PHILADELPHIA
Two days later, Samuel Huntington of Connecticut, the President of the Continental Congress—a tall man with a thin face, an aquiline nose and greying hair that cascaded down the back of his neck in a profusion of curls—glanced out the window of his small office on the second floor of the Pennsylvania State House in Philadelphia, the meeting place of the Continental Congress, and saw something he’d not seen before: a horse and rider thundering up Chestnut Street, which ran in front of the building and was usually filled only with elegant carriages. He continued to watch as the rider pulled up directly in front, dismounted and appeared to search for a place to hitch his horse, which was lathered up from hard riding. The man failed to find a hitch since no one in recent memory had ridden a horse directly up to the front door of the elegant, three-story brick building.
A few seconds later, he saw a small boy approach the man. They exchanged words, the man handed the boy a coin and the lad led the horse away. Looking more closely, he could see that the man, like the horse, had been riding hard—his face and neck were covered with sweat.
The man walked up the brick sidewalk and knocked on the large front door, which someone, presumably the porter, opened to admit him.
When Huntington had first assumed the presidency of the Congress the year before, his immediate predecessor, Rufus Jay, had shown him that his office contained a very convenient spyhole in one wall, large enough to see what was happening in the building’s lower entrance hall, but cleverly concealed so that it wasn’t visible from the other side. If he pressed his eye against the hole and the people spoke loudly enough, he could not only see but also hear what was happening below.
He moved immediately to the peephole, pressed his eye against it and saw the visitor speaking to the porter, a small man who was almost entirely bald but declined to wear a wig. He had been specifically hired for his refusal to be impressed by anyone, and his ability to turn away most office seekers.
The visitor had a loud voice, and Huntington heard him say, quite clearly, “I have news of His Excellency, George Washington, and I must see President Huntington as soon as possible.”
The porter did not appear impressed. “As he is the President of the Continental Congress, you will need an appointment. He is an important man and—”
“When you tell him what I have come to talk about, I’m sure he will see me. But I appreciate your trouble in finding him, if he’s here.” He handed the man a coin.
The porter took the coin, looked at it, pocketed it and said, “Thank you for that. Please come back tomorrow morning, and in the meantime I will see if Mr. Huntington will be able to make time to see you. But he may not be able to.”
Huntington burst out of his office and ran down the nearby set of stairs to the ground floor. “Sir, if you have news of General Washington, I will be pleased to see you now. Mr. Bartholomew here—” he gestured at the porter “—tries hard to protect me from crazed people and Loyalists, who are sometimes one and the same.”
“I thought he was one such,” Bartholomew said. “I most certainly did.”
“I understand, Excellency,” the visitor said. “And take no offence. I’m Herman Atwood. I’ve just come from south of the Raritan River, and I have news of General Washington’s fate.”
“I’m anxious to hear it. Others have already told us he was taken, and news about the kidnapping is spreading as fast as the fastest horses can ride. As is the outrage amongst the people. But reports of what exactly happened to him are ever more confused. Some even say he is dead.”
Atwood cast a glance at the porter.
Taking his meaning, Huntington said, “You can speak candidly in front of Mr. Bartholomew. The fact that General Washington was kidnapped from his headquarters is already well-known here. It’s been almost six days. The riddle as to exactly where he might have been taken is a matter of everyone’s concern.”
“Very well, then. Sir, I was part of a small group of men who followed the General and his kidnappers from near his headquarters, where he was first seized, to a beach in New Jersey.”
“Why didn’t you attempt to rescue him along the way?”
“There were too many of them, too well armed. Also, we feared harming His Excellency in any attempt.”
“Did not Patriots along the way volunteer to help?”
“Many in those parts are Loyalists. The Patriots we approached closed their doors to us. They are sick of war, it seems.”
“And at the beach?”
“It was long past midnight, with heavy wind and rain, when a large wooden boat came in. There were eight sailors. It was pitching bad. The General tried to get away, but they grabbed him and shoved him in.”
“Did anyone else get on?”
“Yes, one other man.”
“What else do you know, Mr. Atwood?”
“Very little. May I have some beer, please, if you have it? I have not had drink in several hours of hard riding.”
Bartholomew nodded in acknowledgement of the request and left the room.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of him, Mr. Huntington, lest I start a poisonous rumour. But I fear General Washington didn’t survive the trip in that small boat.”
“Why?”
“The storm was rising fast and the boat was pitching and rolling very bad. I saw two waves overtop it, and three sailors were bailing with buckets while the others rowed.”
“How long could you see it?”
“Not long. Every little while it disappeared into the bottom of a trough, and then it disappeared entirely into the rain and the mist. I thought I heard shouting, but I couldn’t tell for sure, so loud was the rain and the wind.”
“Were any bodies washed up?”
“I don’t know. I left to come here within the hour.”
Bartholomew returned with a large mug of beer and handed it to Atwood, who said, “Excuse me,” and drank down almost the entire thing without stopping.
When Atwood had slaked his thirst, Huntington said, “Did you see or hear anything that would tell you if they were planning to take him to New York or to England or somewhere else?”
“No. Do you know?”
“We sent a fast messenger to General Clinton’s headquarters in New York under a flag of truce. Clinton claims to know nothing about it and says it was done on no authority of his. He is now looking for Washington, too, and hoping to find him before we do.”
Atwood wrinkled his nose. “Odd. Very odd,” he said.
“Yes,” Huntington said. “Unless you assume His Excellency is being taken to London on a British warship, and the plan was hatched without Clinton’s knowledge.”
“I think there was a name on the side of the longboat,” Atwood said.
“What was it?”
He squinted, clearly thinking hard. Finally, he said, “I just cannot recall. It was dark and raining. I’m very sorry.”
“When you are alone somewhere, sit quietly and try to fix your mind’s eye on it,” Huntington said. “Sometimes that works. And if you do come up with it, Mr. Atwood, please let me know right away.”
“I will.”
“In the meantime, we’ve established an emergency committee to try to deal with this. Washington is only one man, but he has become the heart and soul of this Revolution. We fear if we fail to get him back, everything will collapse into chaos. By happenstance, we are meeting in about two hours. Will you join us?”
“Yes. But I need a place to eat and then stay the night. Perhaps you could direct me.”
Huntington looked to Bartholomew. “Mr. Bartholomew, please take Mr. Atwood to the City Tavern. Then help him find an inn for the night. Both the meal and the inn should be charged to the account of the Congress.”
“Thank you, sir,” Atwood said.
“You’re most welcome. We will see you back here when the bell in the tower tolls six. There are others who need to hear what you saw.”