THE Falcon (18) lay out in the East River and Richard, coming off from the shore, presented himself to Mr Bancroft, the first lieutenant, whose manner was far from encouraging.
“Well, youngster, I’ve heard something about you. On the commodore’s staff they tell me. It seems to me that you’ve been too long ashore, too much of an idler, too seldom on deck and very rarely aloft. We shall have to change all that and see whether we can’t make a seaman of you after all.”
This marked the beginning of what was to be a difficult period in Richard’s life. What the lieutenant said was all too true. He was fairly senior in years of service but knew too little of practical seamanship. The word had been passed that he was a mere quill-driver and that he was to be treated accordingly. Up to a point he was equal to the work that came his way, being good at boat-handling, average in navigation and fairly active aloft. He could never at this stage, however, have passed his lieutenant’s examination in ship-handling. He had some rough treatment at Mr Bancroft’s hands, being mast-headed for his worst mistakes and loudly cursed for minor instances of apparent neglect. He never, however, made the mistake of referring to his recent work ashore. He offered to fight any other youngster who sneered at him and was soon accepted as a member of the gunroom mess. There was a master’s mate called Branning, two midshipmen called Hyatt and Tenison, the captain’s clerk called Priestman and a young volunteer (first class) called Mattingley. All were on good terms and Richard found a special friend in Mike Tenison, an Irish youngster from Roscommon, whose eye he blacked on their first meeting. In the end, Richard learnt more from his messmates than he did from Mr Bancroft.
Soon after the Falcon sailed on 14 October 1779, Richard was bidden to dine at the captain’s table where he also became acquainted with the other lieutenant, Mr Maxwell. His first meeting with Captain Mottram had been brief and formal and this was Richard’s chance to make a good impression. He had little help in this from Mr Bancroft, who was also present and who referred, indirectly, to his lack of recent experience at sea. There could be no defence against this sort of accusation but Richard was rescued by Mr Maxwell, who asked him about the quality of the work done in the New York shipyards. To this sort of question he could give an intelligent answer, praising the work done but casting a little doubt on the shipwrights’ honesty.
“Our own are no better,” said Maxwell sadly, “in fact they are probably worse.” A more general conversation followed and Captain Mottram questioned Richard about his fluency in French.
“I am fluent, sir,” replied Richard, “but with a Guernsey accent. I avoid using words which are peculiar to Guernsey but I would never pass as a Parisian. I suspect that Guernsey French is old-fashioned and that it may resemble, in that respect, the French that is spoken in Quebec.”
“You are probably right there,” said the captain. “French Canadians speak a sort of French heard in the last century, I have been told.”
“You might agree, sir,” said Maxwell, “that Americans do much the same. They use expressions like “gotten” which would have been good English in 1600.”
“It would not be wrong now,” objected Mr Bancroft.
“It could be impolite, however,” rejoined the captain amidst laughter. “But what about the American accent? You are partly an American, Delancey, but I should not guess it from your speech.”
“I am a Guernseyman, sir, by birth and American only in having relatives in New York, people of my own name. But there are Americans in our forces, I have been told, whose accent suggests their origin. I have heard that said of General Clinton.”
“I have met the general,” said the captain, “and it is true. But the more manifest American accent comes from New England, from Boston. People in the southern colonies, where we are going, speak differently again and perhaps more pleasantly.”
The dinner party did not end before Richard had managed to reveal, to Mr Maxwell, his own interest in gunnery. The response was immediate and he was offered the loan of a recent book on the subject, published in France. “I fear,” said Mr Maxwell, “that the French have paid more attention to the subject than we have.”
“They are well versed in the theory,” admitted Mr Bancroft, “but it is another thing to handle the guns in half a gale with decks awash and big seas breaking over the forecastle. Seaman-ship matters more than the neat engravings made to illustrate a work on ballistics.”
