Two Crowns for America

  When Washington returned after a three-week absence, he had also secured official permission for Lafayette to return to France. In addition, Congress had voted to award the young marquis a sword of honor encrusted with diamonds, to be ordered by Franklin in Paris; and Henry Laurens, the new President of Congress, wrote a glowing recommendation to King Louis XVI of France, praising Lafayette’s services.

  “Great, faithful, and beloved Friend and Ally,” Laurens wrote. “The Marquis de Lafayette, having obtained our leave to return to his native country, we could not suffer him to depart without testifying our deep sense of his zeal, courage, and attachment.

  “We have advanced him to the rank of major general in our armies, which, as well by his prudent as spirited conduct, he hath manifestly merited.

  “We recommend this young nobleman to Your Majesty’s notice as one whom we know to be wise in council, gallant in the field, and patient under the hardships of war. His devotion to his sovereign hath led him in all things to demean himself as an American, acquiring thereby the confidence of these United States, Your Majesty’s good and faithful friends and allies, and the affection of their citizens.”

  Washington was equally complimentary in the letter he sent with Lafayette to Franklin, essentially asking the new American minister to defuse any lingering royal anger over Lafayette’s earlier disobedience in leaving France without permission.

  “The generous motives which first induced Lafayette to cross the Atlantic; the tribute which he paid to gallantry at the Brandywine; his success in Jersey before he recovered from his wounds, in an affair where he commanded militia against British grenadiers; the brilliant retreat by which he eluded a combined maneuver of the whole British force in the last campaign; his services in the enterprise against Rhode Island are such proof of his zeal, military ardor, and talents as to have endeared him to America, and must greatly recommend him to his prince. Coming with so many titles to claim your esteem, it were needless for any other purpose than to indulge my own feeling to add that I have a very particular friendship for him.”

  Lafayette would sail from Boston aboard the thirty-six-gun frigate Alliance, which had been selected by the government to convey him back to France. In addition to his various commendations, Lafayette carried letters of a more private nature from Simon, Andrew, and the prince, to be forwarded to Saint-Germain. But before he set sail, on January 11, 1779, he sent a final, short letter to the Commander in Chief he was leaving behind.

  “The sails are just going to be hoisted, my dear General, and I have but the time of taking my last leave from you.… Farewell, my dear General, I hope your French friend will ever be dear to you, I hope I shall see you again and tell you myself with what emotion I now leave the coast you inhabit, and with what affection and respect I’ll forever be, my dear General, your respectful and sincere friend.”

  The winter dragged on much like the last, if somewhat milder than Valley Forge had been. Again the gallant officers’ wives did their best to relieve the tedium of the long inactivity with modest social gatherings, undeterred by continuing shortages of food.

  As she had the previous winter, Arabella joined Simon for a few months, Andrew this time bringing the children for a two-week visit at the end. Charles had grown into a strapping lad of twelve, begging to be taken on as a drummer boy—which petition was refused by his father. Sarah was a self-assured nine-year-old, a miniature copy of her mother. Little James had become a sturdy boy of five, grave and courteous as he was introduced to the General one windy April morning.

  Before they all went back to Cambridge in early May, Andrew again convened a private Lodge to raise Arabella to Master Mason, though only Simon, Justin, the prince, and Ramsay were invited to assist. With that accomplished the prince traveled back with them to Boston, to begin shifting his energies to the financial arena, for he had several banking contacts disposed to assist the American cause.

  On the military front it was anticipated that the spring would see British offensives shifted to the Southern Department, with Clinton remaining stubbornly dug in in New York until the bitter end. Meanwhile, it seemed likely that the British would hold their present positions, at least for the foreseeable future, and restrict action to coastal raids in the north. Accordingly, Washington turned his immediate attention to decreasing the danger from Indians, putting General Sullivan in charge of that expedition.

  But in March, British troops began shifting northward from Georgia into South Carolina; and in May they moved to sack and destroy Norfolk and Portsmouth. By the end of May a strong British expedition from New York captured Stony Point, New York, where American defenses had been still under construction and ungarrisoned.

