by Ron Carter
“Mama! What’s wrong?”
For a moment Margaret did not move. Then she walked to the parlor fireplace mantel and lifted down a small package wrapped tightly with cord. She drew a deep breath, turned, and handed it to Brigitte without a word.
With trembling fingers Brigitte took the packet and read her name, then the name in the corner. General William Howe, Royal Army of his Majesty, King George III. Her breath caught in her throat as she rushed into the kitchen for a knife to cut the string. In a moment she was back at the parlor table, fumbling to jerk the string away and tear open the heavy, brown paper. Inside was a box, and she lifted away the lid to peer inside. Shaking, she lifted out a stiff document, a folded letter, and a smaller package folded in more brown paper. She opened the stiff document and laid it flat on the tabletop to scan the beautiful cursive scroll.
“Commission in the Tenth Foot, Royal Fusiliers. Richard Arlen Buchanan—duly qualified—granted commission—Captain—Tuesday, January 30th, 1776.”
Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. Richard’s commission? Why had General Howe sent her Richard’s commission in the British army? Instantly she knew, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the cry. She fumbled with the folds in the letter, shaking so badly she could not hold it still to read the lines. She laid it flat on top of the commission and held it on both sides as she read:
Thursday, October 8th 1778
Dear Miss Dunson:
I deeply regret to inform you that Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan, officer in the Royal Army, lost his life while serving with distinction at the battle of Freeman’s Farm, state of New York, Tuesday, October 7, 1777.
He had declared no family in his military records, hence we were unable to find next of kin to whom we could forward his personal effects. However, four days ago, by chance we discovered a brief statement signed by Captain Buchanan, mixed into a bundle of letters he had received from yourself, in which he directed that in the event of his demise, his commission as a Captain in the Royal Fusiliers should be forwarded to you, together with this written statement, and your letters, which he treasured.
I tender my personal apologies that this arrives so long after his untimely death, which matter I undertook personally, immediately upon discovery of his statement above mentioned. I can only beg you to understand the difficulty of handling such matters in a time of war.
Your obdt. Servant,
General William Howe
Everything inside Brigitte went dead. She slumped into a chair, staring at the document, dull-eyed, silent, numb, no longer trembling. Behind her, Margaret stood waiting without a sound, without moving.
With steady hands Brigitte unwrapped the small bundle, set the wrapping paper aside, and slowly understood she was looking at a packet of the letters she had sent to Richard since the day the British evacuated Boston, March 17, 1777. Mechanically, without thought, she counted them. There were twenty-one. He had received them all. Nine of them were dated after October 7, 1777. They had arrived at his regiment after he was dead.
She peered at the last document, folded but with the seal already broken. Written on the outside, in Richard’s own hand, were the words: “To be opened in the event of my demise.” She unfolded the paper and read it.
Thursday, September 18th 1777
Should I not survive the campaign under the command of General Burgoyne, now in progress, I hereby direct that my commission as a Captain in the Royal Fusiliers should be delivered to Miss Brigitte Dunson, daughter of John P. Dunson and Margaret Dunson, of Boston City, Province of Massachusetts, together with this document, and her letters, which will be found herewith. I have no other property, save my personal effects and military accoutrements, which I direct be disposed of as will best accommodate the army.
I will rest satisfied if I know she will have these things that are my most cherished possessions. Would God have granted me one wish in this life, it would have been that I had been born in the colonies, or that she had been born in my beloved England.
Signed,
Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan
Margaret had not moved, but with a mother’s heart knew that something had nearly unbalanced her daughter. She waited and watched, every nerve, every instinct singing tight.
Finally Brigitte turned in her chair to look her mother in the eyes.
“Richard is gone. He’s been dead since October seventh of last year.”
Margaret’s eyes closed and her head rolled back and all the air, all the life, went out of her. Before she could speak, Brigitte stood, carefully replaced the documents in the box, picked it up, steadily walked to her bedroom, and quietly closed the door.
The twins came from their rooms, sensing in their childlike wisdom that something terrible and important had happened, and silently stood before their mother, waiting.
“Come sit down,” Margaret said calmly. “There are some things I have to tell you.”
In her room, Brigitte placed the box on the small table beside her bed, next to the unlighted lamp, and sat on her bed in her coat, scarf and cap, not aware she had never removed them. She stared down at her hands, working them slowly together, one rubbing the other. She did not look at the box, nor the papers inside, rather, she remained seated on her bed in the twilight of a late, wintry December afternoon. She had no thought about what to say or do, faintly aware that her mind was beyond reasoning, beyond function.
She knew only that her heart of hearts, that small, private chamber into which she and she alone had access, where she kept the great treasures of her life from the eyes of any others, had been violated. Richard was dead. Dead. Dead. The chamber was empty. Sealed, never to be opened again. That secret place where she had kept him, had gone to him each day to revel once again in his touch, their single embrace, their single kiss, to find reason and sweetness in life, her purpose in going on day after day, praying for him, savoring her every thought of him, was forever empty. His body lay in a grave near a place called Freeman’s Farm—a place he had never seen before the day he was killed—a place she had never previously heard of, somewhere north, near the Hudson River.
