'Obviously he hadn't gotten that data yet,' Wolfe said.
'But he had the Ginsburg book, we know that,' protested Benjamin.
'Then 'Bainbridge Data' must refer to some other information about the good Reverend,' Wolfe said, sounding frustrated.
Benjamin thought for a moment. 'Like his diary,' he said.
'Diary?' asked Wolfe impatiently.
'Something Dr. Stoltz told me about at dinner. It's an amazing story. I can't understand why my father never mentioned it, as it surely would have been referenced-'
'Benjamin!'
'Yes, sorry. Anyway, according to Stoltz they discovered something he called the Bainbridge diary here, on the grounds of the Foundation, back in the 1920s.'
'And Stoltz told Fletcher about this discovery?'
'Yes. He said Jeremy came to speak to him about the mural in the foyer, but that he was also very interested in anything about Bainbridge, including this diary.'
'Then why is the file empty?'
'Because the diary isn't here. Not anymore. It was donated to the Morris Estate.'
'The Seaton Morris Estate?' Wolfe asked.
'Stoltz didn't say,' Benjamin said. Then he thought of something. 'But there's a stamp in the Ginsburg book that identifies it as part of the Seymour Morris library.'
'Do tell.' Wolfe turned back to the screen. 'Well, let's see if this other file is more revealing.'
He clicked on the ' Stzenariy 55 ' file. And when it opened, it did indeed contain something more. But only three words.
Borba s tenyu.
CHAPTER 16
Once again, Benjamin found himself driving through the wooded hills of Massachusetts. The good weather had given way to a typically overcast New England fall day and, though it wasn't raining yet, the threat of a downpour lurked in the low clouds overhead.
Benjamin and Wolfe were headed for the Morris Estate, not far from the Foundation's campus, for a hastily arranged interview with one Seaton Morris: son of the late tycoon, philanthropist, and bibliophile Seymour Morris, now guardian of the original Bainbridge diary-and wealthy benefactor of the American Heritage Foundation.
'On a Sunday?'
'Arthur implied the Morris family owes the Foundation a favor, or many favors,' Wolfe said. 'But he suggested we arrive no later than ten o'clock. Apparently they're hosting a charity art auction this afternoon, and they want our little tour group out before then.'
So, still groggy from too little sleep and too much wine, brandy, and scotch, Benjamin had followed Wolfe outside. He'd noticed Wolfe was carrying his briefcase, and when he'd asked, Wolfe had told him yes, Fletcher's laptop was inside, as he no longer felt Fletcher's room was a 'secure site.' But he hadn't explained why.
Soon the narrow road was again bordered by rows of maple and sycamore trees, with the occasional paved driveways leading up to stately, isolated mansions. As they drove, they discussed the files they'd discovered the night before on Fletcher's computer.
'I recognized most of the ones about nuclear strategy,' Wolfe said, 'but not the one titled Stzenariy 55. Which I translate as 'Script 55.' Which means nothing to me.'
'And that Russian phrase that was inside?'
'Borba s tenyu?' said Wolfe. 'Not a clue.'
'Well, I was paying attention to those other files, from the Colonial period,' Benjamin said. 'Did you notice the one called 'Newburgh Data'?'
'No. Why, does it mean something to you?'
'Well…' Benjamin hesitated. 'I believe it refers to the Newburgh Conspiracy.'
'Who was Newburgh?' asked Wolfe.
'It's not a who, it's a where. Newburgh, New York, where the Continental Army was camped at the end of the Revolutionary War. And actually it's not really an accurate name, as their camp was closer to New Windsor, and-'
'For godssake, Benjamin,' Wolfe interrupted him, 'stop being the historian for a moment and just tell me why this Newburgh-whatever is important.'
'Well,' said Benjamin, 'it might be important because it was almost the only military coup ever attempted against the United States government.'
' Coup?' replied Wolfe in surprise. 'You must be joking. There's never been a coup against the U.S. government.'
'I said almost, ' corrected Benjamin.
And then Benjamin told Wolfe the story of the infamous-and for many years utterly secret-Newburgh Conspiracy of 1783, when the United States of America almost fell before it ever existed.
General George Washington, Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, was miserable.
He was cold. The winter of 1783 was proving to be as bad if not worse than that of 1782. The small hut that served as his headquarters in the camp at New Windsor was little more than a log cabin, and the bitter New York wind entered through a hundred chinks. And this was a windy March, indeed.
He was in pain. The latest set of wooden false teeth fit poorly, stretching his jaw and forcing him to at all times grit his teeth, as though in the extremity of rigor mortis.
He was downcast. Before him on the small rickety wooden table lay two letters: the first was from Superintendent of Finance Robert Morris in the Continental Congress, expressing in polite if adamant terms that there simply was no money in the treasury to pay his freezing, hungry soldiers; just as there'd been no money last month, or the month before.
The other letter was from Thomas Jefferson, appointed but not yet seated in the Congress, and therefore, to Washington's mind, a reliable observer of events there. He complained that the Treaty of Paris with the British had still not been ratified by the squabbling Congress, and that the young Articles of Confederation government was proving just as fragile and powerless as they'd feared it would be: unable to agree on even raising taxes to pay its army, and locked in bitter argument over a fundamental issue of their new government that Washington believed was the heart of everything they'd fought and suffered for: the principle of 'one man, one vote.' Jefferson wrote that the aristocratic members, like Hamilton, were fiercely and apparently unmovably against surrendering any of their power to what they called 'rule by ignorant mob.' It more than made the general angry; it was disheartening in the extreme to think that some of the rebels and patriots who had been most passionate about independence and democracy in the beginning of the fight did not, when the crucial time came, actually believe in either.
Thus, on the verge of victory and after seven years of bitter struggle for independence, all his dreams for the new Republic seemed to be unraveling.
At that moment there came a knock at the door.
'Yes,' he said, not raising his head.
The tall, lanky figure of his longtime aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Colonel Tench Tilghman, entered the room. He strode to the table and threw a parchment down in front of Washington.
'Have you seen this?' he said, barely able to contain his anger.
Washington picked up the parchment. It was a letter, addressed to 'All good and patriotic soldiers of the Continental Army, fellow sufferers at the hands of an indifferent and feckless Congress.' He read the opening paragraph. Have you not more than once suggested your wishes, and made known your wants to Congress, wants and wishes, which gratitude and policy should have anticipated rather than evaded? And, have you not lately, in
