Guns of Liberty (18 page)

“Then you feel luck is with you?” Rutledge challenged good-naturedly.

“It is never farther than my pocket.” The Virginian fished a round, shiny coin about the size of a silver dollar from his waistcoat. It was an English crown.

“Tell me of it, sir,” young Sexton said, returning to the side of the man he worshiped. He sat on a stool at the Virginian’s feet. Washington seemed pleased to have an audience for his tale.

“This, my lad, is a sterling silver crown, a proper English coin, mind you, worth over two pounds. It came to me as did my luck on the long and bloody retreat down Braddock’s Road, after the death of the general himself.”

“You kept the retreat from becoming a rout, George,” Rutledge added.

Washington ignored the compliment and continued his story. “It was the morning after the day the French and their Huron allies had sprung their trap. It had rained all night and the road to safety was a quagmire. We were under constant attack and I had begun to lose hope of ever seeing the Blue Ridge Mountains again, when suddenly I spied this gleaming bit of silver shining in the churned mud. I picked it up and wiped it clean.”

He held the coin so that it reflected the sunlight streaming through the open windows. His memories harkened back to a long-ago war. Now another war was at hand, one whose outcome he must place in the hands of God and hope for the best.

“What happened then?” Sexton asked, his eyes wide with interest.

“Well, the Indians didn’t get me.” Washington grinned and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “And this has been my lucky coin ever since.” He returned the crown to his waistcoat and patted the pocket. “Now I carry my luck with me wherever I go.”

“Hrrumph! Maybe I should just write you a note of debt first thing and save myself the trouble of losing at cards,” Rutledge said.

“Just as long as you include another of Edythe’s custards,” Washington replied with a laugh.

The good doctor would have joined in had not Nathaniel Woodbine chosen that precise moment to reenter the conservatory. The normally easygoing merchant appeared flustered and anxious to impart some news of grave importance.

In contrast to his two uniformed guests—Washington in the outfit of the Virginia Militia and Rutledge in the colors of the Philadelphia Drum and Fife Corps—Woodbine was comfortably attired in a ruffled white shirt, sleeveless brown waistcoat with gold brocade, and dark brown velvet breeches. The polished buckles on his shoes shone.

“Gentlemen, I have just received news that Hancock is relinquishing his claim to the post of commander-in-chief. Adams has just sent word. Even now the deliberations in Congress continue. But the feeling is that Pendleton of Virginia and Sherman of Connecticut will be swayed to follow Hancock’s lead!” Woodbine held up a decanter of Irish whiskey. “This calls for a toast.”

“A premature one,” Washington cautioned, though it was obvious in his voice that word of Hancock’s decision had caught him off guard. “There’s still old Artemas Ward …”

“He swears too much,” Rutledge countered.

“And Charles Lee,” Washington said.

“An able leader,” Rutledge conceded.

“But an Englishman despite his newly purchased plantation,” Woodbine reminded them. “No. The Congress is a suspicious lot. They’ll bandy his name about, but in the end, they simply do not trust him.” He raised his glass of whiskey in salute.

“To our commander-in-chief!”

Sexton nudged his father, who poured a measure for the youth. Washington sighed, feigning disbelief but secretly excited and alarmed at the prospect of leading the army.

“I accept your praises in the spirit they are given.” He downed his own glass of whiskey and sucked in his breath at the liquor’s potency. Young Sexton’s eyes streamed tears, but he managed to swallow and keep the burning liquid in his stomach when he wanted to double over and retch.

Washington rose from his chair, towering over his companions, and bid them peace and farewell.

“You’re leaving?” Woodbine was surprised by the Virginian’s behavior. “But the party. It is in your honor. What will I tell the others? Your friends?”

“Tell them the truth,” Washington said. “That I have gone to sit in the garden behind the German Lutheran church, where I hope, alone, to collect my thoughts.”

The sudden change in mood left Rutledge and Woodbine all but speechless. Washington donned his hat and started out of the room. Woodbine hurried to escort the Virginian to the front door. Before long the merchant returned to the conservatory. He held out his empty hands.

“Well, what do you make of that?”

