The Course of Human Events: An Historical Novel

By James Gulisano

At the height of the American Revolutionary War two men were destined to cross paths on a journey to infamy. Heroic and misunderstood General Benedict Arnold and poetic and well-liked Major John Andr had two things in common ambition and Peggy Shippen, the woman who would become Arnold's wife. When Arnold becomes dissatisfied with his treatment at the hands of his fellow countrymen, he turns to his wife's one-time suitor to design a dark conspiracy.

Meanwhile, the Townsend household, patriots all (son Robert is an active spy for George Washington in New York), becomes unwilling hosts to British Queens Rangers. When young Sally Townsend becomes romantically involved with Colonel John Graves Simcoe, a window opens into the secret world of Simcoe and his trusted friend Andr. As the plot between Arnold and Andr develops, its greatest weakness emerges as the love of one of its strongest advocates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 16, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469724201

James Gulisano

James Gulisano is the author of The Course of Human Events and a writer for a Fortune 500 company. He lives in Morristown, New Jersey with his wife and children.

Book preview

New York City

September 21, 1776

The city still burned.

When the fires erupted the previous night in British-occupied New York City, the whole of Manhattan was thrown into a panic. Small riots broke out throughout the unstable city and the search was on for the arson, believed to be a rebel. Search parties, both military and Tory, swarmed the streets, hunting for the culprit. This was not a good day for the young American patriot Nathan Hale to be stranded behind enemy lines. Not a good day at all.

It was mid-afternoon and Hale stood peering out over the water at Flushing Bay, Long Island. The long boat chartered to spirit him to safety was late. Hale pulled at his collar and paced quickly back and forth, as if his own frenetic activity would cause the boat to hasten its arrival. His first mission as an undercover agent for General Washington had been a colossal failure. Just a few weeks prior, Captain Hale discarded his uniform and donned civilian clothes before wandering into western Long Island—held firmly by the British. At that time, the patriots still clung to New York, and Washington desperately sought information on the British attack he knew would come.

As a last resort, Washington asked for volunteers among his most capable officers. Hale stepped forward and said, I’ll do it sir.

You’ve served honorably thus far, Captain Hale, said Washington. But always in the company of your comrades. This perilous duty, you must undertake alone.

I understand sir, said Hale, a small vein showing itself on his forehead. I shall pretend to be a schoolmaster seeking occupation, he said with a weak smile. This was no far stretch for Yale-schooled Hale. Indeed, before accepting his commission in the army, he’d been gainfully employed as master of the Union school in New London, Connecticut. It was at New London that he corresponded with his Yale alumnus and ardent patriot, Benjamin Tallmadge, also a major under Washington’s command. It was Tallmadge who’d first lit the spark of patriotism under Hale.

A cold wind struck Hale in the face—it felt like a thousand tiny pins. He mumbled, Where are you? But the boat was still nowhere in sight. He decided to walk up the shoreline a bit, in the hopes of catching sight of the vessel from another vantage point. As he did, he recalled the passion of Tallmadge’s letter from a year before. In it, Tallmadge first complimented Hale on his teaching position, but then wrote:

Was I in your condition…I think the more extensive service would be my choice. Our holy religion, the honor of our God, a glorious country and a happy constitution is what we have to defend. The next day, Hale accepted a commission as first lieutenant in the 7th Connecticut Regiment.

Thus far, his military career had been marked by a spotless performance and a noticeable lack of active engagement. While bullets certainly flew during the early years of the war, Hale scarcely heard them. His primary duty was more or less a housekeeping assignment. He spent hour upon hour worrying over the fortifications at Bayard’s Mount in New York City. In August of 1776, Hale’s unit completely missed the Battle of Long Island, though it took place just miles from his position. Hale and his comrades were ordered to hold their ground—a location that was simply never challenged by the British, who were busy sweeping the Americans out of Long Island.

