RICHARD had boldly claimed cousinship with the New York family of his name but his connection with them was difficult, in fact, to establish. The history of the American de Lanceys was easy to trace, on the other hand, for they were all descended from Etienne or Stephen de Lancey, a Huguenot gentleman of Caen in Normandy, who had migrated to England in 1686, went on to New York, married Anne Van Cortlandt and died in 1741, being buried in Trinity Church. Stephen had ten children in all, it seemed, three of them making a name for themselves. James was chief justice and at one time lieutenant-governor of New York. Peter, the squire of Westchester, married Elizabeth, daughter of Governor Cadwallader Colden, and came to own the Bowery Estate which he left to his eldest son, James. Oliver married Susannah, daughter of General Sir William Draper, and had several children including Stephen, a lawyer who married Cornelia, daughter of the Rev. H. Barclay of Trinity Church; Oliver, the cavalryman of whose existence Richard had been told; and Charlotte his younger sister. The wealth of the family was shared between the two cousins, James and Oliver. James’s property in New York stretched for over a mile of waterfront on the East River, extending inland to Bowery Lane and centred upon De Lancey Square, next to Mr Rutger’s property. Oliver was perhaps the richer of the two with a country house at Bloomingdale and important interests in New Jersey. The court or loyal or Church of England party in New York had been headed by the de Lanceys since the middle of the century, their family connections extending to the Drapers, Ludlows and Coldens, to Sir William Johnson, William Walton and John Watts. After the fall of New York theirs was, naturally, the party in power.
But where did Richard fit into this genealogy? He finally discovered that Etienne de Lancey of Caen had fathered a child in England before he sailed for America. This was John de Lancey, born 1689, whose son was Michael, a tradesman of Norwich and Richard’s grandfather. It can be assumed that Michael’s son, Mathew, fled to Guernsey as the result of some misconduct or scandal in early life. Richard learnt nothing about that. What he did discover was that Michael had died in 1737 when Mathew was aged two. That explained the broken tradition, but for which Richard would have known about his American relatives. On the face of it, Richard represented the elder branch of the family. As against that, it was a question whether John had been legitimate. Etienne could have married in about 1686–8, his wife dying before he left for America. It was also possible that he married only the once, John being the result of a more casual affair in London. Richard stood firmly by the theory of Etienne’s first marriage and claimed cousinship with James, Oliver and the rest. From being a nobody of obscure origin on his father’s side Richard could now regard himself as a fringe member of a very powerful clan. There was no question of his being adopted as the missing heir—the de Lancey children seemed to be innumerable—but he could no longer be regarded as a nonentity. His mother’s name, by contrast, did him no good at all. Sir Edmund Andros had been governor successively of New York, New England and Virginia but he would seem to have been unpopular—“as absolute as the Grand Turk” by one account—and left no other legend.
Captain Davenport sent for Richard on a day in late October when the Romney was still at anchor in the Upper Bay.
“You will realise, Mr Delancey, that New York is now the base for our squadron on the North American Station. This is our dockyard and source of supply. Lord Howe has therefore appointed Commodore Harvey to command here under his general direction. The commodore will need a small staff to assist him in his duties and I have been asked whether I can recommend a midshipman to serve under his broad pennant. Yours is the name I incline to forward but I thought it proper to ask you first whether you would welcome such an appointment.”
“I am most grateful for your consideration, sir, and am happy to accept.”
“The commodore’s staff will comprise Lieutenant Huggins and, as secretary, Mr Greenway. Mr Huggins was formerly master of the Chatham and has useful experience in that branch of the service. The commodore is a senior captain who began his service, I believe, on the lower deck. You will be assistant secretary and aide-de-camp with social as well as clerical duties. You will live ashore and assist the commodore in his work, helping to maintain good relations with our American friends.”
“Very good, sir.”
