“Good show, old boy, very good job!” William was ebullient. Thomas tried his best to appear indifferent. There was a patter of applause from the men, and Thomas bowed. It had been quite some time since Thomas had delivered the “discovered” letter, but William was still over-joyed. It had gone very well for New-York; there was great relief that Washington’s siege of the Town had not materialized.
The general staff of the British Army attributed this good fortune – to have not been be-sieged – to Clinton’s decision to hold the fleet in the waters surrounding New-York, continually raking the Jersey palisades – Washington’s imagined west flank – with repeated cannonades, and keeping the Army in Town. Joy had spread far and wide through New-York – it was as peaceful a life in Town as the Loyalists had ever enjoyed. The British Army was having a jolly time of it as well. Amusements abounded – the general staff and various high-society Loyalists were gathered again in Clinton’s head-quarters; again there were large stakes at cards. The men laughed heartily as the General laid down his cards, raking a ponderous stack of gold guineas to his side of the table. Women fanned themselves, a trifle bored. Servants were drinking the General’s Madeira in the pantry. Life was good in New-York.
Leaves on the trees were just starting to turn, the wind smelled of pine tar, the fields north of Town were golden.
A packet ship flew up the river on a hard reach, its sails billowing, and made a hasty docking at the foot of Broad Street. A young officer fairly sprouted wings, dancing down the plank with a squad of Royal Marines in his wake.
Breathless, the officer bowed, saluted, laying a letter before the General. The letter bore an impressive-looking wax seal.
“Veddy well, lef-tenant,” Clinton sniffed, “you may go. What is this great news that we have here? Open it, Smith,” and by that the general meant William. Thomas was, militarily, a non-person.
William carefully pried open the letter, taking care not to deface the beautiful seal that bore the crest of Lord Cornwallis. William knew the handwriting – it was from Cornwallis himself; they had corresponded at great length before. It was Cornwallis who had recruited William for the post of intelligence officer for Clinton after the execution of Major André.
William blanched, and threw down the letter. “Oh, God! But this is dreadful!”
“Let me see that – “ the General was frowning. “Oh, dear God, indeed! We may be marooned! – What of our Fleet?My ships under Admiral Graves should have arrived in time!”
Thomas took up the letter and read aloud, using his preaching voice to command the room. And this is what he read:
Your Excellency, Etcetera,
It is with greatest regrets that I must inform you that We have been handed a decisive defeat at the Hands of, and under the Guns of the Fleet of Admiral DeGrasse ––––
There was a gasp from one of the officers – “But, DeGrasse was sailing here to lay siege to us!” Clinton shushed the man with a wave of his hand, and Thomas continued –
– aided by French regulars under the command of the Marquis de la Fayette and Comte de Rochambeau ––––– We have surrendered, and have made preparations to debark for Britain, If Your Lordship would consent to send Transport to these Shores. Our arms are confiscated, and our men are weary from the Labor of the Siege. May God grant you success with the Yankees, for we have failed,
Yours, etcetera,
Charles Cornwallis
At York-town, Colony of Virginia, October the Twentieth, the Year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred Eighty-One.”
“Admiral Graves arrived too late to save Cornwallis – “ intoned Clinton, stating the obvious fact of the matter.
~
Thomas laid aside the letter, folded his hands, and began reciting the Lord’s Prayer. He prayed aloud, and alone – ‘though there was otherwise silence among the formerly boisterous gathering. “Amen, and Amen. I leave you all to your deliberations,” he concluded.
With that, Thomas took up his broad-brimmed hat and left the room as quietly as was possible. No one was looking at him as he left, but the wide grin on his face was brilliant. It would be a very good autumn, indeed: already the harvest was in, and the fruits of the season would be very rich for his people – his Yankee folk.
It was a long time in coming. Over two years – but the Peace – a treaty – had been concluded in Paris. These years wore long on both Thomas and Elizabeth. The pastor’s duties took him to an even wider circuit of travels; these separations afflicted Cynthia deeply – ‘though not, as one might suppose, with pangs of loneliness. Oh no! – his absences rekindled in her heart all manner of doubt: Is he really with us? The British are still here, occupying our Town – is he secretly aiding them in their grip on this island? Even though it seems he is doing Washington’s secret work, gathering information from the wide-spread folk in the towns and wilderness? Is he tempted by other women? Does he have another lover, somewhere – or many? When, eventually the British leave – for surely they must – will he stay here with me, or will he leave with them? Is he still in love with that woman Cynthia?
Between her fits of doubt and pique, Elizabeth would suffer great reversals of passion, lament the loneliness – ‘though in truth her house was more bustling, with even more girls and sewing and the tending of the gardens, than ever – and, like Penelope working at her loom, would faithfully sew and knit, waiting for her man to return, and for this time to be at end.
When each round of the pastor’s circuit was ended, Thomas would rush to his beloved, and they would dance a few steps of re-acquaintance, with Elizabeth posing many, many questions, and Thomas quietly answering each of them – but demanding a kiss in recompense for each of his secret intelligences. But never, ever did he divulge the circumstances through which he came to be so deeply involved with Washington, with the Continental Army – the fact of which – or rather lack of evidence of which no doubt stoked Elizabeth’s embers of suspicion.
At the conclusion of each these tender re-unifications, when it was, alas, time for him to resume his travels, Thomas would proclaim his love on bended knee, and ask Elizabeth for her hand in marriage. To which she would always reply, in her most stern fashion: “When the British have left us, and you remain with us. Then –– I shall consider it.”
