Abbott spent a sleepless night and arose in the morning more upset than before at having been refused immediate access to Washington. If there was no progress by the end of the day, he would go directly to the Tower himself the very next day and demand of the jailer to see the man whose freedom he’d been sent to secure.
In the meantime, the question of how to identify the best lawyer was urgent but, at the same time, a puzzle. He could not, of course, represent Washington himself because he wasn’t admitted to the bar in England and wouldn’t be able to get admitted without undertaking extensive further training in England. Unfortunately, in the haste of his departure from Philadelphia, he had neglected to discuss the topic with either Thompson or Huntington, obvious as the need ought to have seemed.
Benjamin Franklin, having lived in London for so many years, would likely know the best men, but he was in France. The round-trip time for messages was probably measured in weeks, assuming it could even be done efficiently and confidentially in a time of war between England and France.
He was thus on his own in figuring it out, as he was loath to accept the list of suggested barristers that Hartleb had offered. There was no way to know in what way particular lawyers on Hartleb’s list might be beholden to the government, or hoping for later favour by giving Washington less than a robust defence. An alternative was to try to locate the few patriotic Americans who were in London—not the thousands of Loyalists who had fled there—and ask them for suggestions.
At one time he might himself have been one of those American Londoners. He had thought of going to London to train as a barrister. He had opted instead, after attending the College of New Jersey in Princeton, to return to Philadelphia, where he apprenticed himself to an older lawyer nearing the end of his career. A man who himself had trained at the Inns of Court in London.
His room, on the second floor of the guest house, looked out on a park and was elegantly furnished. A large feather bed surrounded by embroidered curtains sat next to one wall, and a clearly expensive armoire against another, with a washstand and basin beside it. Against the third wall there was an exquisite cherrywood dresser with drawers on the bottom, surmounted by a drop-down desk and a glass-doored bookcase. A comfortable fire had been lit in a fireplace surrounded by an ornate black marble mantel. Above it hung a large portrait of George III in hunting attire. He stared at it. Perhaps it was meant to suggest to him that his country was prey.
He wandered over to the bookcase, opened the doors and looked through the books, which were mostly Shakespearean plays and recent novels. There was one called The Sylph, some of whose pages were still uncut, showing a publication date of 1778. Its author was listed only and oddly as A Young Lady. As he paged through the uncut pages in the front of the book, it seemed a bit racy. He was looking forward to settling down with it when there was a knock on the door.
He opened it, and there stood the house’s porter, Mr. Jarvis, to whom he’d been briefly introduced upon his arrival.
Quite seemingly proud to announce it, Jarvis said, “The Right Honourable Edmund Burke, MP, is here and requests to see you. He regrets his lack of an appointment.”
“Well, I certainly know of him. He’s been one of our largest supporters in Parliament. Please ask him to come up.”
“Sir, if I may, it would be more appropriate to meet him in the parlour.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head back slightly. There was clearly an unspoken “you colonial bumpkin.”
“I’ll be delighted to do that as well, as soon as I am properly dressed for such a meeting.”
“Sir, may I speak freely?”
“Of course, Mr. Jarvis. You may always do so with me. This is not my country, I have a delicate mission and assistance is always of value.”
“Sir, Edmund Burke is a famous orator and an important Member of Parliament. I know that he shares many of your countrymen’s opinions about matters of how your colonies should be governed.”
“I have read some of his speeches, and, yes, he apparently does.”
Jarvis pursed his lips and looked down at the floor, clearly trying to decide whether to go further. He looked up and said, “But he is a Whig, and the Whigs are in the minority. Which means he is an opponent of the current government.”
“And therefore?”
“It is perhaps not my station to tell you this, but allying yourself too closely with him may not benefit your cause.”
“I thank you for telling me. It is much appreciated. And you need not worry about your station.”
“Thank you.”
“I was a Whig myself, not too long ago, before the Revolution began.”
“What are you now?”
“A Patriot. I like to think we have dispensed with parties in my country, at least for the moment.”
“We should not keep Mr. Burke waiting.”
“No, we should not, but I will first need Mr. Sellars to assist me in dressing for the occasion. What I am wearing currently is not appropriate to meet a Member of Parliament. Please ask Mr. Sellars, if he is available, to come in. I should be ready to go downstairs in about thirty minutes. I’m sure Mr. Burke will understand the needs of a gentleman to be appropriately attired.”
Sellars arrived shortly thereafter and helped him select clothing from his trunks—a blue waistcoat with black breeches and, on his left leg, a black leather boot. He also removed the iron peg that was usually attached to his wooden leg—the leg had been amputated just below the knee—and replaced it with a peg of silver. It was impractical for regular use because it wore too quickly, but for show, particularly for a meeting with someone he’d never encountered before, it was perfect.
Jarvis arrived back just as he finished dressing.
“Thank you, Mr. Sellars,” he said. “Lead the way, Mr. Jarvis.”
Jarvis held the door to the room open for him, and he headed for the stairs. He had long ago learned to navigate a set of steps without clunking his way down. But he chose, this time, to let the silver pin make a very distinct bang, both on the wooden steps and as he stumped his way across the entrance hall towards the parlour doors, which were closed.