Two Crowns for America Read online

  “Aye, but Grand Master no more, dear friend. Only and ever your Brother in the Craft. I have come to take my leave of you.”

  “Dear Joseph …”

  “I may not tarry long,” Warren interrupted, quiet but emphatic. “I have come to tell you of a great battle fought today on the Charleston peninsula, for possession of a fortified height called Breed’s Hill. Twice the British advanced on our position, and twice were repelled. But for a want of powder, we might have held them a third time. Even so, it cost them dear.”

  “Our cost was dear as well, if your life was part of it,” Andrew whispered, shaking his head.

  Warren had laughed softly at that—a charming, gentle little chuckle that pulled at Andrew’s heart.

  “Dear friend, I am well content that my life should have been offered upon the altar of Liberty. British losses were nearly three times our own, even though they outnumbered us by half again. I count such outcome worth the cost. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”

  “No!” Andrew said defiantly. “I have seen too many men die for their country. What is sweet or glorious about the carnage of battle?”

  “In life I would not have argued that point,” Warren said quietly. “Certainly not as a physician, called upon to mend the bodies broken by war. Nonetheless, each death serves its purpose in the Plan of The Great Architect. Of that I can assure you.”

  “Can you?”

  “I can. Today the British learned that men of the New World wage a different kind of war than the Old World knows. In the months and perhaps years to come, they will hesitate because of what happened at Breed’s Hill. And American soldiers learned today that they can stand against British Regulars.”

  “You were not able to stand.”

  “No, I fell,” Warren said simply. “It was my time. And now it is my time to go. Farewell, Brother Andrew. I leave you with my undying affection and my fraternal blessing. Pray, remember me.”

  The shadowy figure was already fading, even as Andrew reached out in wordless entreaty to bid him stay. He had come to himself in a room suddenly gone cold, the fire spent, his hand still lifted in the Masonic Sign of Grieving.

  Nor might that grieving yet be shared beyond a scant handful of intimates whose discretion was absolute, for express riders still had not reached Philadelphia with news of the battle—and would not, for several more days. Few would be surprised to learn that a battle had taken place in Boston—indeed, any of a number of the men sitting in the Continental Congress might have predicted it, especially after Concord and Lexington, two months before—but certain knowledge, so quickly and by such means, was another matter.

  Andrew’s highland ancestors might have known and honored the gift of Second Sight in centuries now past, but the New World was suspicious of such phenomena. The time still was not so long past since others possessing far lesser gifts had been burned for their differences, not so very far from his own Cambridge. Andrew himself believed that whatever powers he and his possessed came from God, but there were those who would disagree. Indeed, some of the men assembled here did not even believe in the traditional Christian God, though most at least embraced a God of natural order. His brethren in Freemasonry referred to this Supreme Being as The Great Architect of the Universe—which was as good a name as any, Andrew supposed.

  In that, at least, Andrew shared a common bond with most of the men in the room, including the one about to be commissioned Commander in Chief. George Washington had been a Freemason for more than twenty years. Andrew’s son Simon, sitting directly behind the great man, had been one nearly as long—and other things besides. The Masonic Brotherhood was well represented in the New World.

  Indeed, it largely had been Freemasons—Simon among them—who had precipitated colonial resistance some two years before, when Paul Revere, Junior Warden of his Lodge in Boston, had led the Sons of Liberty in what soon became known as the Boston Tea Party. Somewhat surprisingly at the time, the usually stolid Washington had referred to the tea coming in under heavy English tax as “gunpowder tea.” When asked why he had called it so, he had replied that he feared it would prove inflammable and produce an explosion that would shake both countries. In retrospect, Andrew had to wonder whether it had been a mere turn of phrase or a flash of prescience.

