Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  “No blindfold?”

  Washington shrugged. “I doubt he’ll see anything he doesn’t already know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reed turned smartly on his heel and closed the door as he walked out.

  General George Washington drew and exhaled a great breath, then turned in his chair and for a time peered out the west windows of his headquarters office in the second floor of the Mortier mansion in the northern section of New York City. The midmorning sun was bright, the trees and foliage a rich emerald green in the still air, and for a moment it seemed to Washington a profanity, a blasphemy, that at that moment two armies were gathering for a momentous battle that would shatter the profound beauty, the deep tranquility that lay all about.

  In the quiet of his office he leaned back in his chair, elbows on the arms, fingers interlaced across his middle, and half closed his eyes in deep concentration. What’s Howe after? To get my reaction to a surrender proposal? Maybe. Not likely. Amnesty if we lay down our arms? Maybe. Exchange of prisoners? Probably not. A mercy request—medicine? Not likely—we have more sick than he does and he knows it.

  His eyes narrowed in question and his forehead wrinkled as he began preparing his mind, his thoughts, for the intense, critically sensitive duel of words and facial expressions, of nuance and shadings, of give and take, that occurs when two men charged with the duty of conducting war against each other meet to discuss the affairs that could result in the defeat of one nation or the other. He picked up the quill, dipped the split point into the inkwell, squared a fresh sheet of paper on his desktop, and methodically began making notes of dates and events that could become critical.

  At half past ten Reed rapped on Washington’s door. Five minutes later they sat opposite each other on upholstered cushions inside a swaying coach, listening to the click of iron horseshoes on cobblestones, peering out the windows at soldiers and civilians in the streets preparing for battle. At ten-fifty, less than two hundred yards from the waterfront, they entered the military headquarters of Colonel Henry Knox, commander of all cannon of the Continental army, at Number One, Broadway. At eleven o’clock Reed opened the door and ushered Lieutenant Colonel Paterson and his four support officers into the large, opulently furnished room.

  General George Washington rose to his full six feet four inches, subtly the most dominant figure in the room. Strongly built, he moved with the natural grace of a born horseman, one of the best in the colony of Virginia. His pale blue and buff uniform was immaculate, his shoulder epaulets gleaming, his long hair brushed and tied behind his head. His mouth was thin, nose prominent, face noncommittal as he faced Lieutenant Colonel James Paterson.

  Paterson looked into Washington’s eyes, and for a moment his breathing slowed. In those blue-gray eyes he saw a resolve and a strength that chilled him, and he sensed perception and wisdom and judgment that were overpowering. Paterson stood silent in the presence of Washington, waiting.

  Washington spoke and his voice was startlingly low, soft, his words simple. “I am honored by your presence, Colonel. Would you and your staff please be seated.”

  Paterson settled onto the front edge of his upholstered chair facing Washington’s desk, back straight as a stick. Washington sat down in his own chair, while all other officers in the room took their designated chairs.

  “I trust my staff treated you acceptably well?” Washington said cordially.

  “Most graciously, Your Excellency,” Paterson replied. He shifted his feet. “May I iterate my great personal gratitude for being allowed to confer with Your Excellency.”

  Washington nodded amiably. “The honor is mine. General Howe is well?”

  “Indeed. Robust health, and the highest of spirits, Your Excellency.”

  Washington’s facial expression did not change while he battled the inward need to laugh. Your Excellency! Three times in two sentences! So much for “Mr. Washington.” “Your boat trip from Staten Island was agreeable?”

  “Most agreeable. The weather is perfect, Your Excellency.”

  Washington could not contain a smile. “I understand General Howe wished to communicate a message to me?” He watched Paterson’s eyes.

  “Oh, yes, Your Excellency.” He fumbled with a leather pouch. “Indeed. It is my honor to deliver this document to Your Excellency.” Paterson rose to reach across the desk, and Washington accepted the letter.