Captain Mottram intervened firmly at this point to say that theory and practice must go together. From his tone Richard concluded that disagreements on this subject had been frequent between the two lieutenants. He himself had much to learn from both of them and as much again from the captain. This voyage was his chance to learn and he realised that his teachers were among the best. And while all his sympathies were with the more civilised Mr Maxwell, his future depended, he knew, on gaining the good opinion of the more caustic Mr Bancroft. He would do this, he resolved, or die in the attempt.
There were moments during the voyage when death did not seem unlikely. He all but fell from the fore-topmast yard on one occasion, being saved only by the seaman nearest him. He came near to serious accident when reefing the fore-topsail in pitch darkness. His perseverance was rewarded in the end, however, when Mr Bancroft admitted rather grudgingly that his time in making sail had been fairly good; or better, anyway, than the time achieved by the other watch. Any trace of self-satisfaction was wiped out immediately and he was in disgrace again before the watch ended, but he had at least glimpsed the promised land (or sea) of his superior officer’s approval. Harsh comments on his work had one useful result in making the seamen take his side. He was to learn much from the petty officers and was given many a useful hint by the captain of the foretop. He would never be as quick as the tongue-tied Branning but he was quicker than Hyatt and more thorough, at times, than Tenison. On the day when a seaman fell overboard and was rescued by a very creditable piece of boat-work, Richard received a brief compliment from the captain himself. He had become, he felt, a useful member of a very effective team.
By the accepted discipline of the period Captain Mottram was under no compulsion to reveal the object of the voyage to his officers, still less to his midshipmen. He did so, however, after the sloop had been at sea for two weeks, calling them together in the wardroom.
“Before we sailed, gentlemen, you must have been aware that a conjunct expedition was to take place. Merchant ships had already been chartered and some were being fitted for the transport of horses. It may be doubted, however, whether all the necessary tonnage will be ready before December. The destination of the expedition has been a secret but one I can now reveal to those who are to take part in the campaign. You must know, gentlemen, that Vice-Admiral Arbuthnot and General Sir Henry Clinton have agreed on a bold stroke: the capture of Charleston, the chief port of South Carolina, held at present by a rebel garrison. A strong force has been assembled with artillery sufficient to breach the defences. We already hold another port further south, Savannah in Georgia, where we have a more than sufficient garrison. In order to field the largest possible force against Charleston, Sir Henry plans to withdraw troops from Savannah for that service. I have been entrusted with his orders to the Savannah garrison commander. Having delivered them, I am to sail for Charleston where I am to join the vice-admiral’s flag. We may have an active part to play in the siege and the more so in that the harbour at Charleston is too shallow for ships of any great tonnage. However, our immediate duty takes us to Savannah where we should drop anchor in three days, and where much will depend upon our discipline and good behaviour. This is not a war against an enemy country, against foreigners like the French or Spanish. These colonies are British and those to the south are thought to be very much on our side. At Savannah we are to consider ourselves among friends and must behave accordingly. On the other hand, we must not be more than friendly where the ladies of Georgia are concerned; nor, when Charleston falls, must we be other than civil towards the ladies of South Carolina. We need the good opinion of these people and we shall have to earn it. Please make this clear to seamen and marines alike. I say nothing at this stage about the dire consequences of misconduct in this respect. I would rather leave it to the good sense of the men themselves. Any questions?”
“Might I ask, sir,” inquired Mr Bancroft, “whether the southern soldiers may not be lukewarm in the rebel cause?”
“Perhaps they are,” replied the captain, “but don’t count on it. I understand that the garrison of Charleston has been stiffened by men detached from New England, gunners and engineer officers especially and perhaps some Frenchmen as well. I should guess that the place will have to be bombarded and stormed.”
“Should I be right, sir, in supposing that these southern colonies become impossibly hot in summer?”
“That is so, Mr Maxwell. We need to do our business before June, after which the fighting will cease by what amounts to mutual agreement.”
There were no other questions but there was much discussion afterwards about how Charleston was to be captured. Mr Maxwell took the three midshipmen to his cabin and showed them the chart.
