Last Refuge of Scoundrels Read online

  This book is a work of historical fiction. In order to give a sense of the times, the names of real people and places have been included. Many of the events depicted in this book, however, are imaginary, and the names of nonhistorical persons or events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of such nonhistorical persons or events to actual ones is purely coincidental.

  LAST REFUGE OF SCOUNDRELS. Copyright © 2000 by Paul Lussier Co., LTD. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2100-1

  A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2000 by Warner Books.

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  First eBook Edition: February 2001

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  For David,

  who knows.

  Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.

  —Samuel Johnson

  There is nothing more common than to confound the terms of American Revolution with those of the late American War. The American war is over, but this is far from being the case with the American revolution. On the contrary, nothing but the first act of the great drama is closed.

  —Benjamin Rush (1787)

  Historians relate, not so much what is done, as what they would have believed.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  Let me tell you . . . : the true story of the American Revolution can never be written. . . . You must be content to know that the fact is as I have said, and that a great many people in those days were not at all what they seemed, nor what they are generally believed to have been.

  —attributed to John Jay

  by Edward Floyd Delancey (1821)

  Oh, how I wish I had never seen the Continental Army! I would have done better to retire to the back country and live in a wigwam.

  —George Washington

  The history of our Revolution will be one continued lie from one end to the other.

  —John Adams

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  To Die

  Chapter 2

  Apollo in Boston

  Chapter 3

  The Girl with the Smile

  Chapter 4

  Taking Flight

  Chapter 5

  The Green Dragon

  Chapter 6

  Ah, Ezekiel!

  Chapter 7

  Firedance

  Chapter 8

  The Governor Besieged

  Chapter 9

  Rebelhood

  Chapter 10

  Harvard Days

  Chapter 11

  Father and Son

  Chapter 12

  Boston Massacre

  Chapter 13

  Boston Tea Party

  Chapter 14

  The British Get Serious

  Chapter 15

  The First Continental Congress Convenes

  Chapter 16

  Hell’s Caves

  Chapter 17

  The Hoax

  Chapter 18

  Grape

  Chapter 19

  To Arms

  Chapter 20

  To War

  Chapter 21

  Planting Guns

  Chapter 22

  The Big Bang

  Chapter 23

  Food and Guns

  Chapter 24

  The Arrival of the Commander-in-Chief

  Chapter 25

  The Battle of Breed’s Hill

  Chapter 26

  Valley Forge

  Chapter 27

  Finding The Cause

  Chapter 28

  Mission to Philadelphia

  Chapter 29

  The Mischianza

  Chapter 30

  Monmouth Woods

  Chapter 31

  The Legend of Deborah and John

  Chapter 32

  One Thousand One Hundred and Forty Bottles

  Chapter 33

  Palace of Light

  Chapter 34

  Washington Dies

  Chapter 35

  John Arrives

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  I came to be who I was, a man named George, no more and no less, during my final three breaths as I lay upon my bed at Mount Vernon trying to die. It is for this reason, and this reason only, that it can be said my end was peaceful and joyous and, more to the point, my life had been worthwhile. For despite the many public exploits and achievements for which I am endlessly praised, I consider the privilege of knowing myself, if only for six seconds—the time it took to inhale and exhale thrice—my most remarkable feat; certainly the one of which I am most proud and, of all my accomplishments, by far the most difficult—and rewarding—of my interminable and dreary career.

  For a figure such as “George Washington,” you see, laden with accolade after accolade, beaten down as I was (like gold to gold leaf: rather less value, but oh, what a shine!), a shot at becoming a man is rare.

  Thank God, on December 14, 1799, luck was on my side. The dawn of a new century it was, and redemption, finally, would be mine.

  Redemption: It came through . . . well, I imagine you’d have to call him an angel. A war aide of mine, long dead, who reached out to me on my deathbed and offered me one last chance to come home to the secret self I’d tucked away inside, about whom so few knew and even I had long since forgotten. He offered me an “opening.” I’m sure that’s what he called it.

  Lieutenant Colonel John Lawrence demanded that I revisit the American Revolution—unflinchingly, in a way that hewed to the truth and not History’s sacred pack of lies. All I needed to do was see the event through his eyes, let him and not the almighty General be the center of the show.

  To my credit, I accepted.

  You already know the History of the War for Independence, and no doubt you’ve come to accept it—as indeed had I—as the history of the American Revolution. But they were not the same struggles. And knowing that this is confusing is what compels me to come forward, now, to share with you my remarkable journey back, and by so doing give America a chance to come home to herself as a country, a promised land.

  Rest assured this is not another History. It’s a story not of bloodless heroes, but of people; really it’s the tale of Deborah and Alice and George and John. A fable of sorts, you might aver, but as such, truer than any “facts” about the war you’ve heretofore been told.

  Let’s to the beginning, then. To my end.

