Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  Arnold gestured and Franks quickly handed him his crutches, one at a time. Arnold spoke as he adjusted them beneath his arms.

  “You found suitable quarters?”

  Franks bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. Yesterday, after the British were gone, I rode through the town, and again early this morning. I found what I believe will meet your needs.”

  “Where? Whose?”

  “In the mansion section of town, sir. The estate of William Penn.”

  Franks paused, watching the surprise and approval rise in Arnold’s face and eyes. He continued. “General William Howe occupied it until yesterday. It’s the grandest in the city, sir. Red and black brick. Two banquet halls. Huge ballroom. Twelve bedrooms. Expansive wine cellar. Magnificent library. The grounds are spacious and landscaped. Stables for twenty horses, five carriages. Gardens. Fruit trees. Excellent.”

  “Good. Very good.” Arnold nodded his approval as he took his first step on the crutches, then winced as he swung his left leg forward.

  “Are there any hidden riflemen on roofs or in cellars on our route through town?”

  “None, sir. Our patrols conducted a house-to-house search.”

  “Any hidden bombs? Kegs of gunpowder?”

  “None, sir.”

  Arnold looked at him. “The shipyards?”

  Franks shook his head sadly. “Destroyed. Totally. The British set them on fire two days ago. Some timbers and lumber still burning, but under control. No danger.”

  “The ships? The ones under construction?”

  “Total losses, sir. Three of them.”

  “The coach? The escort?”

  “The coach is waiting, sir. The finest in Philadelphia. Four matched horses. A company of Massachusetts cavalry will escort you.”

  Arnold took a deep breath. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  Varnished to a luster and lavishly trimmed with burnished brass, the open coach glistened in the sweltering June sun. The team of four dapple gray horses were matched for color, height, and weight. The harnesses were oiled. The fifty armed cavalrymen who led and followed the coach were uniformed, their saddles soaped and shining, all mounted on bay horses. On Arnold’s nod, the escort tapped spur and moved out, with the coach dividing the column in the middle, the iron horseshoes clicking on the cobblestones and striking an occasional spark.

  Facing forward on the upholstered coach seat, his left leg propped on the facing seat, with Franks seated on his left, Arnold sat bolt upright, face a blank, eyes constantly moving, missing nothing. Hesitant, cautious, unsure what to expect, Philadelphians stood in doorways, or in groups in yards, silently staring as the entourage wound through the narrow streets.

  Franks, always alert to what the expressions on Arnold’s face could tell him, covertly glanced at Arnold repeatedly. He saw the disbelief rise in Arnold’s eyes at the destruction on both sides of the coach. Homes, sheds, barns, pens, sheds, fences, churches—stripped by the British for firewood. Carcasses of sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks, geese, horses, cows, rotting where they had died. Citizens destitute, faces pinched with hunger, homes demolished. Five companies of British artillery men had been quartered in Independence Hall, where they had ripped out everything wooden to burn for fuel.

  The column moved on past quiet citizens in quiet streets until, without prologue or warning, the cavalrymen turned a corner and the view changed. Suddenly they were among great estates with red and black brick mansions surrounded by spacious lawns and sculpted gardens and orchards. Arnold’s eyes widened in surprise, stunned by what was an island of luxury in the midst of desolation. The column rolled onward with every man silent, gaping at gated, eight-foot-tall, wrought-iron fences that subtly drew the line between the awestruck passersby staring in, and those inside the mansions, bemused as they stared out.

  Arnold turned his head from side to side, peering at the evidence of a world of opulence and wealth, missing nothing. Franks waited for the right moment and raised his hand, pointing as he spoke, voice high in anticipation.

  “The Penn estate is on the right, sir. Just ahead.”

  Each upright in the ten-foot-high fence was topped by a graceful French fleur-de-lis. Two broad sculpted gates gave entrance and exit to the seventeen acres of ground. The three-story brick mansion had eight gables and a massive portico that covered the entry, supported by eight columns that reached from roof to ground. A curved cobblestone drive, lined with flower beds filled with colorful blooms, led to the two great doors through which all entered. Trees, some native to New England, some imported from Europe and the Orient, were scattered tastefully throughout the landscaped grounds. Toward the rear of the estate was a long, low stable for horses, a large tack shed, and quarters for the servants, all as Franks had said.