Very much the aristocrat, Captain Davenport took snuff and looked keenly at Richard. After a moment’s pause he went on to add a further word of explanation:
“In submitting your name to his Lordship I am influenced, in part, by your family connections. I have been given to understand that you are a cousin of the New York de Lanceys. Have you met them?”
“No, sir.”
“I have no doubt that you will. Four of them are active in the king’s service. James de Lancey, a wealthy landowner, is colonel of the Westchester Light Horse. Oliver de Lancey has raised three battalions of loyalist troops for the defence of Long Island, being given the local rank of brigadier-general. He has two sons, Stephen and Oliver. Stephen is a lawyer but is now lieutenant-colonel in his father’s brigade. The younger Oliver is a professional soldier brought up in Europe and presently serving in the 17th Light Dragoons. From these facts you will readily understand that the de Lanceys are important members of the Loyalist or Tory Party in New York.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then. I expect that your appointment will be confirmed within the next few days.”
Richard came away from this interview with mixed feelings. He looked forward to living ashore and exploring New York. He wanted to make himself known to his cousins. He had to realise, however, that he owed his appointment to his name. He guessed that the commodore and his lieutenant were useful men in the dockyard but unlikely to shine in society. His task would be to steer the commodore through American drawing-rooms, advising him on etiquette and suggesting what compliments he should pay and to whom. The fact was, however, that he himself knew nothing about high society and was ill qualified to advise anyone. It was also apparent that he had been a relative failure as a sea officer. This was why he could be dispensed with so far as the Romney was concerned. Another youngster would do as well and probably better. He was being sent back to his desk, with lessened chances of further promotion. Service ashore might count towards sea-time (although he was not sure about that) but it would do little to qualify him as lieutenant. In one way he could regard this appointment as a setback, a step in the wrong direction. On these lines he might never reach commissioned rank at all.
A week later Richard was allocated a “cabin” on the top floor of No. 48 Wall Street. The commodore, a weather-beaten and inarticulate old seaman, had his quarters on the first floor and his offices on the ground floor. The garden wall from which the street took its name, once the boundary of old Peter Stuyvesant’s property, had mostly disappeared by this time, giving place to houses. One of these, No. 3, was the headquarters of the military commandant; another, No. 25, was the public Guard House. There was plenty of accommodation for military purposes because the rebel families had fled elsewhere. General Sir William Howe thus had his headquarters at 3 Broadway, Lord Howe at 10 Hanover Square and the 17th Light Dragoons had their barracks at 1 Bowery Lane. Richard quickly found his way round the town, discovering that Wall Street was very central to all his normal activities. It led in the one direction to the King’s Wharf on the Hudson River, in the other direction to the various shipyards on the East River. Trinity Church, where his ancestor lay buried, was in Broadway, not far from the corner of Wall Street. John Street, where the theatre was, ran parallel, further north, and William Street led from Wall Street towards Hanover Square and, beyond that, to Fort George and City Hall. The commodore had plenty of business to transact and Richard was soon familiar with each headquarters and every contractor’s office. He realised for the first time that the maintenance of any one man-of-war or transport was a big administrative task and that the supply of a squadron took fifty times as much thought and effort. Lord Howe’s squadron was not formed for battle—at this stage of the war he had virtually no opponents—but its administration problems were still immense. There was much, therefore, to do on shore.
Richard found time, nevertheless, to attend the French Fencing and Dancing Academy in Little Dock Street. This academy had been opened the year before by proprietors who were improbably named Du Poke and De St Pry. The fashion of the moment was for the cotillon and for French country dances, accomplishments to be acquired on the first floor. Fencing was pursued on the floor below and was regarded as a school of manners as well as of arms. It cannot be said that Richard was a born dancer but he learnt the rudiments. He was no more than competent as a swordsman but, again, he came to know the basic rules. He soon felt qualified to play a part—a humble part—in New York society.
