Huntington had cobbled the emergency committee together—he named it the Committee on Repatriation—from amongst those delegates who were still in Philadelphia, many having already departed to begin the long journey home so that they might spend Christmas with their families. He also persuaded Charles Thompson, locally famous as one of the leaders of the Philadelphia branch of the Sons of Liberty, to attend. Thompson had not been a delegate, but rather served in the perhaps more powerful position of permanent secretary to the Congress.
Atwood arrived as the bell tolled six, and repeated for the members what he had told Huntington earlier in the day.
“Have you as yet remembered the name of the ship that you saw on the longboat?” Huntington asked. Then he paused and added, “But perhaps all ships don’t paint the ship’s name on their longboats.”
“This one did, I’m certain. I just can’t recall it.”
“If you do, please find me and tell me. I am in touch with our navy, such as it is these days.”
“I will do that, sir.”
Finally, Huntington said, “Mr. Atwood, I, for one, thank you for doing your patriotic duty in coming to explain to us what has happened to His Excellency. It is most helpful. What are your plans now?”
“To return to New Jersey after a good night’s sleep.”
“Which you richly deserve.” He rose and extended his hand. “You have the thanks of the entire nation.”
Atwood, realizing that he was being dismissed, rose and shook Huntington’s proffered hand. “I am pleased to have been of service to my country.” He stepped towards the door, but just before reaching it, he turned and said, “What are you going to do?”
“Why, try to rescue him,” Huntington said.
After Atwood had left, Thompson said, “Surely, you cannot be serious. Especially without the name of the ship. There are no doubt dozens of British warships out there.”
“I didn’t mean a rescue at sea. We will instead start by trying to negotiate his release in London.”
“In exchange for what?”
“We will need to work that out,” Huntington said.
They quickly agreed that whatever the strategy might be, whomever they sent to negotiate should be sent quickly, followed by more people later. Yet the need for speed left out three of their very best.
John Adams was already in France as a special representative to try to bring about a more formal alliance with France, as was Benjamin Franklin. Even if they were able to be notified and make their way to England amidst the French war with England, there would be no way to instruct them. But perhaps, someone pointed out, it was just as well. Adams, if the London papers which they had seen were to be believed, was the patriot leader whom George III disliked the most.
Thomas Jefferson was another possibility, but he was at that moment two hundred fifty miles away in Virginia serving as its governor. Virginia was at least a week’s travel each way. In addition, he owned slaves, and slavery had already been effectively abolished in England several years earlier, which might make him a poor choice. And, as one member of the committee put it—whether seriously or not, it was hard to tell—“He might not really work all that hard to prevent Washington being put to death.”
They also discarded the names of various generals, as well as a few well-regarded colonels and majors.
In the end, they chose Ethan Abbott, thirty-nine years old, not a delegate, but a war hero and a well-known and well-regarded lawyer in Philadelphia. He already knew many of the members of Congress well, including every member of the committee, because he’d represented them on personal and business matters while they were in Philadelphia. He had even briefly represented Benjamin Franklin before he left for France.
On some level, Huntington said, it didn’t matter whom they chose. The British were going to do with Washington what they were going to do, and the representative sent from the Congress would likely make little difference. What mattered, he said, based on his careful reading of the London papers they received, the reports of the parliamentary debates that came his way, and his meetings with the Carlisle Commission, when they had spent six futile months in Philadelphia in 1778 trying to get someone in the Patriot camp interested in negotiating a settlement to the war, was whether Lord North or the King ended up winning the argument about how the war should end.
“What about Mr. Abbott’s missing leg?” one of the delegates asked. “Won’t having only half a leg hinder him in getting around?”
Huntington laughed. “No, and when they find out exactly how he lost it, the British will respect him. With regard to those men in Parliament and at court who have not themselves been in any war, it will give him a leg up.” He smiled at the pun.
“He is also something of a dandy,” one of them said.
“No, he simply dresses a great deal better than you,” one of the men, who had spent time in London, said. “And that, too, will go over quite well in London and especially in court. Have you ever seen court dress, with its velvet and lace and gold buttons and medallions? He will fit right in.”
And so Ethan Abbott was selected to travel to London and represent the Continental Congress in negotiations with the British, with a larger, supporting delegation to follow within the week. Perhaps Dr. Franklin could later be dispatched from France as well if needed, but that would take much longer to arrange and might put Franklin, wanted for treason for having signed the Declaration, at personal risk.
Now there remained only to let Abbott know he’d been chosen and persuade him to go. Huntington had gone to visit with Abbott before their current meeting to let him know he planned to put his name in contention. Abbott had reluctantly consented, but he did so, he had said, only because he knew he would never be chosen.
When Huntington went immediately to Abbott’s home to tell him the news, he resisted. “I have not the talent for this.”
“I think you do, Mr. Abbott. I think you are perfect.”
“I was a soldier, and now I have returned to being a lawyer. What talents do I have for this? I think I have none.”
“I know well your reputation as a negotiator, sir. You are measured and polite most of the time. But when needed you can be blunt. It is the very combination of talents which we need in this endeavour. That your country needs.”
“My tendency to be blunt on occasion? I consider that a flaw in my character. When I feel it start to rise up in me, I try to beat it down.”
Huntington smiled. “Try not to beat it down too much, Mr. Abbott. I have no doubt you will need it in London.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Finally, Huntington broke the silence and said, “And there is one more thing. If you do this and are successful—or even if you’re not—you will be famous for the rest of your life.”
“I’m already quite famous enough.”
“Only in a minor way for your exploits on the battlefield. That will all fade quickly. I am talking about wider fame, of the kind that I have no doubt is well worth having. Amongst other things, you can more easily acquire a wife.”
“I’m not sure I want a wife.”
“Everyone should have one, Mr. Abbott. It doesn’t preclude you from—Well, never mind.”
“General Washington has no idea who I am.”
“I will give you a glowing letter of introduction. And since Washington does not consider me a competitor, it will go much further than something from Adams or Jefferson. Only a letter from Hamilton would do better, but he is at the moment at best two days’ ride from here, and you must leave quickly.”
“It makes no sense to send only one man.”
“We will dispatch a small delegation shortly after you leave to arrive in London, we hope, not long after you do. And we can perhaps find a way to get Dr. Franklin to France to come to your assistance should things seem not to be going well.”
“I still don’t see how this is all going to work.”
Over a bottle of fine port—two, actually—that Huntington had brought with him, they argued back and forth well into the night. Finally, Abbott gave up and accepted.
At the very end, as Huntington was preparing to leave, there was a loud knock at the door. Abbott opened it, and there stood Herman Atwood.
“Mr. Huntington, they told me I’d find you here.” He looked to Abbott. “Pardon the intrusion, sir, but I didn’t want to wait to tell the news.” He was breathing hard, as if he’d run there from his inn. “I finally remembered the name of the ship. It was on the side of the longboat. HMS Peregrine.”