  Hesitantly, Franks spoke. “Sir, there’s one thing. When General Howe moved out, he stripped the interior to the walls. The wine cellar’s bare. Pantry’s bare. Root cellar’s empty. Furniture gone. Furnishings gone. Paintings gone. China, silver, lamps, carpets, books, beds—everything gone. I’m certain it can be replaced, but for now, it’s gone.”

  Arnold turned to face him. “Did you make arrangements to acquire this?”

  Franks hesitated. Then spoke tentatively. “I did, sir.” He held his breath, studying Arnold’s expression, aware he had either made a colossal coup or an horrendous mistake. He would know in one second if he was to receive Arnold’s praise, or wrath.

  Slowly Arnold began to nod his head. “Excellent. Refurbish it. Redecorate it. New furniture. Top to bottom. Everything. Start today.”

  Franks recoiled, fumbling for words. “Sir, the cost . . . it could . . . the best wines are five hundred pounds per cask . . . I doubt Congress will . . .”

  Arnold raised a hand to cut him off. “Forget the cost. Get the wines. Restock the pantry. Fill the root cellar. New china, new silver, paintings, carpets, furniture, furnishings—all of it. I want this to be a showplace. Am I clear?”

  Franks had to have the answer to the pivotal question. “How do I tell the merchants they’ll be paid?”

  “Don’t worry. The money will be there. Do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Franks leaned back, silent, his mind staggering under the immensity of the task. More than a minute passed before he realized that while the cost was a fearsome thing, the issue that struck dread into his heart was clear. Precisely how did Arnold intend getting the money? Nothing could be more certain than that Congress could not raise it, because Congress had no taxing power. It could only request funds from the separate states, and if the states did not provide, Congress was helpless. Arnold himself had to know this, since his military salary had not been paid for years, simply because Congress had neither the money nor the power to get it.

  With growing terror Franks hesitantly framed the question silently in his own mind. Just how did General Arnold intend financing his appetite for the luxury of the grandest estate in Pennsylvania and the commensurate social life? The United States Congress and the legislature of the State of Pennsylvania? Never! Then how?

  Unbidden, a shiver ran up Franks’s spine, and a strange premonition seized him for a moment, then was gone. He straightened and held his peace. He was an aide. Nothing more. The general had given him his orders and he would follow them.

  The column had proceeded two blocks past the Penn estate when Arnold once again pointed at a fenced mansion.

  “Whose estate?”

  Franks searched his memory for a moment. “Shippen, sir. A man named Edward Shippen.”

  Arnold’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Have I heard . . . a judge? Is there a judge named Edward Shippen?”

  “British Admiralty Judge. Roots go back to the beginning of the colony. The Shippens were allies of the Penns from the beginning. The two families shaped this state. I considered this for your headquarters until I saw the Penn mansion.”

  As they spoke, the door of the mansion opened and two women stepped out into the shade of the portico, on
e taller with dark hair, the other with hair the color of the sun. They stopped and folded their arms as women do, to watch the column of American cavalry and their new military governor pass by. Even at sixty yards there could be no mistake—the smaller woman was stunningly beautiful.

  Arnold’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, then spoke to Franks without turning to him. “Who are they?”

  Franks shrugged. “Probably members of the Shippen family. I believe Judge Shippen has two or three daughters and one son.”

  Arnold’s head pivoted as the coach rolled on, his eyes never leaving the golden-haired woman. She was out of sight when he at last turned to Franks.

  “Find out who she is. If she’s the daughter of Edward Shippen, arrange a banquet at headquarters as soon as it is decorated and furnished. Invite Judge Shippen and be certain his family comes with him. Invite a couple of congressmen and their families—doesn’t matter who. Arrange the finest food in Philadelphia. Entertainment. Have an orchestra playing the entire evening. Some sort of choir.”