  Remembering the now famous tea escapade, Andrew briefly allowed his fond gaze to rest on his son, today wearing a scarlet-faced blue militia uniform similar to Washington’s, with major’s epaulets on the shoulders. It was not only the bond of Freemasonry that Simon and the incipient Commander in Chief shared. Like young Colonel Washington of Virginia, an even younger Simon Wallace had served under British officers in the French and Indian War, gaining valuable experience for the task ahead. Neither had practiced war in the intervening years, but both now were ready to take up their swords again.

  The two had renewed their acquaintance the previous year at the First Continental Congress, where Washington had represented Virginia and Simon had served as secretary to one of the members of the Massachusetts delegation. The friendship had flourished since then, with the result that Simon expected to be named to the General’s personal staff—which suited Andrew very well, since the gentleman from Virginia figured in their plans.

  But Washington must not know that—nor, indeed, any of the colonial leaders save those also committed to the Vision that inspired Andrew and his kin. Patriot leaders intent on slipping the yoke of British government would not look kindly upon other reins of guidance already well in place in the New World, regardless of how benign that guidance might be. Andrew’s superiors did not intend to impose their direction on the fledgling nation now aborning in the New World, but at least the opportunity to accept or reject must be offered. Or so Andrew had been instructed.

  He returned his gaze to the podium as Hancock paused and shuffled some papers. Beside Andrew a black-haired young man in the scarlet and buff of Massachusetts’s Independent Company of Cadets slipped onto the end of the bench and gave him a grin of anticipation—Justin Carmichael, the brother of Simon’s wife, twenty-two years old and destined for important things. Justin’s father had been a Scottish Jacobite, his mother a French one, and Justin and his sister Arabella had inherited the fire and ardent loyalties of both. Just now Justin’s hero of the hour was the man about to be commissioned Commander in Chief.

  An expectant hush rippled through the packed statehouse as Hancock cleared his throat importantly. The document in his hand had been unanimously approved by Congress the day before. He had sought the nomination as Commander in Chief for himself, but now he declared the appointment of another with grace and dignity.

  “In Congress,” he read. “The delegates of the United Colonies of New Hampshire, Massachusetts Bay, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, New Castle, Kent, and Sussex on Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina to George Washington Esquire.”

  Washington slowly rose as his name was read out, removing his hat and bowing slightly to Hancock as the president of Congress continued.

  “We, reposing especial trust and confidence in your patriotism, conduct, and fidelity, do by these presents constitute and appoint you to be General and Commander in Chief of the army of the United Colonies and of all the forces raised or to be raised by them and of all others who shall voluntarily offer their service and join the said army for the defense of American liberty and for repelling every hostile invasion thereof. And you are hereby vested with full power and authority to act as you shall think for the good and welfare of the service.

  “And we do hereby strictly charge and require all officers and soldiers under your command to be obedient to your orders and diligent in the exercise of their several duties.

  “And we do also enjoin and require you to be careful in executing the great trust reposed in you by causing strict discipline and order to be observed in the army.…”

  As Hancock continued reading, the man who was the subject of the docume
nt stood quietly and with head bowed as he listened to the charge laid upon him by his associates. As had been customary during his tenure as a delegate from his native Virginia, he wore the uniform of his service in the French and Indian War of nearly twenty years before: blue coat faced with red and edged with narrow gold lace—though the breeches and waistcoat, formerly of scarlet, had been replaced by buff. He wore a black silk military stock close round his throat, but he had set aside the gilded brass gorget that formerly had signified his rank as a Virginia colonel. Today he stood before them devoid of any emblem of rank save a gentleman’s silver-hilted smallsword at his left side.

  Not that any further accoutrement was necessary. Even had he not stood a solid six feet two inches, in a day when six-footers were a rarity, by his sheer physical presence he would have dominated any gathering of which he was a part. He was large-boned and heavy of waist and thighs, though narrow of chest and shoulders, with big hands and feet that, at rest, suggested the gawky. Yet in motion, especially astride a horse, he moved with astonishing grace. Indeed, most reckoned him the finest horseman of his age.

