by Ron Carter
London, England
May 1778
CHAPTER V
* * *
A raw easterly wind came gusting in the night from the North Atlantic up the Thames River, past Tilbury and Gravesend to London. Dawn broke dark with a whistling gale driving cold rain slanting into the rocking ships and barges moored to the miles of docks, drumming on the slate and thatched roofs and cobblestone streets of the city. For miles in all directions shivering men drove shaggy, dripping horses that pulled carts and wagons, slogging to and from the wharves and piers where dockhands labored dawn to dark every day of the year to load or unload the ships that fed the insatiable appetites of England and the world. The stevedores wiped at dripping noses and kept moving as the morning wore on, with the wind whipping the breath-vapor from their faces.
Away from the docks, just north of the ancient graystone Westminster Abbey, where the Westminster Bridge spanned the Thames, William Knox, undersecretary to Lord George Germain, the King’s Secretary of State for the American Colonies, stood at the lead-paned window of his ground-floor office in the Whitehall District. Within half a mile of where Knox stood, scattered in all directions, were offices of men who made the decisions on which England stood or fell. All who chose to play the world power game knew only too well that their fate, and that of the Empire, was finally decided by intrigues and meetings conducted in the offices and back rooms in the Whitehall District.
Pensive, nervous, Knox drew aside the window curtain to stare through the wet pane into the vacant, rain-swept street, preoccupied as he listened to the wind-driven rain, pattering against the glass. He involuntarily shivered and turned to walk to the fireplace in the west wall of his modest office. He leaned forward, palms extended to the warmth, then rubbed his hands briskly together.
No one in the streets—Germain’s called a meeting—the war in America hangs in the balance—and there’s no one in the streets—no carriages moving toward Germain’s office.
He stirred the fire with the brass-handled poker and replaced it as his thoughts ran on.
Why didn’t Germain go directly to North if he wanted a meeting with him—why did he use Suffolk’s undersecretary Eden to arrange it—why does he want me there? Because I own property in the colony of Georgia? Because I disagree with trying to take the New England colonies first? Starting in the north is what led to the Burgoyne disaster at Saratoga—and the French treaty with America. We must start at the other end—the southernmost, weaker colonies—ours for the taking—subdue the southern colonies first and then blockade those in the north and wait for them to fall.
He paused for a time, square face frowning, as he listened to the hollow draw of the wind up the chimney and watched the flames from the three large logs dance and flutter.
The King—furious at the loss of Burgoyne and his army—terrified at what France will do now that it has entered the war against us—maybe cross the channel to invade us—the Empire—spread far too thin—India—Mediterranean—West Indies—America—too thin—too thin. Rumored that the King’s shifting the focus of the American campaign from the north to the south. Georgia. The Carolinas. Virginia. If that’s what Germain’s meeting is about, he’s right. I’ve argued it from the beginning—maybe that’s why he’s requested me to be present today.
He started at the sound of a wind-blown tree branch scraping at the window, then settled.
The King’s already called for a military opinion from Amherst and Sandwich. If our erstwhile Army Commander in Chief and Lord of the Admiralty have anything to do with it there will be some monumental changes.
Movement in the street caught his eye and he strode quickly to the window to pull back the curtain. A huge carriage with facing seats inside, and rows of brass studs decorating the outside, rolled past on the wet, narrow cobblestone street that ran parallel to the Thames where it makes a bend to the north. Matched bay gelding Percherons in studded horse collars and well-oiled harnesses arched their necks and lifted their feet high as they passed, while the driver and coachman with their high-topped hats jammed down to their ears rounded their shoulders against the freezing wind, blowing sleet and rain against their backs.
Knox started in surprise. Jenkinson! Department of the Treasury! I didn’t expect Jenkinson to be at the meeting! If the Treasury’s going to be there, this meeting is broader than I thought. Much broader.
A rap at the door brought him around. He glanced at the large, ornate clock on the oak fireplace mantel—half-past nine o’clock—then called, “Come.”
