Dreams of Glory Read Online Free Page B

this code,” Beckford said to the burly man who sat opposite him, wearing the green coat and
buff breeches of the Queen’s Rangers, one of the better provincial regiments. With a flourish Beckford translated the last line and scanned the message.

    We now have ten men in Washington’s Life Guard.
    Within the week five of them will begin standing the same watch. This should lend itself to making the attempt on his life which we’ve discussed in previous letters. With him eliminated, the success of the mutiny is certain. As long as he remains alive, the possibility of his personal intervention threatens our plan. In spite of all our efforts, the majority of troops refuse to blame him for their daily misery.

    â€œFrom one of my best men in Morristown,” Beckford said. “He’s built up a remarkable network inside the American army.”
    Skepticism was unmistakable on the burly man’s face. Major Beckford gritted his teeth. He frequently tried to convince regimental commanders like his guest, Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe, of the importance of intelligence. Most of them remained indifferent or hostile.
    On the whole, the message was not good news. Beckford thrust it into the top drawer of his desk and summoned from the hallway the two men who had brought it across the Hudson River. The older of the two was short and squat, with a weathered, crafty face. His companion was enormous, with the wide eyes and soft mouth of a trusting child. He wore his silken blond hair loose to his shoulders, completing the impression of overgrown innocence.
    Beckford dropped ten guineas into the older man’s grimy hand. “Here’s your night’s pay,” he said. Turning to Simcoe, he casually added, “These two fellows are my jacks-of-all-trades. They carry messages, escort escaped prisoners through our safe houses in New Jersey, and, when the necessity arises,
they’ll burn down a rebel militia officer’s house or cut a double agent’s throat without a qualm. This one”—Beckford gestured to the squat man, who wore a tattered red British army coat—“Nelson, was a light-infantry sergeant in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers in the last French war. He retired to a farm in Bergen County. Tell the colonel what the rebels did to you in ’75.”
    â€œBroke down my door and gave me a coat of red-hot tar,” Nelson said. “Burned my house and barn and left me for dead. Which would have been the case if it weren’t for this lad.” He threw his arm around the young giant.
    â€œBogert is his name,” Beckford said. “He carried Nelson on his back some forty miles to New York, where one of our doctors treated him.”
    â€œClaimed I was fairly cooked by that tar,” Nelson said. “Roasted like a pig. Laid me in a tub of grease and kept me there for a whole month. Called it a bloody experiment. I tell you I was glad to get out of that damned tub.”
    In the lamplight, the skin on Nelson’s neck still looked like underdone beef. It made Major Beckford anxious to get rid of him. He had ordered a jugged hare and some oysters sent up from Sam Francis’s tavern for a late-night supper. Nelson was ruining his appetite.
    â€œYou are to proceed at once to Mount Hope, where you will find four escaped officers in a safe house. Escort them across New Jersey to the usual place, by the usual route. If you’re intercepted, one man must be saved even if it entails the sacrifice of the rest. He’s a major of the artillery named Whittlesey. With the officers, you’ll find a man named Grey, a former captain in the American army. We have proof that he’s a double agent. Kill him.”
    Nelson braced and saluted with some of his old Fusiliers style. “Yes, Major,” he said, with a hint of mockery in his voice. “Glad to have met you, Colonel, though I didn’t get your