“The key to the position,” he explained, “is this fort here on Sullivan’s Island. Charleston has been attacked before, you see, in 1776 and Sir Henry was beaten off by the guns of what has since been named Fort Moultrie after the colonel who then commanded the South Carolina Militia. Now Clinton is to try again and I’ll wager he won’t make the same mistake again. He’ll assault from the other side, you can be sure, but that fort will hold out against him. With the bar at the harbour mouth, the squadron cannot easily close the range. Frigates could enter, maybe, but their guns are not heavy enough to silence that fort. A sloop like this might pass the bar without much difficulty but would be blown out of the water. With Fort Moultrie fallen today, Charleston itself would fall tomorrow.”
Falcon reached Savannah on 29 November 1779 to find the place partly in ruins. It had been attacked in October by the French Admiral D’Estaing and rebel troops commanded by General Lincoln. D’Estaing had been anxious to sail again and persuaded Lincoln to make a premature assault. This had been beaten off by Major-General Augustus Prevost whose men had some reason to be proud of themselves. They were not, however, ready to embark nor was Mottram in any hurry to leave while a French squadron remained (for all he knew) in the vicinity. He was still at Savannah for Christmas, sailing finally with a convoy of transports laden with troops, artillery and horses. Charleston was reached on 11 February and it soon appeared that Sir Henry Clinton’s army was already ashore and had captured James’s Island. Frigates had crossed the bar in March but the squadron was still faced by the guns of Fort Moultrie. A long siege was in prospect and with no certainty of final victory. At anchor in Five Fathom Hole, the Falcon did little more than provide occasional working parties for service ashore. It was while commanding such a party that Delancey met some troopers of the 17th Light Dragoons on James’s Island. They belonged to a single troop sent to stiffen the locally raised horse units, the regiment as a whole being elsewhere but he had news, at least, of Oliver de Lancey. His more regular task was to visit the lighthouse, making sure that the rebels were not using it as an observation post. It could as easily have been occupied but the decision had been taken to patrol it daily at different hours and also occasionally at night. On this errand, after dark, Delancey became aware of another boat approaching the island. The sounds came from the creek on the landward side and Delancey quietly ordered his five men to cock their muskets and spread out to face the intruders. Drawing and cocking his own pistol, he realised that this might be his baptism of fire. He had seen a riot in Liverpool but he had not so far faced the enemy, least of all at the head of his own detachment. Was he destined to perish before his career had fairly begun? He became aware of his heart beating and realised that there was sweat on his brow. Men had landed from the boat and were moving quietly towards him. He waited until he could glimpse the leader’s head against the sky, and then called out:
“Halt! Who’s there?”
The man stood still and replied:
“I’ve a message for General Clinton.”
“Are you armed?” asked Delancey.
“Yessir, I’ll say.”
“Drop your arms on the ground.”
“Sure.” There was the sound of a musket falling on the path.
“Step forward slowly but tell the others to stay where they are.”
The man advanced with his hands above his head and Delancey told a seaman to search him while he himself kept the stranger covered.
“He is unarmed, sir,” reported the sailor.
“Very well, then. Two paces forward and tell me who you are.”
“I’m Philip Dobbs of Wapoo Creek.”
“How many are there in your party?”
“One other man and a boy; Saul, my nephew.”
“What do you want?”
“Like I said, I’ve a message for the general.”
“From whom?”
“That I’m not saying.”
“Are your men armed?”
“Isaac is. Saul ain’t.”
“Tell Isaac to ground his arms and come forward.”
Philip was a middle-aged man with a straggling beard but the white-haired Isaac seemed to be about eighty and Saul, when told to come forward, appeared to be about fifteen.
Making a swift decision, Delancey sent a seaman to collect the two fowling pieces and then marched the three colonists back to his own boat. On board the sloop again, he reported to Mr Maxwell, who reported in turn to Captain Mottram. Delancey was not a witness to the discussion which followed but he presently saw the three civilians being ushered into the launch, which moved off, under Mr Bancroft’s command, in the direction of Stour Ferry. Mr Maxwell commended Delancey for his part in the affair, adding that the Americans were being taken under escort to Sir Henry Clinton’s headquarters.
