Unlikely Allies Read online

  As Wentworth’s ironic remark suggests, Bancroft had already informed the British about Aitken. Bancroft had visited the clueless Aitken in prison and encouraged him to confide more details of the plot, which Bancroft then disclosed to the prosecution. That explains why the British government made no effort to arrest Bancroft. To the contrary, the British Foreign Ministry had offered Bancroft a life pension of 200 pounds if he would move to Paris and offer his services as a personal secretary to Deane. Aitken’s arrest offered Bancroft the perfect opportunity to carry out this plan. He would write Deane that Aitken told the British that Deane had instigated the arson and that he had implicated Bancroft. Under the circumstances Bancroft had no choice but to flee to Paris. As Bancroft predicted, Deane offered him a job as his secretary. Now Bancroft would be uniquely placed inside the American operations, able to report every move Deane made. Deane looked to Bancroft as his confidant and friend. “Doctor Bancroft has been of very great service to me,” he reported. “No man had better intelligence in England, in my opinion, but it costs something.” The price was higher than Deane could have imagined.

  On the afternoon of March 10, 1777, a day after Aitken was convicted and sentenced to die, he was escorted to the gate in front of the Royal Navy dockyard at Portsmouth. Though it was nearly spring, it was still exceptionally cold, but that did not deter a crowd from gathering. From the gallows Aitken had a clear view of the dock and the ships—unmistakable evidence that his wild conspiracy had failed utterly to undermine British naval power.

  The only thing Aitken had unwittingly accomplished was that he had placed Bancroft in the perfect situation to destroy Silas Deane and prevent the Americans from ever obtaining French aid.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  INVISIBLE INK

  Paris, November-December 1776

  Paris in November grew gloomier every day. From his sooty window he could see a patch of purplish-gray spreading like a bruise across the sky. The Seine looked opaque, and the rains turned the narrow streets into a swamp of brown mud that caked his boots and splattered his stockings. The stale air smelled of fungus and coal dust. Melancholy enveloped him as he sat in his study, scratching out yet another desperate letter to Congress. Five months had passed without a word from Congress. He dipped his pen and wrote in the invisible ink that John Jay’s brother had provided to him:

  Paris, 9th November, 1776.

  Gentleman,—I have written to you often and particularly of affairs here. The want of intelligence retards every thing. As I have not a word from you since the 5th of June last, I am well-nigh distracted.

  He chastised his colleagues as he had done for months:

  All Europe have their eyes on the States of America, and are astonished to find month after month rolling away without your applying to them in form. I hope such application is on its way; nothing else is wanting to effect your utmost wishes.

  He signed the letter with his neat signature and watched as the ink dried, and the text disappeared until not the faintest trace of his name remained. The mountain of pages he had penned to Congress since July were blank to the naked eye. Yet, the invisible ink gave him little assurance that his letters were not somehow being intercepted and read by British agents.

  Only days later, on the evening of November 16, Deane finally received a letter from Congress. A copy of the Declaration of Independence, mailed August 7, came with the first news from Congress since Deane had arrived in France in early June. The Congress had begun consideration of a proposed treaty of alliance with France. Elated, Deane wrote to Vergennes requesting a meeting to deliver the official Declaration. Deane also conveyed a copy to Spain through the Spanish ambassador. Painfully aware of Congress’s languid pace, Deane did not wait for more instructions. He wrote to Vergennes as “a private individual” proposing a treaty of alliance between the United States and the Bourbon powers of France and Spain.

  To Congress Deane expressed his concern that they had shown little respect for “the dignity of old and powerfull States” by waiting two months to send the second copy of the Declaration, relying on a sea captain to deliver it when he “thinks of it or has nothing else to do,” and failing to enclose some more formal communication to the French monarch.