  Today, however, he did not sit astride a horse, but stood with buckled shoes planted firmly on the statehouse floor, big hands fingering his black tricorn with a slightly nervous gesture, gray-blue eyes averted beneath the tied and powdered hair.

  “… this commission to continue in force until revoked by this or a future Congress.

  “Dated Philadelphia, June 19, 1775. By Order of the Congress—John Hancock, President. Attest: Charles Thomson, Secretary.” Hancock lowered the document and made a little bow. “General Washington, may I be the first to offer you congratulations on your new command.”

  The eyes of his subject had lifted as Hancock finished reading, and flinched just a little as the assembled delegates broke into spontaneous applause and came to their feet in respect. Andrew almost pitied the man who took the commission from Hancock’s hands, for he knew the new general’s very real disquiet when nominated to the position less than a week before. Indeed, as John Adams’s intention became clear, when lodging the nomination, Washington had slipped quietly out of the room. He had not sought the command—indeed, had supported the nomination of General Artemas Ward, presently commanding the forces outside Boston.

  “Mr. President,” he had read to Congress in a halting, rather high voice, in the acceptance speech that followed his unanimous election, “though I am truly sensible of the high honor done me in this appointment, yet I feel great distress from a consciousness that my abilities and military experience may not be equal to the extensive and important trust. However, as the Congress desires, I will enter upon the momentous duty and exert every power I possess in their service for the support of the glorious cause. I beg they will accept my most cordial thanks for this distinguished testimony of their approbation.”

  He had meant what he said—of both his gratitude and his distress at being handed such a responsibility. Whether most in the chamber realized how firmly Washington meant it was another matter. Andrew felt confident that the new general was equal to the task—if any American was—but only time would reveal whether that faith was justified.

  Just now, however, the Congress appeared to have no doubts. The applause and the cheering went on for long minutes as the new Commander in Chief began shaking hands with the men who had elected him: first Hancock, who had handed over his commission—and had wanted the position for himself; then John Adams, who had nominated him; fellow Virginian Patrick Henry, already notorious for his fiery and unequivocable opinions; Samuel Adams, who had seconded the nomination; Dr. Franklin, newly returned from England.

  Andrew watched until the General had worked his way to Simon, still accepting their congratulations, then touched Justin’s sleeve and rose to leave.

  “There’ll be no more work here today, lad. Come.”

  Friends of the new Commander in Chief hosted him to a celebratory dinner that night, a score of them descending upon Peg Mullen’s Beefsteak House, close by the bank of the Schuylkill River, to eat and drink to future glory. Most of them were fellow delegates to the Continental Congress, but a few were military colleagues or personal friends. Major Simon Wallace was among them, and also the senior Wallace. Young Justin Carmichael had retired to the inn where the three of them were staying, being too junior for inclusion in the General’s circle of intimates. Dr. James Ramsay sat eating with several of the Massachusetts delegates on the other side of the room.

  “Who invited him?” Simon said, pushing aside an empty plate as he and his father watched Ramsay through a haze of tobacco smoke, from the relative shelter of a window that looked out toward the river.

  “Well, he says he’s still employed as a secretary to the Massachusetts delegation,” said the elder Wallace, “so I’d guess that’s who invited him.”

  “I know what he says,” Simon muttered. “Why is it I’m not certain I believe him? He’s up to something, Andrew. I don’t know what, but I do know that I’m no longer certain I trust him.”

  “That’s a serious statement,” Andrew replied, puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe. “On what do you base it?”

  Simon took a long pull at his tankard and then shook his head perplexedly. “I wish I could tell you. A gut feeling. That’s hardly fair to Ramsay, I know, but—”

  He shrugged and shook his head, his gaze shifting to follow Washington as the new general greeted the just-arrived Benjamin Franklin. After a moment he smiled faintly and said, “He’s asked me to accompany him to Boston. I’m to be an additional aide, attached to his personal staff. The appointment carries a Continental commission as major.”

