by Ron Carter
After the British had beaten George Washington and his gathering of incompetents at Brandywine Creek, and then tricked them away from Philadelphia, allowing General Cornwallis to walk into the city on September twenty-sixth without firing a shot, the victors had indeed exercised their rights. Overnight they had seized mansions and estates, and all the luxuries therein, driven the owners into the streets at bayonet point if necessary, and pillaged the citizenry of whatever they wished.
Then came the shock that rocked the British military.
Within days the astonished conquerors were inundated with invitations to banquets, teas, stage dramas, grand balls, and concerts. It seemed the great Tory contingent of British sympathizers in Philadelphia had been anxiously awaiting the day they could throw off all thoughts of the war and return to the pleasures of the high life they so dearly treasured under British rule. With occupation of the city decided, they saw no reason to hold back or deny themselves the company of British officers. Stunning in their crimson and white uniforms, crisp and proper in manners, and fervent in their pursuit of depravity, the British occupiers had been more than willing to accommodate their admirers.
Easton had been dumbstruck by how quickly the traditional British military discipline, which had been the hallmark of the army that had conquered the civilized world, had eroded, all but disappearing in the face of the seductive pleasures that swamped Philadelphia during the winter of the occupation. Easton had raised his voice and shouted his warnings against it, but to what good? Their commander in chief, General William Howe, himself, led the way down the long, broad road to decadence by openly cavorting almost daily with the beautiful Betsy Loring, wife of his Commissioner of Prisoners, Joshua Loring. So long as Joshua got his fat pay envelope at the end of each month, the cuckold was pleased to look the other way as his wife appeared at balls and banquets on the arm of General Howe. When Betsy stayed away until the early hours of the morning, Joshua got into his nightshirt and cap, crawled into his bed, and comforted himself to sleep by counting his growing fortune.
The war, Easton shouted. What of the war? General Washington and the Continental Army are but twenty-eight miles away in a place called Valley Forge, and capable of striking without notice. Though they be more a horde than an army, should they catch us wallowing in depravity, we could fall! We must not forget! We are at war!
Nearly every officer raised an eyebrow. War? What war? Washington and his scarecrow army are freezing and starving—dead or gone, or both, by spring. War? They could not rise to a war if the Great Jehovah himself thundered the order from the heavens.
The clicking of the huge brass door handle brought Easton to an instant focus, and he watched intently as Pelham marched in, stopped, and turned.
“Sir. May I present Captains John André and Amos Broadhead, appearing pursuant to orders.”
Pelham stepped back, John André stepped forward and both came to rigid attention, tricorns clutched under their left arms. For an instant Easton stared. Before him stood the most handsome man he had ever seen. Slightly taller than average, slender but athletic, brown eyes, dark hair, skin showing Gallic swarthiness, nose aquiline, nearly feminine, mouth and chin very close to perfection. André’s physical appearance was arresting, but it was something else that struck Easton. He felt an aura, a presence emanating from the man that was a rare mix of opposites. Rigid discipline and affability. Gentleness and a touch of the executioner. Artist and soldier. Harshness and mercy. Joy and sadness. But most of all he found in the eyes of André, a strange, haunting impression of curious eagerness that approached reverence, as though life was a great, unending riddle of good and bad, each to be savored for its own place in the incomprehensible scheme of the Almighty.
André snapped his hand to a salute. “Captain John André reporting as ordered, sir.”
Easton rose and returned the salute.
André continued. “May I present Captain Amos Broadhead. He has assisted in work on the meschianza.” André stepped aside and Broadhead stepped forward. Shorter than André, stocky, ruddy complexion, square, bulldog appearance. Under his right arm were thirty large documents in two separate folders.
He saluted smartly. “Captain Amos Broadhead, sir.”
Easton returned the salute, eyed both men for a moment then gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Be seated.”
Each drew an overstuffed chair toward the desk and sat down on the leading edge, backs rigid, tricorns in their laps, waiting in attentive silence. Easton took his own seat and opened the lesser of the two files on his desk and studied the first paper.
“The first matter before us is yourself, Captain André. I find your military record intriguing.” He raised his eyes and came directly to it. “You wrote thirteen stage plays in five months after your arrival in Philadelphia? And they were all performed by a group you organized and named ‘Howe’s Thespians’? Can that be correct?”
Broadhead’s breathing quickened. Never had he known a general to demand a closed-door conference with the military record of an inferior officer on his desk unless the superior was seeking grounds for discipline—a reprimand, a court-martial, or an out-and-out demotion in rank.
André answered. “Yes, sir. That is correct.”
Easton picked up the second sheet. “You led a company of men at the battle of Paoli? Under command of General Charles Grey?”
“Correct, sir. I am an aide-de-camp to General Grey. I assisted him in planning the attack. I led a company of men that night.”
“Bayonets? You were active in the bayonet charge?”
“Yes, sir. We removed the flints from the musket hammers to avoid an accidental discharge, and we struck them with bayonets by surprise in the darkness.”
Easton studied a third document. “You were taken prisoner by the Americans?” He glanced at the paper. “That was prior to the Paoli skirmish?”