  The early summer became a war of nerves in the south, as the two forces watched one another. Aware that he must make some move, Washington conferred with his generals. Taking back Stony Point was not of particular strategic significance, so far as the defense of West Point was concerned, but its recovery would constitute a great boost to morale. To carry out the operation, Washington chose General Anthony Wayne, who expressed his confidence in Washington’s strategic ability in unequivocal terms: “General, I’ll storm hell if you will plan it!”

  The plan depended on the utmost secrecy, right up to the last minute. Half an hour before midnight, on July 15, 1778, Wayne made his move. The surprise was a brilliant success, throwing utter confusion into the British ranks, and the garrison soon surrendered. American losses were only 15 killed and 83 wounded. The British lost 63 killed, with 554 taken prisoner.

  Washington sent Simon to observe and report on the aftermath of Stony Point, accompanied by Justin. Since he had no further intention of establishing an American presence there, the fortifications were to be dismantled and destroyed, the captured guns and stores taken away to West Point. Almost as an afterthought, the General decided to send along Dr. Ramsay to evaluate the medical situation of the wounded.

  The day after they arrived, while Simon was riding over the battle site with General Wayne, Ramsay and Justin went with one of Wayne’s aides to inspect the field hospital facilities. Justin did his best to remain detached as he wandered through a crowded ward behind Ramsay and another surgeon, teeth set in sympathy for the suffering of the wounded and dying, most of whom lay on makeshift pallets on the floor, and who could expect only the most rudimentary of care. He was about to follow Ramsay into the next room when a groan for water drew his attention to a figure lying on a pallet in a dim corner. He was shocked to realize that he recognized the man.

  “Angus?” he murmured. “Angus Murray?”

  At the sound of his name Murray turned his head to squint in Justin’s direction, the pain-glazed eyes only slowly focusing as Justin moved in to crouch beside his pallet. He was one of the Bostonians who, with Ramsay, had made a premature offer of a Crown to Charles Edward Stuart. He had also been present at Justin’s raising to Master Mason. Bandages swathed bloody stumps at both elbows, and the flattened silhouette beneath the lightweight blanket told of a lower leg lost as well. Justin’s face drained of color as he realized the extent of the man’s injuries—surely beyond any hope of recovery.

  “Young Carmichael?” the man breathed. “Water, I beg ye—for the love o’ God!”

  Quickly Justin ran to the water barrel set in the center of the room and dipped with a wooden gourd. His urgency caught the attention of Ramsay, just pausing in the doorway from the room, who joined him as he slid an arm under Murray’s bandaged head and held the dripping gourd to his lips.

  “It’s Angus Murray,” Justin murmured, rationing the water to one sip at a time, to keep the man from choking. “How can he still be alive?”

  “Sheer stubbornness,” Ramsay muttered, crouching down beside Justin as his eyes assessed the man’s obvious injuries and a hand sought a pulse below the jaw. “Sweet Jesus, Angus, how have you come to this? It’s James Ramsay.”

  Murray managed another sip of water, swallowing ponderously, but it seemed to ease hi
m a little. Breathing out with a sigh, he turned his face away from the gourd to look at Ramsay.

  “Jamie,” he breathed. “I didnae dare to hope ye’d come. So much I should’ve told ye.… The gold … it wasnae just a drunken dream.…”

  Ramsay flicked a glance at Justin, then shifted his hand to clasp the dying man’s shoulder in comfort.

  “I know, Angus,” he murmured.

  “No, listen to what I’m saying,” Murray insisted, a bandaged stump lifting as if the phantom hand that once had graced it could tug at Ramsay’s lapel. “I’ve told ye before that my da told me where he buried it—forty thousand louis d’or meant fer Prince Charlie, but come too late.”

  “And still too late,” Ramsay replied. “Be easy, Angus, and let it go.”