  “Excellent,” Andrew murmured. “That appointment was vital. When does he plan to leave?”

  “Probably Thursday or Friday. He’d like to leave tomorrow, but there are still a number of details to work out before he goes.”

  Andrew nodded, puffing contentedly on his pipe. “That’s to be expected. Incidentally, when the news from Boston eventually catches up with him, do what you can to ease the shock. Being in command can give such news a different potency. I don’t know whether he and Warren were acquainted or not, but he may have lost personal friends.”

  “I’ll do the best I can,” Simon agreed. “Am I to mention your visitation or no?”

  “Probably not—though I leave that to your good judgment at the time. If it seems appropriate, tell him. If he should find the dream disturbing, he can always dismiss it as the wishful fantasies of an addled old man. On the other hand, it could well give him comfort.”

  As Simon nodded grave agreement, Andrew took another puff on his pipe, his attention drawn to the flurry of laughter that welled around Franklin as he shared some snippet of homespun humor with Dr. Benjamin Rush and young Thomas Jefferson. Smiling slightly, he gestured with his pipe at the bespectacled Franklin.

  “It’s good he’s returned for all of this. I’m informed he shall have a key part to play in the Plan.”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had instructions?”

  “Nothing specific yet, regarding him, but he may have had instructions before leaving London. At very least his political role will remain important. He’s well respected in Europe. I expect that Congress will send him to the French court to try to secure aid. As for other levels of involvement—we shall have to wait and see.”

  “Indeed.” Eyes narrowed, Simon measured Franklin more carefully through the haze of smoke, then refilled his tankard from a pitcher set on the scarred table between them, emptying the pitcher in the process. “Have you any idea when we might receive more specific instructions?” he asked when he had taken a long pull.

  “It still takes two to three months for a letter to cross the Atlantic,” Andrew replied with a shake of his head. “If nothing is waiting when we return to Cambridge, I thought I’d send Justin with new inquiries. Besides, it’s high time he met the Master in person—if he can find him.”

  Simon smiled. Both of them were well
acquainted with the frequent and clandestine peregrinations of the man whose agents they were.

  “You set him a formidable task, for his first trip abroad. I gather you’re pleased with his progress, then?”

  “I am. I expect I may use him as a regular courier, as the situation progresses—depending, of course, upon how the Master perceives him. Now that you have your appointment from Washington, I suggest that you arrange to make Justin your aide. That will give him the freedom to move as necessary.”

  Simon nodded. “I have no idea what my specific arrangements will be, but I’m sure something can be worked out. You’re certain you and Arabella won’t need him?”

  “Oh, I’m very certain we shall—but you shall need him more,” Andrew replied. “Nonetheless, we’ll discuss that further once we’ve all gotten back to Cambridge. Do you know if the General plans any stops?”

  “A few days in New York, I think, but he’s eager to take up his command, now that his appointment is official. And he’ll be even more eager when he gets the latest news—if ‘eager’ is the right word. In any case, General Gage won’t stay bottled up in Boston indefinitely.”

  “No, he will not.” Andrew cast his eye over the room. “Who else will be in his party?”

  “General Lee, General Schuyler, Joseph Reed to act as his secretary, Thomas Mifflin as official aide-de-camp—and the other generals’ aides, of course. He’s taking a carriage, I believe, but no baggage train. He wants to move quickly. The Philadelphia Light Horse will escort us as far as New York.”

  “Well, he shall reach Cambridge soon enough, then, and with heavy enough heart,” Andrew replied. “But look you. Here’s a toast about to be made, and my tankard is empty. Is there anything in that pitcher?”

  “No, but share some of mine,” Simon murmured, sloshing half of his remaining ale into his father’s tankard.

  Across the room, and at some remove from the General as well, one of the delegates near Jefferson had gotten to his feet and set one foot on his chair, lifting his glass, while another of his colleagues clanged a pewter spoon against a tankard of the same.