Successful as he might be in learning manners, Richard was far less successful in teaching the commodore or Lieutenant Huggins. Both were elderly and Huggins was lame, having been shot through the leg in 1761. Neither could bow gracefully or turn a compliment and neither had much inclination to learn. Richard could serve the commodore, however, by telling him in a loud whisper the names of the people he was to meet. “Dr Delany, Colonel Van Ruyven, Mr and Mrs Roosevelt, Major Livingston, the Rev. Hendrickson …” It was also his self-imposed duty to head the old seaman off his main topic of light conversation—the need for economy in the purchase and issue of naval stores. This was not a subject of absorbing interest among the ladies, and their husbands, many of them contractors, looked at it from a different point of view. It was better, on the whole, if the commodore said nothing at all. Richard also took it upon himself to answer questions about the current fashions in London. All the American ladies, and even the more foppish of the men, were apt to ask about the modes at court. When asked “What is being worn this season?” the commodore was completely at a loss. He had once been mate of a collier out of North Shields and he was still given to chewing tobacco in secret. So the fashions in velvet, silk and brocade were definitely not his speciality. Richard was equally ignorant, having never seen London in his life but only Woolwich and that mainly from the river. He had learnt a method, however, of answering this particular question. “What is being worn?” he would repeat, studying the fair questioner’s own dress. “The better sort of folk are wearing sprigged muslin with white lace, the fan to match.” He would then simulate a start of surprise and add “Pretty much what you are wearing, Ma’am, now I come to think of it.” This sort of reply was well received and he gained the reputation of being a well-bred young man. On social occasions he wore a second-hand civilian suit, disguising his humble rank, and was introduced as “Mr Delancey, of the Royal Navy.”
Moving in the fringes of New York society, Richard was bound to meet his American relatives sooner or later. The first of them he saw was Miss Charlotte de Lancey, aged sixteen, who made a brief appearance at his dancing class. She showed little interest in Richard, seeming distant and proud. She chattered in a corner with her constant companion, Miss Elizabeth Floyd, daughter of Colonel Floyd of Long Island. Being a year older, Richard attributed correctly her aloof manner to shyness but made no progress with her after their first introduction. All that he learnt from the girl was that her male relatives were mostly out of town. Her father, the brigadier-general, was with his brigade and so was her elder brother, Stephen. As for the younger Oliver, he travelled incessantly in search of recruits for the 17th and had not been home that fall. Charlotte deserted the dancing class after perhaps three sessions, either because she thought the other pupils socially inferior or because the journey was too tiring. Although not attracted by Charlotte, who was rather plain at this time, Richard was disappointed at her quitting the class and rather despaired of meeting his cousins. Mere midshipmen were probably beneath their notice, whether related or not.
The situation changed abruptly in November. General de Lancey’s home was at Bloomingdale, seven miles out of town and close to the Hudson or North River, beyond which lay New Jersey, much of it in rebel hands. On a dark and cold night a party of the enemy crossed the river and raided Bloomingdale. Breaking into the house, they plundered the ground floor. When Mrs de Lancey came downstairs they abused and insulted her. They ill treated poor Charlotte and her friend, Miss Floyd, attempting to wrap both girls in a burning sheet. They finally set fire to the house. By then the two girls had escaped, Charlotte carrying her infant nephew (Stephen’s child), and were hidden in a swamp. When rescued in the morning by Mr Charles Apthorpe, the half-frozen girls were unable to walk. When news of this outrage reached New York there was widespread indignation, many folk concluding that the rebels had been mad or drunk or both. The two immediate results of this affair were the family’s moving into town and the general’s return from Long Island. With Bloomingdale much damaged and plainly unsafe, Mrs de Lancey came to stay with her daughter-in-law at 30 Nassau Street and it was there that her husband joined her, vowing vengeance against the sort of cowardly riff-raff who made war only on women and children. It was at this juncture that Richard paid a formal call to inquire after Miss Charlotte’s health. Having learnt that she was in bed but recovering from shock, he went on to offer his services as a poor substitute for her brothers. If the name could be discovered of the rebel leader responsible he proposed to call him out as a poltroon and a thief. It was no more than a polite gesture but the elderly general expressed his thanks.
