Revolutionary New York was enveloped in an atmosphere of sombre unrest.
The English had driven out the patriot families; some loyalists,
however, who were persecuted in other colonies sought refuge in New
York, but they simply became hangers-on at a huge military camp.
Gayety was forced. The monotony of military cares bore heavily upon
the British leaders and at length desperation was traced upon their
faces. There was no enterprise. Something must be done or the spirit of
militarism would die.
Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander-in-Chief, was fat and short.
Punctilious with his officers, formal,--even distant, in his
manners--he was not one to inspire enthusiasm. His face was full, his
nose was large and prominent, and although an expression of animated
intelligence at times pervaded his countenance, still he lacked the
rare ability to inspire confidence and conviction. He was simply in
command because favoritism had placed him there; he was a drawing-room
general.
On a crisp day in November, General Clinton and Lord Carlisle were
surveying the landscape from the drawing-room of the Beekman mansion,
which was a beautiful seat of revolutionary times, and the chosen
country residence of the British Commander.
The blue waters of the bay were whipped into white waves as the
nor’east gale swept over the water. The energy of the wind broke forth
in sparkling waves upon the bosom of the harbor and Sir Henry explained
to Lord Carlisle how the commerce of the new continent would center in
this haven that was now controlled by his British forces. He gestured
confidently as he maintained that the admiralty had a base in New York
harbor from which to fit out its men-of-war and carry on the conflict
in any direction.
In the midst of his laborious arguments Sir Henry exclaimed:
“My Lord, there comes one of our forty-four-gun frigates! Zounds! She’s
standing right up to the inner anchorage. She may be a messenger from
our War Lord, Germaine.”
Sir Henry took up his spying-glass and stepped out upon the portico to
see what ship it might be.
Lord Carlisle walked back and forth impatiently, while Sir Henry
closely watched the movements of the ship.
These two men differed in their plans for the conduct of the war.
Lord Carlisle wished to offer a proclamation to the Colonists,
openly conceding everything that the people demanded except absolute
independence. But Sir Henry chafed under this means of procedure. He
saw that such a course implied the failure of the military to deal with
the problem of subduing the Americans. He contended that a decisive
stroke must be made by the army before any terms should be offered the
rebellious Colonists.
Carlisle spoke impatiently when the ship was looming up in full view:
“I hope that Germaine has sent Barclugh with definite instructions as
to our course. We are losing valuable time and opportunity here by
reason of our inactivity.”
This last word was a distinct challenge to Clinton, who lowered his
glass long enough to look squarely at Carlisle and remark spiritedly:
“There is no use to waste words, my Lord. We cannot afford to sacrifice
the reputation of English arms; it would be suicidal. Treat with the
rascals? Yes, when they have felt the force of our power. Now that they
have formed an alliance with our ancient enemy we must deal them a
crushing blow, first.”
Carlisle, however, was insisting upon the right of the commissioners to
dictate the policy, yet he did not care how the results were attained
so long as his mission to America was successful. Fox and Selwyn would
see that he was properly rewarded, provided the Colonies were not lost.
“Very good, Sir Henry,” retorted Carlisle, when the General stood
before him in an attitude of defiance, “but the longer that we wait,
the farther apart we drift. I am intent upon activities in one way or
another.”
“There she comes to,” continued Sir Henry, as he resumed his spying
investigations. “By the speed that she comes up the bay, I believe that
she may be the Prince Harry, the fastest cruiser of the Admiralty’s
register.”
“How deluded these rebels are to hold out against such odds on the
sea,” exclaimed Sir Henry, with animation. “How magnificent to behold
the seamanship of our sailors! Behold them swarm the yard-arms! There
go the anchors to the catheads! She swings to the cable! Her sails are
stowed in a twinkling! What discipline! I maintain our sovereignty of
the seas and we have no business to beg a settlement except at our own
terms,” concluded General Clinton as he turned upon Lord Carlisle,
waving his little fat hands and arms majestically.
Carlisle saw where Sir Henry had placed him when he appealed to an
Englishman’s vanity, his ships; but he looked at General Clinton
through those blue eyes for an instant and fell back upon the only
argument that an Englishman could never withstand.
“But, Sir Henry, you do not comprehend,” argued Carlisle, “what an
expenditure of treasure this war has already cost the King’s exchequer.
Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, says: ‘We shall all be
paupers by this everlasting drain on our gold.’ Sir Henry, I represent
the financial side of this problem.”
“Well, my Lord,” retorted Sir Henry, “all that I can say to your
argument is, that with your money power, as now constituted, having
your Bank Governor at the throat of our nation, you will make cowards
of us all. We shall lose the toil of two centuries and the sacrifices
of twenty generations of Englishmen in colonizing a wilderness. For
what? For the dross called pounds sterling! The Colonists are unruly
children. Chastise them and then bring them back home and treat them
generously.”
