Philadelphia

Mid-May 1778

CHAPTER II

* * *

Major Jeremy Pelham, short, muscular, aide-de-camp to Brigadier General Horace Easton, paused before the large library door to glance at his spotless British uniform, square his shoulders, and rap twice. No one was more aware than he that this morning was going to be testy. General Easton was one of two generals charged with the responsibility of staging the farewell extravaganza for the departure of General William Howe, commander in chief for British forces in the colonies. Easton was assigned to oversee the finances for the grand event, and nothing in his forty-one year military career had run so sorely against his grain.

A disgusted General Howe had signed his letter of resignation on October 22, 1777, and sent it to Parliament. May 8, 1778, General Henry Clinton was designated his successor. Howe was sailing for England early in June. His officers had voluntarily undertaken to create a farewell to surpass anything in the annals of military history. For the previous eight days, bills from the event had trickled onto General Easton’s desk, each more outrageous than the last. Yesterday Easton had exploded in profanities and stormed into the hall of the mansion serving as his headquarters, bellowing for Major Pelham.

“Get the man responsible for this debacle into my office at ten o’clock in the morning,” he had demanded.

The man responsible was Captain John André. Pelham’s frantic search for him ended at twenty minutes past four o’clock p.m. when he found André at the firm of Coffin and Anderson, negotiating for cloth and materials exceeding 12,000 pounds sterling in value. André, with an assistant, was now waiting in Easton’s anteroom with at least thirty detailed documents residing in two large leather folders.

Major Pelham stood waiting at the door with a stack of correspondence in his sweaty right hand. Ten seconds passed before the brusque, raspy voice came from within.

“Enter!”

Pelham turned the carved brass handle and pushed the polished oak door open into the library, then marched to within two paces of the handhewn, polished desk. He came to the standard British military halt with his left boot slamming down beside the right, heels touching, polished boot tips five inches apart. His shoulders were back, chest out, chin sucked in, mustache bristling, gray eyes riveted on the rock wall behind the General. Pelham was giving Easton no chance for complaint with him.

“Sir. I have the morning’s correspondence.”

Easton gestured, and Pelham set the papers on their designated corner of the desk, then snapped back to rigid attention.

“Sir. Captain John André has arrived for his appointment as ordered. With him is Captain Amos Broadhead.”

Easton laid a large quill pen on the desk and leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Broadhead? Who is Broadhead?”

“Sir. I am informed that Captain Broadhead is to assist Captain André in responding to your questions about the . . uh . . meschianza.”

Easton’s face contorted, and he tossed one hand in the air to let it fall thumping to the desk. “Meschianza! The King’s English is apparently deficient, so we find ourselves plagued with this foreign word, meschianza. Italian! Mind you, Italian! Do you know the translation? Medley! In English, it’s medley.” He gestured to two folders of papers near his right elbow and tapped the larger of the two with an index finger. “Medley? Some of the bills have arrived—in this folder. Outrageous! Nothing to do with a medley. Just the most expensive nonsense in the history of the Empire!”

“Yes, sir.” Pelham had not lowered his eyes from the far wall.

Easton came ramrod straight in his overstuffed chair. Average height, wiry, hawk-nosed, he paused to rub his eyes for a moment, then straightened his powered wig, and visibly brought himself under fragile control.

“Show them in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Easton stared at the door as it closed behind Pelham, oblivious to the opulence that surrounded him. The library was a large, ornately decorated room. Two walls were occupied by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on which he had found stored most of the classics of philosophy, art, mathematics, science, astrology, astronomy, and religions from the world over. The carpet was thick and intricately designed, and made by the hands of master weavers from India. A great stone fireplace filled the wall behind him. To his left, French doors with leaded glass panes let sunlight from a glorious Philadelphia May morning flood the room. The ornate wooden door into the hallway interrupted the book shelving in the wall opposite his desk. The mansion that Easton had commandeered for his quarters was a two-storied, six-bedroom Philadelphia masterpiece.

Easton preferred to view his acquisition of the structure philosophically: to the victor go the spoils. It sounded much less brutal and arbitrary than to argue that a conquering army had the established right to commit piracy, thievery, mayhem, and murder. By convention, they could seize whatever they wished—homes, estates, horses, carriages, food, money, drink—turn the owners out, shoot those who resisted, and surround themselves with whatever wealth and pleasures captured their fancy.