“I’m vastly obliged, young man, and Mrs de Lancey will feel as I do when she hears of your sympathy. As for punishing this ruffian, I may well challenge him myself. I had little thought that the war would come to this sort of pointless and petty crime. I had supposed that this could have been a war between gentlemen.”
Before he left the house Richard had been accepted as a relative.
“So you are my father’s great-great-grandson—my cousin thrice removed. I never heard of my father’s earlier marriage but there was time enough for it. Or was he married, eh? Never mind that, however, you are a de Lancey. Did you ever see our coat-of-arms?”
Richard was presently shown an achievement which read:
AZURE: a tilting lance proper, point upward with a pennon argent bearing a cross gules, fringed or, floating to the right, debruised of a fesse, or.
CREST: A sinister arm in armor embowed, the hand grasping a tilting lance, pennon attached, both proper.
“Come to think of it,” said the general, “I have a note somewhere of the Andros arms. Have you considered, young man, that two of your ancestors—Etienne de Lancey and Sir Edmund Andros—must almost certainly have known each other?” Richard admitted the likelihood of this, thinking to himself that their mutual dislike had probably been instant and obvious. Of more immediate concern to him, however, was the fact that he himself had now, socially, arrived.
From the beginning of 1777 New York took on a new lease of life. The rebel cause seemed hopeless, especially after the capture of Newport, Rhode Island. Mr James Rivington, who had gone to England in 1776, was back again and had renamed his newspaper The Royal Gazette. Its columns had now to record a glittering social life, culminating in General Howe’s investiture as Knight of the Bath. He and his staff—the affable and popular Colonel Pattison, the brilliant Major André—were to be seen on every public occasion. The Garrison Dramatic Club was active—for charity—at the Theatre Royal in John Street. The plays performed included The Beaux Strategem and a piece by Mr Sheridan called The School for Scandal. There were public concerts and often a military band playing on the walk near Trinity Church. Balls and dances were frequent, some given by Governor Tryon and others privately at Hick’s Tavern. Then, as the weather improved and the days lengthened, there were outdoor activities. Horse races were held at Ascot Heath, Long Island. Then fox hunting gave place to cricket matches at Brooklyn or Greenwich. Brooklyn was also the scene of boxing and golf, with wonderful fish dinners to follow at the Ferry House. It had become the fashion to dine at four in the afternoon with blinds drawn and candles lit. Dinners were innumerable and there was no shortage of anything. Naval and army officers were invited everywhere and few were more popular than General Clinton, the son of a previous governor who had served in the New York Militia and could be counted as a New York man.
One who certainly enjoyed the fun was Richard Delancey, who could do so with a clear conscience. His shore appointment carried with it social responsibilities and he was often to be found at the commodore’s elbow on public occasions. He was also an accepted member of the de Lancey family circle, sometimes dining with cousin James, sometimes with the general, and as frequently escorting Charlotte and her mother to Vauxhall Gardens or the Play. He lacked the means to live in such expensive society but his cousins were considerate and he was never for long in debt. Charlotte’s favourite reading was Hoyle Improved or New Maxims for Playing the Game of Whist but Richard professed ignorance of the game, knowing that he could not afford to lose money at cards. His temptation was to accept presents from navy contractors, some of whom imagined that he might have some influence over the commodore. He had none, in fact, but he came to realise that Lieutenant Huggins and Mr Greenway were doing a profitable business on the side. They eventually made him a small allowance on the pretext that he was doing extra duty, their real purpose being to purchase his silence. He had, in fact, no detailed knowledge of their transactions, nothing on which he could have based a report, and felt in no way involved. He needed the allowance, however, and took it, being afterwards better able to pay his way. It was as near as he came to accepting a bribe and a great deal nearer than was proper or even wise. But what was he to do? He could not do a flag lieutenant’s work on a midshipman’s pay and his social activities were all, he believed, in a worthy cause.