  Before he opened it, he casually read the inscription on the front and his eyebrows arched. “George Washington, Esq., etc., etc.” He leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully tapped the letter against the thumb of his left hand, while his eyes bored into Paterson.

  Paterson read Washington’s expression perfectly, and his reaction was too abrupt, too forceful. “May it please Your Excellency,” he exclaimed, “I would like to explain the inscription. You see, Your Excellency, General Howe had the greatest desire to address this letter properly in view of prior oversights, and thus he has included words intended to include all possible contingencies. The ‘etc., etc.’ means everything possible.”

  Washington’s face remained passive while inside he was bursting with a great guffaw. He spoke quietly. “And the ‘etc., etc.’ could mean anything.”

  Paterson’s face fell. He dropped his eyes, convinced Washington was going to return the letter unopened and terminate the meeting.

  Washington turned the letter over and studied the large wax seal with the impression of the lion and the unicorn of Great Britain. He leaned back in his chair and dropped his face, and closed his eyes while he carefully calculated how he should react.

  He raised his head and spoke to Paterson. “Are you acquainted with the contents of this document?”

  “Your Excellency, I have not read the document. However, General Howe did share with me the general text.”

  Washington reached to thoughtfully rub his chin for a moment while he faced the decision whether or not the purpose of the letter should be made known to all the officers in the room, and he made up his mind. It should. He raised his eyes to Paterson. “What is the text of the letter?”

  Paterson swallowed before he spoke. “If I understand General Howe correctly, he is offering a pardon to all who will lay down their arms and swear allegiance to the Crown.” Paterson held his breath in desperate hope.

  Washington leaned back and for long moments allowed the proposal to take root. A pardon! Amnesty. Not terms of surrender. Lay down our arms and swear allegiance to the Crown, and all is forgiven and forgotten. He drew and slowly exhaled a deep breath. No reprisals. No arrests. Tens of thousands of lives would be saved, ours and theirs. Cities spared from fire and cannon. Untold suffering avoided.

  Paterson watched every expression on Washington’s face, in his eyes, in a desperate hope of sensing which direction Washington’s reactions were going. He saw nothing but those pale blue-gray eyes staring back at him, firm, solid, bottomless, without expression. Paterson plowed on, piling words on words rapidly.

  “Your Excellency, His Excellency King George has anxiously and most benevolently appointed General Howe and his brother Lord Admiral Richard Howe of the Royal Navy as his special commissioners to approach Your Excellency with the proposal from the king that the Crown and the colonies accommodate the unhappy disputes lately developed between them. The king has empowered the general and the admiral to do so, by granting pardons.”

  It flashed in Washington’s mind. Unhappy disputes. Does that include the “unhappy dispute” of July twelfth—three days after Howe read the Declaration of Independence—when he sent those two men-of-war, the Rose and the Phoenix, up the Hudson to shoot up gun emplacements and military bases and randomly blast private residences? Unhappy dispute? Closer to murder!

  Paterson hurried on. “It would give General and Lord Admiral Howe, and the king, great pleasure to accomplish such a result, and I am unable to fully express my personal great hope that Your Excellency would consider this visit as a preliminary to accomplish that great and most desirable result.”
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  Once again Washington let his eyes fall to his desktop while he pondered, reached a conclusion, and then methodically reasoned through it once again to be certain of his own mind, his own convictions in the white heat of this fateful, pivotal decision. The room was silent as a tomb. No one moved. Muted street noises could be heard, with the buzzing of flies against the window glass. Washington’s mind and heart settled and he raised his face.

  “Colonel Paterson, the commission conferred upon me by the Continental Congress did not include authority to negotiate such a proposal with the Crown. That authority resides in the Congress, and the Congress only. Do General and Admiral Howe have authority to negotiate peace for the Crown?”

  Paterson’s eyes fell. “No, Your Excellency. To grant pardons only.”