After the British had beaten George Washington and his gathering of incompetents at Brandywine Creek, and then tricked them away from Philadelphia, allowing General Cornwallis to walk into the city on September twenty-sixth without firing a shot, the victors had indeed exercised their rights. Overnight they had seized mansions and estates, and all the luxuries therein, driven the owners into the streets at bayonet point if necessary, and pillaged the citizenry of whatever they wished.

Then came the shock that rocked the British military.

Within days the astonished conquerors were inundated with invitations to banquets, teas, stage dramas, grand balls, and concerts. It seemed the great Tory contingent of British sympathizers in Philadelphia had been anxiously awaiting the day they could throw off all thoughts of the war and return to the pleasures of the high life they so dearly treasured under British rule. With occupation of the city decided, they saw no reason to hold back or deny themselves the company of British officers. Stunning in their crimson and white uniforms, crisp and proper in manners, and fervent in their pursuit of depravity, the British occupiers had been more than willing to accommodate their admirers.

Easton had been dumbstruck by how quickly the traditional British military discipline, which had been the hallmark of the army that had conquered the civilized world, had eroded, all but disappearing in the face of the seductive pleasures that swamped Philadelphia during the winter of the occupation. Easton had raised his voice and shouted his warnings against it, but to what good? Their commander in chief, General William Howe, himself, led the way down the long, broad road to decadence by openly cavorting almost daily with the beautiful Betsy Loring, wife of his Commissioner of Prisoners, Joshua Loring. So long as Joshua got his fat pay envelope at the end of each month, the cuckold was pleased to look the other way as his wife appeared at balls and banquets on the arm of General Howe. When Betsy stayed away until the early hours of the morning, Joshua got into his nightshirt and cap, crawled into his bed, and comforted himself to sleep by counting his growing fortune.

The war, Easton shouted. What of the war? General Washington and the Continental Army are but twenty-eight miles away in a place called Valley Forge, and capable of striking without notice. Though they be more a horde than an army, should they catch us wallowing in depravity, we could fall! We must not forget! We are at war!

Nearly every officer raised an eyebrow. War? What war? Washington and his scarecrow army are freezing and starving—dead or gone, or both, by spring. War? They could not rise to a war if the Great Jehovah himself thundered the order from the heavens.

The clicking of the huge brass door handle brought Easton to an instant focus, and he watched intently as Pelham marched in, stopped, and turned.

“Sir. May I present Captains John André and Amos Broadhead, appearing pursuant to orders.”

Pelham stepped back, John André stepped forward and both came to rigid attention, tricorns clutched under their left arms. For an instant Easton stared. Before him stood the most handsome man he had ever seen. Slightly taller than average, slender but athletic, brown eyes, dark hair, skin showing Gallic swarthiness, nose aquiline, nearly feminine, mouth and chin very close to perfection. André’s physical appearance was arresting, but it was something else that struck Easton. He felt an aura, a presence emanating from the man that was a rare mix of opposites. Rigid discipline and affability. Gentleness and a touch of the executioner. Artist and soldier. Harshness and mercy. Joy and sadness. But most of all he found in the eyes of André, a strange, haunting impression of curious eagerness that approached reverence, as though life was a great, unending riddle of good and bad, each to be savored for its own place in the incomprehensible scheme of the Almighty.

André snapped his hand to a salute. “Captain John André reporting as ordered, sir.”

Easton rose and returned the salute.

André continued. “May I present Captain Amos Broadhead. He has assisted in work on the meschianza.” André stepped aside and Broadhead stepped forward. Shorter than André, stocky, ruddy complexion, square, bulldog appearance. Under his right arm were thirty large documents in two separate folders.

He saluted smartly. “Captain Amos Broadhead, sir.”

Easton returned the salute, eyed both men for a moment then gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Be seated.”

Each drew an overstuffed chair toward the desk and sat down on the leading edge, backs rigid, tricorns in their laps, waiting in attentive silence. Easton took his own seat and opened the lesser of the two files on his desk and studied the first paper.

“The first matter before us is yourself, Captain André. I find your military record intriguing.” He raised his eyes and came directly to it. “You wrote thirteen stage plays in five months after your arrival in Philadelphia? And they were all performed by a group you organized and named ‘Howe’s Thespians’? Can that be correct?”

Broadhead’s breathing quickened. Never had he known a general to demand a closed-door conference with the military record of an inferior officer on his desk unless the superior was seeking grounds for discipline—a reprimand, a court-martial, or an out-and-out demotion in rank.

André answered. “Yes, sir. That is correct.”

Easton picked up the second sheet. “You led a company of men at the battle of Paoli? Under command of General Charles Grey?”