There was no more to be done for it – they were in love, but Elizabeth remained in doubt as to Thomas’ true affections – and more to the point – his loyalty, no only to her, but to her country as well.
~
It was the end of his circuit-riding. Come tomorrow there would be a new assignment from Washington – and Thomas was mightily relieved. It was nearly midnight as he wearily dismounted in the stables behind Elizabeth’s house. The kitchen door was unlatched, and he quietly stepped across the threshold. She was waiting, a piece of sewing upon her knee, beside a flickering fire. The house was cool, but Thomas felt his face burn at the sight of her, so glad was he to Home – at last!
After much kissing, and an embrace that brought both of the lovers to their knees, there followed a companionable silence.
“After all these years, the secret you have kept most secure from me, Thomas – at last I know what happened at Monmouth ––––– ” Elizabeth smoothed her apron, and re-adjusted her Liberty Cap “ You needn’t ask how I know –– ” For Elizabeth had finally ferreted the truth out from General Greene.
“––– so in honor of how you – apparently – acquitted your character, I have prepared something for you.”
ThoMas could only manage a sheepish grin, and attempted to kiss her again. But she was up and away; he could only follow.
“It’s in there – ” she grinned, “take your time.
“And – here – give me that disgraceful shrunken mass of lint you’ve been wearing for a hat,” she sniffed.
In the room lay the bright blue and buff of a Continental Army officer’s uniform, complete with a tri-cornered hat. A green cockade pinned to one of the upturned brims denoted Thomas’ commission as aSub-Altern.
Thomas was overwhelmed – at Elizabeth having found out his secret commission, and at her having the temerity, kindness, and generosity to have done this. For him. He was out of his frayed traveling clothes in a flash, and emerged from the room moments later – a perfect Yankee Officer, if not even a Gentleman!
He bowed to his lady, and she curtsied. Holding her hand lightly in his outstretched fingers, he stepped towards her, and they danced a tiny minuet, in the moonlight, with the snap of the blazing wood in the fireplace their only orchestra. It had been a long journey – all seemed well, and right, moving in the proper direction. At last! They were both all smiles, and remained that way through the long hours of the night.
~
It was the morning of the Great Embarkation. Thomas had not previously thought himself properly attired to represent the conquering Yankee army, as it reclaimed Manhattan Island from the British, and – more important – from the grip of the Loyalists: his old cronies, or whichever of them still remained in New-York. But now, properly uniformed, it seemed a pity to not be not with the officers who would escort Washington into New-York.
Thomas was on the island of Manhattan. Washington would arrive by flatboat – chosen in remembrance of the flatboats that ferried the weary army across the Delaware, those many, many years ago, across the icy river towards Trenton, and forward into history. No one had told Thomas that he couldn’t attend the Loyalist departure –
And so, as there were many chores to attend in anticipation of the arrival of the Commander-in-Chief, Thomas decided that as an Officer, as well as the Army’s Chaplain, that he should attend, to see that the Loyalists were treated well as they were shepherded off the island and onto the ships that would take them to their new homes in far-away, cold, wind-swept Halifax ––– to Nova Scotia.
As well as they deserve, they shall be treated mused Sub-Altern Smith, adjusting his hat, and setting forth into Broad-Way. In the distance, a band was playing a jig.
It was cold, breezy and damp in the Upper Harbor of New-York on Monday the 25th of November, Seventeen-Hundred Eighty-Three. Soldiers in the brilliant red coats and white breeches of the British Army stood at attention in a line flanking the east wall of FortGeorge, a colorful contrast to the drab colors of a November day in New-York. All the leaves of the orchard at the Battery had fallen, and a few skittered around the base of the walls of the fort.
A little way towards the harbor a group of sailors with an accordion were Joviality itself, very drunk, singing a satirical song that was making the rounds in New-York, a song to the tune Derry Down, concerning a quarrelsome mother, her strong-willed daughter, and a farmer who wanted to make peace – a satire on Mother England, her colonial daughter, and the would-be peacemaker William Pitt, the former Prime Minister.
The lyrics went like this:
Goody Bull and her daughter together fell out, Both squabbled and wrangled and made a great rout. But the cause of the quarrel remains to be told, Then lend both your ears and a tale I'll unfold.
The old lady, it seems, took a freak in her head, That her daughter, grown woman, might earn her own bread, Self-applauding her scheme, she was ready to dance, But we're often too sanguine in what we advance.
For mark the event, thus for fortune we're cross, Nor should people reckon without their good host, The daughter was sulky and wouldn't come to, And pray what in this case could the old woman do?
Zounds, neighbor, quoth Pitt, what the devil's the matter? A man cannot rest in his home for your clatter Alas, cries the daughter, Here's dainty fine work, The old woman grows harder than Jew or than Turk
She be damned, says the farmer, and do her he goes First roars in her ears, then tweaks her old nose, Hello Goody, what ails you? Wake woman, I say, I am come to make peace in this desperate fray.
Alas, cries the old woman, And must I comply? I'd rather submit than the hussy should die. Pooh, prithee, be quiet, be friends and agree, You must surely be right if you're guided by me,
Derry down, down, hey derry down, You must surely be right if you're guided by me.
Completing their ballad, the sailors staggered off, urged on by a menacing major, his saber unsheathed, waving them off. Pointless, now, to call out “Disperse Ye Rebels!” and march his men, with fixed bayonets to drive off the Rabble. The War, indeed the Occupation of New-York, was over.