“This could be a good night’s work, Delancey. Someone on the rebel side is trying to get in touch with us. Let’s hope that the eleventh-hour loyalist is sufficiently high in rank.”
Delancey was no party to the negotiations which followed. All he did, finally, was to take Philip Dobbs back to his boat and this after dark on the following night.
The siege of Charleston began on 1 April 1780, the first parallel being completed in two days and the siege works progressed inexorably according to the accepted rules of warfare. To ensure the success of the final bombardment and assault it was essential to move the ships of the line into position opposite the town. They were lightened sufficiently to cross the bar but Fort Moultrie still flanked the channel through which the ships would have to pass. When the orders came to sail in on 8 April the risk was all too obvious. Vice-Admiral Arbuthnot took the precaution, however, of sending in the Falcon ahead of the squadron and Delancey was detailed, on this occasion, to act as aide to Captain Mottram. So this, he thought, is to be my real baptism of fire. Against the stone-faced bastions of the fort the sloop’s cannon could achieve nothing, while she would herself be a perfect target for the far heavier guns which the fort would mount. The Falcon was a mere pawn, used to draw the enemy’s fire and establish whether the heavier ships dared run the gauntlet. Delancey wondered whether the rebels would let the sloop pass, reserving their fire for the ships of the line. It seemed at first that this was their plan for the Falcon passed slowly before silent batteries.
“Incredible!” exclaimed the captain as he used his telescope. “There is activity round the rebel cannon but not a shot fired! What sort of game are they playing?”
Nor did the ships of the line face a more hostile reception. They passed the batteries in their turn, only the third of them being engaged by a single gun which was only belatedly joined by a second. The whole squadron moved to an anchorage in the upper harbour, sealing the fate of Charleston, the surrender of which was now inevitable. The Falcon, heading the line at first, dropped modestly astern after the fort was passed, anchoring further downstream as befitted a mere sloop. Perhaps for this reason it was to her that a boat from the shore directed its course after dark. Delancey, standing watch with Mr Maxwell, at once recognised his old acquaintances, Philip, Isaac and Saul, but they were accompanied this time by a fourth character who gave his name as Major Samuel P. Travell, officer in the rebel artillery, and a recruit, it seemed, to the service of King George III. Given leave to come on board, he reported himself to the officer of the watch, adding:
“Well, I gave you safe passage as I promised!”
“But how did you do it, sir?”
“I poured molten lead into the touch-holes. It took half an hour to clear them and that half-hour was enough.”
“You commanded at the fort, then?”
“That is so. I thought it wise to quit before too many questions were asked.”
“I can understand that, Major.”
“As from tomorrow you can call me lieutenant-colonel.”
Captain Mottram was informed presently of Travell being given that higher rank in the king’s army but no news of Travell’s appointment to an actual unit. He was to remain a passenger on board the Falcon and there was no plan, seemingly, for his employment. It soon appeared, moreover, that the fact of his treachery had become common knowledge.
On 5 May a boat came from the shore in broad daylight with several ladies aboard. They were received by Captain Mottram on the quarterdeck where the oldest of them, a formidable lady, explained the purpose of her visit.
“I am Mrs Esther Hoskins, widow of Colonel Hoskins of the South Carolina Militia. I live at the Galilee Plantation where these other ladies are neighbours of mine and well known to me.”
Captain Mottram bowed but did not reply.
“My son, Captain Luke Hoskins, is serving with his company in the defence of Charleston. Two of these ladies have sons who are similarly employed and one of them, Martha Babcock, has a favourite nephew there who holds the rank of ensign.”
Mottram repeated his bow with bare civility.
“We ask Sir Henry Clinton’s permission to enter the town and take leave of our kinsfolk. We are aware, of course, that the town will be stormed in a few days’ time.”
“What makes you so certain of that?”
“Certain? Of course I’m certain. Everyone knows about it. It is the common topic of conversation. And what else is Sir Henry to do?”