“I gave up trying to second guess that man long ago,” the physician said. “Which is why George continues to beat me in cards and chess.”

“When word spreads concerning Hancock the others will mob the hall,” Woodbine said.

“And we’ll be left here to entertain ourselves.” Rutledge helped himself to another glass of whiskey. He waved Sexton away when the boy stepped forward, as his mother had instructed him, to caution his father against overindulgence. But for William Rutledge the first whiskey had but awakened a thirst for more, much more.

Woodbine was only too happy to comply, out of his professed friendship for the physician and because William Rutledge was the one man in Philadelphia who knew where these rebels had hidden their guns.

In the garden behind the German Lutheran church, a solid structure of timber and gray stone that thrust its whitewashed steeple toward the sky, Colonel George Washington found a stone bench near a bed of pale pink and scarlet roses. He liked roses. And he liked the solitude of this garden, with its vine-covered walls and shaded walks. He studied the stone tablet set in the ground like some ornate headstone. There were ten such tablets, one for each commandment. Each tablet bore a similar guildmark etched into the slate surface. However, Washington didn’t need the artisan’s signature to know the tablets were the workmanship of one man. The stone carver was a notoriously bad speller, and though the commandments were handsomely wrought, each table contained a misspelled word or two.

Washington sat across from
THOUS SHALT NOT COVET THY NAYBORS WIFE
,
Words of wisdom
, the Virginian thought with a smile. He leaned back against the rock wall; the vines cushioned him as he allowed the day’s news to sink in. So Hancock was no longer the formidable obstacle he had been since Washington arrived in Philadelphia back in early May. John Hancock was the golden lad of the assembly, a favorite of the New Englanders. The notion of being commander-in-chief had most assuredly appealed to the man. But at long last, common sense had prevailed over vaulting ambition. Hancock, it seemed, had at last admitted he wasn’t the man for the job and given Washington his all-important vote of confidence. Sooner or later the delegates from New Hampshire and New York would follow suit. Washington felt it in his bones.

He had sought the post of command for so long, how odd that the enormity of the challenge had only now begun to sink in. There was some small measure of consolation. If
I fail,
he thought,
it will be one of the grandest failures in the history of man.

Washington laughed softly to himself and, fishing a small, bone-handled folding knife from his coat pocket, glanced around for something to whittle. He heard the creak of the iron gate leading into the garden and noticed a travel-worn man enter from the street. Washington paid him little mind; his thoughts were of home and hearth and the woman who waited for him there. Martha Washington possessed a degree of courage few people even suspected she had, much less understood. Whatever the outcome of this war, his sacrifices and his fate would be hers. She would have it no other way.

Daniel McQueen waited in the shadows and checked the garden walkways. Reassured he and the Virginian were alone, Daniel started down the path. He’d found Woodbine’s house easy enough after a few well-directed questions at a local tavern, the Shepherd’s Crook. Daniel had tethered his horse in a wooded lot across from the merchant’s circular drive and would have made his way into Woodbine’s study if another carriage had not pulled up bringing a most illustrious guest, none other than George Washington himself. Daniel had resolved to wait the colonel out in hopes of catching him alone. Now his patience had paid off.

Daniel moved tentatively at first, awed by the powerful presence before him. He stopped a few yards from the Virginian and drew back against the trumpet vines. He shrugged his cloak back off his shoulders, freeing the guns in his belt. Not that he intended to use them, but the Quakers were a reassuring presence, and there was no telling who might be the next to enter the garden in pursuit of this lonely man.

Washington looked up from his reverie of leaves and roses and troubled future and saw his visitor.

“Yes?” he said in a deeply melodic tone. “Have you come to see me or to converse with the bees?” A smile played across his lips.

“I’ve come to warn you,” Daniel said. Once choosing this course, there was no turning back. Better to have done with it. “Your life is in danger. You are marked for death. British spies have brought men into the colony to kill you.”

“How do you know this?”

“I am one of them.”

A twitch of the muscles around Washington’s eyes was the only indication he had heard Daniel. He noticed the brace of pistols Daniel carried in his belt. Daniel kept his hands away from the walnut grips of his guns.