But a few minutes later, another band of New-Yorkers came sauntering along, shaking rattles, beating drums, banging on pots, and singing a very humorous song – at least they thought so. The gang was lead by a certain Mister Jack Johnson, formerly Sexton at Trinity Parish, his face a rainbow of war-paint, wearing a feathered head-dress. Despite the cold and damp, Johnson was bare-chested, revealing dark burn-scars. The band’s laughter and the taunting words of their song only made the mood amongst the Loyalists more grave. The men sang to the tune of Yankee Doodle:
Cornwallis led a country dance,
The like was never seen, Sir,
Much retrograde and much advance
And all with Gen'ral Greene, Sir;
They rambled up and rambled down,
Joined hands and then they run, Sir,
Our General Greene to Charlestown and
The Earl to Wilmington, Sir.
Greene, in the South, then danced a set,
And got a mighty name, Sir,
Cornwallis jigged with young ‘Fayette,
But suffered in his fame, Sir;
Quoth he, “My guards are weary grown
With footing country dances,
They never at St James' shone
At capers, kicks, or prances.
And Washington, Columbia's son,
Whom easy nature taught, Sir,
That grace which can't by pains be won
Nor Plutus' gold be bought, Sir; Now hand in hand they circle round,
This ever-dancing peer, Sir,
Their gentle movements soon confound
the earl, as they draw near, Sir.
His music soon forgets to play,
His feet can no more move, Sir,
And all his bands now curse the day
They jig-ged to our shore, Sir;
Pausing for dramatic effect, and directing their song to a knot of extremely well-dressed civilians – obviously Loyalists – the band concluded:
Now, Tories all, what can you say?
Come, is this not a griper:
That while your hopes you danced away,
'Tis you must pay the piper?
From the band then came an enormous Huzza! – followed by a chorus of Indian ululations, as the men danced around whooping and clapping and shaking their fists at the Loyalists. Many of the Loyalists – Tories – recognized Johnson; some booed and hissed. A small boy threw a handful of pebbles at the revelers, who expressed their satisfaction by baring their back-sides, as their parade continued down Broad-Way to the Battery, where this gang of Liberty Boys intended to erect a new Liberty Pole.
~
A knot of women shivered in the damp wind, standing near-by the formation of soldiers – wives and sweethearts of these, the last of His Majesty’s Army in North America to leave the United States. They were all bound today – men and women, clothing, worldly possessions, lock stock and barrel – to sail to Halifax, in far-away Canada. Some were British, but others were, or had been, Americans – these were the Loyalists. Loyal to the end to their King.
George III, Monarch of the United Kingdom of England, Scotland and Wales who was true to his word – for each of his loyal subjects who had lost land, confiscated by the new Yankee government, had indeed been compensated – with land in Canada. Many had hoped for small land-holdings in a beautiful place among His Majesty’s many other colonies – Barbados, Jamaica, the Windward or Leeward Islands – so great had their suffering been at the hands of their enemies, their neighbors, the victors, the Yankees.
It seemed that their King had consigned them all to Hell, for Nova Scotia had been already settled by Scots – the survivors of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s kith and kin, the last of the Stuarts, in his ill-fated bid to regain the throne of the Kingdom after the final, decisive battle at Culloden, over 30 years before. The most anti-English people, save perhaps the Americans, on the planet; a more in-hospitable fate could not be imagined. But alas, there was no turning back.
The Reverend Doctor Pugh had sailed to Halifax in September, and was now installed as the first Anglican bishop in America.
Thomas’ old friends were long departed.
Humpy Halsey had perished of a mysterious ailment, rumored to have been syphilis. Reverends Smith and Edmundson had performed the funeral rites. Grave-diggers had attended – no one else.
Only these few British and Loyalists remained. Thomas’ brother William had departed in September, never knowing, never suspecting the role Pastor Smith had played in the unraveling of Britain’s hold on New-York. Both brothers had promised to correspond, but after a few months now, neither had found the time or urge to write. It was all for the best, for Sub-Altern Chaplain Thomas Smith had no news that he was able to convey; anything else would have been a bald-faced prevarication, something for which he had very little patience.
~
Yet another contingent of Yankees – no, better to call them for what they were: Officers of the United States Army approached, resplendent in their blue and buff uniforms. The column of Yankees halted at Bowling-Green and from a distance saluted their former adversaries. Thomas Smith stood with the Yankees, observing and remembering, out of sight, for he, unlike Cynthia Eliot did not want to meet her one last time. It was less than a hundred yards between the Yankees and the British, and when Lieutenant-General Archibald Robertson of the Royal Engineers spied Thomas amidst the Continentals, he raised his saber in salute.
“The buggahs got to you after all, Smith!” Robertson called out, with a broad smile.
Thomas doffed his hat, smiling, in reply. With that, thought Thomas, It is indeed nearly all finished – at last! He folded a letter and handed it to a lad nearby, speaking close in the boy’s ear and slipping a coin in the boy’s waistcoat. The lad skipped down along the road to the British soldiers, bowing before Robertson, and passing on the letter.
Now all’s done here. Thomas smiled to himself as he turned to look with satisfaction at the fine company of Americans of whom he was proud to be a member. His attention was distracted by a couple working their way up and down the lines of the British, then the American contingent, barking their refrains, hawking their wares.