Finally, in early September of 1776, it seemed as if Hale would actually see some action when he was handpicked by General Washington to command a company of The New England Rangers—a commando-type unit. Now a captain, Hale was popular and had to turn men away who sought to serve under his command. But the promise of glory on the battlefield came to an abrupt halt when Washington called a group of his officers into his New Jersey headquarters to enlist a volunteer for espionage.

Hale knew he was taking a chance, but more importantly, he saw this as an opportunity to make a difference in a war that so far had proved frustrating at the best times and futile at the worst. He had been glad of his decision.

Now on September 21, stranded by the bay with nothing to show for his efforts, Hale was disappointed. The British overran New York before he had a chance to collect any worthwhile information; indeed, he’d spend the last few days trying to scout out British numbers and positions—but a lack of experience and bad luck helped to provide Hale with barely a drop of information. Still, he set down notes on what little he’d seen. He knew that when he returned to Washington, he would do so a failure.

He was considering how he’d break the news to General Washington when from behind him a strong hand clasped his shoulder. A flintlock cocked and Hale flinched.

A raspy voice said, What are you doing there?

I…I’m just enjoying the night air, said Hale as he turned.

Let’s just make sure you stay right where you are, said the gigantic British soldier, an aging Queen’s Ranger with his musket leveled and bayonet set. The steel of the blade caught the moonlight and glimmered for a moment. Cold night for enjoyment, wouldn’t you say, Hopkins?

It is at that, said Hopkins, a young soldier who stepped out from behind his counterpart. Looks to me as if you’re looking for something—a boat perhaps? Suspicious. Maybe we should have a closer look. What do you think, East? He approached Hale.

East said, Seems prudent. Have at him.

Hale held up his hands and said, Gentlemen, I am unarmed. Surely I pose no threat to you, or anyone else. I’m just a schoolteacher seeking work—that is all.

Hopkins said, If that’s the case, you need not worry. However, the sting of smoke from the blaze last night is still fresh in my lungs and we’ve yet to locate the arson. I think it wise to see what you’re about.

Hale stood stoically as Hopkins rifled through his coat. As Hopkins ran his hand across the rough wool material, he felt something crinkle within its lining—paper. East lit a torch and the two soldiers further scrutinized the coat under its warm light.

Looks like there’s something sewn inside, said East. They ripped open Hale’s coat and extracted some papers. There was little of actual value on the parchment—just enough information about British troop placement to make the nature of Hale’s business obvious.

So there is. Careful now, keep the schoolteacher’s chest at the end of that bayonet, East, said Hopkins. We wouldn’t want him getting away. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a spy here. He looked at Hale and said, Is that what we’ve got here, schoolteacher?

Hale said nothing, and mustered enough fortitude so that he could fend off the sickening feeling in his stomach. This was the worst situation the fledgling spy could possibly find himself—and he knew his fate.

Hale was given no trial—the circumstances of his arrest making his guilt self-evident. He was clearly a spy. The next day Hale found himself stepping up to a hastily constructed gallows next to the popular Dove Tavern. A small group gathered to witness the slender, handsome soldier stand unwaveringly before the waiting noose and say in a strong voice, I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country. The trap door was released and Hale’s body dropped, jerked and swung grotesquely.

That afternoon, under a flag of truce, word was sent to Washington that the brave young Yale graduate had died.

Washington summoned Major Tallmadge to relay the sad news personally. Tallmadge, through tears, said, It was I who asked him to join the fight—it is my responsibility.

Tallmadge, you could not have prevented Hale’s death, said Washington. His was an important mission and I fear we shall have need to send more men into harm’s way in a similar fashion. I want you to set up a network of operatives who can assist us in New York.

I will do so happily and put into place safeguards to protect them. I will do this in Nathan’s memory, said Tallmadge.

Good, said Washington. Good.