Mottram declined any further discussion of Clinton’s plans but agreed to send the ladies on to the general’s headquarters where they could apply to him in person. He was issuing the necessary orders when Travell chanced to come on deck without the least idea of the ladies’ presence. The scene which followed was highly embarrassing and Delancey, for one, could have wished that he had been somewhere else. Catching sight of Travell Mrs Hoskins drew herself up to her full height and pointed at him with her parasol.
“Really, Captain Mottram. I wonder to see Major Travell here as your guest! What name do we give to an officer who is traitor to his neighbours and former friends—who betrays the town which he is to defend—who is guilty of treachery towards his brother officers and enlisted men—who bites the hand that feeds him—who consorts with the enemy—who is utterly faithless and completely worthless, despised by every true American and spat upon by every patriot—who will go down in history as the lowest of the low? What do we call him, ladies? I call him Judas Iscariot!”
“Judas!” shrilled the other ladies and they were advancing on poor Travell in menacing fashion when Captain Mottram intervened.
“Ladies! If you will kindly proceed to the boat alongside you will be taken to Sir Henry Clinton’s headquarters, where I am sure that you will be treated with every politeness. I must ask you to be as polite to my other guest and to remember that you are all guilty of treason, being in rebellion against our noble sovereign, King George, in whose territory you were born and to whom you owe a subject’s loyal obedience. Good day to you, ladies!”
The painful scene ended, Travell going below without a word and other people all busying themselves with their several tasks. As one of those present Delancey felt some sympathy with all concerned. Is the rebel to be praised who returns to his allegiance? Or is he guilty of a second treachery who goes back on his first? If Travell had gained promotion it was a step in rank, he thought, that had been dearly purchased.
The ladies had been right, of course, about Clinton’s plans. His stranglehold on Charleston had been tightened and no relief was possible. His artillery had come closer to the target area and the defending ramparts had begun to crumble. Finally, on the night of 9 May, the final bombardment began, evidently the prelude to the final assault. Continuing all night, it brought General Lincoln to the point of surrender. From the deck of the Falcon lying quietly at anchor, Delancey and the other midshipmen listened to the thunder of the artillery and watched the whole sky lit up by flashes from perhaps a hundred gun muzzles. From the town itself came the red glare of burning and the crackle of the flames.
“A pity we have no share in this,” said Hyatt.
“But what difference could we make?” asked young Tenison.
“I don’t mean the Falcon,” explained Hyatt, “I mean the navy. The admiral could have joined in the bombardment, couldn’t he?”
“He and the general are not the best of friends,” said Branning, and the others had to agree.
“That’s often the way of it,” said Hyatt. “Sailors and soldiers seldom see eye to eye.”
“But they sometimes do,” objected Delancey. “I’m told that Sir Henry thinks the world of Captain Elphinstone.”
“And he could be right at that,” concluded Branning. “But look over there!”
Shells were bursting now over the town and the noise had become more deafening than ever. It was this bombardment that was Delancey’s introduction to war. While not himself under fire, he had begun to see what war must mean. It had, he thought, a rather frightening sort of attraction.
Delancey was not present to witness General Lincoln’s formal surrender of the town but he was allowed on shore soon afterwards, he and Hyatt going together to see the damage done by the bombardment. They did not expect to see many houses intact. They found, on the contrary, that the town—as apart from the ramparts and gun emplacements—had suffered very little.
“After that cannonade,” said Hyatt, “I expected to see total destruction.”
“I think the gunners were under orders about that,” said Delancey. “The general wanted the town for his own use afterwards. This is where he means to billet his troops.”
“And the shops are reopening for the benefit of those new customers,” observed Hyatt. “Are the people really friendly towards us, do you think?”
“They will be so long as we are here in force. One or two of the girls have looked at us with interest.”
“You noticed that? There are some angry looks, however, from some of the older folk. They have some chimney-stacks to repair, some tiles to replace. Those who stayed in their cellars should have come to no harm, though.”
“Anyway, it’s good to be ashore.”
“We are luckier in that respect than Colonel Travell. Were he to land he would be dead within the hour. Do you think he will be given a command?”