  Washington drew a breath and spoke deliberately. “If the authority granted to the Howes is limited to granting pardons, they are not commissioned to negotiate terms of peace between two sovereigns. And since the Crown and the colonies are now two sovereigns, there is nothing to be accomplished in a meeting between the Howes and myself, since neither they nor I am empowered to negotiate any possible terms of peace. And as to being pardoned, the colonies have done nothing wrong, and are not in need of being pardoned.”

  Every officer in the room started at the profound simplicity, and Paterson swallowed hard. In Washington’s eyes he saw something that turned him cold to the center of his being. He opened his mouth to speak and words would not come.

  Washington leaned forward, amiable in countenance, but his words cut to the core. “I am sensible of the fact that Lord Howe has read the Declaration of Independence, and I presume he understands the clear import of the words. I am also sensible of the fact that three days after the declaration was published in New York City, on July twelfth, General Howe sent the Rose and the Phoenix up the Hudson, and can only conclude their orders were to make the citizenry, and the army, keenly aware that our forces could not stop them. Our obstructions in the river failed, and six of our soldiers were killed that day, either by cannon from the men-of-war or by their own error in handling their pieces.”

  He paused long enough to see Paterson’s face turn white.

  “I am also sensible to the fact that on July fifteenth, Lord Admiral Richard Howe sailed his fleet into New York Harbor and disembarked troops and munitions and supplies on Staten Island, and they are there now, staging for battle. In all, there are in excess of three hundred British ships anchored off Long Island, and more than twenty thousand troops on Staten Island, preparing to attack. I have reliable intelligence that more such ships and men are to arrive soon.”

  Washington paused long enough to have the undivided attention of every man in the room before he leaned forward, eyes points of light, and finished. “It was not by accident that those unhappy disputes occurred prior to General Howe’s sending a letter to propose a pardon. Rather, it occurs to my mind that that train of events was calculated by General Howe to raise great anxiety in the hearts and minds of the Continental army and the Patriot citizens concerning the overpowering might of the British military, and their firm determination to use it against us if necessary. Should that estimate of the intent of General Howe be accurate, then he has erred altogether in his hope, because his efforts not only have failed to intimidate but, to the contrary, have created an immutable resolve in the hearts of the Continental army and the Patriot citizens to fight for the rights enumerated in the Declaration of Independence. They will have their unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  For three seconds no one moved. Stunned, reeling, Paterson understood the matter was forever decided, closed. “Has Your Excellency no particular commands with which you would please to honor me to Lord and General Howe?” It was his last attempt to keep the negotiation possibility open.

  Washington rose, and his face was placid. “Nothing, sir, but my particular compliments to them both.” He gestured to a sterling silver tray with a decanter of wine and crystal glasses on a polished table against one wall. “Would you care for a refreshment?”

  It was over. It had failed. And Paterson knew he had faced a man vastly superior in reach of thought and quality of judgment and depth of commitment.

  He cleared his throat. “No, Your Excellency. For myself and on behalf of General Howe, I extend thanks for your gracious audience. With your permission I shall take my leave.”

  Paterson stood, struggling to maintain decorum. He tucked his hat under his arm and bowed to Washington, who returned his bow. He turned on his heel and led his four officers from the room without looking back.

  Washington watched the door close and stood for a moment staring. Was I too abrupt? too harsh? I pray I was not.

  He turned to the scribe. “At earliest opportunity make two copies of the proceedings of this meeting available to myself, one for my records, one for Congress. Use the exact words spoken in all places possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington’s eyes swept the room. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your presence. It seems we have rejected what I presume to be our last chance to escape from war. I trust the Almighty will continue to be aware of our struggles.”

  The coach ride back to Washington’s headquarters was quiet, reflective, as each man worked with his own thoughts. Washington was escorted from his coach into the Mortier house, back to his command quarters, where he removed and hung his hat, then his officer’s tunic, and sat down at his desk. He glanced at the clock, and started at the knock at his door. “Enter.”

