Two Crowns for America

  “Safeguarding the prince’s identity will be difficult enough with twenty men knowing who he really is,” Andrew interjected. “He suggests that we couch the gathering in the fiction of a Lodge meeting. This was the most plausible cover we could devise to avoid arousing undue curiosity when so many men arrive in one place. It has the added advantage that, since all of us are brethren in the Craft, an actual Lodge can be convened, if desired, with the proceedings protected under long-standing obligations already sworn by all in attendance.”

  Ramsay nodded slowly. “An inspired suggestion. But could we not use this ruse several times, so that all our members might meet the prince? It would do a great deal for morale.”

  “I am certain that it would,” Andrew replied, “but the danger is too great. His Highness is more than willing to undertake this commission for his cousin, but too much exposure could bring him to the attention of the British.” And could prove fatal to Dr. Lucas Saint-John, Andrew added to himself. “He has booked return passage on a ship leaving in ten days’ time. The King will be eager to receive his report on us as soon as possible.”

  “I had hoped he would stay longer,” Ramsay murmured, a little taken aback. “May I see him?”

  “What, now?”

  “Later today, perhaps. Certainly before the meeting.”

  “I think that might not be wise,” Andrew replied, for Ramsay had become enough of a loose cannon that he might regard royal access as a condoning of his recent insubordination. “The prince knows that you are largely responsible for the premature offer to the King and is understandably resentful at seeing his royal cousin’s hopes dashed yet again. Furthermore, and for the same reasons, you are not in the highest of favor with the Master just now—who has had to explain to the King why the timing is not yet right for him to try taking up his Crown. Best not call particular attention to yourself.”

  Ramsay had deflated like a spent balloon as Andrew spoke, and now he hung his head over his folded hands. “Is he very angry with me?” he asked quietly.

  “Who, the Master?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is not for me to say,” Andrew replied. “But I believe that the letter Justin intends to give you later today is from him. If you wish to be reinstated in his good graces, I suggest that you pay careful heed to his instructions.”

  Ramsay nodded slowly, looking up after several seconds.

  “I had already made some preliminary preparations,” he said quietly. “I shall endeavor to set up the meeting as soon as possible.”

  Ramsay had the meeting arranged within three days. The location that he secured was a room above an inn called the Silver Tassie, where several local Masonic Lodges were wont to meet. The Sons of Liberty and other patriot groups also used the premises on occasion, when the Green Dragon Tavern was not available, so local inhabitants were well accustomed to seeing cloaked men coming and going at night, and asking no questions.

  The list of potential invitees was winnowed down to seventeen before being finalized, to include Simon, Andrew, and the prince among the total of twenty to attend. Any larger gathering might have attracted too much attention, even given the usual comings and goings at the Silver Tassie. At Justin’s own suggestion, since he already knew what the prince was going to say, it had been agreed that he should be the one to serve as Tyler for the ostensible Lodge meeting.

  Accordingly, on the appointed evening very early in December, Justin was stationed just outside the door to the room above the Silver Tassie Inn, sword in hand, as was appropriate for his supposed office, but armed underneath his cloak with a brace of loaded pistols stuck into his belt. He was not in uniform—none of the men were—but he came to attention when, at the appointed hour, Andrew escorted the cloaked and hatted prince up the stairs from the back entrance of the tavern below.

  “Is everyone here?” Andrew asked quietly.

  Both he and the prince were dressed formally tonight, Andrew in his customary gray, with a black velvet eye patch and his silver-headed walking stick, the prince all in black and white, pristine linen and lace gleaming above the collar of his greatcloak. The dark green of Thistle ribands showed across the chests of both men—a rare opportunity for Andrew to wear his—and the breast stars of the Order flashed in the light of Justin’s lantern. A gilt-hilted smallsword hung at the prince’s side, and he wore his long hair curled and powdered for the occasion. It made him look older and more grand—a prince indeed, where before he had become simply Justin’s Brother in the Craft and congenial travel companion.