“Correct, sir. I am an aide-de-camp to General Grey. I assisted him in planning the attack. I led a company of men that night.”

“Bayonets? You were active in the bayonet charge?”

“Yes, sir. We removed the flints from the musket hammers to avoid an accidental discharge, and we struck them with bayonets by surprise in the darkness.”

Easton studied a third document. “You were taken prisoner by the Americans?” He glanced at the paper. “That was prior to the Paoli skirmish?”

“Yes, sir. Following the battle at Fort St. John’s. We surrendered November 3, 1775. I remained a prisoner until I was exchanged on December 10, one year later.”

Easton studied the next document. “You’re listed as English, yet your name appears to be French.”

“My father was a Swiss immigrant, from near the Swiss-French border. He died. My mother is Marie Louise Giradot André, from Paris.”

“You are owner, or part owner, of a business?”

“Inherited from my father. It is being managed by my uncle.”

“You left a lucrative family business to enter the military?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For what reason?”

“I have little talent for business. Counting money and keeping accounts was not to my liking. When my engagement to marry was broken, I purchased a second lieutenancy in the Royal Welsh Fusileers. Eight months later I purchased a first lieutenancy in the Seventh Foot, Royal Fusileers. I now serve under General Grey.”

“Where did you acquire your writing skills? Where were you educated?”

“Under Reverend Thomas Newcomb at Hackney, in the beginning. Then at St. Paul’s School in Westminster. Later I spent some time in Litchfield, where I became very close to a group of outstanding writers. Among them was Anna Seward. She has since become England’s most celebrated poetess. After I entered military service I requested transfer to Göttingen in Germany. There I studied mathematics as it relates to military science. It was also there I became associated with some literary students and we formed a group called the Hain. Among them were Bose, Voss, Holty, and Hahn. All have become renowned as writers and artists in their own right. All told, these experiences have taught me much about writing, sketching, design, drama, staging, costuming. I speak four languages.”

For a few seconds Easton remained silent. “Your writing skills would have been valuable to any number of generals in London. Why did you seek the assignment to General Grey’s command? You must have known his reputation as, shall we say, a fierce battlefield commander.”

“I knew his reputation, sir, and I know his philosophy. The purpose of war is to destroy the enemy and all his possessions utterly. I felt I needed experience with him.”

Easton’s eyes narrowed as his perception of the complexities of the man before him deepened. “I see. I noticed a reference in your file to some sketches you made of the wilderness between here and Quebec. What was the occasion?”

“When my regiment was ordered to America for duty I landed here in Philadelphia, sir. I made the trip to Quebec overland. I took the time to sketch the wildlife, the Indians, the Americans, the forests.”

“Some time I would like to see those sketches.”

“I have them with me, sir.”

Easton’s eyebrows raised. “With you? For what purpose?”

“I did not know the extent you wished to inquire, sir. I thought it prudent to come prepared.”

Easton covered his surprise. “May I see them?”

André turned to Broadhead. “Captain?”

Instantly Broadhead drew the smaller of two large leather folders he had leaned against the side of his chair and handed them to André.

“Here, sir.” André laid them on Easton’s desk.

Easton’s face was a study in fascinated curiosity as he lifted the leather cover and squared the first sketch on his desk. For ten seconds silence held while he stared intently, wide-eyed. He set the parchment aside and studied the second one, then the third. Flies could be heard in their incessant buzzing at the windows.

After a time, Easton raised his head and spoke quietly. “How long did it take you to complete these?”

André lowered his eyes for a moment. “Less than half a day each. Perhaps three hours.”

Easton leaned back. His mouth formed a small “O” and he blew air for a moment as he stared at André in near disbelief. Then he cleared his throat. “Keep those sketches available. They could be of value in the future.”

“Yes, sir.”

Easton closed André’s military record and tapped a finger on the top of the second, larger file, and his face hardened.

“The second matter is this farewell . . . this meschianza, as you chose to call it . . . for General Howe. You are responsible for much of the planning?”

“I am one of twenty-two officers responsible.”

“You drew the plans? Designed it?”

“Yes sir. Nearly all of it.”

“May I see the plans?” Easton pointed to the large leather folder beside Broadhead’s chair.

André turned to Broadhead, who hefted it onto the desk, then sat back down. “The sketches and designs are all there, sir.”

Easton eyed the stack, twelve inches high, then André, then reached for the first one. For twenty minutes André and Broadhead sat in silence, watching the expression on Easton’s face change from disapproval to amazement as he studied the sketches. There were four inches left in the stack when he stopped.