Carlisle now paced nervously up and down the portico, evidently
thinking of how he would turn the last argument of Sir Henry, when the
little fat body of the General fairly bubbled over with pugnacity as he
grew red in the face and exclaimed:
“If the War Lord would give me the men to chastise the rebels well, and
not listen to the whining Bank Governor, we could wage a successful
campaign and make an honorable peace.”
Lord Carlisle held his peace and glared at Clinton.
Now General Clinton turned toward the bay and there beheld events
transpiring that turned the temper of his conversation.
“Zounds!” he exclaimed. “They have lowered a boat and are making for
the Battery. There must be despatches or important personages aboard.”
He raised his glass and looked upon the boat’s crew approaching the
shore.
“We need not bother ourselves,” contended Sir Henry, “Andre will
forward anything of importance to us.”
The two representatives of government then returned to the drawing-room
to get out of the biting wind and to indulge in a bottle of Madeira for
old England’s sake.
At the office of the Commander-in-Chief, No. 1 Broadway, was Major John
Andre who had come from the capture of Charleston with General Clinton
as Adjutant General of the English Army. He was unmarried and young and
affable. His lodgings were in the same house as the General’s office
and he dined at the King’s Arms Tavern, No. 9 Broadway, a few doors
from his quarters.
As soon as the boat could land from the Prince Harry, no time was lost
in forwarding the despatches to headquarters.
A passenger came ashore, a young man dressed in the style of a Parisian
of fashion. He had travelled under an assumed name, for even the
British naval officers were not to know his mission. The arrangement
of his queue was faultless. His satins and sword, his laces and
high-heeled shoes, indicated the courtier. But Pierre La Fitte was none
other than Roderick Barclugh on his mission for the King of England.
When Major Andre appeared in the ante-room of the headquarters of
General Clinton, he extended his hand to this strange gentleman
cordially and said:
“I believe that I have the honor of addressing M. Pierre La Fitte.”
“That’s what I am called,” replied the stranger.
“Very well, sir,” continued Andre. “I will take you to my quarters as I
understand that you are on a secret mission.”
When Major Andre had received the despatches there was one in cipher
marked “important” and it read as follows:
“Whitehall, Sept. 25, 177--
“Sir: I have the honor to send on a particular secret Mission to
America, our esteemed Friend, M. Pierre La Fitte.
“He accompanies this despatch and his Identity must be kept a
profound Secret.
“Provide him with secret and suitable Quarters and put him in
communication with General Clinton and Lord Carlisle at the earliest
possible moment.
“Geo. Germaine.
“Adj’t. Gen. John Andre.”
As soon as Major Andre had conducted M. La Fitte to sleeping apartments
adjoining his own, and had made the stranger welcome, he sent a courier
with despatches and information to the Beekman House that M. La Fitte
would be accompanied by himself to meet Lord Carlisle and the General.
La Fitte rested until nightfall when darkness would conceal his
movements.
A post-chaise drew up in front of the headquarters and two gentlemen
disguised in great-coats emerged from the building and made their way
to the carriage.
The three miles to the Beekman House were quickly covered and the
secret agent alighted with Major Andre. The two approached the mansion
and a sentry challenged them, but the Adjutant was recognized and
allowed to enter. A liveried footman announced the two to the General
who greeted them eagerly in the reception room.
“We are gratified to have you with us, Mr. Barclugh, and we believe
that the nature of your mission will not let you remain in our midst
very long.”
“I am glad to hear you address me by my own name, General Clinton,”
responded Barclugh. “My voyage has been tedious, indeed, under my
assumed name of M. La Fitte.”
The sealed instructions on Barclugh’s mission had been forwarded by
Major Andre to the Beekman House and they were as follows:
“Whitehall, 24 Sept, 177--
“Sir: I have the great Pleasure of conveying the King’s Commands, by
introducing to you Mr. Roderick Barclugh who is commissioned to act
as the Special Secret Agent of His Majesty to the Men of Substance
among his Rebellious Colonists.
“When the Duration of the Rebellion is considered, it has been
mortifying to his Majesty to have no decisive Blow inflicted to
speedily suppress the rebels; and His Majesty commands me to
instruct that your Assistance to the Diplomacy of Mr. Barclugh and
Lord Carlisle would be most gratifying to His Royal Pleasure.
“It is a great Pleasure to me to have another Occasion of obeying
the King’s Commands by desiring you to convey to Lord Carlisle, His
Majesty’s approbation of His Lordship’s mission to America.
“I am, sir, your most obedient humble servant,
“Geo. Germaine.
“Sir Henry Clinton, K. B.”
Lord Carlisle was much flattered by the receipt of the King’s
encouragement, although Clinton noted in the letter a slight expression
of unrest over the lack of results in the war.