  “Aye, the last one arrived a few minutes ago,” Justin said a little nervously, glancing down the empty stairwell behind them. “They’ve been trickling in for the past hour. Two that weren’t on the list showed up with Ramsay, but I went ahead and admitted them rather than cause a stir. Simon said it was all right.”

  “Fair enough,” Andrew murmured. “Has he sworn them all?”

  “He has.”

  “Well done, then.” Andrew set a hand on Justin’s shoulder in reassurance, then turned to the prince. “Shall we, Your Highness?”

  At the prince’s nod Andrew raised the head of his walking stick to rap three times on the door, then opened it. The men seated around a long table in the paneled room beyond came to their feet in a scraping of chair legs as the two entered. Simon was waiting to take the newcomers’ cloaks.

  Not a sound intruded on the respectful silence save the closing of the door behind them and the measured tread of heels on wooden planks as Andrew gravely led the prince to the place prepared for him at the head of the table, where an open Bible lay beneath the square and compasses of Freemasonry. Three candles were lit on the table, arranged as if, in truth, a Lodge meeting were being held, and more candles burned in mirrored wall sconces all around.

  The prince took his place without ceremony, waiting as Andrew moved in on his right and Simon took a place at the far end of the table. It was Andrew who spoke first, his one-eyed gaze sweeping neutrally over the assembled men.

  “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, into a silence that would have made a falling pin seem loud, “so that we need not court additional danger by speaking dangerous names, our guest desires to be addressed this evening as Count Rohan. Sir,” he added, turning slightly to the prince, “I beg leave to present loyal members of the Bostonian Party, who have been working toward that day when a Stuart restoration may become possible. On your left is Dr. James Ramsay, who has convened this meeting tonight.”

  Doffing his hat, the prince bowed over it in acknowledgment, then put it back on as he took his seat—as was appropriate if he had been, indeed, presiding Master at a Lodge meeting, for the Master alone wore his hat during ritual.

  “Thank you, Chevalier,” he said quietly. “Please be seated, gentlemen.”

  The men sat, to further scraping of chairs and knockings of swords and heels against table and chair legs. Expressions varied from doubtful to hopeful to awed.

  “First of all,” the prince said, before anyone else could seize the initiative, “please allow me to present my credentials.” Reaching across his Thistle riband to delve into an inside pocket of his coat, he produced a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Ramsay. “The Chevalier has already read this, Dr. Ramsay, so I shall ask you to inspect it and pass it on so that your colleagues may satisfy themselves that I do, indeed, have the authority to speak for my royal cousin.”

  A ripple of interest followed the document as it made its round of the table, whispered queries dying away as each man saw it for himself. When it came back to Andrew, he merely laid it on the table before them, much as a Masonic charter might be displayed at a Lodge meeting. Bold at the bottom of the page, and authenticated by his seal, was the signature of Charles Edward Stuart: Charles III R.

  “Et maintenant,” the prince said quietly, “I should like to begin by making a short statement. I think there can be no argument within these walls that Charles Edward Stuart is, and by right ought to be, de jure King of Eng
land. That, de facto, Hanoverian usurpers have held the throne for most of a century is a travesty of justice whose measure may never be equaled.

  “But my royal cousin has never given up his just claim, and shall never concede while there is breath in his body. And if, in the course of throwing off Hanoverian oppression here in the New World, a power base can be established whereby a Stuart restoration might be possible, with an eye to extending this restoration to the recovery of the Scottish Crown in particular, His Majesty has authorized me to assure you that he would be willing to consider a call to such a restored Crown.”

  A stir of satisfaction and approval rippled among his listeners, but the prince continued.

  “The means of accomplishing such a task is by no means clear. The Hanoverian threat is vast, and great care will need to be exercised in order even to consider the King’s own presence here in the colonies. In that I fear that your very generous offer is ill timed, for as yet you have no Crown to offer him.