Looking back afterwards on the summer of 1777, on the parties and fireworks, on the picnics and plays, Richard had an impression of unreality. In the foreground were the gaily coloured uniforms and pretty frocks but in the background was a war in which the professional soldiers should long since have routed the amateurs. There had been no such result as yet but it was not for want of talent on the British side. The generals were experienced, skilful and resolute. They were popular, moreover, and had proved themselves in earlier campaigns. They were backed by men-of-war and supported by thousands of American loyalists. Their rebel opponents had begun the war with an attempted invasion of Canada, an operation which had been disastrous. Washington was now on the defensive and his forces were known to be ill-recruited and ill-supplied, lacking besides in cavalry and guns. There was something wrong, however, with King George’s men, a reluctance to push their efforts to a logical conclusion. They were always negotiating when they might be expected to attack. They had been in winter quarters when the enemy had been on the move. Their movements, when they began to move, were based more on political than upon military considerations. As for the loyalists, with their over-officered weak battalions, they were ready to police their own immediate vicinity but were they ready to fight the other side? Some of the Tories were loyal enough but how many of them were thriving (as the de Lanceys had been) on military contracts? And how many of them were using the situation to settle their grievances and ruin their rivals? How many, for that matter, were acquiring the town property of men who were serving in the rebel army? Land values might rise dramatically some day in a town built on so restricted a site, hemmed in by deep water. Building lots now sold for a few hundred dollars—lots in Wall Street, John Street or Hanover Square—might be worth as many thousand by the end of the next century. To own as much as they did of New York would, quite possibly, make the de Lanceys a very wealthy family. That the Boston folk who began the rebellion were a seedy group of dishonest tradesmen was a matter of common knowledge, not seriously open to dispute. But were the loyalists so very much better? Richard began to have his doubts.
Richard’s change of heart about the American colonies was hastened by that most loyal of officers, the old commodore himself. That officer’s condemnation of the rebels was outspoken but he had almost as low an opinion of the Navy Board. Looking up one day from a letter just received, old Harvey fairly expressed his exasperation.
“Listen to this, Mr Huggins—harkee, Mr Delancey—I am told by the commissioners to charter a 250-ton merchantman from the firm of Oliphant, Rutgers & Son, the same to act as tender to the squadron. I am instructed by the same bunch of lubbers to have the Phoenix repaired at the Beekman & Peck shipyard. I am given to understand that blocks and cordage are best obtained from Mr Schuyler or from Mr McDougal. I am not to pay more than so much for mast-timber. My last payment for pitch was excessive and the warehouse rent comes to more than was paid during the last war. Is it I who am mad or have they taken leave of their senses?”
“You mean, sir,” said Huggins, “that all rentals have gone up since George II’s time?”
“Every child knows that!” shouted the commodore, “but what of the rest? What am I to make of this rubbish and who do they think I am?”
“It would seem, sir,” said Huggins, “that they are a little out of touch.”
“Out of touch, you say? Out of touch? They should long since have been in Bedlam. To begin with, Oliphant, Rutgers & Son are not in the shipping business and I doubt if they ever were. The Beekman & Peck yard is too small for the Phoenix, too small in fact for anything over 150 tons. Mr McDougal went bankrupt last year and Mr Schuyler is dead. As for mast-timbers and pitch, we had a good bargain and better than we shall have again. The fact is, Mr Huggins, that this way of doing business is nonsensical. No man alive can control what happens in New York from an office desk in London. His information is false or out-of-date, his notion is wrong of what is practicable and his instructions relate to some imagined situation which does not exist. I am vexed past the limits of endurance by this pettifogging correspondence. If I am not trusted I shall be happy to resign my charge to someone else. If I am trusted, why can’t they have the good sense to leave me alone? Rather than pester me I could wish that some of these clerks would come out here and see the situation for themselves.”