“No,” replied Delancey after a little pause. “Were he to be taken prisoner, you see, he would be hanged by the rebels. The general would not want that to happen. Travell might have a staff appointment in New York but would our senior officers trust him?”
“Having changed sides twice, you mean, they might expect him to change sides again?”
“I think they might have their doubts.”
Sir Henry Clinton sailed for New York on 8 June, leaving Lord Cornwallis to complete the conquest of South Carolina. Travell, however, was left on board the Falcon, idle and depressed. He was tall, thin, dark-haired and dark in complexion, with a rather melancholy air but with an occasional flash of vivacity. Mottram regularly invited him to dinner and Delancey was present on one such occasion towards the end of June. Over the dessert Bancroft asked Travell whether he was a native of the southern colonies.
“No, sir. I come from Philadelphia and all my active service has been in the north. It was there, as one of the rebel officers, that I came to realise that we had lost the war.”
“But, surely, Colonel,” Maxwell protested, “the rebels, your former friends, have French help now. We have taken Charleston, to be sure, but Lincoln had come near to taking Savannah. King Louis has given them great encouragement.”
“But look at the difficulties General Washington has to face! The continental currency is practically worthless. His supply system has broken down, so much so that the quartermaster general has resigned. The troops can neither be supplied nor paid. Their numbers are dwindling, recruits are few and some units may well mutiny. It is a miracle that the army exists at all. Its morale has never been lower.”
“You were fighting, you thought, in a hopeless cause?”
“I was fighting, sir, in a war that should never have taken place. It could have been avoided with only a little patience on either side. I must confess, however, that I did not reach this conclusion unaided. I have had the honour of serving with a more senior officer who is—as I believe—the best soldier now serving on either side. He had come to the conclusion that a British victory would be in the best interests of the colonists themselves.”
“And did he think that such a victory is likely?” asked Captain Mottram.
“He knew that he could bring it about, provided that General Clinton would follow his advice.”
“He must be a remarkable man.” Bancroft’s tone expressed disbelief but Travell replied with emphasis:
“He is the greatest man I have ever met, possessing untiring energy, exceptional courage, quickness of decision and instant grasp of any situation. He has an instinct for war which amounts to genius.”
“Has he no human weakness?” asked Maxwell wonderingly. “He has a weakness for money, a love of luxury, a passion for thoroughbred horses and too great an interest in the other sex. These faults do not affect his brilliance as a commander in the field.”
“You say, sir, that this officer’s advice would bring us victory?” asked Mottram. “Do you know what his advice would be?”
“Yes, sir, I do. He would advise against the dispersal of our troops between north and south. He would urge a concentration of all our forces against Washington, securing all points at which the Hudson can be crossed. The rebel supplies of bread come from the country east of that river, their supplies of meat come from the west. Hold the line of the Hudson and Washington must either fight or surrender.”
“But if he fought, sir, could he not still win?”
“Not if my friend’s advice were followed in another particular. He suggests that the British should offer to recruit all of Washington’s men, honouring all arrears of pay, undertaking to give them twenty guineas down with half-pay for seven years after the war has ended, offering a hundred acres of land to each private soldier and ten thousand acres to every general. In America, he says, money will go further than arms.”
There was a shocked silence as Travell finished speaking, broken when Bancroft asked whether this plan would not involve a colossal expense. Travell replied promptly: “Do you think the present campaign is cheap, supported as it is by supply lines across the Atlantic? What does it cost to keep our armies in the field? What must we allow for keeping our ships in commission? We pay millions to fight Washington’s men. The officer to whom I refer maintains that it would be cheaper to buy them. I think myself that this is the fact.”
“On this principle,” objected Maxwell, “we should be using American troops to fight our battles.”
“We are doing that already,” replied Travell, “and they have British deserters on the rebel side as their opponents!”
“Such a situation,” exclaimed Mottram, “as a novelist would hardly dare invent!”