Oyster Bay, Long Island

Fall 1776

Samuel Townsend opened the front door and the golden morning sun washed into the hallway. The cautious sounds of a new day greeted Samuel as he stepped outside; sounds from wild turkeys calling out in the nearby woods, to men laboring and laughing as they poked fun at one another down at the dock. Samuel’s magnificent apple orchard sprawled before him, climbing a wide hill and shrinking into the distance. This was the Oyster Bay he’d grown to love throughout the years.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Sarah and the children were inside occupied with various chores and recreation. He turned and looked up at the second window from the left. There she was, true to habit. His 14-year-old daughter Sally sat in a rocking chair by the window. They waved at one another, and Samuel turned and began walking. This was a routine father and daughter had practiced many times before. Sally watched him disappear into the orchard.

Samuel had many things to mull over. He’d worked his entire life to build his business and he was now a wealthy man. His children would one day inherit the Homestead, as he and Sarah had named their home and its lush surrounding acres. The house was the largest in Oyster Bay and from the back of the house one could clearly see the bay—barely a stone’s throw away. On the surface, his was a pleasant and fulfilling existence. However, it seemed to Samuel that just when life seemed to work itself out and prospects were optimistic, something was bound to create unrest.

Twisting a mature apple from a branch and polishing it to a glisten against his vest, Samuel recalled the events of the last months. A year earlier, the seeds of unrest had been blooming. The taxes that King George imposed on the Colonies were dipping heavily into many of his business interests. To Samuel, many of the taxes seemed arbitrary—almost mean-spirited, as if the English Crown could not be satisfied that its subjects flourished in the New World.

It seemed unlikely that the matter could be settled through diplomatic means. Benjamin Franklin had spent much time in London attempting to negotiate and he’d returned unsuccessful. If Franklin—one of the most ingenious and respected men in the world—could not negotiate a peaceful compromise, who could? Tempers flared, especially in the north, where John Adams and his cousin Sam were busy whipping up support for a conflict. And then word came that the Massachusetts militia had engaged British forces at Lexington and Concord.

This fell on the heels of a vote taken by the Oyster Bay annual Town Meeting. As the Town Clerk, it was Samuel’s duty to preside over the meeting. There were other agenda items for the event, but the one that every person who attended was concerned with was whether Oyster Bay would elect a delegate to send to the New York Provincial Congress. This weighed heavily on the people of Oyster Bay, because the Provincial Congress, it was felt, would likely decide that New York would push for independence. And independence meant war.

Samuel cast one of the few votes in favor of sending a delegate. So in the minority was he that for every vote in favor of sending a delegate, there were five who voted against sending someone. Oyster Bay was still very tied to its English roots. Fear may have also been a factor; with Oyster Bay so accessible by water, the British would readily trample it if they had the inclination to do so. At the meeting, Samuel took the floor.

Gentlemen, please reconsider this vote. It need not be a vote so closely tied to the issue of independence. Rather, he said, Oyster Bay simply should have representation.

William Clark, a wealthy pig farmer, said, Samuel, cast away your naïve notions. It matters little how our delegate votes. The British will not be so picky as to count who held what opinion about independence. Rather, they will note that Oyster Bay humored the notion in the first place by sending a delegate.

Why build fences with the English? I have no quarrels with them, said Frederick Giles, whose brother (it was well known) served in the British cavalry and was stationed in Manhattan.

Samuel said, If nothing else, by declaring independence, neighbors, we are simply showing the Crown that our concerns over the recent taxes are legitimate. It need not lead to war.

And if it does, Samuel. Whose body shall be left dangling from the gallows? Not mine, I daresay, said Clark.

Nor mine, called another voice from the back of the room. I’d rather pay the money and remain silent—and alive. More grumbling followed. One or two other supporters of independence meekly spoke up, but were so far outnumbered that they quickly quieted down. This group was not willing to listen to a sensible argument.

The meeting concluded with anger lingering in the air—the room grew quiet. Samuel was left standing with a handful of supporters.