“Get yer E-va-cu-ation Day picnic baskets, folks! Get yer good New-York vittles ‘afore you perish of hunger! Ship food is wicked poor! Get yer good New-York vittles. Whet yer thirsty throats with Snipes’ Red Cock Elixir!” And there presently came a black man with a rosy-cheeked Irish woman, arms burdened with many baskets and bottles, merry as the month of May, making many transactions amongst both the Loyalists and the Yankee committee. When they were within earshot Thomas called out “Say there, a shilling for a basket?”
His respondent called, angrily “It’s Two shillin’s for that. Two shillin’s.” Then – seeing that it was Thomas – an officer – the woman blushed, and turned away.
Along came the man – it was Major Snipes, who greeted Thomas with a bow and a merry grin. “I am so glad to see you – Lieutenant Smith –” observing Thomas’ Continental uniform “– and to see that you have come to your senses, Sir!”And he meant it, with all the sincerity he was capable, which apparently was much more than Thomas had ever reckoned. Snipes slapped Subaltern Smith on the back and presented him a bottle of Snipes’ Red Cock Elixir, proclaiming “Drink this to our health, Mister Smith, for Sara and I are to be married tomorrow! No charge Sir, no charge!” Snipes’ lady was Sara Truegood – Gerard D’Argent’s former business partner, and proprietress of the Red Cock Tavern.
“You must know that I am Walsley’s only child – I have a letter proclaiming my freedom, right here, right here in my pocket. I was never a slave, you see, Thomas – I always owned myself – as You, I see, have also taken possession of Yourself!”
Thomas pantomimed raising a glass and smiled at Snipes’ sweetheart, who blushed and returned to her hawking. It was, indeed, a day of many changes, and Thomas’ heart was lifted, even moreso than at the spectacle of this momentous political event.
~
The British Army fifes and drums – no longer the British New-York regiment’s band, but rather a musical detachment from a foreign power – struck up the same lively tune the rowdy Yankee sailors had enjoyed, but to which had been sung a very different and sad refrain.
The song was called The World Turned Upside Down, played to the tune “Derry Down.” It was rumored to have been played at Lord Cornwallis’ surrender at Yorktown:
If buttercups buzz’d after the bee
If boats were on land, Churches on sea
If ponies rode men and if grass ate the cows
And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse
If the mamas sold their babies
To the Gypsies for half a crown
If summer were spring
And the other way ‘round
Then all the world would be upside down!
The world was turned upside down, as the last of the wealthiest class of people New-York would know for many a year were being banished by their former servants, and by the tradesmen over whom they’d lorded their influence, money and power, but who were now their vanquishers. And it made no sense to the Loyalists, no sense at all, as the cream of New-York society, the apogee of privilege, the beautiful, the wealthy, the proud filed along the gravel path towards their transports. Much sniffling and shuffling accompanied this sad procession. Among them was a fair beauty whose charms had lit up this very landscape with fervor, passion and longing not so very long ago.
Cynthia Eliot trundled along, carrying her portmanteau, accompanying her dear benefactor and friend Mrs James.As the wind came ‘round, disturbing Cynthia’s hair, driving it across her still-lovely face, she sniffled. Time and fate had been unkind to Cynthia, but she bore the strain well. Still she held hope in her heart that someone – and especially Thomas, her Thomas she considered him, might at this last moment rescue her. For Thomas, she would be a happy American wife. As widows of military men, both women were among the last of the British to be banished from New-York, along with the remnants of the greatest fighting force ever sent to these shores.
But this miraculous reconciliation was not to be. Sub-Altern Chaplain Thomas Smith, of the Seventh American New-York Regiment, was elsewhere, though she did not know he was with the Americans, nor that he had a commission – she simply expected him – somehow – to be there.
Cynthia scanned the men in the distance, and saw that he was not there. Her heart, victim to so many disappointments, had little room for despair, and she shook off her passing feelings of sadness – she had no more room in her heart for that.
~
As the refugees filed aboard the ships a group of small boys, five, six – or even fewer years of age – were playing mumbly-peg – with long, black bayonets. A pastor, broad-brimmed hat, clad all in black, stood nearby, smoking his long clay pipe, arms folded, a wreath of sulfurous smoke billowing around his head. The boys, many the sons of the Ladies of Pleasure in Town (sorrowful to see their best customers be banished)were in attendance to pay last respects – and perhaps beg some pocket-change – from their possible sires.
They – the boys – flung their instruments of death and mayhem high up in the air, applauding each other as the daggers landed – wffffft! – in the soft soil of the water’s edge. One boy, the youngest of the crew,flung his weapon high, high! It landed, impaling the lad’s foot. As the boy screamed, dancing about on one foot, blood gushing from his wound, the pastor chuckled, clapping his hands, and saying:
“Dirty little Bastards – let me teach you some really excellent games to play!” The other boys scattered, leaving wounded boy alone, wailing in agony.
Cynthia appeared at his side, tending to the boy’s wound – it was nothing she thought. She had tended far, far worse wounds. “Come now, Tommy – we must get on the ship. It’s time to go to our new home in Canada.”
The boy hopped along, protesting.
~
The ships hove their anchors, the evacuation was complete. The British had left New-York, and would not return to America for nearly three decades.
The American commander ordered that the British standard, which still flew from the flagpole of FortGeorge, be lowered. Alas, the British jack had been nailed to the pole, and the pole itself had been greased!
John Van Arsdale, a Yankee sailor with mast-climbing cleats on his boots, made quick dispatch of the hated symbol of tyranny, and the thirteen red and white stripes, surmounted by the field of Heavenly blue, with its circular constellation of thirteen stars at last fluttered in the wind, the free wind of a liberated New-York, well visible before any British ships had left the Upper Bay.
