Once outside 10 Downing, Abbott hailed a sedan chair and soon arrived at the guest house. He rang the bell and was greeted by Mr. Jarvis.
“Ah, Ambassador Abbott, how nice it is to see you again. How may I be of assistance?”
“I have just come from 10 Downing, where the First Minister informed me that more members of my delegation have arrived and are lodged here.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“If you could inform either Mr. Pierce or Mr. Brandywine that I am here, I should like to see them.”
“Of course.”
Jarvis led him to the parlour—the same room in which he had met with Burke—and bid him make himself comfortable. Abbott noted that he had not been offered anything to drink or eat. He was just to wait.
Time went by and neither Jarvis nor anyone else appeared. There was a large grandfather clock in the room, and, by its dial, almost half an hour had gone by since his arrival. He found himself becoming annoyed. As he was about to get up and leave in something of a huff, Jarvis reappeared.
“My profound apologies, Excellency. I had difficulty locating either Mr. Pierce or Mr. Brandywine, who have apparently gone to bed, even at this early hour. The long trip from Portsmouth has apparently tired them greatly.”
“What about the others?”
“Ah, I did locate the physician, Mr. Forecastle, and he asks if you could meet with the entire delegation day after tomorrow.”
“Whatever is wrong with tomorrow?”
“Ah, I could check, but Mr. Forecastle did mention that they must spend the morning unpacking and getting settled and that he hopes to see General Washington in the morning, being that he is his physician.”
“This is outrageous!” Abbott said.
Jarvis cleared his throat and said, “Actually, Ambassador, the problem is that two of them have the flux. Acquired on the ship, I’m afraid. They are required to spend much time with the privy, but hope to be better by day after tomorrow.”
Abbott was taken aback by the turn of events. He even momentarily regretted no longer being lodged at the guest house because he could have gone and knocked on their doors, their flux be damned. But since he was no longer residing there, there was nothing to be done. “All right, if it cannot be tomorrow, then let us make it day after tomorrow at 2:00 p.m.”
“I will let them know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jarvis.”
He returned to the Stevensons and arranged to borrow their carriage and driver for the next day. Between the arrogance of Lord North and his delegation’s apparent decision not to meet with him immediately under a pretext of fatigue, it had not been a good day. He hoped tomorrow would be better.
* * *
The next morning, he dressed down—a brown ditto (which was what Mrs. Stevenson had told him the locals called an outfit, all the pieces of which were a single, boring colour), no wig, no powder and no hat—climbed into the carriage and said to the coachman, “I would just like to be taken on a tour of London this morning, starting with London Bridge.”
“Do you want us to cross the bridge, sir?”
“No, please just pass by the north end of it. And if you would, please let me know what we’re seeing as we drive along. It would be very much appreciated.”
“Of course, sir.”
They had driven along for about an hour, with the coachman stopping the carriage from time to time, pointing out various landmarks. Abbott glanced to the rear from time to time and noticed that the same carriage seemed always to be behind them. When they reached London Bridge, Abbott said to the coachman, “Excuse me. I’m feeling rather ill at the stomach suddenly. The motion perhaps.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. Is it the route we’ve taken? I know our roads can be rough and cause too much motion inside the coach.”
“No, no. I was often ill on the ship from America even with very little motion, and I seem not to be entirely over it.”
“We can stop for a while, sir.”
“I think better would be to just drop me right here, by the bridge. I can make my own way home later.”
“Are you quite sure, sir? I can wait for you.”
“Quite sure. I may take the opportunity to look into some shops.”
“Very good, sir.”
The carriage came to an abrupt halt, and Abbott, after tipping the driver, said, “Please give Mrs. Stevenson my thanks for lending me her carriage and my thanks to you for driving.”
Abbott opened the door and stepped down. They were only a few feet from where the roadway began to slope upward to the bridge. He glanced quickly behind him, saw no one climbing down from any following carriage and immediately plunged into the crowd.
As he inched his way along, sometimes pushing people rudely aside to make progress, he kept glancing over his shoulder but could detect no one following him.
After spending considerable time on the south side of the bridge, where there were many shops, he hailed a sedan chair and asked the driver to take him back across the Thames via the Blackfriars Bridge, which was further to the south, and to drop him a few blocks from St. Paul’s.
Once he was dropped off, he took Mrs. Stevenson’s guidebook from his waistcoat pocket, walked slowly along and consulted it constantly as he stopped to admire various structures. Once he arrived at the cathedral itself, he craned his neck and looked conspicuously up at the dome, then went inside and examined the interior features of the church while looking down at the guidebook. Finally, he headed down the stairway to the crypt. After a bit of searching, he located the black marble slab that marked the grave of the cathedral’s storied architect, Sir Christopher Wren. He stood for a while, examining the crypt, consulting the guidebook (but no longer really reading it) and wondering how long he could stay there without attracting undue attention. As he was about to give up hope, a man of middle height and middle years with unpowdered greying hair, dressed all in black, came up beside him and said, “I am Joshua Laden. I hope you have not had to wait here too long.”
Abbott stood silent for a moment, considering the risk that his message had been intercepted, and the man next to him was not Joshua Laden. And did he even have immunity from prosecution? Given that his country was not recognized by the government, it seemed unlikely.
Finally, and despite that, Abbott said, “I am Ethan Abbott. You received my note, then?”
“Yes. And I know who you are. Your mission has been much in the newspapers. Who recommended me to you?”
“Charles Thompson. Do you know his middle name?”
“Yes, Elihu. I know him from two trips I made to Philadelphia before the Revolution began.”
“To which you are favourably disposed?”
“Yes. Because we here in England need to have our liberties restored, too. The right to vote must be extended to all men, not just to those of property. And members of Parliament must be elected from real towns, not from those of yesteryear that no longer have any people in them and thus allow the government to choose who will be elected.”
“You cannot vote?”
“No, I am not a landowner—a freeholder.”
“And yet you own a shop and employ people.”
“Ha! If my shop were north of London Bridge, I would be in the haberdasher’s guild and could vote. But as my shop is south of the bridge, I can do neither.”
“Our needs are in some ways similar.”
“Yes, and also the death penalty must be restricted to serious crimes, and not applied to petty things, as now.”
“You perhaps risk the death penalty for yourself just by meeting with me.”
“My wife and three children died in the smallpox two years ago. I would just as soon join them in heaven if it comes to that. And my nephew, whom I believe you met, will inherit my business.”
“He is young to inherit.”
“My brother will be his guardian till he is of age,” Laden said.
“Is there somewhere more private we can talk?”
“Yes, there is a coffee house nearby that has a back room we can use.”
“Before we go, Mr. Laden, my Latin is poor. What does the epitaph carved above Wren’s tomb say?” He pointed to it and read it aloud, haltingly: “‘Lector, si monumentum requires, circumspice.’”
“It means, ‘Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you.’”
“Ah, and what do you expect your epitaph to say, Mr. Laden?”
“‘Stylish hats, reasonably priced’?”
They laughed together.
“And yours, Ambassador?”
“That depends on the outcome of my mission here. If I even have a marked grave, most likely it will say, ‘Failed his country in London.’”
“Pessimistic.”
“The situation is not good,” Abbott said. “Let us find that coffee house and put some plans in place.”