Gentlemen…we are now at odds with our neighbors. With or without a delegate.

The assembled men nodded their heads and mumbled in reluctant agreement.

I see but little choice. Gather others who favor our cause—as many as you can. Let us meet at the old church two days from now, at midnight. Take care to draw no attention.

One old farmer squinting rheumy eyes said, There may be trouble.

Samuel said, I cannot promise there will be no repercussions.

Good, said the feisty old man. If there’s no risk attached to a thing, then it ain’t worth doing!

Then let us disperse. I hope to see you all in two days.

And two days later, they met. In total, forty-two men huddled around a single candle. Whispers sounded like bellows in the drafty old church.

Speaking from behind the candle, its soft orange light bouncing off his face, Samuel said, We must find a man who is not bound by family or trade to Oyster Bay to send to the Congress as our delegate. We have already cast our votes of dissention. Our neighbors view us as, at the very least, sympathizers to the enemy. One thing is certain. We will likely lose much of our hard-earned profits to the ridiculous taxes placed on our trade if we remain silent.

You need not look far for your delegate, Samuel, said Zebulon Williams. Williams was a young man, but hard work and personal suffering had aged him. He had a crown of grey hair that confronted markedly with his coal black, bushy eyebrows. Williams was a widower, with no children of his own. He was well respected in the community as a corset-maker and cobbler.

Samuel pushed the candle in the direction of William’s voice. The tiny flickering light illuminated the man’s calm, yet determined, face.

You will be ruined, warned Samuel.

"In Oyster Bay, perhaps. But the Colonies are a vast land. I shall find a living. If this vote leans towards Colonial independence as I suspect it will, there will be plenty of soldiers’ shoes that need mending, and women will still desire to project the illusion that what isn’t is, and what is…isn’t."

This was met with a round of muffled laughter among the 42 men standing in the hall. Samuel picked up a pen and signed his name to the Provincial Congress petition to send a delegate from Oyster Bay. Each of his neighbors followed suit.

Samuel said, We must now be more than neighbors, gentlemen. We must now be each other’s eyes and ears. The Lord only knows what ordeals lay before us.

One by one the men thanked Williams and as silently as they arrived at the church, they departed.

A few nights after Zebulon Williams left for the New York Assembly meeting, several British dragoons rode up to the Townsend household. Samuel’s daughters Sally and Audrey were preparing for bed when the soldiers knocked on the door. Through their window Sally and her younger sister Audrey could just make out the group of men standing in front of the house.

The tenor voice of a young man said, The rebel had better come along peacefully. Make sure your muskets are loaded, men.

Sally heard her father and mother stirring from bed across the hall. Sally hurried to the hallway and started to say something, but Samuel silenced her with a raised hand. He tucked his nightshirt into his gaiters and went downstairs. Seventeen-year-old David was downstairs already, but Sally knew that her brother would not presume to answer the door at that late hour before his father arrived.

Downstairs, Samuel gestured to David to return to his room. The boy did so, reluctantly—his shoulders stooped as he dragged himself away. Samuel took a deep breath, pulled his hair back and away from his face and opened the door. Four men swelled into the front hallway. Their commander, a young officer named Captain Sharp said, Are you Sam Townsend, owner of this home?

"I am Samuel Townsend, what do you mean by—?"

The young officer stood with his hands clasped behind his back and said, I am Captain Sharp of His Majesty’s army. I am here to arrest you.

Arrest me? On what grounds?

You are loyal to the rebel faction and a traitor to the King.

What makes you say that, Captain? I’ve done no wrong. I’ve remained neutral. I’ve not taken up arms against your army.

Captain Sharp slapped Samuel across the face with his riding glove. That is the problem, Mr. Townsend. When you refer to my army as your" army, one would conclude that you do not believe it to be your own. You are a subject of the King. The King’s army is your army."

I only meant— began Samuel.

"It matters little what you meant, Mr., Townsend.