Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6 Page 5

  “You are dismissed.”

  André and Broadhead saluted, Easton returned it, and both captains turned on their heels to march from the room.

  For ten seconds Easton stood still, staring unseeing at the big varnished door, with the growing awareness that he had just concluded an encounter with one of the most enigmatic, gifted, charismatic men he had ever met. He could recall no one with a cooler head under pressure. He saw no limits to which John André could not rise in the military, or in the political structure of the Empire.

  The sound of the front door closing reached the library. General Easton sat down in his chair and reached for the stack of correspondence Pelham had laid on the corner of his desk and settled in. The relentless burdens of command left little time for pointless speculation.

  Half a block up the street, with the warm May sun on their shoulders and the city of Philadelphia in full bloom, Broadhead waited until they were well away from Easton’s command headquarters before he turned to André. Officers of equal rank who had worked closely together for weeks, there was no pretense of military protocol between them.

  “You led me in there like a lamb to the slaughter. Easton had your military file. He was looking for a chance to either strip us of rank on the spot, or court-martial both of us. You didn’t tell me!”

  André turned a blank look at him. “I didn’t know. His aide—Pelham, I think—said he wanted a report. That’s all I was told.”

  “He can ruin your military career.”

  André glanced at Broadhead as they walked. “Just get the money on his desk this afternoon, and that report on his desk by tomorrow morning. It’ll all be forgotten.”

  “Maybe.”

  They walked on, shoulder to shoulder, with sunlight and the colors of spring flooding the city. Carriages, carts drawn by horses, and dogs filled the streets. Lifted by the renewal of spring, people nodded and filled the air with lighthearted greetings. Children shouted and stopped for a moment in their play to peer at the two young British officers passing in their colorful crimson tunics and white breeches.

  Broadhead gestured with his hand. “I didn’t know you were taken prisoner at the St. John’s matter.”

  “I was. Thirteen months a prisoner of war.”

  “What happened up there?”

  “It was in the fall of 1775. Ethan Allen and his force came north to conquer Canada. The key to the battle was the fort at St. John’s. I was there. We were running out of everything—food, clothing, munitions. We sent word to Carleton at Quebec to send supplies but nothing happened. We held out as long as we could, and then surrendered. November third.”

  “Who were the American officers?”

  “Montgomery. Benedict Arnold joined him to attack Quebec. They were stopped at the walls of the city. Montgomery was killed. Arnold was wounded but got away.”

  “The same Arnold who defeated General Burgoyne at Saratoga last October?”

  “The same.”

  “I heard he took wounds at Saratoga that crippled him. Probably never will return to combat duty.”

  André slowed and looked directly at Broadhead. “Don’t discount Benedict Arnold. He’ll be back. We’ll see him in action again, one way or another.”

  Surprised by André’s intensity, Broadhead fell silent, and the men walked on for a time, each with his own thoughts.

  André pointed. “Next block is the beginning of the most elite section in town. Third and Fourth Avenues. The Little Society of Third and Fourth Streets. We’re going to the Shippen estate, right in the middle of it.”

  “Edward Shippen? What’s this about him being a judge on the Admiralty Court?”

  “He was, until the court was abolished. Now he’s a member of the Pennsylvania Provincial Council.”

  “Is he really powerful enough that Parliament knows of him?”

  “Yes. The Shippens were there when the Penns got rights to this colony, and the two families have worked together for four or five generations to make Pennsylvania what it is. When the rebels decided to fight, Edward Shippen refused to join them. He’s declared himself a neutral. Won’t take sides for fear of losing the estate and the power gained by his family. Puts him in a bad position because he’s sworn to uphold British law to serve on the Provincial Council, but if he does, the rebels are likely to take revenge against him, or his family. He moved them all to Amwell in New Jersey for a time. Then the New Jersey legislature passed what they called their ‘Act to Punish Traitors and Other Disaffected Persons,’ which made Shippen a traitor. So he came back to Philadelphia. Then Pennsylvania passed their Test Act, which made him a spy. He knew enough politicians to avoid real trouble in Pennsylvania, and he decided to stay, but got out of Philadelphia to a small farm to avoid the battle he was sure was coming when we took the city. There was no battle, so he moved back into his mansion. That’s where we’re going right now.”