However, Clinton did not take all of the burden of blame on himself;
Lords Howe and Cornwallis had made some of the mistakes in the Jersey
Campaigns and he was willing for the diplomatists to take a hand at the
subjugation of the rebels, for a while, at least. They had talked much,
as usual; now let them try their skill at results.
Sir Henry had to give some instructions to his Adjutant, so he turned
to Roderick Barclugh as he remarked:
“Excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Barclugh. I have some urgent matters
to dispose of.”
“Certainly,” returned Barclugh as he took up a discussion of affairs
with Lord Carlisle, asking:
“What is the situation here, my Lord?”
“Oh, it’s hard to convince these military people,” answered Carlisle
as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of General
Clinton and Andre.
“I presume so,” assented Barclugh, dryly, as he shrugged his shoulders.
“But what have you done, my Lord, on _your_ mission?” asked Barclugh.
“Oh, nothing but to wait for you,” answered Carlisle disgustedly.
“Well, we must do something very soon, or know the cause,” declared
Barclugh as General Clinton approached them.
“Gentlemen,” remarked General Clinton, “we might better retire to the
Council Chamber and discuss our matters there. Shall I send for Mr.
Eden, my Lord?”
“Never mind Eden, General,” replied Carlisle. “Mr. Barclugh is anxious
to conclude with us and be about his own mission. I know that he is
impatient at least to be out of New York,” replied Carlisle bluntly.
“Very well, very well, gentlemen,” assented Clinton as he led the way
to the staircase and bowed to the other two in Pickwickian fashion as
he said:
“After you,” and he bowed and gestured toward the staircase with his
chubby hand.
A bright fire crackled in the fireplace of a nearly square room where
the diplomats were to hold council with the Commander-in-Chief; a round
table in the center contained a large map of the Colonies; a half
dozen straight-backed bandy-legged chairs stood around carelessly;
and a corner closet with a glass door was well stocked with a choice
selection of Madeira.
Here were three representatives of English authority presented with the
problem of subduing the rebellious Colonies. Each one, however, had his
own pet theory of serving the King, ostensibly for the glory of the
King, but primarily to gain glory for himself.
Clinton could see no means of ending the war except by military
subjugation; Carlisle was entirely for conciliation and Barclugh was
bent on subornation. All of these theories were launched upon the
Colonists at the same time by the subtle minds of George III and his
advisers.
Barclugh was impatient to begin the discussion, so he pulled his chair
up to the table and began to tell his story unceremoniously:
“Gentlemen, my mission is to create a diversion among the men of
substance in the Colonies, and I shall do it on a commercial basis.
If the military can do its part and pound the army of Mr. Washington
into a defensive position and at the same time subjugate the southern
Colonies as is planned by the War Lord, I will overcome the men of
substance by means of finance and commerce. Their commercial instincts
will overshadow the phantom of independence. The merchants will desire
peace and the old order of stable money and settled commerce. They
cannot resist the consideration of self-interests. Then Lord Carlisle
and his commissioners can proclaim that the Colonists may have all of
the political freedom and the representation that they desire, as long
as they keep up their allegiance to the throne of England.
“But above all where the Colonists will fail,” concluded Barclugh,
“will be in their lack of gold. When the gold of England is put in the
balance, the men of substance will see the hopelessness of their cause.”
“Right you are, Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Lord Carlisle. “We can grant
them a few titles of nobility also which they will not be able to
resist.”
“But gentlemen,” added Clinton, “the military could put the forces of
Mr. Washington on the defensive at once if we could only take that
stronghold of West Point. That is our stumbling-block. Our ships could
control the Hudson and cut New England off from the rest, if we could
ascend above West Point. There lies the key to the military situation.
West Point is the Gibraltar of America.
“But,” continued Clinton, “how do you propose to reach Philadelphia,
Mr. Barclugh?”
“My plan is, General Clinton,” replied Barclugh, “to embark here,
on one of your ships which will take me to the east shore of the
Chesapeake Bay and land me in the night. I shall make my way by land
through Delaware to Wilmington, thence to Philadelphia. My story shall
be that I was landed by a French privateer that was cruising in these
waters.”
“Very well laid, sir!” exclaimed General Clinton, rubbing his hands. “I
have the very ship, the Vulture, Captain Sutherland, that can take you
on board at once and proceed on the mission.”
“Gentlemen, I can conceive of nothing but success in the plans of Mr.
Barclugh,” said Lord Carlisle, “and I propose that we drink to his
success.”
The three plotters stood around the table and General Clinton filled
each one’s glass from the buffet with his rarest Madeira, then raising
his glass, the Commander of His Majesty’s forces in America, proposed
a toast, which was drunk in silence:
“Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
God save the King.”
After a few civilities exchanged by the King’s representatives,
Roderick Barclugh was conducted aboard the sloop-of-war, Vulture, which
was commanded to sail for the Capes of the Chesapeake and land its
passenger at the earliest possible moment.