  “The cost, sir?”

  The irritation was plain in Arnold’s face. “Cost means nothing!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Shippen home was out of sight when Arnold turned to look once more, then straightened, and fell into silence as the coach rolled on.

  Franks studied Arnold from the corner of his eye while he racked his memory for the details of his brief visit to the Shippen estate the day he had considered acquiring it for Arnold’s headquarters. Edward Shippen—his dark-headed wife—Was it Esther?—Elizabeth?—and three daughters—Two were dark-headed, one light—The youngest?—Margaret, wasn’t it?—Did someone call her Peggy?—Or was it Peggy Chew?—The daughter of the other judge—Pennsylvania Supreme Court—Benjamin Chew?

  Franks could not remember.

  But one thing he did remember. His commanding officer had seen her for less than a minute, and had instantly ordered a banquet designed for the sole purpose of meeting her, at a cost that was going to reach beyond six thousand pounds British sterling.

  Franks knew what to do. He would have her name, age, and biography on the general’s desk before the sun was set.

  Notes

  General Benedict Arnold entered Philadelphia June 19, 1778, riding in an expensive carriage, escorted by a troop of fifty Massachusetts cavalry. The condition of the city, with buildings, fences, barns, part of Independence Hall, and some homes utterly destroyed for firewood, and the carcasses of dead animals scattered at random, was appalling, as were the conditions in which some of the citizens were living. He entered the section of town where the great mansions of the rich and wealthy were and took up residence in the great Penn mansion, which had been selected by his aide, David Franks, one day earlier. Arnold instantly ordered it to be refurbished and furnished in the utmost opulence, as described. His extravagance has not been exaggerated. He also quickly became acquainted with Peggy Shippen and often visited her at her father’s residence, sparing nothing by way of expense to impress Peggy. He habitually had high-ranking politicians in his home for sumptuous dinners and banquets, including Edward Shippen and his beautiful daughter, Peggy (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 216; 223–30; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 542–47).

  Monmouth, New Jersey

  July 6, 1778

  CHAPTER VIII

  * * *

  There was a rare mix of feelings among them as they gathered before the small, square, stone courthouse in the cool of the morning for the marriage of Eli Stroud and Mary Flint. Billy Weems and Sergeant Alvin Turlock, wearing the best clothing they could borrow in the Massachusetts regiment, stood in the grass on one side of the small assembly, unsure of what to say, what to do. Billy shrugged at the borrowed coat that pinched at his neck and thick shoulders and scuffed with his toe at an imaginary stone in the grass, wet with the morning dew. Turlock cleared his throat and drew a deep breath, then settled. Nearby ten nurses stood in a cluster, each in freshly laundered uniforms, quietly chattering among themselves, some dabbing at their eyes, sniffling, then breaking into forced, subdued laughter. To their right stood twelve men from the Massachusetts regiment, barefooted, wearing the only clothing they had, silent, nervous, self-conscious, ambivalent in their wish to pay their respects to a comrade in arms, yet wanting the formalities of the marriage to be finished so they could return to the comfort of the familiar surroundings of their regimental campground. Nearby were six regimental officers with their epaulets gleaming in the morning sun, and the gold trim prominent on their tricorns, quietly chatting among themselves while they waited.

  Caleb Dunson and Sergeant Randolph O’Malley from the New York Third Company walked over to stand near Billy. They shook hands and nodded their greetings, then fell silent, watching, waiting.

  Turlock turned to Billy and said quietly, “I didn’t hardly believe he’d ever do it. Didn’t think he could figure out how to ask her. But here we are, and in about half an hour they’ll be married.”

  Billy glanced at him. “I worried a little.” A faraway look stole into his eyes as he continued. “Been in battle with him. Traveled long distances. Good companion. Found a good woman. I can hardly imagine him being gone for a while. But one thing I know. He loves Mary with all his heart, and I believe she loves him. They’ve both earned happiness. I hope they find it. I surely do.”