  “Margaret? Or is it Peggy?”

  “Margaret. Called Peggy. Nearly eighteen. A bit spoiled. As a child she threw tantrums to get her own way. Loves the high life. Thinks Americans are mostly crude country bumpkins. She is one of the most beautiful young ladies I ever saw. Charming. Educated. Sophisticated. Has an unusual relationship with her father. She’s the only one in the family who understands him. She can talk with him on his own level. Odd for a girl just eighteen. With all, she’s quite worth knowing. You can make your own judgment in about three minutes. Their estate is right there.”

  André pointed, and Broadhead fell into awed silence.

  The two-storied mansion was constructed of red and black brick, with a sixty-foot, inlaid brick walkway leading from the cobblestone street, dividing the lawns and manicured flower beds, leading to the six-column portico that sheltered a massive porch and double-door entrance.

  The two young officers stood in front of the imposing doors, and André tapped the two-pound brass lion’s head door knocker on the brass receiving plate, and waited. The doorknob turned and a tall, sparse, uniformed servant swung the door open, then stopped short for a moment, surprised at the sight of two British officers facing him.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain John André to see Edward Shippen. This is Captain Amos Broadhead.”

  “Is he expecting you, sir?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Wait here, please.”

  Half a minute later the servant reappeared. “The master will see you. Follow me, please.”

  He held the door, the two officers stepped inside the parlor, and Captain Broadhead gaped at what he saw, stunned by the magnificence of the furnishings that utterly filled the great room.

  Notes

  John André is the British officer who plotted treason with American General Benedict Arnold to deliver Fort West Point on the Hudson River to the British. Thus, André became a significant figure in the history of the founding of our country.

  The ancestry, birth, early schooling, and development of John André, as well as his training in the arts, specifically sketching, music, and poetry, are set forth in this chapter, together with his circle of artistically inclined and talented friends. Thereafter his broken engagement to Honora Sneyd, entry into the army as a lieutenant, and later his advancement to higher rank, are defined, including his capture following the British defeat at St. John’s, and his imprisonment for thirteen months thereafter, followed by his liberation and return to duty. He served under General Gray and was part of the planning of the terrible “Paoli Massacre,” as well as an officer leading men into the nighttime battle.

  He was later assigned to duty in British-occupied Philadelphia, and it was there he found himself, with twenty-two other officers, assigned to create the “meschianza” farewell for General William Howe. The description of the meschianza, including the extensive employment of André’s artistic and poetic talents, the amount of money involved, the amounts raised by donations from the officers, the costumes, the use of fourteen young American Philadelphian ladies clad in filmy Turkish ha
rem costumes, and the use of the Delaware River for the great, grand finale, are historically accurate, including the involvement of Peggy Chew and Peggy Shippen as two of the fourteen girls (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 20–37; 73–82; 137–60; Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 462–63).

  Meschianza is the Italian word for medley (Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 461).

  André was captured by the Americans following the St. John’s battle, on November 3, 1775, and exchanged as a prisoner of war on December 10, 1776 (Mackesy, The War for America, 1778–1783, p. 80).

