Two Crowns for America

  The look was serviceable if less than fashionable, but quite in keeping for a displaced French surgeon seeking employment with the British Army. He would change his borrowed attire for a British uniform once he actually had his commission. The documents he slipped into a well-worn valise borrowed from Simon, atop a change of linen and a well-used surgeon’s kit, declared him to be Dr. Lucas Saint-John, a Frenchman trained in medicine at Cadiz.

  “Cadiz?” Justin asked.

  The prince added a nearly worn-out set of razors and brushes formerly belonging to Andrew. His own were too fine, and new toilet items might have occasioned questions.

  “I do speak Spanish,” he said with a droll smile, “and it is unlikely I shall meet anyone familiar with the medical faculty of Cadiz. I am hoping that will explain away any gaps in my medical knowledge.”

  “Just how far does your knowledge extend?” Simon asked.

  “Oh, I know basic anatomy, and I can dress a wound and cut out bullets,” the prince admitted. “I fear I should find an amputation daunting—but I learn quickly. I do have other resources at my disposal, as one might expect of a student of Saint-Germain, but I must be circumspect if I hope not to draw myself too much attention. Still, even modest skills may serve to ease the sufferings of those poor wretches who find themselves the victims of war.”

  The prince’s blunt confession of his limitations left both men taken aback, but he was determined to go. Justin accompanied him to the British lines and wished him well before seeing him off on the last leg of his midnight defection, watching and listening in the cold and dark until there was no question that he had made the crossing without mishap. Several weeks later papers captured during a skirmish near one of the British observation posts included a medical duty roster assigning a Dr. L. Saint-John, Captain, to duties in one of the British field units.

  “He’s in!” Simon announced to Justin before heading off to inform the Commander in Chief.

  Meanwhile, British and colonial forces maintained an uneasy balance, gradually forced into inactivity as fall gave way to winter. As Justin took up his duties as Simon’s aide, settling into Washington’s military family, he began to acquire both a military perspective and an appreciation for the tactical situation in Boston.

  First of all, as Arabella had predicted, General Gage had been replaced. Command had passed to General Sir William Howe shortly before Justin’s return, though Howe seemed no more willing to press the British advantage than his predecessor had been, perhaps still haunted by the appalling cost of Breed’s Hill. The Americans, on the other hand, though willing enough, found themselves unable to move against the entrenched British positions, because of the lack of artillery for bombardment.

  To remedy that lack, Washington looked north to the captured Lake Champlain fort of Ticonderoga, taken by Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold the previous May “in the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress,” though one wag pointed out that neither man had produced credentials from either authority. Ticonderoga itself had not been the true prize—though there had been real fears that the British in Quebec might seek to cut the colonies in two by moving up the St. Lawrence and Richelieu rivers, down Lake Champlain and Lake George, and then through the Hudson River Valley. The more important American objective had been to secure the heavy guns and mortars remaining in the fort from the French and Indian War.

  These Washington now hoped to employ to his advantage. First, however, they must be transported southward to Boston—a task that ordinarily would have been entrusted to Colonel Richard Gridley, the engineer who had masterminded the Boston entrenchments; but Gridley’s health was failing. Accordingly, Washington appointed as his chief of artillery a bright and energetic young bookseller and fellow Freemason named Henry Knox, who had been second in command of a volunteer artillery company and who now proposed to retrieve the guns.

  By early December, using flat-bottomed scows and then specially constructed ox-drawn sledges to cross the snow and ice, the newly commissioned Colonel Knox had dragged his prizes southward as far as Albany—mortars, cohorns, howitzers, and cannons, both iron and brass, totaling more than fifty pieces in all. He would not reach Boston for some weeks, but Washington clearly was elated at the progress, though anxious for Knox’s arrival.

  Far more important than lack of artillery, however—or lack of powder and muskets and all the other supplies needed to support an army—was the impending lack of any army at all. Though called a Continental Army, its actual makeup defied description. The core of the army had come from volunteer militia and “minute” companies responding to the emergencies of Lexington and Concord, mostly raised by local officers whom the men themselves elected, and retaining fierce loyalties to their places of origin. Shortly before Washington’s arrival, Congress had attempted to regularize the structure somewhat, authorizing an eight-month enlistment of twenty regiments, each commanded by a colonel and containing ten companies of fifty-six men and three officers—some twelve thousand men—but these enlistments were due to expire on December 31. By the beginning of December, only five thousand men had signed on for service in 1776.

  Since taking command in July, Washington’s growing concern had been how to induce the rest to reenlist, interspersed with the more immediate necessity to instill discipline in a collection of fiercely independent individuals. Few of his officers had experience of command, and most of the men were ill accustomed to following orders. Strict military discipline and attention to details had begun to yield results, but it took constant supervision, haranguing, and the occasional flogging or court-martial to drive the point home. It had not been an easy five months for anyone—least of all, the men who must be wooed to stay. And the traditional incentive of cash bonuses was out of the question, when Congress could not even afford to pay the army yet.