The door opened and a gray-haired servant entered. “Sir, your carriage has arrived.”
The wind and sleet rattled the windows in the coach as it covered the five blocks to the old, square stone building where the meeting was to convene. The driver pulled the matched brown mares to a stop before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates and waited while two drenched gatemen pushed them open. The coach rolled inside the courtyard to where a great oak door hung on two gigantic black iron hinges, and the coachman climbed down from the box to lower the step-down and open the carriage door. Knox grasped his hat with one hand, his leather case carrying his documents with the other, and hunched forward to trot the twenty feet to the heavy door, held open and waiting by a uniformed doorman. Inside, he shook his rain-spattered cape, then handed it with his hat and gloves to a waiting servant.
“This way, sir.”
With his documents case under his arm, Knox followed the man down a chill, stone-floored hall that echoed his footsteps, to an ancient door.
“Inside, sir.”
Knox nodded his thanks, grasped the handle, and pushed the door open, groaning on its hinges. For a split second his eyebrows raised in surprise at the unexpected number of the most powerful men in the empire seated before him—six in all. Instantly he regained his composure, and his face became a mask that would conceal all emotion until he was once again in his coach traveling back to the privacy of his own office. In the business of government, one learned the deceptive art of showing little of one’s inner self lest such lapses become weapons to be used against him. He closed the door, turned, and waited.
In the center of the room stood a three-hundred-year-old oak table that weighed well over one ton. To his left a large fire burned in a great fireplace with no mantel. The stone walls and ceiling were smoke-stained, stark, bare. There were two windows in the far wall, covered with a film from years of neglect. Candles in holders burned on two walls, casting the room in a pale yellow smoky light, and leaving in the air the aroma of burned beef tallow. Before each man were papers, some stacked, others in slight disarray. On the far end of the table lay two long, heavy scrolls.
Seated at the head of the table, facing Knox, was Lord George Germain of the King’s Cabinet, Secretary of State for the American Colonies. Tall, strongly built, decisive, capable, regular features, respected, and admired by those with whom he served.
Seated to his right was Lord North. His one great talent was politics in times of peace. By inclination and training he was charming, jovial, witty, considerate, and did a praiseworthy job of managing the affairs of the House of Commons. In times of duress, he became clumsy, awkward, thick-tongued, thick-lipped, wide-mouthed, heavy-cheeked, fleshy, unappealing, and totally devoid of the knowledge required to run the country in war.
General Baron Amherst sat next to Lord North. His service in America prior to the war had convinced his peers he was honest, industrious, even-handed, an excellent organizer, gifted with common sense, and conscious of all the needs of his men. He was admired by most in England’s power structure, and on March nineteenth, a scant five weeks earlier, he had been appointed de facto commander in chief of the British army, with the resulting seat on the King’s cabinet. The sole deficiency in the man had been either unnoticed or ignored. Amherst was possessed of an excellent military mind, but was a hesitant novice in the world of politics. He was only lately beginning to understand that his deficiency in that area could prove fatal to his hi
gh position.
The last chair on the right of the table was occupied by Lord Sandwich. Sixty years of age, he was arguably the most knowledgeable man in the Empire on the subject of the Royal Navy. A Fellow of the Royal Society, plenipotentiary at the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, he was also a member of the Board of Admiralty in the War of the Austrian Succession, serving as First Lord of the board until 1751, a member of the King’s Cabinet, and then Secretary of State. A large, loosely framed, energetic man, his subordinates loved him, while his critics excised him vigorously for his private life. His wife had gone mad, and he had taken a live-in mistress, Martha Ray, who had borne him two illegitimate children while residing in his home. In the business of naval affairs, and the slippery art of politics, few there were who dared to provoke the Earl of Sandwich.