“This is all your work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In very concise terms, explain the plan.”

“It’s rather simple, sir. There will be three days of banquets and concerts in halls in every quarter of the city, and balls in five ballrooms now being prepared. On the fourth day is the grand finale. A squadron of boats is on the Delaware being decorated to transport contestants from the west edge of the city, through town, to Wharton’s mansion where they’ll disembark. There will be jousting by two teams of knights, who will vie for the hands of several maidens. That will be followed by the grand banquet and ball to conclude the celebration.”

Easton leaned forward, eyes alive, accusing. “Now, Captain,” he said, his voice rising, “we have come to the nub of all this.”

Broadhead’s face lost all its color.

“I have seen some of the bills for all these banquets and balls. Six hundred pounds of roasted lamb’s tongue, four thousand crabs, two-hundred-fifty roasted prime ribs of beef, six tons of fish of every kind imaginable, six thousand individual plum puddings, two hundred roasted pigs, . . . need I go on? Decorations, costumes beyond anything I have ever seen!” He slapped the folder beside his right hand, and leaned forward, eyes boring into André. “Do you know the cost of all this? At a time when Parliament is counting every shilling, every tuppence?”

Broadhead reached to wipe at perspiration on his forehead. André did not change his expression. “Yes, sir. I know the cost.”

Easton reared back. “Do you expect me to include these in my accounting? Do you have any idea what Parliament will do when they see these figures? My commission could be at risk!”

“Sir, most of those costs will not come out of military accounts.”

Easton’s mouth dropped open for a split second, then he blurted, “What? Then where?”

“We have collected donations and pledges out of the pockets of most of the officers in Philadelphia to cover costs.” He turned to Broadhead. “Do you have the figures?”

Broadhead thrust the document to André, who glanced at it, then looked at Easton. “We have collected three thousand, three hundred, twelve pounds to date. There will be probably four times that amount when we finish.”

“The officers’ costumes? The contestants? Those Philadelphia debutantes? Whom, as your sketches now show me, are going to be dressed as Turkish harem girls. Do you expect British officers to appear in public dressed in those . . . gaudy . . costumes? And those young ladies? Veils, gauze, silks, satins, spangles, gold buttons, sashes, and those coiffures, oh, those coiffures. In the name of heaven, sir, those sketches make those young ladies look like trollops!”

Easton was breathing heavily, neck veins extended, face crimson. He stopped and by force of will brought himself under control. His voice was strained.

“The firm of Coffin and Anderson reports orders for costumes exceeding twelve thousand pounds!”

“That is correct, sir. However, all officers and contestants and the young Philadelphia debutantes are paying for their own costumes. That is in addition to the money we have collected, and will collect for the food. I presume you were not told about it?”

Easton rocked back in his chair. “What?”

“They’re paying for their own costumery, sir.”

“Why was I not told? Not one word of it reached me.”

André turned to Broadhead, who nodded, and André turned back to Easton. “I will have the three thousand pounds delivered to this desk by midafternoon, sir. My apologies that you were not notified.”

Easton’s eyes were flashing. “What else has been withheld from me?”

“Nothing I know of, sir.”

Easton pointed an index finger like it was a saber. “See to it that that money arrives. I’ll have a receipt waiting. And I want every detail of this thing in writing on my desk by tomorrow morning, ten a.m. Any more surprises, and someone is going to face a court-martial. Am I understood?”

André gave Broadhead a nod, and Broadhead stammered, “Sir, I shall have a written report on your desk as ordered and every second day thereafter until the matter is concluded.”

“See to it.”

Easton was glancing at his files when André inquired, “Is there anything else we can say to be of service, sir?”

The answer was instant, loud. “Yes! Did I see the names of Shippen and Chew among those . . . harem . . girls?”

“Yes, sir. Margaret Shippen and Peggy Chew are among the fourteen. Miss Shippen goes by the name of Peggy. So we have two Peggys.”

Easton leaned forward, both palms flat on the table. “Fourteen?”

“Yes, sir. Two teams of knights will enter contests for their hands. One team is to be Knights of the Blended Rose, the other the Knights of the Burning Mountain. There will be harmless jousting, mock swordplay, contests, for the hands of the young ladies. They will, as you have noted, be costumed as Turkish harem girls.”

“Are the two named young ladies the daughters of Benjamin Chew and Edward Shippen? The Chief Justice of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, and the retired judge of the British Admiralty Court?”

“The same, sir.”

Easton’s face went blank. “Are you telling me their fathers consented to this . . . harem thing? Those men have influence. A letter from either one complaining his daughter has been degraded could result in a board of inquiry! I warn you now, captains have become lieutenants for much less cause.”

André had not changed expression, nor raised his voice. “I received consent from Judge Chew this morning, in writing. I am to visit Judge Shippen later this morning to obtain his consent,” André paused, then finished, “in writing.”

Easton furrowed his forehead. “Wait a moment. Do I remember Peggy Shippen from the banquet held on the Roebuck last December? Captain Hamond’s ship?”

“She was there, sir.”

“Blonde, blue-eyed? Absolutely stunning? Captain Hamond said every officer on the ship was in love with her.”

“That is Peggy Shippen, sir.”

Easton’s eyes narrowed. “Are you the one that spirited her away after the banquet? A sleigh ride?”

“I am, sir. At midnight. Gave the horses their heads and galloped two miles out into the country. A most memorable occasion.”

Easton’s stern expression did not change. “You’re a British officer. Are your intentions with that young lady honorable?”

“I have no intentions at all regarding that young lady, sir. She is a dear friend, and I have had the honor of treating her as such. That is all.”

Easton eyed André skeptically, then stood abruptly, and André and Broadhead immediately rose to their feet facing him.

“That will be all. I’ll expect those funds this afternoon. Keep those sketches of the wilderness available. I want that report on my desk by midmorning, and thereafter every second day until this matter is over. Obtain the consent of all the fathers of those fourteen unfortunates before you parade them down the Delaware and through the streets of Philadelphia. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir. Clear.”

André gathered his sketches into one stack and handed them to Broadhead. “Again, my apologies that you were not advised of the financial arrangements for the celebration. Is there anything else, sir?”

“You are dismissed.”

André and Broadhead saluted, Easton returned it, and both captains turned on their heels to march from the room.

For ten seconds Easton stood still, staring unseeing at the big varnished door, with the growing awareness that he had just concluded an encounter with one of the most enigmatic, gifted, charismatic men he had ever met. He could recall no one with a cooler head under pressure. He saw no limits to which John André could not rise in the military, or in the political structure of the Empire.

The sound of the front door closing reached the library. General Easton sat down in his chair and reached for the stack of correspondence Pelham had laid on the corner of his desk and settled in. The relentless burdens of command left little time for pointless speculation.

Half a block up the street, with the warm May sun on their shoulders and the city of Philadelphia in full bloom, Broadhead waited until they were well away from Easton’s command headquarters before he turned to André. Officers of equal rank who had worked closely together for weeks, there was no pretense of military protocol between them.

“You led me in there like a lamb to the slaughter. Easton had your military file. He was looking for a chance to either strip us of rank on the spot, or court-martial both of us. You didn’t tell me!”

André turned a blank look at him. “I didn’t know. His aide—Pelham, I think—said he wanted a report. That’s all I was told.”

“He can ruin your military career.”

André glanced at Broadhead as they walked. “Just get the money on his desk this afternoon, and that report on his desk by tomorrow morning. It’ll all be forgotten.”

“Maybe.”

They walked on, shoulder to shoulder, with sunlight and the colors of spring flooding the city. Carriages, carts drawn by horses, and dogs filled the streets. Lifted by the renewal of spring, people nodded and filled the air with lighthearted greetings. Children shouted and stopped for a moment in their play to peer at the two young British officers passing in their colorful crimson tunics and white breeches.

Broadhead gestured with his hand. “I didn’t know you were taken prisoner at the St. John’s matter.”

“I was. Thirteen months a prisoner of war.”

“What happened up there?”

“It was in the fall of 1775. Ethan Allen and his force came north to conquer Canada. The key to the battle was the fort at St. John’s. I was there. We were running out of everything—food, clothing, munitions. We sent word to Carleton at Quebec to send supplies but nothing happened. We held out as long as we could, and then surrendered. November third.”

“Who were the American officers?”

“Montgomery. Benedict Arnold joined him to attack Quebec. They were stopped at the walls of the city. Montgomery was killed. Arnold was wounded but got away.”

“The same Arnold who defeated General Burgoyne at Saratoga last October?”

“The same.”

“I heard he took wounds at Saratoga that crippled him. Probably never will return to combat duty.”

André slowed and looked directly at Broadhead. “Don’t discount Benedict Arnold. He’ll be back. We’ll see him in action again, one way or another.”

Surprised by André’s intensity, Broadhead fell silent, and the men walked on for a time, each with his own thoughts.