“Yes, sir. Following the battle at Fort St. John’s. We surrendered November 3, 1775. I remained a prisoner until I was exchanged on December 10, one year later.”
Easton studied the next document. “You’re listed as English, yet your name appears to be French.”
“My father was a Swiss immigrant, from near the Swiss-French border. He died. My mother is Marie Louise Giradot André, from Paris.”
“You are owner, or part owner, of a business?”
“Inherited from my father. It is being managed by my uncle.”
“You left a lucrative family business to enter the military?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For what reason?”
“I have little talent for business. Counting money and keeping accounts was not to my liking. When my engagement to marry was broken, I purchased a second lieutenancy in the Royal Welsh Fusileers. Eight months later I purchased a first lieutenancy in the Seventh Foot, Royal Fusileers. I now serve under General Grey.”
“Where did you acquire your writing skills? Where were you educated?”
“Under Reverend Thomas Newcomb at Hackney, in the beginning. Then at St. Paul’s School in Westminster. Later I spent some time in Litchfield, where I became very close to a group of outstanding writers. Among them was Anna Seward. She has since become England’s most celebrated poetess. After I entered military service I requested transfer to Göttingen in Germany. There I studied mathematics as it relates to military science. It was also there I became associated with some literary students and we formed a group called the Hain. Among them were Bose, Voss, Holty, and Hahn. All have become renowned as writers and artists in their own right. All told, these experiences have taught me much about writing, sketching, design, drama, staging, costuming. I speak four languages.”
For a few seconds Easton remained silent. “Your writing skills would have been valuable to any number of generals in London. Why did you seek the assignment to General Grey’s command? You must have known his reputation as, shall we say, a fierce battlefield commander.”
“I knew his reputation, sir, and I
know his philosophy. The purpose of war is to destroy the enemy and all his possessions utterly. I felt I needed experience with him.”
Easton’s eyes narrowed as his perception of the complexities of the man before him deepened. “I see. I noticed a reference in your file to some sketches you made of the wilderness between here and Quebec. What was the occasion?”
“When my regiment was ordered to America for duty I landed here in Philadelphia, sir. I made the trip to Quebec overland. I took the time to sketch the wildlife, the Indians, the Americans, the forests.”
“Some time I would like to see those sketches.”
“I have them with me, sir.”
Easton’s eyebrows raised. “With you? For what purpose?”
“I did not know the extent you wished to inquire, sir. I thought it prudent to come prepared.”
Easton covered his surprise. “May I see them?”
André turned to Broadhead. “Captain?”
Instantly Broadhead drew the smaller of two large leather folders he had leaned against the side of his chair and handed them to André.
“Here, sir.” André laid them on Easton’s desk.
Easton’s face was a study in fascinated curiosity as he lifted the leather cover and squared the first sketch on his desk. For ten seconds silence held while he stared intently, wide-eyed. He set the parchment aside and studied the second one, then the third. Flies could be heard in their incessant buzzing at the windows.
After a time, Easton raised his head and spoke quietly. “How long did it take you to complete these?”
André lowered his eyes for a moment. “Less than half a day each. Perhaps three hours.”
Easton leaned back. His mouth formed a small “O” and he blew air for a moment as he stared at André in near disbelief. Then he cleared his throat. “Keep those sketches available. They could be of value in the future.”
“Yes, sir.”
Easton closed André’s military record and tapped a finger on the top of the second, larger file, and his face hardened.
“The second matter is this farewell . . . this meschianza, as you chose to call it . . . for General Howe. You are responsible for much of the planning?”
“I am one of twenty-two officers responsible.”
“You drew the plans? Designed it?”
“Yes sir. Nearly all of it.”
“May I see the plans?” Easton pointed to the large leather folder beside Broadhead’s chair.
André turned to Broadhead, who hefted it onto the desk, then sat back down. “The sketches and designs are all there, sir.”
Easton eyed the stack, twelve inches high, then André, then reached for the first one. For twenty minutes André and Broadhead sat in silence, watching the expression on Easton’s face change from disapproval to amazement as he studied the sketches. There were four inches left in the stack when he stopped.
“This is all your work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In very concise terms, explain the plan.”
“It’s rather simple, sir. There will be three days of banquets and concerts in halls in every quarter of the city, and balls in five ballrooms now being prepared. On the fourth day is the grand finale. A squadron of boats is on the Delaware being decorated to transport contestants from the west edge of the city, through town, to Wharton’s mansion where they’ll disembark. There will be jousting by two teams of knights, who will vie for the hands of several maidens. That will be followed by the grand banquet and ball to conclude the celebration.”
Easton leaned forward, eyes alive, accusing. “Now, Captain,” he said, his voice rising, “we have come to the nub of all this.”
Broadhead’s face lost all its color.
“I have seen some of the bills for all these banquets and balls. Six hundred pounds of roasted lamb’s tongue, four thousand crabs, two-hundred-fifty roasted prime ribs of beef, six tons of fish of every kind imaginable, six thousand individual plum puddings, two hundred roasted pigs, . . . need I go on? Decorations, costumes beyond anything I have ever seen!” He slapped the folder beside his right hand, and leaned forward, eyes boring into André. “Do you know the cost of all this? At a time when Parliament is counting every shilling, every tuppence?”
