Hamilton's group didn't necessarily want a real coup, just the threat of one, a 'crisis' that would allow them to establish martial law, get the money the army was owed, and establish a more powerful and restrictive central government, and not the general democracy of Washington, