Prelude to Glory Vol, 3
Page 54
Franklin glanced out the windows to his left. The Tuesday morning had dawned overcast in Versailles, cold, raw, with a strong wind blowing from the north. The coach ride had chilled him, despite the blanket wrapped about his legs.
He shook his head. “No, it was not heated, but no matter. I had a blanket. Somehow I survived.”
“Could I have hot coffee brought in? Tea?”
Franklin raised a hand. “Your thoughtfulness is most appreciated, but that won’t be necessary. My visit will be brief. I have received news from America and London that I thought would be of interest to you.”
Vergennes’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Good news, I presume.”
Franklin did not answer the question. “It appears the American military forces have lately met the British in battle on one or two occasions. The results have been, shall we say, startling?”
Vergennes’s eyebrows arched. “Lately? I understood that General Howe had ordered his army into winter quarters last December. The fourteenth, as I recall. Am I misinformed?”
Franklin smiled. “No, you understood correctly. The British did go into winter quarters, but the Americans did not.” He paused to watch the expression on Vergennes’s face change from bland interest to sudden consternation, then continued. “On December twenty-sixth last, American soldiers crossed the Delaware River and captured the town of Trenton from a garrison of fourteen hundred Hessian soldiers. Over a thousand Hessians were either killed or captured. Their unfortunate commander was killed. Rall, I believe. Yes, Colonel Johann Gottlieb Rall, from Hesse-Cassel.”
Franklin stopped, and he read perfectly the split second that Vergennes’s eyes widened before he recovered his composure. “I was not aware.”
In that moment Franklin knew he was in control and he pressed his advantage. He spoke amiably, almost casually. “On January third last, the American forces again engaged the British. On that occasion they brought the British forces to a standstill at Trenton, then marched northeast and seized the town of Princeton from the British troops garrisoned there.”
Again Franklin stopped, and Vergennes stood in thinly veiled shock, silent, unable to frame a casual response. For a few moments the only sound in the room was the popping of pine knots in the fireplace and the slight whisper of the draw in the chimney.
Vergennes moved his feet. “Princeton? American forces took Princeton from the British?”
“It appears they did.”
“Who was the commanding officer for the British forces? General Grant?”
Slowly Franklin shook his head, then pursed his mouth. “No, it was General Lord Charles Cornwallis, under direct orders of General William Howe.”
Vergennes leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, arms stiff. His voice was too high and there was no pretense of restraint. “General Washington defeated General Charles Cornwallis?” he blurted. “Impossible!”
“There was a time when I could not have agreed with you more, your Excellency, but the hard truth is that is precisely what happened. Overnight, General Washington marched his entire army north around the eight thousand British troops between Trenton and Princeton commanded by General Cornwallis and captured the entire town. All the British garrisoned there were either casualties or captured, save for those who ran every which direction and were not seen again. Remarkable.”
Franklin raised his chin and casually reached to scratch at his throat, while he watched Vergennes’s eyes, every instinct focused. He’s foundered. Can’t grasp it.
Franklin waited, forcing Vergennes to ask the questions that had suddenly become the most critical in his life.
“This information has surely reached London by now.”
Franklin nodded and waited.
“What are the British saying about all this?”
Franklin opened his valise and sorted through several pages of newspapers. “The British are seething. Yes, here we are. I’m sure you’re acquainted with Horace Walpole—sage and political weather vane for England. It seems Mr. Walpole is much in agreement with Frederick the Great, of Prussia, that it is probable the United States will maintain their independence. He writes … here it is … that Washington’s march around Cornwallis and taking Princeton was a masterpiece of military genius. Seems all of England is utterly shocked by it all.”
Vergennes’s breathing slowed. “And the Americans? What is their reaction?”
Franklin chuckled. “Euphoric. Volunteers for the army are popping up in every state. General Washington is revered—can do no wrong. The newspapers are filled with accounts of the battles, most of them I’m afraid somewhat exaggerated. Here. I brought copies of some of the newspapers for you.”
Franklin handed Vergennes several sheets of newsprint, including some translated from English to French, and printed by Franklin on his own printing press at his quarters in Passy, nearby. Franklin waited in silence while Vergennes spread them on his desk. Vergennes was instantly lost in the details of the most prominent articles.
Franklin sat quietly until Vergennes raised his head, thoughts racing. “Have the British taken steps to redeem themselves? Perhaps mounted a winter assault on the American forces?”
Franklin shook his head. “No. To the contrary, they seem to have withdrawn their forces closer to New York City and are apparently satisfied to sit out the winter there.”
“And the Americans?”
“Gone into winter quarters at Morristown, New Jersey, thirty miles from New York City. It’s a small town—a natural fortress protected by mountain passes. I believe the British are afraid to make a winter assault through those mountains.”
Vergennes paused to stare once more at the newspapers, and Franklin’s conclusions settled.