“Since you’re talking instead of shooting, why not walk with me and tell me more?” The Virginian stood.

And they walked together, this tall colonel and this broad-shouldered blacksmith. They left the church grounds and continued on toward the waterfront. Daniel explained how he had been brought into the affair and the hold Meeks had over him. It took a lot of talking, but the Virginian was a good listener.

“Josiah Meeks—I know the man and had hoped never to encounter him again.” Washington dabbed at his forehead after they’d covered a half dozen blocks. He found himself liking this blacksmith. By warning Washington, Daniel could well be signing his father’s death warrant.

The sun, having reached its zenith, began its downward slide into the middle hours of the afternoon. On such a lazy day men were wont to close their eyes and abandon the duties of the day for a brief rest or perhaps a sojourn at a favorite pub. Rest was the farthest thing from Washington’s mind, unless it was the threat of eternal rest.

“Where am I to meet my fate?”

“I was to wait for you at the Hound and Hare Inn along the Trenton Road. But if Meeks suspects you’ve been warned, I don’t know.”

“Well, we shall just have to keep Meeks guessing as to my motives,” Washington replied. The humor left his features. He stopped in his tracks and placed a hand on Daniel’s brawny shoulder.

“You have taken a great risk for me, Daniel McQueen. I wish I could return the favor. But alas, I am powerless to act in your father’s behalf. His life is in God’s hands.”

“And Josiah Meeks’s,” Daniel added bitterly.

“Many good men will die in the days to come,” Washington said, his voice tinged with sorrow. “Maybe you and I …”

The two men continued in silence until they reached the waterfront warehouses, piers, and the wide, watery expanse of the Delaware. The people around them mirrored the sentiments of the time. Among the traffic of carriages, freight wagons, and those afoot, most paid no heed to the Virginian, much less the red-bearded man in the ragged gray cloak standing at Washington’s side. Like the colonists who wished to remain aloof from the coming struggle, these city folk were concerned with the day’s business, nothing more. However, other townsmen stopped to notice Daniel and the colonel, and once Washington was recognized, word quickly spread throughout the waterfront.

Everyone knew the delegates at Carpenter’s Hall had been deliberating on the qualifications of this man and a handful of others as to who was best suited to command the army. It was obvious, as Daniel accompanied Washington along the waterfront, that the men and women there were divided in their admiration for the Virginian. A trio of merchants haggling over the price of whale oil paused in their argument to openly glare at Washington as if he were some pariah. They were in the minority, however.

Far more of the locals, from common laborers to tradesmen and a few well-to-do gentlemen, found time to approach the tall, introspective Southerner and wish him well and offer their support. Washington’s reputation as a man of courage and integrity set well with them. They knew why he had come to the city and prayed he would leave as commander-in-chief of the nation’s untried army.

Again Washington moved on, seeking a back street and greater privacy. When nothing presented itself, he chose a pier instead and walked out upon the long planks. Daniel, drawn along by the Virginian’s personal magnetism, followed him onto the pier. They stood together at the end of the dock, a perfect place for fishing. Washington stood with his hands folded behind his back, apparently deep in thought. Then he spoke.

“I feel as if we have met before, my bold friend.”

“Braddock’s Road,” Daniel replied. “I was thirteen. But big for my size. I marched with the Green Mountain volunteers.”

“A mere boy!” the Virginian exclaimed. A memory returned from the bloody time of a handful of frontiersmen standing their ground while the British regulars around them broke and fled before the onslaught of the Hurons. Had Daniel been among them, a boy posing as a man and doing a man’s work?

“I carried my own rifle,” Daniel boasted.

“Yes.” Washington smiled. “I am certain you did.” He stared out across the river. What did he see in that distance?

“There is a new wind blowing,” Washington said, looking out at the ships crowding the harbor. So far the British had not been successful in their blockade. But Washington knew things could get worse; they always did. “It is like a storm cleansing the land. It will bring a new order to the world, a country the likes of which has never existed.” Washington looked at Daniel standing at his side. He saw a son of the Highlands, a man of gristle and bone, of shrewdness, courage, and bold action. “Our new nation will have need of such men as you if it is to prevail.”