The American band piped Yankee Doodle, the sound carrying far out into the harbor, where sympathetic privateers aboard the sloop Pariah fired their cannons in congratulation, jubilant at the release of their captain D’Argent after his many months of imprisonment aboard HMS Jersey.
Cynthia stood at the rail as her ship drew away, sighting – at last! – Thomas amongst the soldiers, wearing the blue and buff uniform of a Continental officer! Thomas likewise picked out Cynthia among the passengers, doffed his hat, and bowed, a great smile illuminating his face.
An officer appeared at Cynthia’s elbow. “Lef’tenant General Robertson, ma’am – ” He tipped his great, black tricornered hat to her. She turned from the gunwale to appraise the man: not very impressive for a Lef’tenant General. “A man, whom I believe has been your acquaintance begs me deliver this letter to you ––––– ” And with that he tipped his hat and a left on the un-steady legs of a man long accustomed to the land, and not the sea.
The letter was unsealed, merely folded upon itself, and was written on very plain paper. Cynthia sniffled from the wind in her face as she opened it. Scanning to the conclusion, she saw that it was from Thomas. Her Thomas. At last!
Dear Cynthia,
Justice demands that I not leave you without an explanation.
Now that you have embarked on your next adventure, for which you should be pleased – having been spared the many degradations that befell your kinsmen and other Loyalist Families here in the land of the Yankees –––
How dreary, she thought – the man has sent me a Sermon!
Your letter – yes that letter, so long ago, and yet it is as if it were only yesterday that I found it, left for me at Admiral Fripp’s estate; that letter tore my heart from its secure moorings.
I thought I could never love again, but love again – and more deeply than ever I imagined that I loved you I have!
I have loved again & I will make, I aim to make, I shall make a good Yankee – and a Yankee Husband, to boot! – of a wonderful, delightful, serious Yankee woman who has fairly, in God’s eyes – and mine – won my heart.
‘Though with you, it is true, that once I imagined anything was possible for us – you and me –
But I have come to realize that your investment in the old ways, the status quo ante-bellum, the way things were before Our Glorious Revolution, has rendered your heart so hardened, your vision so short
Not so short, dear Thomas, that I cannot see you hiding amongst the Rabble on the Dock-side, afraid to see me one last time, said Cynthia to the diminishing figure of Thomas, her Thomas, on the far shore.
that you fail to apprehend all that has happened in this wondrous land, nor to see how I am changed.
I am a Yankee, I have always been a Yankee, and may God help me with the Consequences.
With all the Brotherly love and kindness, that remains in my heart yet to this day,
I remain ––––
Your Thomas.
Cynthia turned again towards shore and as a final gesture kissed her hand and held it out, palm first, then turned, never again to lay eyes on her Thomas, nor on the land she might have called her own.
The little boy at her side waved – not comprehending what this moment meant, his wound forgotten, excited at the Adventure of it all. His hair was tousled – just like his father’s once was, thought Cynthia, taking her son below.
~
The Stars and Stripes at last flies over New-York
~
Thomas spoke to a superior officer, and taking his leave, then running! up Broad-Way. His heart had a mission. He was all feeling, all knowing, all expectancy, for it was Elizabeth – his true love
whom he must find.
~
He found her at St Paul’s Chapel, knelt in prayer. Thomas crouched beside her.
“Elizabeth, please listen. There is something I have –always –needed to tell you – it is now time,” he whispered, with a non-too discreet intensity.
Elizabeth smiled with a knowing and gentle look.
There were few others in the chapel – and none seemed offended at Thomas’ ardent, and none too silent plea. In fact, it was as though the other parishioners were there, at that place, and at that time, as witnesses to what was to follow.
Thomas and Elizabeth exited through the front doors of the chapel, onto the greensward of the Church-yard – the same yard where so many victims of the Great Fire had been lain to rest. From the church a few parishioners also emerged, standing in the porch, quietly observing the dashing American officer, as he preached – it seemed – to the beautiful young lady.
And Thomas began: “My dearest, hear me when I tell you –I am True, and I am Good, and I am Real.This, this, Force of Nature, this LOVE between us! IT IS TRUE, IT IS GOOD – OH SO GOOD, AND IT IS REAL, MORE REAL THAN ANYTHING THAT HAS EVER, IN GOD’S GREAT CREATION, HAS EVER, EVER EXISTED.”
Thomas found himself pacing – up and down the rows of headstones.Elizabeth took his hand in hers, and as they came to a tree she sat, closed her eyes and leant back against it, seeming not to be listening. She needn’t have listened very hard, so loud was Thomas in proclaiming his affection. And he continued,
“ O, SO real, so very real, so strong and good and true and real are my affections for you.
“Why can’t you believe it?Why won’t you believe it?I am good, and I am true – true to you alone, in my heart always, twenty times a day, always, without ceasing, and I am real, more real than you can know if we live a hundred years.
“And, in God’s name, I declare it, before God and Man I declare it.I love you, Elizabeth Mary Carter, with all my soul – and God blesses my love.”
“What He has created in me is more – good – and more true and more real than anything your heart can imagine.It is not too good to be true – it IS true.
“And I am true.And I am safety for you.And you are safe with me.And that will never, never ever change.Be my love.Be my mate.Be my, my, my – my own self but in a separate body made one by God’s Grace and by His will.Without you I am dust.With you I am immortal.