He’s tempted. He wants to believe now is the time to break openly with the British and declare France an ally to America. Close, but not yet. Wait. Don’t push him. Wait.
Franklin squared a large number of newspapers still in his valise and closed it. He rose, facing the smaller man across the huge desk. “I must leave. I do thank you most sincerely for allowing me to interrupt your morning without an appointment. I can only hope the information I’ve delivered is of value. Thank you again, your Excellency.”
In an instant Vergennes was once again the practiced diplomat. “Not at all. It has been my pleasure. Your efforts are much appreciated. I want you to feel free to stay in contact with this office at any time, day or night. My thanks for coming.”
Franklin passed through the luxurious anteroom, out into the hallway, and walked slowly towards the large foyer. As he passed a table on his left, and another on his right, he slowed long enough to place a copy of the newspapers, translated into French, on each. In the foyer he smiled humbly at the two men behind their desks, and as he passed, he laid newspaper copies before them. He spoke not a word, paused at the door long enough to bow to them, tip his peculiar, round hat made of the fur of a marten, and walked out into the blustery, cold north wind.
His coach was waiting. The driver opened the door for him and assisted him in taking the two steps to enter the van, then closed the door while Franklin wrapped the blanket back about his legs. The driver mounted the box, picked up the reins to the team, and clucked them into motion. The coach clattered off down the cobblestone street with Franklin seated by the window concentrating deeply on his thoughts as he peered unseeing at the people in the streets, their coats wrapped high and holding their hats on their heads.
A coach rattled past in the opposite direction, the wheels of the two carriages passing within two feet of each other in the narrow street, and Franklin glanced at the occupant in the opposing coach as it passed. The tingle started instantly, and ten seconds later Franklin gasped as recognition struck home. He banged his cane hard against the front wall of the coach. The driver hauled the team to a stop, leaped from the box, and jerked the door open.
“Yes, Doctor Franklin? Are you all right?”
“Turn around immediately and follow that coach that just pas
sed us.”
The driver looked up the street at the disappearing carriage and asked no questions. “Yes, sir.”
As fast as traffic would allow, he circled back in the narrow streets, caught sight of the carriage slowing ahead, and called down to Franklin, “Sir, the coach is stopping ahead.”
“At what building?”
“The office of the French Minister of Foreign Affairs. Comte de Vergennes.”
“Stop here.”
Franklin shifted and moved his head far enough to take a good view of the door of the carriage ahead, and waited. The driver climbed down from the box, while the doorman unfolded the three-step boarding stairs, and assisted a well-dressed man down from the van. Franklin leaned forward, focused on the man’s face as he turned.
Stormont! I was right! Lord Stormont, British ambassador to France!
Franklin watched as Stormont faced the door into the building and squared his shoulders, chin high.
Franklin smiled. Something’s bothering him. I wonder what it is. He settled back in his seat. A little patience. Time will tell. He called up to the driver, “You may drive on.”
The doorman quickly assisted Stormont to the door and held it open for him. As the door behind Stormont closed, the two men in charge of the foyer raised their faces from devouring the articles in the newspapers Franklin had left, recognized Stormont, recoiled, and quickly opened the center drawer of their desks and jammed the newspapers inside.
The man nearest the door quickly stood, flustered, grasping for words. “Your Excellency! What a surprise. I wasn’t aware you had an appointment.”
Stormont stopped before his desk. “I do not have an appointment. I have just received news of the most troubling nature and I must see his Excellency, Comte de Vergennes. I will wait the entire day if necessary.”
The man blinked. “I, uh, am certain that will not be necessary.” He turned to his companion. “Will you inform the foreign minister that Lord Stormont requests an audience immediately?”
The man stood, turned on his heel, and nearly fled from the room.
Stormont stared at the man before him for a moment, one eyebrow raised. “May I inquire, were those newspapers you placed in your desk drawers just now?”
The answer was too quick. “Oh, no, they were, uh, reports, yes, reports, of, uh, the heads of state of the various, uh, sovereign states with which France is presently engaged, and, uh, their ambassadors and their addresses. Yes. His Excellency Comte de Vergennes insists on being informed of such, regularly.”
The sounds of footsteps in the long, polished hallway echoed slightly, and then the sound of women’s voices gasping, commenting. The men turned to look as two of the women engaged in the housekeeping and cooking duties of the offices and the kitchen appeared in the archway to the hall. They were engrossed in reading a newspaper, pointing, gesturing, commenting. They suddenly realized where they were, jerked the newspaper down, and one started to beg forgiveness for their disrespectful conduct when they both recognized Stormont.
Their eyes popped wide, they gasped, clapped their hands over their mouths, spun on their heels and ran from the room. Their footsteps echoed in the hall until a door slammed and a painful silence gripped the foyer. Stormont turned back to the man at the reception desk and opened his mouth to speak when the second man spoke from the archway.
“His Excellency, the Foreign Minister will see you now.”
Stormont turned on his heel and followed the man down the hallway. He passed through the anteroom without stopping and into the office of Vergennes.
