With the negotiations in abeyance, and an April trial soon upon them, with the burden of preparation falling on Hobhouse, Abbott had permitted himself to sleep late on some days and had begun to explore London a bit more. He felt some guilt about it, but assumed the negotiations would resume at some point, whether during the trial or at its conclusion. He had seen Washington several times in recent days, and they had been in agreement that, no matter Hobhouse’s skills, the verdict would almost certainly be guilty, but that a guilty verdict would put greater pressure on the North government to make more concessions. They both were of the belief that the last thing the government wanted was to go forward with an execution.
He went down to breakfast, where he found Mrs. Stevenson sitting at the table, reading the Daily Advertiser. A second paper, the Morning Post, sat next to her on the table. The newspapers had no doubt been purchased by Mrs. Stevenson’s porter, who had been kind enough to venture out twice a day, morning and evening, and buy the four papers Abbott had taken to perusing daily.
She looked up as Abbott entered the room. “There is grim news this day,” she said. She folded the paper and handed it to him.
Abbott quickly spotted the article to which she was no doubt making reference, read it and blanched. “Oh, my God, what a horrible thing.”
“You’re not happy that all those English sailors were killed and three of His Majesty’s ships destroyed?” she said. “It is a war after all.”
“I’m not sure. It says many civilian workers were killed on the docks, although I do wonder what they were doing there so late at night. For a second thing, if it is believed that this was the work of Patriots, the outrage here may keep our negotiations from ever recommencing, which is the very point the article makes. But another part of me is glad of it.”
“Is resumption of the sessions what you have been hoping for?”
“Planning on, really. Did you read far enough into the article to see what they are calling the event?”
“Yes. The New York Gunpowder Party.” She raised her eyebrows. “You have to wonder who exactly made that name up. The men who did this awful thing or the newspaper.”
“Or perhaps it was made up by Lord North’s government,” Abbott said. “Yet the Daily Advertiser is anti-North. If they wanted to enrage the King and cause North’s government to fall, stoking rage about this, and encouraging people to compare it to the Tea Party, might be a way to accomplish it.”
“Yes, although the Daily Advertiser also supposedly wants the war to end,” Mrs. Stevenson said.
“Let’s see what the Morning Post says. It is so pro-government that it might as well be North himself speaking.” He picked up the Post, read it and passed it to Mrs. Stevenson.
“As you’ll see, they make no mention of the civilian casualties, don’t call it any kind of party and say nothing at all about its possible effect on further negotiations. They don’t even use the word accident, but are calling it a ‘misfortune of war.’”
Mrs. Stevenson read it. “You’re right. It’s almost as if they are trying to shrug their governmental shoulders and move on.”
“Well, at least it explains why I received a message from Lord North last night asking me to come to call on him at 10 Downing this morning at eleven.”
“A question before you go, Ambassador. Do you think this could possibly have been the work of your Congress, in retaliation for the kidnapping and for putting the General on trial?”
“I think not. I have been sending regular reports to the appropriate committees since I arrived here and they have been responding. The reports to me have said nothing at all about the reaction in America to Washington’s kidnapping. And they have been nothing but encouraging about the negotiations, so long as we obtain independence, of course.”
“How do those reports get delivered in time of war?”
Abbott smiled and said only, “By various means, some open, some not so open.”
She smiled back. “Of course. If it is not a secret, was the letter you received yesterday correspondence from them?”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday for you was actually four or five weeks ago for them.”
“That is true. And when they receive correspondence from me, it is even longer out of date—six or seven weeks. Hence, they have not even learned yet that Lord North has put the negotiations in abeyance. And if the negotiations resume and we fail, Washington might well be executed before Congress is able to learn about it.”
“That must be a lonely feeling for you.”
“At times it is. Although I do have my delegation to assist me.”
“Do you think the British read your dispatches?”
“I assume so. I mark them as confidential diplomatic correspondence and word them carefully, but I cannot imagine they do not read them, and the responses, too.” Abbott rose from the table. “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Stevenson, I must go now and dress for my meeting with Lord North.”
“But you have not eaten any breakfast.”
“I will get something later. If truth be told, I am not very hungry.”
“I can understand that. Please feel free to use my carriage for your meeting.”
“Thank you. I am most obliged and will do that.”
Abbott went up to his room, changed into something less ostentatious and started to read a book. He had, months ago, borrowed The Sylph from the government guest house, in what seemed now almost a long-ago life, but had still not finished it. He found himself unable to concentrate on the book. He couldn’t go to see North undecided about his own position. As he had said to Mrs. Stevenson, there was a part of him that felt good about what had happened in New York. Given the devastation that the British had brought to America over the past six years—the deaths, the destruction of property, the sundering of families—perhaps all those who died, even the civilians, who were likely there working on British ships, deserved it. The bomb ship, after all, had been designed to shell not other ships, but towns. Another part of him, having seen war close-up, deplored the mindless death that went with it. And still a third part reminded him that he was a diplomat with a task to accomplish.
Finally, he went downstairs and took the carriage to 10 Downing, still undecided.