“Find in me things of yourself, my dearest, my love.Find yourself in me as I have found myself in you.Find His Grace in me.I forsake all others for your smile, for your grace, for your being beside me when I awake and when I fall, at day’s end, asleep.For your smile alone I would give my life, if only I could, twelve times over.
“I beg of you, Elizabeth, I beg you –
“ – will you marry me?”
Exhausted by this declaration of undying love and affection, he collapsed on the grass.He lay his head on her lap, and gazed up at her.
And after many seconds, an eternity, Elizabeth opened her eyes, and she smiled.She bent over, upside down, with a great spreading grin, and gave him the most gentle and angelic kiss.
“Yes,” is all she said, for that was all that was needed.
“And so Dear Friends – I pose this question to you – ” intoned Pastor Edmundson“We – weYankees – we Americans – doesn’t it seem that so often we do the right thing, but for the wrong reasons?
“It is, I think, our national character.
“But for these lovers, they found in God and in each other allthe right things, for all the right reasons. And with God’s enlightenment they have grown in each other’s esteem and love. It is, in a word, an act of Providence.”
“May we all be so blessed by Providence – that mysterious force so often invoked by Washington – that wetoo, we Yankees must all believe in it.” The pastor closed his psalmistry, and raised his hands high above the heads of the couple, bestowing his blessing upon them, and upon the congregation of their friends, their family – a finer assembly of smiling, confident Yankees as ever there might be.
“Amen, then – and Amen. Providencehas seen us through, to this day, this hour, this very moment.”
If New-Yorkers are – in our time – irascible, venal, irrepressible, strong-willed, money-driven, damnable, head-strong – and – yes – at times Noble – then I think nothing has changed since the very first days of Dutch Nieuw-Amsterdam. The more things change, the more they stay the sane goes the saying and I think we might take this into consideration. Think of these New-Yorkers as people whom you’ve met, or of whom you’ve heard and I do believe all of this is all the more believe-able. I rest my case.
Let us now, however, remember these real-life characters, all of whom were in and around New-York during our Great Yankee War of Rebellion:
The British
Major John André was a favorite amongst the Ladies of Society, most notably young Peggy Shippen, during the British occupation of Philadelphia. He was fluent in German, French and Italian, liked to cut out silhouettes, and designed ball-gowns for the diversion of his lady-friends. In Philadelphia he occupied Dr Franklin’s house; when the British army evacuated Philadelphia in ’78, André looted Franklin’s scientific instruments.
Arnold’s letter to Clinton and a map of West Point were discovered when André was detained by militia-men who were determined to steal his boots. Those must have been some splendid boots!
Although History records that several Ladies of Society begged Washington to spare André, this cannot be taken at anything other than a demonstration of his charm, for I have taken liberties with his romantic history: it appears that he was gay, as memorialized in Peggy Shippen’s letters to him that bemoan his “unrequited appeal to the fairer sex.” O tempora, o mores. It is suggested that General Henry Clinton and Major John André may have had a requited relationship.
Major-General Benedict Arnold was a ne’er-do-well, complaining, and difficult officer. He demanded over £20,000 for betraying his country-men. The Crown paid only £6,315 because the plot had failed. As Brigadier-General in the British army (a step down from his Yankee rank), he burned New-London in September 1781, during which raid a determinedly Loyalist lady took a pot-shot at him. Arnold did abandon his wife Peggy when he escaped.
Margaret (Peggy) Shippen Arnold, had pursued a relationship with John André in Philadelphia. Not much more need be said of her, save that she was not tried for her role in putting her husband and André together in their plot to over-run West Point.
Major-General William Tryon was the Royal Governor of New-York during most of the Revolution. His fame, such as it is, rests on having raided New-Haven – on which occasion Dr Daggett was moved to perform his acts of war – and for the burning of the Connecticut towns of Fairfield and Norwalk.
Captain Archibald Robinson of the Royal Engineers was in New-York from 1762 through 1780, when he left Town to accompany Henry Clinton on the campaign to take Charleston. Although he wasn’t in New-York on Evacuation Day he could have been. His watercolors and sketches of New-York are the best contemporary records of the appearance of the Town during the War.
Major-General Sir Henry Clinton, Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath was the senior general in command of the British forces in North America at the close of the Revolution. As a child he had lived in New-York, serving in a New-York militia as a teenager. His fondness for New-York doubtless influenced his reluctance to quit his comfortable situation there. His rivalry with Lord Cornwallis erupted into a public matter subsequent to Clinton’s self-exculpatory 1783 memoir Narrative of the Campaign of 1781 in North America.
Major-General Charles Cornwallis, First Marquess Cornwallis sat in the House of Lords as a Whig, voting against the Intolerable Acts. Despite his opposition to the British invasion of the colonies, he met with military success in battles throughout South Carolina and Georgia. One gets the impression that he was a whinging, insufferable bore, and that Clinton’s growing indifference to Cornwallis led to Clinton’s none-too hasty dispatch of ships to Virginia to save Cornwallis. Those ships arrived too late, and turned away rather than fight.
Admirals Digby and Graves, mentioned in passing near the end of the story were as told here – present in New-York. Digby’s house is that upon which I have modeled Fripp’s mansion. Graves did, indeed, arrive too late at Yorktown to help Cornwallis. Fripp, it should be noted, was the name of a privateer in the 1740’s after whom an island in the Carolinas is named. There was, however, no admiral by this name in New-York.