  By presenting Vergennes with the official Declaration, Deane gained new stature and importance in the French court as the de facto representative of his government. His natural optimism returned. Despite news that the British were threatening Philadelphia, he assured one friend that “America must come off, in the end, triumphant.” Deane waxed philosophical: “Whatsoever disappointments I may meet with, I will never despair of my country, for which I shall count it my glory to suffer all things, if it receive any advantage therefore.” Even if the revolution failed, “I shall, at least enjoy the pleasure, the unalienable pleasure, resulting from a consciousness of having done all in my power for its happiness, and, connectedly, for the happiness of mankind in general.” He exulted, “The temper of the times is in favour of America, and it is now as fresh and as striking an object to Europe, as when first discovered and called the New World.”

  AS DEANE STEPPED into his public role on the diplomatic stage, Rodriguez Hortalez quietly moved thousands of tons of supplies and equipment from every corner of France to Le Havre, where three ships—the Amphitrite, the Seine, and the Romain—were being readied to sail to America. Sixty tons of cannon balls were barged down the Seine from Abbeville and Gravelines, near the Channel. Thousands of tents, grenades, and muskets were carted from Douai, Sedan, and Mézières, near Lille in the far north. Dozens of cannons were brought from military stores in Metz and Strasbourg, near the eastern border. Twenty-four tons of gunpowder were delicately loaded on wagons and carefully shipped long distances over bad roads. All this Herculean activity took place in secret, often under the cover of night, to avoid detection by British agents, who were hungry for evidence that the French were smuggling weapons to the Americans.

  In November the Amphitrite was ready to load its precious cargo. It was a large 400-ton frigate. Under the command of French captain Fautrel, the Amphitrite was bound for New England. The Amphitrite would also carry a team of newly commissioned French officers led by Colonel Tronson du Coudray, whom Deane, at the insistence of Vergennes, had elevated to the rank of major general in the Continental Army. Du Coudray was a prima donna who had already strained Beaumarchais’s patience. Du Coudray had recently learned that the British had defeated Washington’s forces in New York City, and he feared that he might find himself on the losing side. He was now procrastinating at Versailles, threatening to hold up the voyage as he got cold feet. As du Coudray hesitated, Beaumarchais steamed. “I have not heard from him for three days,” he complained to Vergennes. “Everything is ready to go, everything is waiting. I am on needles.”

  By December, du Coudray finally returned to his ship, and Beaumarchais arrived in Le Havre to supervise the final details. More than a hundred men worked for two solid nights loading the Amphitrite and the Seine, in a scene of wild confusion. At the risk of causing a massive explosion, the men nervously loaded twelve tons of gunpowder on the Amphitrite. Goods ended up on the wrong ships, and bills of lading listed supplies on one ship that were in fact loaded on the other. (This would later complicate any effort by Beaumarchais to obtain compensation from Congress.) When they were done, the Amphitrite sat low in the water, with nearly 500 tons of equipment and supplies and 130 men on board. In addition to arms and ammunition, there were 3,388 spades, 300 axes, 4,954 pickaxes, 7,200 knee buckles, 8,545 pairs of black stockings, 320 blankets, 52 carriages, and 15,264 pocket handkerchiefs. At that point the military officers unexpectedly demanded their full year’s salary paid in advance. Beaumarchais hastily arranged it, careful enough to ensure that no crew member or officer had any incriminating papers on him in case they were stopped by British ships. To the British, it must appear that this ship was merely bringing supplies to the French sugar islands and any interference with the shipment would look lik
e an act of war.

  While he was in Le Havre, Beaumarchais traveled incognito under the name “Durand.” If the British knew that he was in the port city they would try to stop the ships from leaving. One evening Beaumarchais attended a dreary local production of The Barber of Seville. Beaumarchais was so disappointed that he could not resist the temptation to critique the direction of his play. The fate of the American Revolution seemed somehow less urgent than the fate of Figaro at the hands of these amateurs. Beaumarchais told the director he would take a few days to rehearse the cast himself. Soon word leaked out that the famous playwright was directing the local production, and tickets began selling briskly. Even General Baron de Kalb and his military entourage, who were in Le Havre, preparing to leave on the Romain, took time to attend the production.