Vergennes bowed. “An unexpected pleasure, your Excellency. Please be seated. Coffee? Tea?”
Stormont ignored the invitation and remained standing. “I have just become privy to facts that are shocking beyond belief. I have been aware for some time that French crews are loading French supplies and munitions onto French ships flying the French flag, for delivery to America, contrary to the clear, firm understanding that England had with this office that such would not be the case. I have let it pass in the vain hope you would reconsider.”
He paused only long enough to order his thoughts. “However, that is now forgotten in the latest incident indicating a hostile intent on the part of France against England. An American ship, the Reprisal, has brought four captured British ships to a French port, and France allowed it entry and treated it as friendly.”
Stormont’s face was red, his neck veins extended. “That could be construed as an act of war by France against Britain under present international conditions.”
Vergennes’s face was an absolute blank. He did not move nor speak.
Stormont’s doubled fist slammed onto the desktop. “I demand on behalf of the British crown, that the four captured British ships be released to their rightful owners now, with assurances that such transactions shall not be tolerated in French ports again.”
He paused for Vergennes’s reactions, and there were none.
Stormont concluded. “Am I clearly understood?”
Quietly Vergennes responded. “Absolutely. This is the first I have heard of such actions. Rest assured, I shall launch a thorough investigation instantly. If your information is correct, I will order the release of the British ships the first moment possible and submit to your king a written apology, with assurances such shall not be tolerated in French ports again, should it come to our attention.”
It flashed in Stormont’s mind. He knows about Trenton and Princeton, and what it has done to us. He knows about the four ships and he has done nothing because he is very close to an open break with us. France means to declare war on England the very moment they decide the Americans may win. I am wasting my time.
Stormont straightened. “Thank you for granting me an audience without an appointment.”
“It was a pleasure. Feel free to return at any time.”
Stormont turned and swept out of the room and down the hall. In the foyer, both men and women watched him pass out the front door. The moment the door closed, he could hear their outburst of comments.
Outraged, frightened, he remembered nothing of his carriage ride back to his quarters. Later, after picking at his supper for a time before abandoning it altogether, he sat at the desk in his bedroom with quill and paper. Slowly he addressed a message to the secretary of state in London.
“It is certain, My Lord, that the general animosity against us and the wild enthusiasm in favor of the rebels was never greater than it is at present … That M. de Vergennes is hostile in his heart and anxious for the success of the Rebels I have not a shadow of a doubt.”
Notes
Though Benjamin Franklin, historically, did not inform Comte de Vergennes of Washington’s success at Trenton and Princeton, Franklin was aware of the activities in New Jersey (see Clark, Benjamin Franklin, pp. 316-17) and the author has chosen to include the scene in the novel for narrative purposes.
News of the battles reached Vergennes on February 25, 1777—the same day Lord Stormont met with Vergennes to discuss the matter of the Reprisal, which was an American ship that had captured four British vessels and delivered them to a French port (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, p. 328). Stormont was enraged at the increasingly obvious support of France to America and penned a letter which contains the quote that concludes this chapter (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, p. 329).
With the American cause proven by the success at Trenton and Princeton, it would only be a matter of time before France would openly declare war against Britain and align herself with America (see Clark, Benjamin Franklin, pp. 316-17).
Morristown, New Jersey
May 5, 1777
CHAPTER XIX
The pungent smell of pines, oaks, and maples coming into their spring foliage hung sweet in the still air of the small, orderly village of Morristown. The fifty houses and three white steeples glistened in the bright sunlight, beneath a clear, brilliant, blue sky that dwarfed the green valley nestled at the foot of the Thimble Mountains.
A quarter mile from the town, near the sprawling Continental army camp, Billy, Eli, and twenty other soldiers stood knee-deep in a clear mountain brook, barefooted, stripped to their underwear. It was Monday and they were taking their rotation in washing their clothes in water so cold it numbed their feet. Every man among them was soaked, head to toe, hair and beards dripping while they grinned from the mock battles they had fought in the stream, water flying as they grappled and went down shouting, laughing.
The memories of the winter, the days and weeks and months of sickness, of soul-destroying starvation and freezing, were forgotten for a time as they romped in the water. They finished washing their clothes and hung them on the bushes to dry while they sat on the grassy banks in their underwear, reveling in the warm morning sunshine and the clean, warm air. They plucked small stones from the streambed, black, gray, white, worn flat and smooth by millennia of running water, to toss them back splashing, watching them settle in the crystal water.
Eli turned to Billy. “Any idea what the cooks got in the pots for today?”
“Turlock said mutton. Mutton and turnips.”
“We’ll have to go get a possum some night. A big granddaddy possum sounds good right now.”
Billy grinned. “You might have to cook it.”
Eli shrugged. “Simple. You just clean ‘em out and bury ‘em on hot rocks for a day or two, skin and all. They come out smoking, so sweet and tender they fall apart.”