Broadhead reached to wipe at perspiration on his forehead. André did not change his expression. “Yes, sir. I know the cost.”
Easton reared back. “Do you expect me to include these in my accounting? Do you have any idea what Parliament will do when they see these figures? My commission could be at risk!”
“Sir, most of those costs will not come out of military accounts.”
Easton’s mouth dropped open for a split second, then he blurted, “What? Then where?”
“We have collected donations and pledges out of the pockets of most of the officers in Philadelphia to cover costs.” He turned to Broadhead. “Do you have the figures?”
Broadhead thrust the document to André, who glanced at it, then looked at Easton. “We have collected three thousand, three hundred, twelve pounds to date. There will be probably four times that amount when we finish.”
“The officers’ costumes? The contestants? Those Philadelphia debutantes? Whom, as your sketches now show me, are going to be dressed as Turkish harem girls. Do you expect British officers to appear in public dressed in those . . . gaudy . . costumes? And those young ladies? Veils, gauze, silks, satins, spangles, gold buttons, sashes, and those coiffures, oh, those coiffures. In the name of heaven, sir, those sketches make those young ladies look like trollops!”
Easton was breathing heavily, neck veins extended, face crimson. He stopped and by force of will brought himself under control. His voice was strained.
“The firm of Coffin and Anderson reports orders for costumes exceeding twelve thousand pounds!”
“That is correct, sir. However, all officers and contestants and the young Philadelphia debutantes are paying for their own costumes. That is in addition to the money we have collected, and will collect for the food. I presume you were not told about it?”
Easton rocked back in his chair. “What?”
“They’re paying for their own costumery, sir.”
“Why was I not told? Not one word of it reached me.”
André turned to Broadhead, who nodded, and André turned back to Easton. “I will have the three thousand pounds delivered to this desk by midafternoon, sir. My apologies that you were not notified.”
Easton’s eyes were flashing. “What else has been withheld from me?”
“Nothing I know of, sir.”
Easton pointed an index finger like it was a saber. “See to it that that money arrives. I’ll have a receipt waiting. And I want every detail of this thing in writing on my desk by tomorrow morning, ten a.m. Any more surprises, and someone is going to face a court-martial. Am I understood?”
André gave Broadhead a nod, and Broadhead stammered, “Sir, I shall have a written report on your desk as ordered and every second day thereafter until the matter is concluded.”
“See to it.”
Easton was glancing at his files when André inquired, “Is there anything else we can say to be of service, sir?”
The answer was instant, loud. “Yes! Did I see the names of Shippen and Chew among those . . . harem . . girls?”
“Yes, sir. Margaret Shippen and Peggy Chew are among the fourteen. Miss Shippen goes by the name of Peggy. So we have two Peggys.”
Easton leaned forward, both palms flat on the table. “Fourteen?”
“Yes, sir. Two teams of knights will enter contests for their hands. One team is to be Knights of the Blended Rose, the other the Knights of the Burning Mountain. There will be harmless jousting, mock swordplay, contests, for the hands of the young ladies. They will, as you have noted, be costumed as Turkish harem girls.”
“Are the two named young ladies the daughters of Benjamin Chew and Edward Shippen? The Chief Justice of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, and the retired judge
of the British Admiralty Court?”
“The same, sir.”
Easton’s face went blank. “Are you telling me their fathers consented to this . . . harem thing? Those men have influence. A letter from either one complaining his daughter has been degraded could result in a board of inquiry! I warn you now, captains have become lieutenants for much less cause.”
André had not changed expression, nor raised his voice. “I received consent from Judge Chew this morning, in writing. I am to visit Judge Shippen later this morning to obtain his consent,” André paused, then finished, “in writing.”
Easton furrowed his forehead. “Wait a moment. Do I remember Peggy Shippen from the banquet held on the Roebuck last December? Captain Hamond’s ship?”
“She was there, sir.”
“Blonde, blue-eyed? Absolutely stunning? Captain Hamond said every officer on the ship was in love with her.”
“That is Peggy Shippen, sir.”
Easton’s eyes narrowed. “Are you the one that spirited her away after the banquet? A sleigh ride?”
“I am, sir. At midnight. Gave the horses their heads and galloped two miles out into the country. A most memorable occasion.”
Easton’s stern expression did not change. “You’re a British officer. Are your intentions with that young lady honorable?”
“I have no intentions at all regarding that young lady, sir. She is a dear friend, and I have had the honor of treating her as such. That is all.”
Easton eyed André skeptically, then stood abruptly, and André and Broadhead immediately rose to their feet facing him.
“That will be all. I’ll expect those funds this afternoon. Keep those sketches of the wilderness available. I want that report on my desk by midmorning, and thereafter every second day until this matter is over. Obtain the consent of all the fathers of those fourteen unfortunates before you parade them down the Delaware and through the streets of Philadelphia. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir. Clear.”
André gathered his sketches into one stack and handed them to Broadhead. “Again, my apologies that you were not advised of the financial arrangements for the celebration. Is there anything else, sir?”