  The revised production was well received. Figaro and his companions brought howls of laughter and roars of approval from the audience, and Beaumarchais was delighted by his directorial success. But news of his presence at the port city quickly reached the British ambassador. Beaumarchais had blown his cover. Stormont raced back to Versailles in a fit and demanded that Vergennes stop these ships from leaving the port. Vergennes could no longer deny Beaumarchais’s involvement or the staggering amounts of military supplies that had been gathered in Le Havre. There was no doubt that Britain now had good cause to accuse France of intermeddling in their North American colonies in blatant violation of the express terms of the Treaty of 1763. Figaro’s triumph literally had brought Britain and France to the brink of war.

  Faced with the prospect of war with Britain, Vergennes issued an order to stop any of Beaumarchais’s ships from leaving Le Havre. His messenger, however, was delayed and did not arrive at Le Havre until Sunday evening, December 15—too late. The Amphitrite had already left the previous afternoon on a crisp light breeze coming off the Channel. The port commissioner wrote to the minister of the navy that it would be impossible for any ship to overtake the Amphitrite, but he ordered the Seine and the Romain seized. Beaumarchais held out hope that Vergennes would release the vessels eventually. It was left up to the British navy now to try to capture the Amphitrite before it could reach New England.

  ON DECEMBER 4, 1776, just as the Amphitrite was reaching the open sea, Deane received more unexpected news: Benjamin Franklin had landed at the small fishing village of Auray, in Brittany. Franklin wrote to inform him that Congress, recognizing the importance of their relationship to France, had appointed Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and Deane as co-commissioners to negotiate a treaty of commerce and an alliance with France. Finally, Deane had an official title and status as a United States emissary.

  Congress had sent with Franklin indigo worth 3,000 pounds sterling for trade and 7,000 pounds sterling in currency to support their mission (totaling about $1.85 million today). Though Franklin had intended to travel to Paris secretly, that proved impossible. Franklin’s fame was so great that practically the moment he stepped onto the French shore, he was swamped by a wave of adulation—and Franklin enjoyed it too much to forgo. Crowds cheered his passing carriage. He was mobbed everywhere he went. The throng of admirers was greater than even the king could expect, and it slowed Franklin’s progress toward Paris to a crawl. As Deane read Franklin’s letter he was overcome with relief and joy. He would not be alone anymore. In the same letter announcing his arrival, Franklin added a postscript: Jefferson had declined Congress’s nomination. His wife was sickly and he preferred to remain behind with her in Virginia. In his place Congress had appointed Arthur Lee as co-commissioner to France.

  Deane stared at the letter hard. His long isolation was finally over, yet he would now have to contend with the obnoxious Lee as a colleague. Deane consoled himself that at least he could always rely on his one true friend, Bancroft.

  As events transpired Arthur Lee and Edward Bancroft became bitter enemies. But the two men shared a common purpose—to destroy everything Deane had labored to accomplish: the one by spreading lies; the other, by revealing secrets.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ODD MAN OUT

  Paris, December 1776-March 1777

  Benjamin Franklin gingerly lowered himself into a steaming bath of mineral water. He held on to the sides of the tub as the wind gently rocked the room, splashing the sudsy water from one side to the other. The Poitevin was the first floating bathhouse in Paris. It was easy to find. The smell of sulphur wafted from the whitewashed wooden boathouse at the Pont Royal, across the Tuileries. Franklin arrived at the dock at six in the evening by hackney coach and climbed aboard. He thought that the Poitevin was a salubrious spot both for relaxation and discreet negotiations. Naïvely, perhaps, the world’s most famous American imagined that no one would recognize him indulging in a steamy bath, even though his image was ubiquitous, and strangers applauded his passing carriage on the street. At the Poitevin, the other patrons may have been less inclined to notice the elderly foreign gentleman; they were preoccupied with pairing off in the shadows of Paris’s most notorious rendezvous for men who prefer men. Franklin seemed insensible to the muffled laughter, ghostly moans, and sudden gasps from adjoining rooms. British spies and the undercover Paris police were much more likely to observe the frequent visits of the American commissioner and puzzle over Franklin’s preferences.