Edward Hyde, Viscount Cornbury was Queen Anne’s cousin, and truly did wear the very finest women’s clothing, oft-times carrying a fan as he promenaded along the waterfront. Horace Walpole recounted, “He was a clever man. His great insanity was dressing himself as a woman … when Governor in America he opened the Assembly dressed in that fashion. When some of those about him remonstrated, his reply was, 'You are very stupid not to see the propriety of it. In this place and particularly on this occasion I represent a woman (Queen Anne) and ought in all respects to represent her as faithfully as I can.’” No eponymous descendant was present in New-York during the Revolution, nor at Haarlem. Pity – it might have given the militia more spunk in facing down the British Grenadiers.
The Yankees
Major-General Nathanael Greene advocated the burning of New-York. This was voted down by the Continental Congress, but these seeds of inspiration were too hardy – the Sons of Liberty burned the Town anyhow. His limp made it necessary for him to enlist at first as a mere private; he could not march properly! But his diligence and intelligence served him well – he was appointed Brigadier General of the Continental Army within a year!
Major-General Henry Knox was one of Washington’s ablest officers. He was a book-seller in Boston prior to joining a Massachusetts militia company in ’75. It is true that he learned the art and craft of artillery by reading books.
General George Washington’s most well-kept secret was his vile, intemperate, and severe temper. The two times in which he is known to have lost his cool were, as recounted here, at Haarlem and at Monmouth.
By all accounts, Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Knowlton was, indeed Washington’s most able officer. Knowlton’s Rangers were both expert rifle-men and the beginning of the Army’s military intelligence forces. Had he lived, Knowlton might have eclipsed even the excellent Greene as the Army’s best field commander (after Washington, of course). He was killed just a few months shy of his 36th birthday. He did not have a romantic attachment to a seamstress – his death left a widow and nine children.
Anna Smith Strong, Caleb Brewster, Robert Townsend & Austin Roe operated a highly successful – insofar as they were never detected – spy-ring, known in current history as the Culper Spy-ring: Roe carrying information encoded in invisible ink written in the margins of accounting ledgers from New-York out to Setauket; Brewster thence across the Sound to Fairfield: and Townsend by land onward to Washington, in the hinterlands. Anna’s meticulous laundry-line hangings were a code to Brewster as to where it was, or was not, safe for him to land his whale-boat. Yankee war-sloops did indeed fly the “Appeal to Heaven” flag – an evergreen tree upon a white field.
David Bushnell graduated from Yale College in 1774, where his experiments proving that gunpowder can be exploded underwater would lead him to devise the Turtle. A well-known woman author of our current era is said to be a direct descendant of this worthy Yankee inventor. Long before Sex in the City there was the Turtle in New-York.
Ezra Lee might have succeeded in the Turtle’s attack had he not curtailed his attack, fearing capture by marines in a longboat from his target, HMS Eagle, who having sighted his odd vessel, set out to capture it.
Abigail Hinman, whose entrancing portrait by Daniel Huntington graces the cover, was a Loyalist woman of New-London. Notwithstanding her political tenets, when Benedict Arnold landed in her town to burn it, she shouldered her husband’s musket and took a pot-shot at Arnold. You can see her portrait at the Lyman Allyn Museum in New London, Connecticut. Alas, indeed her gun did hang fire – meaning – a flash in the pan, no bullet speeding its way towards her worthy target. Abigail’s husband, Captain Elisha Hinman assumed command of the Yankee war-sloop Alfred from John Paul Jones. Had all Yankee couples been so belligerent, I think that our War of Independence would have been over much, much sooner.
Colonel Alexander Hamilton – the West Indian – was, by many accounts, a reckless heart-breaker. A journal entry made by a love-sick Continental Army lieutenant, much taken with the charms of a Pennsylvanian girl, includes the plaintive meditation “God, please do not let Hamilton come near [his beloved country girl].” I leave the task of white-washing Hamilton’s romantic record to other, more worthy writers.
The Reverend Naphtali Daggett was Yale’s divinity professor and served as president of the college from 1766 – ‘77. He did not directly die of his bayonet wounds, and returned to his duties at Yale later in ‘79. He died on November 25, 1780 – exactly three years before Evacuation Day – and was buried in the New-Haven Green.
The Reverend Francis Asbury was active in New-York right up to the British invasion in ‘76, spreading the Methodist word, and recruiting men to be Circuit Riders, traveling pastors who ministered to settlers in out-lying territories. Asbury went into seclusion during the Occupation to avoid being drafted into the British army. Later in life Asbury became the first Methodist bishop in America. John Van Arsdale, the sailor who climbed the greased pole at Fort George to cut down the British flag, by his daring act of pole-climbing, earned for his descendants officiated at New York Evacuation Day celebrations for many generations afterwards.
The French
Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier – the Marquis de La Fayette, was so inspired by the Declaration of Independence that he obtained a letter of introduction from Silas Deane, the American commissioner to France, be-friended Washington, and was commissioned a Major-General by the Continental Congress in 1777, at the age of nineteen.
Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais was a French war-profiteer whose trading company Roderique Hortalez & Compagnie served as an intermediary for loans from King Louis XVI to the United States. Over 1,000,000 livres of loan re-payments made through him by the Americans were not forwarded to the French, leading to French assertions made as late as 1921 that America had not discharged its Revolutionary War debt. Monsieur Beaumarchais was a literary man as well – publishing Voltaire and writing the semi-autobiographical Figaro plays, made timeless by Mozart’s musical treatment. He was not married to a certain Yankee woman named Hastings.
