The meeting with Lord North had unnerved Hobhouse. It was dark that night by the time he left 10 Downing, and he had gone directly to his club, where he drank a good deal more than he normally did, until he was well into his cups.
What had bothered him so? He judged that he had acquitted himself well in that he had not betrayed his client to North, and had been firm about it. Perhaps it was because, despite having seen such people across the room or uttered a brief greeting, mostly at functions he was taken to by his famous father-in-law, he was hardly accustomed to mingling with them, let alone confronting one of them one-on-one and then walking out on him.
What had really unnerved him, though, if he were to be honest with himself, was that a situation he had regarded as very likely to be resolved short of trial and simply make him better known might well turn into a high-stakes treason trial. He would be representing the most famous man in the world and would likely lose. Because there was no real defence.
* * *
Two days after the meeting with North, Hobhouse’s fears were made manifest when one of the other young barristers walked into his room in chambers, dropped a copy of the London Advertiser on his desk and pointed to an article on the front page. Hobhouse read it and blanched. It was time to see Washington again.
He travelled to the Tower not long after that. For the first time, the paperwork he carried which permitted him access to the Tower and Washington was examined by the guard with some care before he was admitted.
When he arrived at Washington’s cell, the General was gazing out the window. Hobhouse watched him for a few seconds—Washington had apparently not heard him approach—and marvelled again at the man’s size and bearing.
To call attention to himself, he knocked gently on the open door and said, “Your Excellency, excuse me for interrupting.”
Washington turned around and said, “Ah, Mr. Hobhouse. I have had many visitors so far today. You are the first one whom I find welcome.”
“If I may ask, Excellency, who were the others who came to see you today?”
“The Solicitor General, Mr. James Mansfield, was one, trailed by a flock of assistants who flew in with him. He came in order to serve me with an indictment for high treason.”
“The Solicitor is aware that I represent you, or at least I assume he is since Lord North is aware. But they did not have the simple courtesy to let me know directly about the indictment before serving it on you. I had to read about it in the newspaper.”
“I don’t expect there will be many courtesies extended to us in this matter hereafter, Mr. Hobhouse.”
“Did they leave you with a copy, Excellency?”
“Yes.” He picked up a piece of paper from a small table and handed it to Hobhouse.
As soon as Hobhouse touched it, he realized it was parchment, an expensive medium used only for very formal governmental documents intended to stand the test of time. When he was done reading it, he looked up and said, “This is more or less the standard form, to my understanding.”
“I am surprised it mentions...”
Hobhouse interrupted him. “Excellency, I think it might be prudent to continue our conversation as we walk upon the parade so we are not overheard.” He motioned towards the door with a tilt of his head.
Washington smiled. “Yes. They have probably heard enough at this point.”
As they exited the cell, Hobhouse thought he saw someone disappear around a corner. But he could have been imagining it. As soon as he and Washington were out of earshot of anyone who might be lurking in the hallway, Hobhouse said, “Excellency, I have reason to believe that Mrs. Crankshaw overhears what you say and reports it.”
“I suspect so myself, Mr. Hobhouse. Perhaps I even intended that she hear and report certain things.” He smiled again, showing, to Hobhouse’s mind, a set of shockingly bad teeth.
“In any case,” Washington added, “Mrs. Crankshaw makes very fine coffee.”
“Earlier, in the cell, Excellency, I interrupted something you were about to say.”
“Yes. I was about to say that there is something in the indictment that surprises me. It mentions specifically only my taking command of the Continental Army in Cambridge in ’75. Yet while it speaks broadly about my continuously taking up arms against the King, it mentions not a single battle in which I commanded the army. Of which there have been dozens.”
“They may think, Excellency, it will be easy to prove that you took command of what they call a rebel army. They may fear that if they bring in witnesses to specific battles you led, it will give you the opportunity to bring in witnesses of your own to testify to your personal heroism in those battles. They would certainly prefer the judges and jury not hear that, even though it is hardly relevant.”
“I see.”
“Besides handing you the indictment, Excellency, what else did the Solicitor say or do?”
“He said how serious it all is, let me know the penalty, and so forth. It was mostly legal prattle.”
“That was all?”
“No. He found every opportunity to bring up former General Arnold.”
“Former?”
“Yes. By my order, his name was struck from the records of the American army, so he is certainly no longer any kind of general on our side. And we do not recognize the rank in the British Army he paid for with his bloody treason.”
“Why do you think they brought him up at all?”
Washington pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Perhaps it was intended as a broad hint that if I changed sides, I, too, could be demoted to become a lower-ranked general in His Majesty’s Army and obtain a rich lifetime pension.”
“Was that your entire conversation with them?”
“No. They also asked me many questions about my role in the Revolution, and I politely declined to answer, as I had when they first came to question me several days ago.”