  “But come he shall, if all is properly prepared,” he continued, cutting off incipient protests. “And even if that time should never come, it may well be that, at very least, your efforts on his behalf will have occupied sufficient British resources on this side of the Atlantic that a direct assault may be made in England itself, for the eventual restoration of the Stuart monarchy.

  “To that end I invite your comments and questions, with the assurance that I shall report back faithfully what you have said, for His Majesty’s enlightenment and consideration.”

  He had them eating out of his hand by the time he finished, and Andrew was able to relax a little after that, as the meeting shifted into a true discussion. Gone was any lingering resentment that the King had not taken up their offer or come to treat with them himself. The prince listened attentively to each question and concern voiced by his now avid supporters, answering their questions when he could and occasionally making comment.

  By the time they moved to disperse, the entire company had been charmed and inspired by this engaging Stuart prince, and Andrew was forced to concede that perhaps, in the end, James Ramsay’s unauthorized action had not been so precipitous as they had feared. Certainly, morale among the Bostonians had never been higher. It was with genuine regret that he had to inform them that another such meeting would not be possible, since pressing business required the prince’s imminent return to France.

  Afterward, while the attendees began slipping away by ones and twos, Andrew informed Ramsay privately that, in fact, the prince’s departure would be delayed until after the following evening, when a Master’s Lodge was to be convened in the Wallace library to raise Justin Master Mason.

  “The prince has asked that you attend and assist,” Andrew told him, “and suggests that you bring along one or two of the others who were present here tonight. The choice he leaves to you.”

  The request caused Ramsay to raise an eyebrow. “Am I to take it that the prince has decided to involve himself in our Masonic affairs?”

  “Ah.” Andrew allowed himself a wan smile. “I assure you that his interest is totally separate from what occurred tonight. On the voyage from France he and Justin apparently developed a cordial relationship, as one might expect of two bright and enthusiastic young men with common interests. They spent a great deal of the crossing time discussing the Craft. Mere discussion soon turned to instruction, with the result that he believes Justin more than ready to be raised Master. Understandably, he would like to be present when this occurs.”

  Which was true, as far as it went, though Andrew had omitted to mention that the prince also was following the lead of Saint-Germain’s instruction.

  “I see,” Ramsay said. “Will the prince raise him?”

  “No, he leaves that happy duty to me, since Justin belongs to my Lodge; he is content simply to be present and to assist.”

  “Why include me?” Ramsay asked. “I should have thought I am in disgrace for having precipitated tonight’s meeting.”

  “You acquitted yourself well, in the final analysis,” Andrew said flatly. “We seem to have minimized the potential damage caused by your premature actions. Besides that, you are still a Past Master, and a brother in the Craft, and one of the most influential members of the Bostonian Party. Your witness of Justin’s perfection in the Craft can also be seen as an acknowledgment that he has come of age within the Jacobite movement. The prince was most impressed with the way Justin discharged his commission to come fetch him.”

  Ramsay nodded, apparently satisfied. “I shall be honored, then. Have you any personal recommendation regarding whom I should bring along?”

  “Perhaps the Irishman Colonel O’Driscoll, and another of your choosing. I have tried to select only Past Masters. The time may come when it will be important that Justin’s standing in the Craft has been witnessed by someone with international standing. For the same reason I have invited Dr. Franklin to assist.”

  “Very well. I shall make the arrangements. What time should we arrive?”

  Chapter Nine

  The convocation had been called for eight o’clock the following evening. It was dark by five, a cold, dry night, and the children had been sent to stay overnight with a neighbor. Arabella retreated upstairs with a book recommended by the prince, for a woman’s presence at any ordinary Lodge would not be permitted—even though her training in Saint-Germain’s inner order made her more than the equal of most of the men who would be participating.

  By a quarter to the hour, half a dozen very senior Freemasons had congregated in the Wallace library, the outside arrivals carrying satchels and cases. A fire crackled on the hearth to keep the winter cold at bay, and fragrant bayberry candles burned on the mantel and in twin mirrored sconces opposite the windows, whose heavy drapes were drawn.