  Philadelphia

  Mid-May 1778

  CHAPTER III

  * * *

  Captain Broadhead stared. Overhead, a French chandelier of cut crystal, twelve feet from rim to rim with two hundred candles spaced in two tiers, hung on a huge gold-plated chain. A broad, graceful walnut staircase, leading to the second floor, curved up the wall to the right. To the left, a gigantic stone fireplace and ornate mantel formed the wall. French doors of leaded glass panes stood straight ahead, opening onto four acres of lawn, flower beds, decorative trees of every variety, a fruit orchard, and a massive barn for highbred horses. Commissioned paintings of pastoral scenes, winter landscapes, and tall ships gallantly braving storms adorned the walls and the hallways. On both floors, broad carpeted corridors with gold fixtures holding lamps led to all twenty-six rooms, including eight bedrooms. The main hallway on the ground floor led to the prodigious library, which served as office, study, retreat, and hideaway for the master of the household, Edward Shippen Jr.

  The servant cleared his throat, and André turned to Broadhead. “Captain?”

  Broadhead clacked his gaping mouth closed and followed André and the servant down the great hallway to the library door. The servant turned the handle and held the door while they entered. The opulence was overpowering. Three walls were oak-shelved for books of every description. A stone fireplace divided the fourth wall, with commissioned paintings hanging on both sides. Seated behind an eight-foot desk of carved mahogany was Edward Shippen. The aroma of sweet pipe tobacco lay lightly in the air.

  Of average height, tending toward paunchy, square faced, with noncommittal hazel eyes, Shippen rose to face them. His entire life had been dedicated to the practical, no-nonsense business of managing wealth and position, and the pursuit had left him with the rather blank look of a man who possessed almost no imagination and very little original, creative thought. His demeanor was cordial, if slightly condescending.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. I understand you wish to see me?”

  André came to attention. “Sir, I am Captain John André. My companion is Captain Amos Broadhead. I believe I had the honor of meeting you on one or two other occasions. The New Year’s ball at the Waltham estate?”

  “I recall. So nice to see you again.”

  “I am here under orders of General Horace Easton. I’m sure you must have heard of the farewell planned for General Howe.”

  “Yes. Matter of fact I have. Soon, isn’t it?”

  “The eighteenth of this month, sir. Five days. Sir, fourteen young ladies have been selected from all those in the city to participate. Three of them are your daughters, Margaret, Rebecca, and Ruth. We respectfully request your permission that they appear in the grand finale. They will be cast in the role of ladies-in-waiting. Two teams of our officers will joust for their hands in the fashion of knights of long ago. Perfectly harmless. The young ladies will not be required to take speaking roles.”

  Shippen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who are the other young ladies?”

  “Notably, Peggy Chew, daughter of Judge Benjamin Chew.”

  Shippen’s eyebrows arched. “Judge Chew? Has he consented?”

  “In writing. This morning.”

  Open surprise flickered in Shippen’s face. “If this is to be reminiscent of ancient chivalry, how are the girls to be dressed?”

  “Well, sir, it has been decided they will be costumed as Turkish maidens.”

  Shippen started. “Turkish? You mean, harem girls?”

  “Not exactly, sir. Just young maidens in Turkish costumes.”

  “Turkish? Could you describe the costume to me?”

  André turned to Broadhead. “Could I have that sketch, please?”

  Broadhead fumbled in the folder and extracted a parchment. André laid it on the desk and straightened. “That is a sketch, sir.”

  Shippen’s eyes widened. “The sketch is masterful, but the costume—well—it leaves much to be desired, considering this is Philadelphia.”

  “I appreciate your concern, sir, but may I point out, the costume is modest in every respect. The only reservation is the fact it is not common in America. No one here has ever seen such. I’m certain it will be well-received. And I am sorry to say, sir, the cost will have to be paid by those who participate.”

  Shippen pursed his mouth, and for several seconds fell into thoughtful silence. He found himself in the same painful position he had battled since the shooting started in Concord on April 19, 1775. If he offended the British, he risked losing his position on the Provincial Council, along with his income and much of his political power. On the other hand, if he offended the Americans, he could be punished should they retake Pennsylvania and enforce their recent law against all who refused to take an oath opposing the British. With all his heart he detested the thought of sending his highbred daughters into a public place clad in the gaudy costume of a Turkish harem girl, but standing before him were two British officers under orders of a British general—Horace Easton. If he offended them, what would the repercussions be?