  The front door of the weathered courthouse rattled and opened, and the small group entered the high-ceilinged, plain courtroom and took places in the first rows of the hard, worn benches, facing the raised platform designed for a judge to preside at court. There was the promise of another hot, muggy day coming, and the windows were open to let what breeze there was move the air.

  Two minutes later the door leading to the small jury room creaked and swung open, and Doctor Albigence Waldo, heavy, aging, a major in the Continental Army, walked into the courtroom, wearing an officer’s uniform that had fit him ten years earlier. Beneath his arm was a large Bible. His heels clumped on the ancient, worn floor as he walked to his place. Behind him came Eli, tall, silent, dressed in a white shirt with ruffled front, a royal blue tunic and breeches, white stockings to his knees, and square-toed shoes loaned to him by a Monmouth township alderman.

  On Eli’s arm was Mary Flint, glowing, radiant in a simple white cotton wedding dress that the nurses had labored to create. A hush fell over the proceeding, and it held for several seconds, followed by the sound of released breath, and the quiet murmur, “ooo.” Eli and Mary took their place facing Major Waldo. He began.

  “As an officer in the Continental Army I am authorized to perform marriage ceremonies under these circumstances, but I confess this is the first time I have been called on to do so. Mary has asked me . . . Mary Flint has asked me to join her to Eli Stroud in holy matrimony. I’ve worked with Mary for a time, and I’ve come to love her, and I’m honored, but I wish I knew more about what to say and do.”

  He spoke with brief directness of the sacredness of marriage before he asked who it was who was giving Mary to Eli in marriage, and Billy stepped forward and declared. The Doctor put the marriage vows before Eli and Mary, they answered, and in the quiet of the beautiful summer’s morn, he joined them together, man and wife, for as long as they should live. Billy handed Eli a simple gold band, and Eli gently placed it on the third finger of Mary’s left hand.

  “You may kiss your wife if you so desire.”

  Mary stood on her toes and Eli held her close for the kiss while the nurses sniffled softly and the men looked down, shuffled their feet, then raised their eyes to look. The women surged forward to embrace Mary while the men gathered to shake Eli’s hand. Minutes later they were once again gathered outside, waiting while the newlyweds changed clothing in the home of a Quaker family next to the courthouse. With Caleb standing nearby, Turlock spoke quietly to Billy.

  “Heard about Conway?”

  “The one who started that cabal against Washington?”

  “The same.”

&n
bsp; “What happened?”

  “Two days ago, Gen’l Cadwalader got tired of him degrading Washington and challenged him to a duel. Shot him through the mouth.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Close to it. This isn’t exactly the time to bring it up, but I thought you’d like to know.”

  A minute passed before Turlock gestured toward the house. “They’re going north? To his sister’s place?”

  “Yes. He got a furlough.”

  “Hope he isn’t gone too long.”

  Billy turned. “Why? Something happening?”

  Turlock nodded. “Probably. Rumor is the British found out beating us here in the north is a lot harder than they thought. Someone over there in England named Knox is trying to convince Parliament to forget the North and attack us in the South. The southern states. Then come on up north once they’ve got a base down there.”

  Billy’s face drew down in surprise. “The South? They’re going to attack the South?”

  “Savannah. Charleston. Somewhere down there. They figure the slaves will help—rise up against their masters.”

  Billy stood silent, his mind racing. Caleb watched, listening intently.

  “Anyway, I hope Eli gets back before all that breaks loose.”

  Billy dropped his eyes for a moment. “It’s Mary that concerns me. She’s never gotten over the pneumonia. Not completely.”

  “Who says?”

  “The Doctor. Waldo.”

  “Maybe she’ll heal, up there with Eli’s sister and family. Good food. The mountains. Rest. Should do it.”

  “I hope so.”

  The door of the home opened, and Eli emerged into the sunlight, clad once again in his leather hunting shirt and breeches and his moccasins. His weapons belt was at his middle, his rifle in his hand. On his back was a bedroll, and a pouch with a small amount of food in it was slung around his neck and under his arm.