  Fortunately, other factors were being set in play to help ease Washington’s dilemma. Soon after Justin’s return from Europe, late in November, Simon had begun sowing certain seeds; by mid-December some had begun to flower. Because of the increasing press of duties since the extraordinary events in the Wallace library, neither he nor Justin had been home except briefly, both of them sleeping on camp cots in Simon’s office at Vassall House; but early in the second week of December, shortly after nightfall, Simon showed up alone and unannounced.

  “I cannot stay long,” he said as he warmed his hands around the tankard of hot ale that Arabella gave him, “but I have good news. As you know, there’s been a great deal of concern about the enlistments due to run out at the end of the year. I’ve had to tread very cautiously to lay the groundwork, but the General informed me today that Congress has finally decided that a common flag might provide a rallying point. They’ve appointed a committee to design one.”

  Andrew nodded sagely and lit a pipe.

  “Excellent. Who’s to head it?”

  “Dr. Franklin,” Simon said with a smile. “You said he would. He asked whether the committee might meet here. Apparently his last visit left a favorable impression.”

  “Indeed. And what was the General’s impression?”

  Simon grinned over the top of his tankard. “Apparently the same. He asked that I convey his compliments to the lady of the house and be certain the committee’s presence would be no imposition.”

  Arabella rolled her eyes, then glanced from her husband to her father-in-law.

  “Is this part of the Master’s Plan?”

  “A vital part,” Andrew replied. “Because of a flag’s symbolism on many levels, selection of a design can be critical—it will be critical, if a flag is to become a rallying symbol for the United Colonies. He wishes his guidance imparted to the committee.”

  “I see.” Arabella cocked her head in question. “Are you to act as his agent, then?”

  “After a fashion.” Andrew turned his one-eyed gaze back to Simon. “Who else has been named to the committee besides Franklin?”

  “Lynch and Harrison. And the General is an hon
orary member, of course. After all, he must fight under the flag selected.”

  Andrew nodded, his eye going briefly unfocused through the smoke spiraling upward from his pipe, then gestured with the stem.

  “This will be an ideal setting. When do they wish to meet?”

  “On Thursday evening, if that presents no problem,” Simon replied. “And if the meeting is held here, I believe the General intends that I should be included as well.”

  “Even better.” Andrew shifted his gaze to Arabella. “Practical considerations, my dear. We shall need to provide a collation for our guests before the meeting begins. In the library, I think, so that we can work while at table—and that will recall certain other events for Franklin and the General. Can you manage that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Now for my part.” Andrew resumed his study of the smoke. “It occurs to me that the Chevalier Wallace has pressing business in Philadelphia, necessitating his conspicuous departure tomorrow. Unfortunately, that will cause him to miss the arrival on Wednesday of a visitor who, just by chance, will still be here on Thursday when the committee meets.”

  Simon’s brow furrowed. “Am I to gather that you would be this visitor?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “I’m not sure I can arrange that,” Simon said. “You’re very well respected, but—”

  “I said that I would be present ‘in a manner of speaking,’ ” Andrew interjected, allowing a tiny smile to curve his lips. “I will grant you that the Chevalier Wallace might not be invited to join Congress’s carefully selected committee. However, the visitor intended for this most important meeting will be readily identifiable to at least one of its members, and perhaps to a second as well. Like our friend the prince, I am not always privy to all of the Master’s plans, but this one is quite clear. Now, here is what I propose.…”

  Three nights later, early in the evening, Arabella knocked on the door of Andrew’s room. It was the thirteenth of December, the Thursday night appointed. The library was arranged, the food prepared, but none of the expected guests had yet arrived. The children had been sent to visit a cousin several miles away.

  “Enter,” came Andrew’s low response.

  She found him bent over a dresser on the left side of the room, lit from behind by a single candle. The rest of the little room was dark, with heavy drapes drawn over the window on the other side of the bed. As she closed the door behind her, he picked up the candlestick and turned to face her.

  For an instant it seemed that a stranger gazed at her, for Andrew’s usual appearance was totally altered. Most immediately apparent was the hair, combed straight down to his shoulders rather than dressed in the fashionable peruke he usually favored. His eye patch was gone, too. The exquisite glass eye sent by the King occupied the usually empty socket, so lifelike that for an instant Arabella had to remind herself which one was real and which one artificial.

  He had put on unfamiliar attire as well: clothing fashionable enough twenty years before, but far more conservative than what most folk associated with the stylish Chevalier Wallace. The black coat was of archaic cut, of good enough quality at one time, but going rusty brown at the lapels and cuffs. The immediate impression was professorial—an image instantly reinforced when Andrew slipped on a pair of half-moon spectacles similar to the ones Dr. Franklin usually wore.

  “You can’t actually see out of both those lenses,” Arabella found herself pointing out as she continued to take in his overall appearance with amazement.

  “Of course not,” Andrew agreed. “But our visitors shan’t know that. And the spectacles tend to reinforce the difference between me and the gentleman I shall portray this evening. Everyone knows that the Chevalier Wallace uses a monocle, after all. That and his varied eye patches are his two most dramatic fashion accessories.”

  She looked him up and down more closely now, noting finer details of his attire—and remembering another fashion accessory.