  “No, ye dinnae understand.…” A feverish luster had begun to brighten Murray’s eyes, but his voice became more intense, if more labored.

  “Angus—”

  “No, listen! I still can serve my prince, e’en though I die far frae Scotland,” he gasped. “We tried before tae bring him here tae take up his cause in the New World, but we didnae offer him the gold. It might make the difference. An’ I can tell ye how to find it.…”

  “What’s he talking about?” Justin whispered.

  Shaking his head to fend off questions, Ramsay bent closer to their patient’s lips.

  “Tell me, Angus,” he said.

  “Six braw casks o’ Spanish oak, filled wi’ gold,” Murray replied, his voice growing weaker. “Forty thousand louis d’or. Archie Cameron buried ’em at Loch Arkaig—some at Caillich, near Murlaggan, an’ some at the foot o’ the loch. But some—”

  He paused to gasp for breath, his gaze going unfocused, but Ramsay raised him up with an arm under his shoulders and turned the face to his once more.

  “But some what, Angus?” he demanded. “Don’t stop now, old friend.”

  “Some o’ the gold did nae stay there,” Murray managed to whisper. “My da’s kinsman, Murray o’ Broughton, was charged wi’ looking after it, but too many knew about it. Broughton had my da shift about half the gold to a ship at Borrodale an’ take it across the sea.…”

  “What are you saying?” Ramsay demanded. “Stay with me, Angus. What do you mean, across the sea? Are you saying the gold is here, in America?”

  “Aye.…”

  “Dear God, how much?”

  “Near … twenty thousand.… Prince Charlie’s gold.… Waitin’ for the King to claim it.…”

  “Twenty thousand—where, Angus? Tell me where!”

  “Safe an’ waitin’,” Angus whispered. “Two braw casks now … all hidden where they’ll be safe.…”

  But his voice trailed off before he could be encouraged to be more specific, and though both Ramsay and Justin tried to rouse him, Lieutenant Angus Murray slipped into coma and expired later that afternoon without regaining consciousness. When, as friends of the deceased, they had recovered what few personal belongings had been with Murray, the two returned to the quarters assigned to them at General Wayne’s headquarters. Simon was writing up a preliminary report to Washington on the status of Stony Point but laid aside his pen as the two came into the room and Justin closed the door.

  “The two of you look like you’ve just come from a funeral,” he said.

  “No, that’s for tomorrow or the next day,” Justin said as Ramsay plopped down Murray’s knapsack onto the desk in front of Simon. “This was more in the nature of a deathwatch.”

  “And the deathwatch of someone known to us, by your expressions,” Simon said, glancing at Ramsay. “Who was it?”

  Ramsay sank into a chair. “Angus Murray,” he said. “I didn’t know he’d come to Stony Point. I think he’d been with an artillery company. Angus—” He heaved a heavy sigh. “One of the surgeons said there’d been a mortar explosion. He’d lost a leg at the knee and both arms above the elbows. He shouldn’t have held on as long as he did, and there’s no question but that death was a mercy, but I can’t help wishing he’d lasted a little longer.”

  At Simon’s startled expression Justin shifted restlessly in his chair.

  “Do you remember how, when he was in his cups, Angus used to talk about the Loch Arkaig treasure, and we were all convinced he was dotty?” Simon nodded. “Well, now I’m not so sure—for all the good it will do us.”

  Simon furrowed his brow. “He said his father helped bury it after Culloden. But that was more than thirty years ago.”

  “Yes, but apparently the story doesn’t stop there,” Ramsay replied. “Angus said that some of the gold was brought to America.”

  “What?”

  As Ramsay recounted that last, fragmented conversation with the dying man, Justin pulled Murray’s knapsack closer and began halfheartedly to examine its contents. The knapsack contained pitifully little to account for a man’s life; but nestled in a change of clean linen, amid the expected shaving paraphernalia and other toilet items, his fingers closed around something small and angular, wrapped in a handkerchief.