  As always, his decision fell on the side of least damage to his precious estate and high social standing.

  “I understand about the cost. On your representation that it will all be properly handled, I believe I can give my consent.”

  “Very good, sir.” André handed him a sealed document. “Would you be so kind as to open this request and sign your name giving consent. I must deliver that to General Easton today.”

  Shippen took the document, broke the royal blue seal with the facing lions, and opened it. As he did, André spoke.

  “Is Margaret at home today, sir?”

  Shippen raised his eyes. “Upstairs in her room. Be seated, gentlemen. I’ll be a minute reading this.”

  The men sat down on velvet upholstered chairs to wait.

  On the floor above them, behind the closed door of her elaborately decorated bedroom, Peggy Shippen sat hunched over the hand-carved maple desk in the corner of the room, moving her finger across a small calendar, counting. Her face clouded, and petulantly she stood, unable to bear the humiliation of having been ignored, as if she were some common scrub woman. For weeks she had waited, certain that each day would bring a dashing, handsome young man to her door, hat in hand, timorously requesting of her father that he be honored to escort the beautiful Peggy Shippen to the celebration that would be forever remembered.

  Operas, orchestras, carnivals, stage dramas, mounted knights with lances, teas, receptions, elaborate coaches drawn by matching teams of high-blooded horses, dangerous flirtations, forbidden romances, new gowns from Paris, unheard-of food delicacies—the vision of all these things had fired her imagination. Everybody who was anybody in Philadelphia would be present. And most certainly the Shippens, who were solidly established in the highest social circles of the city. The meschianza without the Shippens? Unthinkable!

  May eighteenth. Five more days. Just five more days, and the extravagant celebration would be underway.

  With tears brimming her large blue eyes she sat on the edge of her canopied bed, hands in her lap, head bowed, battling hot mortification. Snubbed. Affronted. Ignored. Insulted. Degraded. How could they? How could they?

  Unable to longer endure the agony of it all, she stood and walked from her bedroom, down the hallway, to the head of the great, sweeping staircase leading down to the parlor. She had taken the first step when she heard voices coming f
rom the library. She stopped, unable to face the thought of meeting strangers at that moment. She wiped at her eyes and waited, watching to see who would appear in the hall.

  In the moment of seeing the crimson tunics, she recognized John André.

  John André! The handsomest, most charming, most talented officer in the British army! Captain Hamond’s banquet aboard his ship, the Roebuck! Whirling about the dance floor within the arms of John André. Clinging to him as they gasped and shrieked during their breathtaking midnight sleigh ride behind matched galloping horses! Sitting spellbound as he played the flute to the accompaniment of Captain Ridsdale’s violin.

  Peggy’s hand flew to her throat, and the blood left her face.

  Why is John André here? Why? She dared not hope, nor move, as she waited, poised at the head of the stairs.

  The three men paused in the hallway outside the library, and as Peggy watched, her father handed a document to André. She stopped breathing to listen.

  “I will inform my daughters. Please give my regards to General Easton.”

  André slipped the document inside his tunic. “I shall, sir. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  André bowed slightly, and the officer beside him, whom Peggy did not recognize, bowed as well. As André turned toward the front entrance, his eye caught sight of Peggy’s white, ankle-length dress at the top of the stairs, and he stopped, face raised to her.

  He smiled. Peggy’s heart stopped. He gave a slight salute and spoke. “Miss Shippen. How pleasant to see you again.”

  Peggy could not find her voice. She grasped the banister to steady her wobbly legs, smiled back, bowed, and remained silent.

  André turned back to her father. “Good-bye, sir.”

  The two officers walked out the door, Broadhead closed it behind them, and Peggy stood mesmerized, condemning herself for not speaking, for standing on the staircase like a dumb statue, for not gliding down like a shimmering goddess to charm the most fascinating man on the continent.