Seated to Germain’s left was Lord William Eden, undersecretary to Lord Suffolk, Secretary of State for the Northern Department, and a member of the King’s Cabinet. Eden had been trained by Suffolk, who was admired by few, detested by many, and considered by some to be a misfit in the hierarchy of England’s power structure. It was Undersecretary Eden who had recommended an unprecedented clean sweep of all Parliamentary Acts related to the American theatre, including the removal of many of those who had created them, and the appointment of a new commission to reevaluate the entire approach.
Seated next to Eden was Lord Charles Jenkinson, Undersecretary to the Lord of the Treasury, Lord North. Knox was well aware that he and Jenkinson were in agreement on the question of changing the entire focus of the war from the northern colonies to those in the south. Begin with Georgia, then South Carolina, they had both urged. He was also aware that Jenkinson’s motivations were economic, rather than military, since Jenkinson was assigned to the commercial division of the American Theatre.
The remaining chair, the one next to Jenkinson, was vacant. Knox stood silent, waiting for Germain to extend formal recognition and seating.
Germain bowed slightly to Knox. “Mr. Knox, I am gratified by your presence. Do I correctly presume you are acquainted with all at this table?”
Knox returned the bow, then bowed his respects, first to one side of the table, then the other. “M’Lord, I am indeed acquainted with this august assembly.”
“Excellent.” Germain gestured. “The seat next to Lord Jenkinson is reserved for yourself. If you please.”
“Thank-you, M’Lord.” Knox moved quickly to the seat, placed his leather documents pouch on the table, and sat down. Germain waited while Knox unbuckled the straps on his documents pouch and settled against the high, hard back of his aged chair. Then he drew a deep breath, pursed his mouth in the pose of thoughtfulness for a moment, and spoke slowly.
“I have convened this meeting on an informal basis in my earnest hope that we can address the . . . um . . . grave . . . perhaps pivotal events now upon us. May I recommend we set aside all rules of parliamentary procedure? That we speak our minds frankly without hindrance or reservation? Should any of you find that inappropriate for any reason, I invite you to speak now.”
He smiled grandly, glanced around the table, nodded his satisfaction, and continued solicitously.
“Thank you.” He turned to Lord North, the ranking figure in the room. Capable in time of peace, a bumbling novice in time of war, and the most physically unappealing man in the room. “Lord North has directed me to convene, and to conduct, this meeting,” Germain said. “He has largely prepared the agenda and approved what is to follow.”
All heads turned to Lord North, faces blank at the extremely unorthodox protocol just announced. The leader of His Majesty’s government present but not conducting? Rare indeed!
Germain continued. “It is thought helpful if we review events of the past several months that have brought us to a juncture in the history of the Empire that requires us to pause, consider, and decide. Have we committed grievous errors in handling the affairs of state? If so, what are they? And what is the remedy?”
Knox leaned forward, forearms on the table, fingers interlaced. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, the draw of the chimney, and the wind and rain on the windows.
“Specifically, you are all aware of the most unfortunate defeat suffered by our forces on the Hudson—General John Burgoyne and his army.”
A subdued, brief murmur went around the table and settled.
“The loss of one of our finest generals was tragic. The loss of his entire army—eight thousand of our best troops and German mercenaries—was a catastrophe. Following that disaster, General William Howe resigned his position as commander in chief of our forces in America by his letter of October 22, 1777.”
Germain’s face was set, no longer gregarious. He waited while open talk held for a moment, then quieted.
“You are all aware that on February sixth last past, France entered into written articles of trade with the Americans in which they acknowledged”—he paused ironically—”the United States to be a free and independent state.” A look of angry indignation crept over Germain’s face. “In so doing, France breached some of the most critical terms of the Peace Agreement entered into in 1763 with this Empire.” Germain’s lips narrowed as he continued. “And they did so secretly, as cowardly thieves in the night.”
Open, angry talk erupted for half a minute. When Germain raised a hand, the room quieted.