The Loyalists
Most Loyalist families of New-York were exiled to Halifax, where they found a home as forbidding as anything imagined by Dante. Nova Scotia was a land already settled by British-hating Scots, survivors of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s attempt to regain the English throne – and his defeat – at the Battle of Culloden in ’46.
Cynthia – dear, sweet, wicked Cynthia – is, of course, a symbol of all who were socially prominent, amongst the cream of society, the scions of Loyalist New York. That she lost everything at the end of the war is typical of every Loyalist family’s loss. At least she escaped with her life, unlike others who were abused, tortured, mutilated or murdered (tar and feathering was real, was done, and was often fatal) for their loyalty to the established royal government of the Colonies. At the conclusion of the Peace of Paris all Loyalist properties were seized by the new Yankee government and the Loyalists bidden to leave.
The Rector of Trinity Church during the Revolution was also banished from New-York, becoming the first Anglican bishop in North America, with his throne in Halifax. His name was not Pugh. In a Bi-Centennial exhibit at modern Trinity Church the Rector was portrayed as an American Patriot. Nothing could be further from our commonly held truth, but from that mention of the Rector’s elevation to the bishopric – in forbidding Nova Scotia – came the seeds of inquiry from which grew my desire to tell these tales.
Other Notes of Passing Interest
New-York City’s name was hyphenated until around 1900, when – bowing to modernity – the last hold-out, the New York Times, de-hyphenated its name. Only the New-York Historical Society, to which I give all thanks and praise, retains its hyphenated name. Now – on the topic of Washington and Lafayette: history is replete with tales of how Washington “loved” Lafayette. In our jaded days this seems all too much like a May/December gay alliance. But when one considers the effort that Washington put into controlling his protean temper (assessed as so even by his own account) – it becomes clear that someone with a sharp tongue might have served a highly emotionally-satisfying role in the General’s entourage. I have had the acquaintance (and, thankfully, not having been the target) of felicitously acid-tongued aristocratic Frenchmen who adore the opportunity to speak English because it permits them to demonstrate their wit and sarcasm; and so it occurs to me that Lafayette must surely have been beloved of Washington as a private attack-dog. I have shown the young nobleman dressing down those upon whom Washington might otherwise have been tempted to vent his mighty wrath – and let it be for Washington to nobly sooth the flustered souls.
At Haarlem Heights, which I have spelled with its old Dutch name, Lafayette had not yet arrived – and we see Washington losing control in a most flamboyant fashion, all of which is true. The words he speaks are his own. At Monmouth Lafayette had been rather busy during the battle, and was far too exhausted to vent upon the character of the craven and dastardly Charles Lee on the day after. I attempted to render both these scenes – of Washington’s temper – as accurately, and historically correct, because these events were so rare. Remarkable it is that over seven long years of war, and two of armistice, only twice did our Commander in Chief lose his self-control!
Privateering dwindled after the Revolution, possibly owing to the rise of the United States Navy, a sure discouragement to piratical endeavors. That some of the privateers freelanced in slave-trading is, alas, an historically established fact. And that there were many, many slaves in New York – black slaves, as well as temporarily-enslaved white indentured servants. It is one of the deplorable facts of the history of the North that smug New Yorkers are most likely to forget, if – indeed – they ever knew, or cared.
Many slaves left with the British, despite provisions in the Treaty of Paris stipulating that they – as properties of the Yankees – were to be returned. Manumission was automatically granted any blacks who volunteered service in the British army. Commissions, such as the one Major Snipes provided himself, were available for purchase. Major André purchased his first military commission.
Captain Snipes’ snigger – “they did not check with me this time – ” in our first chapter is a reference to the slave revolt in or about 1749 when blacks attempted to burn the Town. Snipes would have known about this. Alas for these rebellious slaves; they were all hanged. Nevertheless, the fires encouraged the establishment of the first fire brigades in New-York.
The role of the Methodist Church in colonial times is not well established to be of political significance, but after the War the association of the Episcopal Church with the Church of England led many of the faithful to embrace Anglican Methodism as an appropriately American alternative. I have borrowed the fact of the John Wesley’s evangelism in Georgia, moving it to a later time for the sake of Cynthia’s story.
The official 1964 history of St George’s Chapel – now St George’s Church, on Stuyvesant Square in modern-day New York – by Elizabeth Moulton, omits the burning of the chapel’s prayer books, glossing over the un-tidy relationship between Trinity and St George’s during the Revolution. However, I was told of the burning books by the Reverend Mr Stephen Garmey, my beloved vicar at the Parish of Holy Communion, Calvary and St George’s, and I’m sticking to it!. To Stephen I owe a great debt for his perspicacious comments upon an early draft of this tale in which I had ignorantly faced Trinity Church’s great front doors towards Broadway – as they are now in the 1846 Richard Upjohn-designed church – whereas in 1776 the church faced towards the Great North River.
As for that Great North River – the Hudson River was known as the North River during colonial times. The South River was the Delaware River. The North River was also, occasionally, referred to as Hudson’s River.
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Lastly, to any reader who may object to the intrusion of fantasy into an otherwise historical tale – and yes, I am referring to the presence of the Reverend Mister Lucifer Lucas: Evil exists. That he dresses in the fashion of a Yankee Congregationalist – well, you may make of that what you will. I have nothing in particular against the Congregationalists, ‘though I am Anglican.
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I am a Yankee, and may Divine Providence help me with the Consequences for what my Tale hath Provided.
~ Your honourable Servant, &c. Curtis B Wayne 25 November 2009 – the 226th Anniversary of Evacuation Day Rowayton, Connecticut