“But what is so strange about it, sir?” asked Travell. “We were all British until about five years ago. Have our natures so changed in the meanwhile? This war has been senseless from the beginning. It is time that the killing gave place to a quiet discussion among men who should be neighbours and friends as well as relatives.”
“May I assume, sir, that this officer of distinction is about to resume his allegiance to the king as you have done?” asked Mottram.
“He should have done so already,” was Travell’s reply. “He and I were to come over at about the same time. The silencing of Fort Moultrie was his idea and he arranged my transfer so as to make it possible. I should not have revealed as much as I have had I not assumed that he was now in our camp.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mottram gravely, “what we have just heard from Colonel Travell is of the greatest importance. We must repeat no word of it until the colonel tells us that the matter is no longer secret.”
“We are all grateful, sir, to the colonel for taking us into his confidence,” said Maxwell, “and he has given us much to think about. One thing I have learnt is that, in war, you learn all about your own difficulties and conclude too readily that your opponents have no troubles of their own. It is easy, in fact, to give up at the moment when your enemies are on the point of collapse.”
“Very true, Mr Maxwell,” said Mottram, “and this must be a lesson for all of us.”
The conversation became more general and Travell was heard to remark that time was heavy on his hands. He had thought to spend his idle hours in learning French but he had no books in that language to study. Afterwards, when the party was breaking up, Delancey went up to him and asked, with some hesitation, whether he could be of help. “I am fluent in French, sir, but with a provincial accent.” Travell accepted this offer and lessons in oral French led to something like a friendship or as much of a friendship as can exist between a youth and a much older man. Soon after Falcon sailed, on 14 July, Delancey expressed his hope that Colonel Travell would be given a command or at least a staff appointment. Travell, who was evidently depressed, said that he had little hope of it.
“You see the difficulty, youngster. Clinton will never trust me. But, apart from that, how can he appoint a recent recruit, recently an enemy, to any post which anyone else could possibly want? How should he prefer me to an officer who has served loyally since the war began? And how would my appointment be received by officers who were to serve under me?”
“You told us, sir, of a more senior officer who may by now have returned to his original allegiance. Were he received with respect, your own position would be greatly improved, would it not?”
“I counted on that but am no longer so sure. That friend of mine is lucky in that his recent marriage has brought him some Tory friends. The young lady to whom I am engaged has no such connections and may well think poorly of me for quitting the rebel army. She should have received my letter before now. For all I know, her next letter to me may be the last I have from her. She may judge me harshly but what else could I have done? Which way was I to turn, and what should I do now? And when, to begin with, should we reach New York?”
“In about the third week of August, sir, if the present wind holds.”
“I almost dread the day, glad as I shall be to see the end of this voyage.”
The Falcon reached New York on 18 August and dropped anchor in the East River. There had been no recent fighting in the vicinity, the rebels having been beaten off in an attack on Staten Island some months before. The town looked as prosperous as ever, and Delancey looked forward to going ashore. In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Captain Mottram, sending for him, explained that Vice-Admiral Arbuthnot’s orders were that he should remain for the present on board the sloop and that he would be sent back to England when opportunity offered. His disappointment in this was more than matched by that of his friend. Travell was equally ordered to stay in the ship, being told indirectly that this order was for his own safety. Were he to land the probability was that he would at once be challenged to a duel by some American hothead who had heard about the events which led up to the fall of Charleston. It was thought possible that he might be posted to the West Indies but no actual appointment had been made. There was no news of any important desertion from the rebel army. To make matters worse, moreover, Travell received a number of cruel letters from complete strangers. People, who could accept his changing sides, could never, it seemed, forgive his betrayal of Fort Moultrie. Travell showed none of these letters to Delancey but it was easy to guess their contents from his angry or sad reaction. It was as easy to guess that he had received no letter from the lady to whom he was engaged. He could now obtain French books from the town but it is doubtful whether he did more than glance at them. He was a man whose career was apparently finished. For his own part, Delancey was in almost equal despair about a career which had scarcely begun. He had, however, the advantage of youth and could resume, with Maxwell’s help, his studies in navigation. He might not achieve promotion but he could at least try to deserve it.