“March thirteenth last past, the French made public their perfidy with the Americans. We sent three envoys to Paris in an attempt to avoid the crisis, but they were rebuffed, first by the French, then by the Americans. Honor, or more accurately, the lack of it on the part of the French and the Americans, has provoked speculation and division in the highest levels of our political structure. His Majesty has convened unprecedented meetings of Parliament. The Cabinet has been assembled all hours of the day and night for emergencies. Meetings between Cabinet members and heads of various branches of our government have gone on continuously. Intelligence is shared daily.”
Germain lifted a written document from the table, glanced at it, then set it back on the table.
“You are perhaps aware the French have ordered Admiral d’Estaing and a fleet of French warships to sail from Toulon to America. Our intelligence reports that his orders are to seek targets of opportunity that will cripple our naval operations on the seaboard of the New England states. Should we lose naval superiority on the eastern coast of the North American continent, there is little chance our military forces in the colonies will survive. Lacking an open naval supply line across the Atlantic, it is only a matter of weeks until our forces will fail altogether. Simply put, if we lose naval superiority, we will lose America.”
Germain paused for several seconds to allow the awful import of the facts to settle in the minds of those at the table.
“It is clear our international relations are in a crisis that finds no precedent in our long history. Failure to correctly evaluate where we now are may result in irreparable damage. Worse, once we have come to grasp the truth of our current calamity, failure to take the proper corrective action will likely tear the Realm asunder.”
He stopped speaking and for ten seconds his eyes flicked around the table, moving from one man to the next. No one moved, nor spoke. All eyes were on Germain.
“I am authorized to inform you that His Majesty has conferred with his most trusted advisors on three questions: First, where do we now find ourselves? Second, what must be done about it? Third, by whom?”
Germain unrolled one of the long scrolls and spread it on the table in sight of all seven men. They dropped small leather bags of sand on the corners to anchor the document. It was a map of the entire world. Germain went on.
“This is where we must begin our discussion.” He picked up a wooden pointer as he spoke. “You are aware we have established our empire in many places—critical places.” He moved the pointer to tap the map as he spoke. “India. Cadiz. Minorca in the Mediterranean. Gibraltar. Many islands in the West I
ndies. America. And others. I need not remind you that maintaining our presence in these places has placed a very, very heavy drain on our resources, both in men and money.”
He laid the pointer down and picked up a large piece of stiff parchment.
“In broad strokes, as of this date we have the following forces available to defend our empire. Thirty regiments of cavalry. Ninety-seven battalions of infantry. About forty ships of the line fit for duty in the Channel, with others disbursed throughout the Empire as needed. I must point out, of the ninety-seven battalions of infantry, forty-five of them are in America, too far from England to timely return should we be invaded. I suggest the imbalance—half of our infantry in one place half- way around the world—is obvious.”
Eyes narrowed, then widened as the men at the table understood the implication. He’s going to cut back our forces in America, or pull out altogether. Impossible!
Germain picked up the pointer and tapped the narrow gap of Atlantic ocean between France and England—The Channel.
“It is obvious to you by now that with France in league with America, we have the difficult problem of calculating France’s next move. To be specific, will France come across the channel to invade England? Or will the French simply engage our channel fleet to hold them here while they do mischief elsewhere? Perhaps Cadiz? Or Minorca, and close off our vital access to the Mediterranean? The West Indies, and take over the rich sugar trade? Attack our forces in America? And what will Spain be doing all the while? Our intelligence reports inform us they are only waiting for a favorable time to join France and America against us.”
Men furthest from the map rose from their chairs to study the far-flung British empire, then the French and Spanish holdings around the world.
Germain cleared his throat, bowed his head slightly, waited for silence, then once again spoke.
“I am authorized to state that the King has resolved two propositions in his own mind. First, the dimensions of our political aspirations must be reduced. Second, we must accept the fact we will not succeed in New England with ground forces. We must shift our attention to naval power. And in so doing, we must reduce our expectations of what we can gain in America. We must begin to think of reaching a political compromise. Give them everything they want, short of complete independence.”