Time meant nothing. The room grew dark and she did not care. Margaret rapped on her door, then entered with a tray of warm food for supper. Brigitte looked at her listlessly, said nothing, and went on gently working with her hands. Margaret set the food on the table next to the small box, lighted the lamp, and without a word, closed the door as she left the room.
It was after nine o’clock when the sounds of the twins walking down the hall to their rooms reached through her door, and Brigitte glanced up, but did not rise. She heard the sounds of Margaret’s steps, and knew they were gathering in Adam’s room for evening prayers.
At half-past ten she stood, removed her coat and cap and scarf, and laid them on her bed. She glanced uncaring at the tray of cold food before she once again sat down, hands folded in her lap, staring without seeing at the floor. At midnight the first tears came, silent, trickling down her cheeks to spot her white blouse. At half-past midnight the first sob escaped her throat. In an instant Margaret was through her door, and from somewhere inside, Brigitte understood her mother had been sitting on a chair in the hallway for more than three hours, waiting for the unbearable pain to manifest itself.
Something inside Brigitte crumbled, and the sobbing rose to choke her, blind her. Margaret sat beside her and Brigitte turned, and Margaret enclosed her in her arms and held her close, stroking her hair, rocking her gently, quietly humming to her, holding her as she had when Brigitte was a child. The anguished sounds rose as Brigitte surrendered fully to the pain. At one o’clock the twins crept down the hall in the blackness to stand near the open door, listen, then silently creep back to their rooms and into their beds to lie wide-eyed in the darkness, aware something was happening far beyond their childish ability to comprehend.
At half-past two o’clock Margaret rose, turned back the bedcovers, laid Brigitte down still fully dressed, and covered h
er. She stepped into the hall to bring the rocking chair inside the bedroom and close to the bed. She turned the lamp down low, slipped Brigitte’s coat about her own shoulders, and sat down in the rocker, where she would be at dawn, watching Brigitte sleep, feeling her daughter’s pain.
She waited in the dusky light, watching until Brigitte’s eyes finally closed in sleep, her pillow damp with tears.
Thoughts came to Margaret as she sat slowly rocking, and she let them come as they would. Why must all beautiful things in life bring pain? John—how I loved him—dead. Matthew—my eldest—gone—who knows if he is alive? Caleb—gone—dead or alive? Brigitte—such promise—so beautiful—gave her heart—Richard dead. Why do all the greatest joys in life bring the most terrible pain?
She paused in her rocking. Are such thoughts blasphemous? Will the Almighty forgive me if they are? Can He see into a mother’s heart and understand? I hope so. I hope so.
Notes
Brigitte Dunson and Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan are fictitious characters.
Philadelphia
June 1779
CHAPTER XII
* * *
Peggy Arnold started at the unexpected rap at her door. At half-past two on a warm Tuesday afternoon, during her private time? Who in the entire staff of servants would dare breach the rule? Two o’clock until three o’clock in the afternoon of every weekday was a sacred hour. The mistress of the estate was not to be disturbed for any reason short of dire emergency.
“Enter.”
The door opened and a uniformed male servant bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, madam. I carry a message from the General. He instructed that it be delivered immediately.”
Peggy stared. “My husband?”
“Yes, madam.”
She walked quickly from her vanity dresser to the door to accept the sealed note and open it.
“My Life: I have received an answer regarding your purchases from the crockery dealer. Needful I meet you alone in the library at three p.m. Reply.”
Peggy’s heart leaped, racing, and her breath came short.
The servant shifted his feet, nervous, wishing to be gone. “Madam, will there be an answer?”
“Yes. Tell the General I will be there. You are dismissed.”
The door closed and Peggy stared at the note. Stansbury! André! We have an answer!
She forced her wildly racing mind to slow, to go back once more and carefully put the pieces of the bizarre plan together, inspecting each minute detail for the flaw that could bring it crashing down on their heads and send her husband to the gallows. She paced on the thick India carpet as her mind reached back, as it had incessantly, every day for two months.
Some fragments of the mosaic she had known for nearly one year, but the horrendous reach of it was not revealed to her until April 8, 1779. On that day she and Benedict Arnold had gathered a small, select group of family and intimate friends for their marriage. Benedict could not stand on his leg, but no matter. A fellow officer stood beside him, holding him erect for the simple, very private ceremony.
Peggy had happily wrapped herself in the overwhelming opulence of the Penn estate and had gloried in being Mrs. Benedict Arnold, wife of the Military Governor of the great city of Philadelphia. She soon realized, however, that the price of the wealth and the honor, and sharing the powers and social status of his office, was watching her husband endure constant pain, some days crippling him altogether. Had all else in his life been in order, she believed he could have risen above the agonies of being crippled. But within forty-eight hours of their marriage, it seemed to her their world was threatened by powerful people whose sole design was to bring down her husband.