“I fear, sir,” said Huggins, “that the Navy Board clerks are a slow-witted sort of people in the first place.”
“They are no worse than the rest,” growled the commodore. “The fault is not so much in them as in the system they are to maintain. A man on this side of the Atlantic cannot be directed by men whose offices are in London. Such a scheme does not accord with our only possible means of communication. Ministers may think to control what happens in Ireland—better though it might be if they left it alone—but America is too remote and should be left to those who know what the true position is.”
Having thus conceded the case for American independence, the commodore pointedly asked Huggins and Delancey whether they had no work to transact. If there was in fact much to do—as he ventured to suppose—they had best do it rather than waste time in mere talk. Had that captured privateer Nankee Doodle been surveyed we should know by now whether she would serve as fleet tender. The necessary orders should go out this afternoon … at latest. Reflecting later on the commodore’s words, Richard came to see the rebels’ point of view. Old Harvey had endured for a few months what the American colonies had endured for over a century. What was his exasperation compared with theirs? Of course the Americans had been assisted against the French but the fall of Canada had left them with nothing to fear from that quarter. Now they wanted to control their own affairs and who could blame them? Thinking on these lines, Richard wondered how many others felt as he did? Was this the reason why the war progressed so slowly? He knew that some senior officers had flatly refused to serve in America. He had come to feel much as they did but was in no position to make the same gesture. Midshipmen were not supposed to have political opinions—nor opinions, for that matter, of any sort. No one cared whether they served or not. Richard had his own career to consider and would be wise, he knew, to keep his ideas to himself.
The scene which Richard was afterwards to remember most vividly was enacted in late October at the Merchants’ Coffee House at the corner of Wall Street and Water Street. George Brewerton had just been promoted colonel in de Lancey’s brigade and the occasion was being celebrated at a supper given by Oliver de Lancey (the general). There were only about one hundred and fifty men in the battalion that Brewerton was to command, as Richard happened to know, but that was no argument against holding a party. Those present, apart from the general, Stephen de Lancey and Brewerton, included several other officers of the same brigade, two or three more from the New York Militia, the tongue-tied Lieutenant Huggins of the Royal Navy, a merchant from Liverpool called Stanniforth (Stephen’s partner in some trading venture), a lawyer from Albany called Yates and, last of all, Mr Midshipman Delancey. It appeared that the younger Oliver, who was in town, would be with them at a later hour. The company came together with much doffing of cloaks and clinking of spurs, swords being hung up near the door and a single midshipman’s dirk adding a little to the martial display. With the exception of Huggins, it seemed doubtful to Richard whether anyone present had ever been under fire. The supper was excellent, however, the Negro servants were attentive, and all joined afterwards in the loyal toast, followed by a toast to Colonel Brewerton who replied modestly and briefly. Stephen then proposed “A speedy end to the rebellion.” This led to a general discussion about the war, prolonged by the expert knowledge of all who were present.
“I have heard it argued in England,” said Mr Stanniforth, “that our regiments here are at a sad disadvantage. In scarlet uniform, with parade-ground training, they are to confront men who are skilled in the backwoods.”
“You may tell your friends, sir, that they are sadly misinformed.” The general refilled his glass and passed the decanter before going on. “Our senior officers mostly fought here in the last war. They know the country better than the rebels can pretend to do, most of whom are townsmen and wearing a uniform almost as conspicuous in blue and white. On this point about wearing scarlet, you must know that there is a special uniform devised for colonial warfare. As for our fighting in too rigid formation, the rebels at Bunker’s Hill were more governed by the manual than were the king’s soldiers. No, sir, I have heard this said before but know it to be false. There are some true back-woodsmen on either side but there is little to choose between recruits from London and recruits from Boston.”
“If we are at a disadvantage,” said Stephen de Lancey, “it would arise more from control exercised over too great a distance. Orders from London can be outpaced by events.”