  “How do you propose to walk without your stick?” she asked. “That’s as distinctive as your eye patch.”

  “I shan’t use it,” he replied. “I don’t always need it. And for short periods, here in the house, I can manage not to limp.”

  “You’ll pay for it afterward,” she reminded him. “You know how your leg pains you sometimes, even when you’re taking proper care.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “However, I’m willing to deal with that.”

  “Well, you do look completely different,” she finally acknowledged. “But do you really think you can carry it off? Harrison and Lynch are no problem, but Franklin and the General know you—Franklin quite well. You surely can’t hope to fool them.”

  Andrew smiled and came to take her hand, raising it to his lips in courtly salute.

  “You don’t understand, my dear. It isn’t I who shall fool them; it’s Saint-Germain.”

  Her blood ran chill and her jaw dropped.

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiled again and released her hand, turning back to the bureau to exchange the candlestick for the moonstone pendant Justin had brought back several weeks before.

  “I told you before that the Master had anticipated this,” he said softly. “This is my link with him. Part of the instructions he sent will enable me to use it as a focus, so that I may become his instrument, a channel for his power.”

  Heart pounding, Arabella shook her head in dismay. “Is it—like possession?”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, still smiling gently.

  “Less active than that, my dear, and far less sinister. And if I were not a willing and wholly trusting partner in this venture, he could not accomplish his intent. No, it is more a—an overshadowing, perhaps. I have heard of it before, though I have never experienced it. I am given to understand that I will remain fully conscious of what is going on around me, but he will direct my words and movements. This will enable him to have eyes and voice where they are needed—or at least one eye. Do you understand?”

  “Only a little,” she whispered.

  He chuckled genially, reaching up a hand to stroke her cheek. “I, too, understand only a little, my precious. But together, I believe we can carry out the Master’s instructions to his satisfaction. Is this agreeable to you?”

  She swallowed and lowered her eyes, covertly continuing to watch him while she affected to study the toes of her slippers.

  “I shall do my best to carry out his wishes, Beau-père,” she said. “Ah—what are those wishes?”

  He smiled and lay back on the bed, swinging his feet up onto its foot.

  “You shall hear them from the Master himself,” he said. “Bring the candle and sit beside me.”

  She obeyed, trying not to think too much about what he had just said. She had met Saint-Germain just once before, in Paris; but that had been in the early years of her marriage with Simon, before she had begun acquiring any real control of her talents. She remembered very little of the meeting—odd, now that she thought back on it, because her memory usually was so precise about such things. The occasion had been a reception at Fontainebleau Palace, and she remembered that quite vividly. But there had been another part—unknown moments spent alone with him and Simon in a withdrawing room, of which she remembered hardly anything at all.

  She had not thought too much about it at the time, gladly accepting Simon’s reassurance that the incident had been benign. But now the mysterious man they thought of as their Master was about to reinstate his acquaintance, and Simon was not here—though Andrew was. She could not decide how she felt about that. Oddly, she found that she was not afraid.

  Gathering her skirts around her, she perched on the edge of the bed as Andrew had instructed, holding the candlestick above his chest as he directed.

  “The flame will serve as a visual focus for the beginning,” he told her, positioning her hand more to his liking and giving her a reassuring smile. “Once my eyes have been closed for about a minute, you
may set it aside.”

  She nodded in return and tried to smile, watching as he looped the fine blue ribbon of the moonstone over his head and then closed it in his hand once more, laying it over his heart. As he fixed his gaze on the candle flame, he drew a long, deep breath and slowly let it out, repeating the process a second time and then a third. After a moment his lips began to move in words not audible to her.

  Slowly his face began to relax. Slowly his gaze unfocused, lethargy stealing over every line of his body as he sought for the link with his distant Master. After a few more minutes, his eyes turned upward in their sockets, eyelids fluttering and then closing. His breath exhaled with a long, heavy sigh.

  Arabella watched in awe, finally remembering to withdraw the candlestick, not daring to take her eyes from him. His breathing changed, movement beginning to flicker behind closed eyelids. His hands twitched several times, especially the one that held the moonstone.

  Then, all at once, both eyes opened to fix her with a cool, implacable stare. Startled, she started to draw back, but his empty hand shot out to seize her wrist.

  “Do not be afraid,” he commanded in a voice that did not sound at all like Andrew, touched with a faint foreign accent. “Andrew is quite safe, so long as nothing untoward occurs to strain the credibility of this masquerade. I should like to avoid that, at all cost. For that reason I desire to instruct you in what you are to say to your guests tonight. Do you agree?”

  Arabella nodded, her eyes never leaving his, any further movement frozen by the clasp of the hand still locked around her wrist—familiar and alien at once. Despite the fact that she knew it was still Andrew’s body, she could entertain no lingering doubt that the individual who spoke with Andrew’s lips was someone else entirely. Nor did she question who that individual was.

  “I thank you,” he murmured, smiling slightly. “Now. You shall introduce me simply as ‘the Professor.’ You need not name me beyond that. Simon will follow your lead, and Franklin as well. There will be no question.”