  The redoubtable Dr. Franklin had been among the first to arrive, joining Andrew, Simon, and the prince to warm himself before the fire and offer his felicitations to a somewhat self-conscious Justin. Following shortly came Ramsay, an artillery officer named Murray, and Colonel O’Driscoll, who hailed from the Grand Lodge of Ireland, chartering body for most of the military Lodges operating in the colonies, both British and patriot. To all of the newcomers, the prince was introduced only as Brother Rohan, though the Bostonians knew precisely who he really was.

  Just on eight came the final arrival necessary to constitute a Lodge “just and perfect”: the Commander in Chief himself, wholly unexpected by all but Simon and Andrew, but most cordially received, quietly dignified in the blue and buff of his Continental uniform and the blue riband of command. An aide accompanied him as far as the door, obtained permission to put their horses in the Wallace barn, then went off to a nearby tavern for supper.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the General said to the room at large, as Simon ushered him into the library, where the accoutrements of Lodge were being set out. “Major Wallace informed me that this was to be a special evening for young Carmichael. I approve of my young officers being active in the Craft. Congratulations in advance, Brother Carmichael.” He shook Justin’s hand firmly. “I am honored to be present.”

  “Thank you for coming, sir,” Justin managed to reply. “It is I who am honored.”

  A somewhat flustered Justin retreated soon after to a quiet spot near the door, unable to believe his good fortune in having a Master Mason of Washington’s stature present, in addition to the venerable Franklin and a prince. He told himself that if he could put aside his awe in Saint-Germain’s presence, he ought to be able to do it with Washington in the room; but the two were of a similar cut, at least in the wielding of authority. Though he knew the General’s reputation as an active and conscientious Freemason, Justin had never attended a Lodge with him before.

  Washington’s presence at this particular Lodge raised additional questions, especially in light of the very odd dream he had confided to Simon before Justin had sailed for Europe. Justin found himself wondering whether the dream perhaps had betokened some kind of esoteric
awakening in the General, to be somehow harnessed and directed by his participation in the night’s ritual. Since returning, there had been no time to question Simon much about further developments in that area, or to learn what Saint-Germain had said—and the Master himself had deftly avoided mentioning Washington, at least to Justin. The possible implications were most sobering.

  Of course, Simon might have invited the General strictly in his capacity as an unimpeachable witness—or perhaps Washington himself had asked to attend, impressed with the intelligence Justin had given him on the Hessian mercenaries. And he had said that he approved of his young officers’ participation in the Craft, which Justin knew was true.

  Which brought him back to tonight’s ritual. It was not the outward form of the rite that concerned him—somewhat predictable, if one had paid attention to one’s earlier initiations and understood the symbolism. Nor need a participant in the Craft expect to experience anything beyond the externals of any given ritual; the Craft worked on many levels, not all of them apparent until one was ready to progress from one to the next.

  The prince had offered an example of multiple levels during one of their long discussions in mid-Atlantic. If one likened Freemasonry to a religious hierarchy—which he had hastened to declare that it was not—then the raising of a candidate from Fellow Craft to Master might almost be viewed as entry into a kind of priesthood. Beyond the rank of Master Mason, a man might attain no higher Masonic achievement until he one day served as Installed Master of some regular Lodge—as every other man in the room had done, Justin suddenly realized, with the possible exception of Washington. Returning to the religious analogy, an Installed Master might almost be considered a kind of Masonic bishop, in his ability to pass on the powers of his office and to initiate, pass, and raise new Freemasons.

  Justin smiled faintly at the notion of that many “bishops” in one place, when there was not even one conventional bishop of any faith in all the colonies. Simultaneously, he realized that when peace eventually permitted a return to normal life—and provided he survived the coming conflict—he, too, would be called upon to take his turn as Installed Master, perhaps in this very Lodge.