Dreams of Glory by Thomas Fleming

the road for the better part of twenty hours.”
    Washington walked to the door of the office and called out, “Colonel Hamilton, would you ask Billy to bring some hot grog for Major Stallworth?”
    In a few minutes, Billy Lee, the slave that everyone in the army called Washington’s black shadow, appeared with a mug of steaming rum and water. Stallworth drank it greedily, leaned back in his chair for a moment, and closed his eyes. For another half-hour his tired brain could function. “Now let’s get down to business,” he said. “I want to hear exactly what happened.”

    Washington took a sheaf of papers from a drawer and studied them for a moment. “Caesar Muzzey was killed about two hundred yards from this front door. He spent the earlier part of the night at Red Peggy’s, on the Vealtown Road, and left a message from Three-fifteen in the usual place there.”
    â€œWhat was the message?”
    â€œOf little consequence, so far as I can see. A rumor that there’s an expedition planned to the north for which they’ve imported winter clothing from Canada.”
    Stallworth clicked his teeth. “We’ll soon hear they’ve imported skates to go up the Hudson on the ice.”
    â€œMuzzey left Red Peggy’s about ten-thirty P.M. We know nothing of where he went or to whom he spoke between that time and twelve-thirty, when he was discovered with a bayonet in his chest.”
    â€œWas he dead?”
    â€œNo, he was able to say one or two words. They seemed to refer to a code about which we know nothing: forty twenty-six.”
    â€œTwenty-six,” Stallworth said, all but leaping from his chair.
    â€œThe same thing occurred to me. Caesar was on his way to collect the hundred guineas we promised him for Twenty-six’s identity. But I’m no longer sure it’s that simple.”
    â€œExcuse me for interrupting you. Please finish the story.”
    â€œBy the time they got Muzzey into the duty hut he was dead.”
    â€œWho was the officer of the day?”
    â€œOne of our most dependable men, Lieutenant Conway of the Delaware line. He’s been in the service for three years. Distinguished himself at the Brandywine.”
    â€œAnd the men he commanded?”
    â€œVeterans, every one of them. No reason to doubt their loyalty.”
    â€œNevertheless, I think we should learn all we can about
them. As well as about Conway. I presume you made a thorough search of Caesar’s body.”
    Washington nodded. “We opened the lining of every piece of clothing he wore. We found nothing but the ten guineas we paid him for the message from Three-fifteen.”
    â€œSo we’re left, for the time being, with the two people who found him, Congressman Stapleton and my fellow Yale graduate, the Reverend Caleb Chandler.”
    Washington nodded. “What have you found out about Chandler?”
    â€œHis family seems sound. Two older brothers who served in one of the Connecticut militia regiments that pretended to fight for us in New York in ’76.”
    â€œThe Kips Bay sprinters?” Washington said, with a rueful smile. He could relax with Stallworth, who had long since outgrown his New England chauvinism. Most of it had vanished on that fall day in 1776 when he watched four thousand Connecticut militiamen stampede up the east side of Manhattan Island at the first glimpse of the British light infantry.
    â€œThe Chandlers are old New England stock. The father is an elder of the Lebanon church. The mother is related to Colonel Meigs of the Sixth Connecticut. But our friend Caleb was sponsored at Yale by the late Reverend Joel Lockwood.’
    â€œThat’s not in his favor.”
    â€œAgreed. But I could find no one who recalled Chandler making disloyal remarks at Yale. He has a tendency to extreme opinions. In his last year he became a violent foe of slavery. But that’s not entirely surprising. The new