  What emerged as he unwrapped it was a silver snuffbox, once heavily engraved but now worn nearly smooth from years of use. Holding it to the light of one of the candles on Simon’s desk, Justin could just make out a name etched inside the lid.

  “ ‘Charles Stuart Murray,’ ” he read aloud as Ramsay looked at him sharply, his recitation complete. “Would that be Angus’s father?”

  “Let me see that.” Ramsay took the snuffbox and examined the engraving, then probed the snuff with a forefinger. With a muffled exclamation, he tipped the snuff onto the floor and peered inside, then blew into it sharply.

  “Now, this is a piece of luck,” he said.

  “Why luck?” Simon asked.

  “It’s proof that Murray’s father at least had contact with the gold.” Ramsay turned the open snuffbox toward them. Affixed to the bottom with four silver prongs was a shiny gold coin: a louis d’or.

  “Don’t you see?” Ramsay went on. “We all had relatives who were out in the Forty-Five, and we’ve all heard how the Loch Arkaig gold arrived too late for Culloden and was hidden against the time when it could be recovered and used to finance another attempt to put the prince back on the throne.”

  “But it wasn’t recovered, and there wasn’t another attempt,” Simon pointed out. “And unless I’m misremembering, Murray never said anything about some of the gold having been brought to the New World.”

  “No, but he always said that he was the last man alive to know where the gold was buried—which doesn’t preclude some of it being buried here. It could be true.”

  “Yes, and it may just have been wishful thinking at the bottom of too many tankards,” Simon replied. “You know what he was like when he’d taken drink. In any case, the point is moot, since you’ve just said that he died before he could give you any details.”

  “He did,” Ramsay agreed. “But with this he could be called back to tell us what we need to know.” As he held up the snuffbox, Simon’s face went very still.

  “Do you know what you’re proposing?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is preposterous,” Simon said, pushing back his chair in exasperation. “And it still doesn’t address the probability that Murray was lying, or at least fantasizing. If he’d known where the gold was buried—especially gold here, in the New World—don’t you think he would have gone after it by now?”

  “That had occurred to me,” Ramsay conceded. “But he’d sworn to his father to guard it, not to take it. And even if Angus didn’t actually know, or we can’t connect with him, his father certainly knew—and this was his snuffbox before it belonged to Angus. One couldn’t ask for a much better connection. I know we can find that gold.”

  “Not without a great deal more information, whose acquisition would be difficult, quite possibly injurious to Murray, if not to us, and certainly morally—”

  “It’s in a good cause,” Ramsay retorted. “We’re talking about twenty thousand louis d’or! With
that much gold in our possession, we could make Charles Edward Stuart an offer he’d find impossible to turn down.”

  “You know what happened the last time—”

  “We need him here, Simon! Washington functions well enough as a dux bellorum, but he isn’t a king. And don’t even suggest that the gold should go to him. It rightfully belongs to Charles Edward Stuart!”

  Simon said nothing in answer to that, stunned by the scope of Ramsay’s proposition, even if such a thing were possible. Justin stared at his elders in unabashed amazement, for if Ramsay’s suggestion had shocked him, Simon’s reaction—actually considering the idea—was equally astonishing.

  “Well, the gold does belong to Charles,” Justin ventured after a moment. “Maybe it would be sufficient inducement for him at least to come to the New World and see for himself the support he has. Haven’t we been working toward that day, when Charlie comes into his own again?”

  “That is not our decision to make,” Simon replied. “If the gold could be recovered, there are a number of places where it might be profitably employed. But we have all sworn oaths that give another the authority to direct our endeavors in such a determination. Are you suggesting that we set those oaths aside?”

  Justin hung his head, and Ramsay sullenly shook his, lowering his gaze to the silver still winking between his two hands.

  “Of course not,” Ramsay said. “I have no wish to incur Saint-Germain’s displeasure again. Suppose that, for the moment, we set aside the question of what would be done with the gold and concentrate instead on whether it could be recovered. I believe that it could, by the method I have suggested. But I cannot do it alone, and certainly not in opposition to you.”