  Franklin leaned his long stringy hair back into the warm water and stared up at the swaying ceiling. He felt exhausted by the challenges he confronted since his tumultuous welcome in December. He had arrived in Paris with his seven- and seventeen-year-old grandsons, Benjamin Bache and Temple Franklin, on December 22. He stayed with Deane on the rue de l’Université, and Arthur Lee joined them there the next day. Franklin knew Lee from his time in London and did not especially care for him, but he was happy to see his old friend Deane. Deane was so delighted to have Franklin by his side that he would not allow the sour Mr. Lee to spoil his joy. Franklin was deluged with well-wishers, fellow scientists, celebrity hounds, vendors hoping to export to America, young soldiers offering their services, aristocrats, and the most powerful grandes dames in Paris. It was evident that Deane’s hotel would not be adequate to the task of receiving Franklin’s public, and a few weeks later the three commissioners moved to more comfortable quarters at the Hôtel de Hambourg in the St. Germain district on the rue Jacob, where they enjoyed a garden view and the proprietor prided himself on his English.

  On December 28, the three commissioners met with Vergennes to present their credentials in a secret location in Paris. The first meeting went badly. From America there was news that Washington had lost another important battle at White Plains, New York, and that the army was once again in retreat. It was an inauspicious moment to ask the French for an alliance. Moreover, Vergennes had already received complaints about Franklin’s presence in Paris from the British ambassador, and he took pains to avoid the appearance of any official contact with the Americans. The commissioners requested a commercial treaty, which Deane had proposed months earlier, and Vergennes responded coolly that France would continue to trade with the Americans only to the extent consistent with her treaty commitments to Britain. To underline his point, Vergennes read to them the treaty article that prohibited privateers from using French ports. The commissioners were off to a bad start with their French host.

  To make matters worse, the Amphitrite, which had left France on December 15, returned to Port Louis in southern Brittany on January 5. The ship’s captain had failed to provide enough supplies for the crew, and a storm had ruined some of the food that had been improperly stored. The ship’s 49 passengers and 160 crew members faced the prospect of weeks of hunger and thirst. General du Coudray, who was also unhappy with his quarters, ordered the captain to return to France. By then, the ship’s mission had been publicized in British newspapers and denounced in Parliament. Facing threats from Stormont, the French government immediately imposed an embargo, detaining all of Beaumarchais’s ships indefinitely. Deane and Beaumarchais could not believe that their hopes once again had
been dashed by circumstances and the failure of the French Foreign Ministry to stand up to Stormont’s bullying.

  On the morning of Sunday, January 5, the commissioners took a carriage to Versailles, hoping to see Vergennes again and clarify their needs. They asked for a meeting on Monday morning. Vergennes hesitated. He worried that the mere presence of the commissioners in close proximity to the palace would be reported to the British ambassador, and he did not want to do anything to further to anger Stormont. Vergennes refused their request for a meeting. But Deane would not be put off so easily. He wrote to Vergennes’s secretary, Gérard, that he was too ill to go out and needed to meet at his hotel at once. Gérard immediately replied that he would be happy to see his friend at Deane’s hotel in Versailles. Thus the commissioners met with Gérard at the Hôtel de Joue in Versailles the following morning. They wanted the foreign ministry to release the Amphitrite and Beaumarchais’s other ships and to provide eight armed and manned vessels, more cannons, muskets, and bayonets, all delivered under the protection of a French convoy. Contrary to what Lee later wrote to members of Congress—namely, that the arms were all gifts from France—the commissioners agreed that Congress would pay for all the ships, men, and supplies. Gérard assured them that France would soon release all the ships, including the Amphitrite, and France would loan the Americans directly two million livres (roughly $15 million today). However, Gérard regretted that France could provide neither ships nor men under the terms of its treaty with Britain. Negotiations reached an impasse.