lifted the locking block on the stanchion and opened it, and left the brown-and-white spotted cow to finish the dried grass before she laid down in the straw for the night.
He cupped his right hand at the top of the lantern chimney to blow out the wick when suddenly the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rose with the sudden sure sensation that he was not alone. He shifted his right foot back a few inches for leverage to throw the bucket of milk, then, without moving his hand or his head, his eyes darted to the dark, shadowy corners of the small barn, searching.
The voice came quiet, low, from the sacked grain in the corner to his left. “Stand easy.”
Honeyman flinched and tensed and his right hand dropped to grasp the bottom of the milk bucket, ready, waiting for a shape to emerge from the shadows.
“You Honeyman?”
Honeyman’s breath came short. “Who wants to know?”
“Friend. You Honeyman?”
“Get out in the open where I can see you.”
“I’ll ask once more. You Honeyman?”
John Honeyman made an instant judgment and took a chance. “Yes. Get out where I can see you.”
Without a sound, a tall shape was suddenly standing half-hidden in the light and shadow. Honeyman gasped at the sight of the wolf skin coat and buckskin hunting shirt, the moccasins with the Iroquois beadwork, the long Pennsylvania rifle, and the weapon belt with the tomahawk. It flashed in his mind—Indian—and then the voice came again and it was the voice of a white man.