Joseph Reed and the Supreme Executive Council of Pennsylvania had published their despicable Proclamation, accusing Benedict of eight offenses that the Council hoped would destroy him. He answered them defiantly, and the Council brought the charges in the Pennsylvania courts. Benedict refused to recognize the courts’ authority to try him, protesting it was a military matter and appealing to General George Washington to convene a military court-martial to weigh the charges against him. The answer from General Washington was slow in coming, but in time the military proceeding was set for May 1, 1779. Other critical matters required it be postponed until June 1, 1779, and on the day the inquiry finally commenced, the British began a major offensive to the north, and once again General Washington had to postpone the trial while he moved to check General Clinton.
Despondent, with a growing suspicion that Congress, the Pennsylvania Council, and now the one friend on whom he had staked his future—General George Washington—had each intentionally or by coincidence conspired to ruin him, Benedict had returned from the aborted trial at Washington’s headquarters in the New Jersey highlands with his head down, shoulders sagging. He was unable to see a way to defend himself, strike back at his enemies, and move on to the wealth and glory that so clearly he had earned.
All this Peggy had learned one fragment at a time, and her heart reached out to her husband, wanting to share his unbearable burden, probing for any way she could find to lift him, inspire him. They had talked long and deep in the night, sometimes until dawn, searching to find a way through the confusing, bitter tangle of political and military accusations. In the end they knew they had to accept the hard truth. All Benedict’s dreams—all he had worked for, fought for, suffered for—was lost in the torrent of charges and acrimony that were now being trumpeted in the headlines of most newspapers and hotly debated throughout the United States.
Benedict found himself in the gall of bitterness, unable to understand how one who had given everything he possessed in mortality, short of his life, to the American cause, could find himself under fierce attack from every quarter. He was utterly alone, abandoned by everyone and everything he had fought to protect and save.
Then, in their darkest hour, from the depths of despondency, the casual suggestion had arisen between them: if the Americans were determined to deny him all he had earned, were there others who would be more willing?
On a night in May 1779, the germ took root, unspoken at first, then timorously given shape and form in words.
Would the British give him the reward denied him by the Americans?
Once the thought had seized their minds, it grew rapidly to an obsession. It drove them on, with the treason quickly taking on the mask of acceptability, and acceptability instantly becoming the honorable remedy by which they would cure all the ills in their lives. After all, had not the war forced America into an unholy alliance with France, the Catholic archenemy of the American Protestant faith? Had not the bloody conflict been protracted by good men turned evil, who were prolonging the war to get wealth from corrupt business dealings at the cost of the lives of their countrymen and every worthy goal set before the world in their Declaration of Independence?
Ending the war with Mother England was the answer. Stop the killing. Seek a peaceful solution. It was fair. It was just. If Benedict could be the instrument by which it came to pass, it was his duty to do so. And if he succeeded, could anyone deny him his just due? The fame and fortune he so richly deserved?
Covertly, hesitantly, they pondered the question: how does one go about the perilous business of contacting a sworn enemy to propose treachery? Who could they trust? One mistake would lead to the gallows.
Peggy clasped her hands to her breast. André! Of course! John André! Her ardent admirer, her escort to great balls and banquets in times past, he who had written poetry for her and read it so passionately, with violins softly moaning in the background. Was it not André who called Peggy and her cluster of friends his “Little Society of Third and Fourth Streets”? She had never lost touch with him, even after her marriage.
She was keenly aware that when André’s General Charles Grey followed General Howe to England, André had cultivated the favor of Howe’s successor, the churlish General Henry Clinton, now the commander of British forces in America. So ardently had John A
ndré courted the general that Clinton first appointed him an aide, then, in April of 1779 elevated him to the critically sensitive position of officer in charge of British intelligence, with the responsibility of encouraging rebellious Americans to defect to the British side. Who better? Peggy exclaimed. It seemed that fate had provided a trustworthy conduit to make their contact with General Henry Clinton.
How to contact André?
They pondered overnight before Peggy struck on it. Joseph Stansbury! A gregarious, amiable, likeable crockery dealer who was a dedicated social climber. She could not recall how many times he had been in attendance at the banquets and balls, always noticeable, always slapping backs, ingratiating himself to those who occupied the highest social strata in Philadelphia. And few knew that while he professed support for the American cause, he was in truth firmly dedicated to England, where he had been born and educated.
Joseph Stansbury was their man.
They summoned him to a secret meeting. He gaped at the audacity of their proposal, his mind reeling. Carry treasonous messages between Benedict Arnold and the British? Insanity! It was only when his brain recovered some sense of reason that he realized the possibilities. It was the gallows if the shocking scheme failed and he was discovered. But if he succeeded, it would be a great victory for England and mean a fortune for him. He weighed the proposal for days before he agreed.
In the privacy of a small room off the Arnold’s library, the three conspirators made their plan. Stansbury would carry a coded message to André in New York on the pretense of conducting another of his frequent buying and selling trips for his crockery business. He was sworn to secrecy; not another living being was to know.