  CHAPTER 1

  To Die

  It wasn’t until I was facing my final days that I realized I hadn’t lived.

  It wasn’t until an uncontrollable terror of being buried alive emerged, of being stowed away in a sealed vault with the world deaf to my hoarse and frenetic screams, that I did all I could to feel my frailty, my humanity—just to convince myself that even I, General Washington, could die.

  With pneumonia ravaging my lungs, I walked out into a hailstorm with my greatcoat unfastened, lingering outside from ten o’clock to three in the afternoon. And when the weather settled upon cold rain I bothered not with a hat or a scarf, wanting my neck moist and my hair drenched.

  I went to dinner in my wet clothes.

  I admitted to a sore throat but took no measures to relieve it, and a
t that point flatly refused to take any medicine for the “cold.”

  Nor would I allow Martha to send for a doctor until the following morning. Even then, it was only because I was confident that the many exertions on my behalf would fail that I consented to the mixture of molasses, vinegar, and butter for my throat; wheat bran poultices for my swollen legs; purges of calomel; gargles of sage tea and vinegar; and tiny fires put to my feet.

  Past these remedies, however, I drew the line, begging the three doctors arrayed at my bedside (Craik, Dick, and Brown), “Please, do not interfere. You had better not take any more trouble about me.”

  They smiled, then ignored me.

  Oh, didn’t they poke and prod, urging me to cough, to sit up, to lie back, to stay warm one minute and to cool myself the next, shifting and raising and lifting and turning and tossing my frame as though I were an old rag doll and they the family dogs.

  “Do not let my body be put into the vault less than three days after I’m ‘dead’! Please!”

  Martha, unable to hold back her tears, thinking me mad: “Quiet now, General, you need your strength.”

  At least my secretary, Tobias Lear, indulged my dark fantasy, assuring me he’d take personal responsibility for determining “the President’s” death before burial.

  Nice enough of him, but I knew, three days or no, I would never be entirely dead. Lear could no more curtail the ubiquity of my hallowed figure than I could. And images on engravings, portraits, busts, ceramics—even a line of handkerchiefs, pillboxes, and soap—while they may persist through time immemorial, being bloodless, never die.

  Do I have any blood left? I wondered.

  “More blood!” I bellowed. “The orifice isn’t big enough!” I wanted evidence.

  Enough of this trickling, anemic, brownish sludge the doctors were leaching from my arm, drops at a time. I wanted to see fluid, red and gushing, great gobs of it exploding from my veins. I wanted it now.

  “More blood!” I again demanded, too weak to stomp my foot.

  And when the doctors, in conference over my condition (quinsy, diphtheria, pneumonia, what?), did not jump to, I grabbed the fleam myself to slice at my wrist when Martha stopped me: “Please, General, no!”

  “Call me George!” I found myself commanding her.

  “You relieved him years ago, dear,” Martha responded, thinking I was referring to a stable boy I’d long since retired.

  And that’s when I realized what needed to be done.

  I’d not asked Martha to call me George . . . well, ever, really, now that I thought about it. Nor had she ever asked to so address me. Why, even my own children (Martha’s really, from a previous marriage: a daughter and a son, Patsy and Jackie) could not be coaxed into calling me “Papa,” let alone “George” !

  And why should they have? It would be like calling Martha “Abigail” or a donkey a cat. Just plain wrong. For George was no more and hadn’t been—since when, where and for how long?

  I hadn’t a clue.

  I moaned, heaved, sighed, bellowed in unendurable pain. “Please, God, let me be!”

  And then it came, a word that I’d only uttered (and to miraculous effect) twice before. It felt strange coming out, like a glass marble passing between my lips, round, slippery, and hard.

  “Help.”

  And just like that, I found myself in a dream, nay a nightmare, all the more frightening because it was true.

  In this dream, I was a man who despised being President.

  The levees, the public speaking, the thick waistcoats, the unending dinners with dignitaries from countries whose names I couldn’t pronounce. All of it I found tedious—a ceaseless, unremitting bore.

  Since policy-making in particular left me cold, I’d pass my time in “cabinet” meetings jotting down gardening ideas I wanted the caretakers to try back at Mount Vernon, where I longed to return. I’d riffle through personal mail, with a particular interest in dispatches updating me on the ongoing mating saga of my beloved jackass, who, fussy about intercourse, rejected every suitor, no matter how well researched his lineage or well endowed his organ (“He’s a bit more eager than the last, Your Excellency, but still, the jenny seems bored”).

  Never one to be caught off guard, I particularly loathed speaking in public extemporaneously. Even at my own levees, crowds milling past, I’d cling tenaciously to the fireplace and behave like a wax statue, so most would ooh and aah, but stay away.

  When public speaking was altogether unavoidable, however, I’d spend countless hours preparing. I’d write voluminous notes to myself, recording particularly clever turns of phrase, bon mots, jokes, pleasantries, even bawdy puns—in sufficient variety and quantity to cover the wide range of situations experience had taught me I might confront.

