The almost seven-week voyage westbound across the North Atlantic had not gone well. Black had been seasick on and off since the day the sloop-of-war HMS Peregrine had sailed out of Portsmouth. Some weeks, when the wind and waves had been relatively calm, he’d been fine. But each time the weather roughened he’d had to rush for the bucket all over again. Some cruel sailor had even painted his name on it. It had all seemed to amuse the crew, and they had snickered openly in front of him. If he’d been able to wear his uniform, with rank and campaign medals on display, they would never have dared. But on this voyage, as testified to by the name splashed on the bucket, he was travelling as “Mr. Smith.” He was billeted as a civilian supposedly being transported to New York at the request of the Admiralty, for reasons not revealed to the crew or the more junior officers. And so they treated him with disdain, as if he were a clerk in a counting house.
Even the ship’s captain, Charles Ingram, had seemed at least mildly amused by his discomfort, despite Ingram having assured him that the sea was rather calm for the North Atlantic in late fall. The Captain, of course, was aware not only of his true name—Jeremiah Black—but also of his rank, and where he was actually going to be put ashore. He had not been entrusted, however, with the true nature of Black’s assignment. Once or twice, in the guise of seeming to commiserate with him about his seasickness, the Captain had tried to worm out of him the purpose of his mission. Black had steadfastly refused to be drawn in or to share his orders.
Those orders had been handed to Black by none other than the First Minister of Great Britain, Lord North himself, in a small meeting room on the second floor of 10 Downing Street. There, after reading them, Black had been made to understand that, aside from North and the military aide who briefed him on the more detailed plans as North stood by, only two other people in all of England were privy to them. North had named only one—the First Lord of the Admiralty. Black had gained the distinct impression, perhaps erroneously, that the second person who’d been told of the plan was the man whose large portrait hung on the wall—George III, King by the Grace of God, of England, Scotland and Wales, and, more recently, of Ireland, too.
He had also been given to understand that his promotion to the rank of full colonel was temporary, done so that he would outrank Captain Ingram during the voyage. Ingram, although captain of the ship, was only a navy commander by rank, the army equivalent of a lieutenant colonel. Should Black fail in his mission, he would be busted back to major, posthumously if necessary. Should he succeed, much glory and a general’s star awaited him. Or so he allowed himself to imagine.
As the meeting was coming to an end, North had shown him a copy of Captain Ingram’s orders. Ingram was to deliver him to a deserted beach well north of Philadelphia, not far south of where the Raritan River met the sea. The drop-off was to be done, if possible, on one of ten nights in mid-to late November between the hours of midnight and 4:00 a.m. If at all possible, he was to be put ashore on a night when the beach was not bright with moonlight. Should the ship fail to make landfall by one of those ten nights, Ingram was to take the ship into New York for reprovisioning. Then sail it back to England, with Mr. Smith still on board.
If good fortune prevailed, and the ship was able to land him on the beach on one of the ten appointed nights, Captain Ingram was to wait no more than eight days for Black to return to the same beach. If he failed to make it back on time, he was to be abandoned to his fate.
Black had asked why the rescue attempt was to be limited to only eight nights. North had looked away, and his aide, instead of answering Black’s question in detail, had said only, “Longer too much risks your discovery. But in any case, if you fail, no one in the United Kingdom will ever acknowledge that you were on an official mission, and if discovered you will be labelled a rogue officer attempting unsanctioned heroics.”
After that, standing there before Lord North, he had read through his orders once more and asked, “Minister, will Captain Ingram know what I hope to be carrying on my return?”
“No, he will not. Are there any other questions, Colonel?”
“I have two, my Lord.”
“I am listening.”
“First, I am deeply honoured to be entrusted with this mission, but—”
North interrupted. “You want to know why we are sending you when the loyal colonists have already planned your mission in such detail? Why can’t they do it themselves?”
“With all respect, Minister, the question is more, what do you hope I can add to what already seems a well-planned mission?”
North walked over to a window, clasped his hands behind his back and looked out, seeming to focus on something in the far distance. His face looked puffy and worn. It was perhaps not surprising. The “American war,” as it was often called, had not proved the easy victory originally predicted. Instead, it had dragged on for more than four years, with France giving more and more aid to the rebellion.
After a moment, North turned back to face him. “You are being sent as the embodiment of the King’s justice. The Loyalists over there—” he waved an arm towards the windows, as if to send his hand flying across the Atlantic “—are no doubt good men, but we do not wish this supreme traitor taken by—” he paused, searching for the words “—a ragtag group with no formal authority. Whereas you, an officer in His Majesty’s service, dressed in the scarlet of a British uniform, will carry out a lawful arrest.”
“I see,” Black said, but the Prime Minister was not done.
“That arrest, carried out in the very heart of the rebellion, will tell all that, whatever the grievances of the colonists, King and Parliament are still sovereign in the colonies. Sovereign!”
North was breathing hard and becoming red in the face. Black decided not to pursue it further. “Thank you, my Lord,” he said. “I think I understand.” Although in reality, he did not.
“You said you had two questions, Colonel.”
“If I apprehend him, but for whatever reason cannot return him here, what are my orders?”
North stared at him. “Your orders are to sail there, capture him and return him here. That is all.”
He thought of pressing the issue, but North had already walked back to a green-felt table laden with documents and begun to examine them. “You are dismissed, Colonel,” he said, without turning around. “My aide will show you out.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
Black and the aide had almost reached the door when North once again turned towards them and said, “God speed you on your way, young man.”
Young? He didn’t feel all that young. Black had undertaken his first secret mission for the army when he was but twenty years old, and it had felt like an adventure. Now, at age thirty-three, the idea of travelling three thousand miles across an ocean to a land he’d never been to before, seizing a commanding general from the middle of his own troops and returning him to London, alive, seemed not so much an adventure as a likely death sentence. At least for him. Perhaps for both of them.