  Reed carefully balanced a large, beautifully crafted silver tray to Washington’s desk and carefully set it down, then removed the embroidered cloth. “Your lunch, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And sir, you may be interested in this message that came in our absence.”

  Washington took the document, unfolded it, and read silently. His eyes widened. “Are you aware what this says?”

  “From what I understand, the new governor of New Jersey has persuaded the New Jersey legislature to raise five battalions to serve in the Continental army until December first.”

  Washington nodded. “His name’s William Livingston. He’s stirred them up over there.” He paused and his face fell for a moment. “Any word on what’s happened to William Franklin? the governor before Livingston?”

  “No, sir. Only that the legislature ordered his arrest, and he was taken into custody months ago. I haven’t heard what’s happened since.” Reed’s eyes saddened. “I feel sorry for Ben Franklin.”

  Washington pursed his mouth and shook his head. “I think it took something out of Mr. Franklin when his only son turned on the colonies—declared loyalty to the Crown. I understand it was some time before he’d talk with anyone about it. Maybe he still won’t. He’s never spoken to his son since. Swears he never will.”

  “So I’m told.”

  Washington shrugged. “Mr. Franklin will survive. He’ll be all right.”

  “I’m sure, sir. Is there anything else, sir?”

  “Not right now. Thank you for lunch.”

  “Not at all, sir.” Reed turned to leave.

  “Reed,” Washington called, and Reed turned back, startled at the familiarity Washington had shown in not calling him by his rank.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Reed, I have a feeling that after supper I’m going to need a few spirited hands of whist. Gather up two more officers who consider themselves experts, and get them to my quarters along with a fresh deck of whist cards.”

  Reed’s eyes crinkled. “Yes, sir.”

  “And Reed, share with them the standard rules of the game. Those caught cheating will face a court-martial prior to being shot.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reed chuckled as he closed the door.

  ______

  Notes

  Around the third week of July 1776, two letters were written to George Washington by the Howes, one by Admiral Howe and the other by General Howe. The first
letter was addressed to “George Washington, Esq.” and was refused. The second was addressed to “George Washington, Esq., etc., etc.” He did not receive the letter but discussed the contents with Lieutenant Colonel James Paterson, the British adjutant general with whom Washington met on July 20 (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 96–99).

  On July 12, 1776, General Howe ordered two British men-of-war, the Phoenix and the Rose, up the Hudson to bombard the town. The boats bombarded military and civilian targets on their way to Tappan Bay, where they remained six days, and returned unharmed, despite the efforts of American cannon to damage them (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 99–100).

  William Franklin, son of Benjamin Franklin, was governor of New Jersey and favored the Tories, remaining loyal to Britain. The New Jersey legislature ordered his arrest, and he was replaced by William Livingston, who was a patriot (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 111).

  George Washington was fond of a card game named “whist,” which is played by two sets of partners (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 129). The game is explained in Pool, What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew, p. 65.

  Staten Island

  August 17, 1776

  Chapter XIII

  * * *

  Corporal Roy O’Malley of the Royal Fusiliers jerked erect, clacked his gaping mouth closed, dropped his axe, and reached to his right, groping for his musket while his eyes widened.

  “’Ere, lookit what we got comin’,” he breathed to Private Robert Willowby next to him. “Straight from the infernal pit, ’e is, just like all them savages, and fer my part we’d do well to send ’em all right back in the blink of an eye.”

  Willowby raised his head from stacking kindling in the wood yard where their company had been splitting firewood to heat water in the great, black kettles for wash day at the gigantic, sprawling British military base on Staten Island. He saw the four British soldiers in red coats with muskets, and he saw the swarthy skin and the partially shaved head and the feathered headgear of the man they were escorting, and the white man’s shirt and coat over Indian leather breaches and beautifully beaded moccasins. Willowby slowly straightened, eyes narrowed as he studied the man walking steadily inside the square formed by the four soldiers towards the large command tent of General William Howe forty yards to the south. Others nearby slowed and stopped, looking.