  Even so, I’d tremble in public and sweat like a horse.

  Yet, despite all this, I didn’t know I was unhappy, that I’d rather I didn’t belong to the archives of History.

  Advocates had me convinced the vague ennui that circled endlessly about me (like a summer horsefly buzzing unceasingly around one’s head) was a sign of great humility and grace. That my mind-boggling array of ailments (recurring malaria, ague, fever, even a malignant carbuncle—you name it, I thought I’d caught it, rarely repeating myself, always something exotic) were signs of royalty, great compassion, blue blood.

  And what of those ugly thoughts I’d had from time to time, like wishing I’d fled my inauguration?

  What of the admission I’d made, while progressing from Philadelphia to New York (the capital then) for the ceremonies celebrating our First President, that I felt more like a culprit going to my place of execution than a man about to be made leader of his country?

  What for the man consumed with all those gloomy thoughts when the ridiculous festivities took hold? The towns festooning themselves with flags, emblems, slogans, and mounted escorts to receive me? The massive applause on my approach and pandemonium on my arrival? And yes, who could forget passing under a victory arch as a concealed mechanism lowered a laurel wreath upon my head and a choir of white-robed maidens strewed blossoms in my path, singing “Hallelujah” at full tilt?

  I could forget, that’s who. Indeed, I had. All my unhappiness buried, along with George.

  Why, I’d even begun to believe I was attractive. Who wouldn’t prefer the portraits by Trumbull and Gilbert Stuart? No pockmarked face. No springs visible at the corners of my mouth, coils to fasten my wretched teeth to my jaw or, for that matter, Madeira-stained incisors or cuspids perpetually flecked with unremovable bits of food.

  Who could blame the General for being so tyrannized by his own image he’d carry a self-help guide on his person as reminder of just how General George Washington should be expected to act? “Run not in the streets, neither go too slowly nor with mouth open,” was particularly important to remember when dignity was required.

  Poor embalmed President, Commander-in-Chief, His Excellency, General Washington, who didn’t even know he’d lost George somewhere between those phony cherry trees a certain “historian” dreamed up and the real victory at Yorktown: the triumphant battle that won us independence and the end of the war.

  And then one day, facing the end, all that changed.

  I woke up.

  Waking from the dream, I felt a new kind of pain. Not a physical sensation, neither the press of inflammation for the burning of blood (red!) seeping through my eyes. Rather, I was gripped by a certain sadness (Had I loved Martha as much as she deserved?); by fear (Did Martha love me?); a degree of fragility (Was I a good man? Am I as gawky and as potbellied as I feel?); and even paranoia (What if America finds out that it wasn’t I who won us the war?).

  I squeezed Martha’s hand and she squeezed back. I felt deep and abiding love for the woman.

  And love for my country.

  And love for the likes of Deborah and John, whom I’d not thought about in years.

  And that was all it took. . . .

  Suddenly I felt as
though I were being lifted from my bed and transported through the heavens to another time and place: to Boston Harbor, 1765, where I noticed a small boy beckoning me from the deck of a most splendid mercantile ship.

  I recognized him as John Lawrence, my longtime aide-de-camp, whose death by suicide just after America’s victory had for years mystified dignitaries and officers and, most importantly, me, the General himself.

  One look at John and I knew instantly what I was about to experience. He didn’t have to say:

  “Not the events of the War, but the story of the Revolution, is your way back to George.”

  He flew to me—what a lark was this astral plane! We neither embraced nor shook hands; there wasn’t time.

  “Two breaths left, before you die or are permanently embalmed. Which is it?” he asked.

  “The story!”

  “Well, then, come with me and utter not a word! Just watch, listen, and be proud of the legacy of Deborah and Alice and George and John. For this is the way back to George, to the Washington America didn’t even know she had.”

  And now I could see into my bedchamber at Mount Vernon. I could see my body, my chest heaving for air. The doctors were scurrying all about the bed, panicked looks on their faces, thinking the end was near. But I was just getting started, preparing to come back to life.

  And then, to die.

  CHAPTER 2

  Apollo in Boston

  Boston: 1765.

  Jutting rocks, stinging winds, and whipsawing currents were threatening, quite suddenly, to take down our ship. Correction: Daddy’s ship, for Papa insisted that I regard nothing of his as mine until I displayed greater interest in the shipping business that one day, were I deemed worthy of it, would be passed to me, John, his only child.

  The purpose of this latest excursion, insofar as my father, Henry Lawrence, was concerned, was to instruct me once and for all in the mercantile way. I was fourteen now: It was time, by way of Father’s glowing example, to persuade me to accept the destiny he had planned for me, the same one I’d been resisting since age four when I would piss in his tea barrels and blame it on the dog (until Papa shot her as a result).