They continued walking upon the parade for almost an hour and, blessedly, no one threw any fruit at them. Not even an egg. Towards the end, they reviewed, as they had at their first meeting, witnesses whom the government might be likely to call during the prosecution’s case. They also made a list of those who might appear in Washington’s defence. That list was thin indeed.
Hobhouse summed it up. “They won’t need to put themselves to too much trouble to prove you took up arms against the King. And I fear that our argument that the King had by his actions taken away your liberties as an Englishman will be likely ruled irrelevant.”
“There is nothing else?”
“Unfortunately, all of our remaining arguments will be technical in nature and not very strong and must in any case be made to the judges. The jury will not get to rule on them, although they may get to listen.”
“What is the best one of those?” Washington asked.
“That the indictment is flawed because it was not handed down after you had appeared before the King’s Privy Council to argue your case.”
“I know enough to have made that very point to the Solicitor myself.”
“How did he respond?”
“He said there is an exception when the investigators for the Crown have found evidence showing guilt is obvious. And I responded that the entire point of the Privy Council proceeding is to let the prisoner plead his case to them and point out why guilt is not at all obvious.”
“A very good response, Excellency.”
“Do you think it a winning argument, Mr. Hobhouse?”
“Treason is a charge in which the Crown has given itself every procedural advantage, so I wouldn’t hold out great hope for it.”
“I sleep well at night with or without hope. If I am executed—and I well understand the gory nature of the execution—the fury at home will only assure our ultimate victory. I will go to my grave—if there be one at all—happy in the knowledge that my death will only have made our independence arrive more quickly.”
Hobhouse really didn’t know what to say in response. Finally, he said, “Excellency, there is one more thing. I am a good lawyer, but not by any means the most experienced criminal barrister in London, and as I told you when we first met, I have mostly experience with important civil cases and felony cases brought against the rich in matters of commerce.”
Washington said nothing in response, so Hobhouse continued. “I have not much experience with felonies that carry the death penalty and none at all with high treason cases. Now that it appears that a treason trial will actually occur, perhaps you will want to consider replacing me.”
Washington stopped walking, put his hands on Hobhouse’s shoulders and said, “Mr. Hobhouse, I want a lawyer born and raised in America. Only such a person can really understand the need for our Revolution and represent me well and truly.”
“Surely there are others.”
“There are, but it seems most are unwilling to represent me. You will represent me superbly, I am sure. And I am deeply appreciative of your willingness to put your own reputation at risk in this matter.”
“Thank you, Excellency. I will work hard to reward your confidence.”
They resumed walking. Eventually their walk took them back to the door of Washington’s cell. After they had said their farewells, and as Hobhouse turned to depart, another man appeared—tall, spare and with a vivid red scar across his cheek. Washington introduced him as Mr. Forecastle, his physician.
As Hobhouse left, Forecastle and Washington were deep in conversation. It didn’t seem to Hobhouse as if Forecastle was about to conduct a medical exam. Indeed, his entire bearing shouted soldier, and Hobhouse thought that a small jerk of Forecastle’s hand showed he had been about to salute Washington but at the last instant thought better of it.
Hobhouse left and noticed a coffee house nearby with a view of the gate. He would wait there for Forecastle to come out so he could ask him what was going on. Intuition told him something was. He found a table near the window, ordered a coffee, paid for it immediately, sipped and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. Forecastle emerged only a few minutes later. But instead of hailing a carriage, he walked slowly down the street, stopped about one hundred feet away and loitered there, reading a newspaper. Perhaps he was meeting someone. Hobhouse continued sipping.
After a while, Mrs. Crankshaw also came out of the gate and raised her hand to hail a carriage—it was of interest to Hobhouse that she could afford one. She suddenly seemed to notice Forecastle. Whereupon she abandoned her effort to get a cab and instead walked slowly down the street towards Forecastle, who was still reading his paper.
When Crankshaw drew even with him, she simply kept on walking. Forecastle waited for her to move some distance beyond him. At that point, he started to walk, too. He quickly caught up with her, but slowed a bit as he was about to pass. The result was that they walked side by side for a very short while, something that might have appeared to a casual observer as a coincidence.
Hobhouse could tell from Forecastle’s head motion as he passed Crankshaw, and her slight nod in response, that Forecastle had said something to her. He then watched Forecastle move quickly off down the street while Crankshaw soon came to a halt and resumed her efforts to hail a carriage.
Hobhouse continued to sip his coffee and wait. In not too long, he was rewarded by Forecastle’s return. He left his coffee on the table and went outside. Approaching Forecastle, who appeared ready to re-enter the Tower, he said, “Mr. Forecastle, forgive my intrusion, but what did you say to Mrs. Crankshaw?”
Forecastle just stared at him. “If I said anything, what business is it of yours, Mr. Hobhouse?”
“My client is about to be tried for high treason, with his very life at stake. Everything that is said to him or possibly about him is now my business. And his.”
“You can take it up with him, then.”
“I will. And with Mr. Abbott, as well.”