André pointed. “Next block is the beginning of the most elite section in town. Third and Fourth Avenues. The Little Society of Third and Fourth Streets. We’re going to the Shippen estate, right in the middle of it.”

“Edward Shippen? What’s this about him being a judge on the Admiralty Court?”

“He was, until the court was abolished. Now he’s a member of the Pennsylvania Provincial Council.”

“Is he really powerful enough that Parliament knows of him?”

“Yes. The Shippens were there when the Penns got rights to this colony, and the two families have worked together for four or five generations to make Pennsylvania what it is. When the rebels decided to fight, Edward Shippen refused to join them. He’s declared himself a neutral. Won’t take sides for fear of losing the estate and the power gained by his family. Puts him in a bad position because he’s sworn to uphold British law to serve on the Provincial Council, but if he does, the rebels are likely to take revenge against him, or his family. He moved them all to Amwell in New Jersey for a time. Then the New Jersey legislature passed what they called their ‘Act to Punish Traitors and Other Disaffected Persons,’ which made Shippen a traitor. So he came back to Philadelphia. Then Pennsylvania passed their Test Act, which made him a spy. He knew enough politicians to avoid real trouble in Pennsylvania, and he decided to stay, but got out of Philadelphia to a small farm to avoid the battle he was sure was coming when we took the city. There was no battle, so he moved back into his mansion. That’s where we’re going right now.”

“Margaret? Or is it Peggy?”

“Margaret. Called Peggy. Nearly eighteen. A bit spoiled. As a child she threw tantrums to get her own way. Loves the high life. Thinks Americans are mostly crude country bumpkins. She is one of the most beautiful young ladies I ever saw. Charming. Educated. Sophisticated. Has an unusual relationship with her father. She’s the only one in the family who understands him. She can talk with him on his own level. Odd for a girl just eighteen. With all, she’s quite worth knowing. You can make your own judgment in about three minutes. Their estate is right there.”

André pointed, and Broadhead fell into awed silence.

The two-storied mansion was constructed of red and black brick, with a sixty-foot, inlaid brick walkway leading from the cobblestone street, dividing the lawns and manicured flower beds, leading to the six-column portico that sheltered a massive porch and double-door entrance.

The two young officers stood in front of the imposing doors, and André tapped the two-pound brass lion’s head door knocker on the brass receiving plate, and waited. The doorknob turned and a tall, sparse, uniformed servant swung the door open, then stopped short for a moment, surprised at the sight of two British officers facing him.

“Yes?”

“Captain John André to see Edward Shippen. This is Captain Amos Broadhead.”

“Is he expecting you, sir?”

“I believe so.”

“Wait here, please.”

Half a minute later the servant reappeared. “The master will see you. Follow me, please.”

He held the door, the two officers stepped inside the parlor, and Captain Broadhead gaped at what he saw, stunned by the magnificence of the furnishings that utterly filled the great room.

Notes

John André is the British officer who plotted treason with American General Benedict Arnold to deliver Fort West Point on the Hudson River to the British. Thus, André became a significant figure in the history of the founding of our country.

The ancestry, birth, early schooling, and development of John André, as well as his training in the arts, specifically sketching, music, and poetry, are set forth in this chapter, together with his circle of artistically inclined and talented friends. Thereafter his broken engagement to Honora Sneyd, entry into the army as a lieutenant, and later his advancement to higher rank, are defined, including his capture following the British defeat at St. John’s, and his imprisonment for thirteen months thereafter, followed by his liberation and return to duty. He served under General Gray and was part of the planning of the terrible “Paoli Massacre,” as well as an officer leading men into the nighttime battle.

He was later assigned to duty in British-occupied Philadelphia, and it was there he found himself, with twenty-two other officers, assigned to create the “meschianza” farewell for General William Howe. The description of the meschianza, including the extensive employment of André’s artistic and poetic talents, the amount of money involved, the amounts raised by donations from the officers, the costumes, the use of fourteen young American Philadelphian ladies clad in filmy Turkish harem costumes, and the use of the Delaware River for the great, grand finale, are historically accurate, including the involvement of Peggy Chew and Peggy Shippen as two of the fourteen girls (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 20–37; 73–82; 137–60; Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 462–63).

Meschianza is the Italian word for medley (Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 461).

André was captured by the Americans following the St. John’s battle, on November 3, 1775, and exchanged as a prisoner of war on December 10, 1776 (Mackesy, The War for America, 1778–1783, p. 80).