“Very true, sir,” echoed Mr Huggins before relapsing into silence. There was further discussion and all agreed that the rebels had no monopoly in marksmanship or concealment.
“It is strange, for all that,” said Mr Yates, “that we have heard nothing lately from the north. I had expected by now to have heard of General Burgoyne’s approach. There has been fighting in that direction and there have been a number of conflicting rumours. Is there any recent news? I must confess that I have heard nothing.”
There was nobody better informed and the resulting silence was broken tactfully by Colonel Brewerton, who proposed a toast to the Royal Navy. This was drunk with applause and all looked expectantly at Huggins, who in turn looked helplessly at Richard, who rose reluctantly to reply.
“General de Lancey, officers and guests. I rise to thank you all on behalf of the Royal Navy. We have been most hospitably entertained by our friends here in New York. We cannot claim to have destroyed the rebel fleet at sea because they don’t seem to have a fleet [applause] but we have done something about the privateers of Providence. The result is that we are well supplied, as witness the table before us. Mr Leckie of Hanover Square has had his linen, Messrs Hugh and Alexander Wallace have had plenty of wine for us, Mr William Burton and Mr Michael Price have not been short of groceries and Mr Hugh Garvie has had the means of printing our invitation cards. The Royal Navy has had some part in protecting your sources of supply [applause] and you can depend upon us for future protection. It is the least we can do in return for your hospitality.” Richard then proposed a toast to the New York Militia and Captain Bradford replied. One way and another it was a carnival evening. It came to be remembered, however, for another reason.
Captain Oliver de Lancey came in abruptly at about half past ten, threw his cloak and sword to a Negro servant and apologised to his father for being late. There was something about his brisk movements and decisive manner which marked him out as the professional, as the man who had recently been in battle. There was something else, though; a note in his voice which reduced the room to an uneasy silence.
“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sir. General Burgoyne and his army have been forced to capitulate.”
There was a moment of stunned silence and then, from the general, the inevitable question:
“But is this certain?”
“Quite certain, sir. Sir William Howe had Burgoyne’s own dispatch and I have just come from his headquarters.”
“I can still scarcely credit it. Do you know how it came about?”
“Burgoyne moved south in the expectation that he would meet another army coming north. He met only the enemy in superior numbers at a point where his communications were stretched beyond the limit.”
“Where was that?”
“At Saratoga, sir.”
“Good God! What now?”
“The likelihood is that France will enter the war against us. Once our forces have been turned about to face this new opponent we shall have none to spare for the reconquest of these American colonies. So far as this present war is concerned I should say, sir, that we have been defeated and that the colonies have gained their independence.”
It was not, of course, as simple as that and those present were unwilling to admit defeat. New efforts would be launched, they said, new armies would be raised and new plans devised. After listening to all this talk Richard came to the conclusion that young Oliver—the only real soldier there—was obviously right. Unlike the rest he knew what he was talking about. He had also realised, as his father had not, that the family estates would all be forfeit and that the chief loyalists would all have to go into exile. Their period of wealth and influence was all but finished. In a few years they would be gone and in a few more years, forgotten. Nor could Richard share the grief that his cousins would soon be feeling. He did not believe that the rule of the colonies from London was really possible. It must break down, as Burgoyne’s campaign had broken down, on the iron facts of distance and time. The party broke up early, the spirit having gone out of it, and Richard left with Oliver, the cousin he hardly knew. As they walked up the street they saw in the distance the brightness of fireworks lit at Ranelagh. Suddenly clairvoyant, Richard gestured in that direction and said:
“That’s all finished, isn’t it? That and the horse races at Brooklyn, that and the cricket matches and the masked ball. Our dream is over and we shall give way to sour-faced Bostonians. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Richard, that’s the truth. But I am luckier than the others. New York has never been my life. I belong, first and foremost, to the 17th Light Dragoons.”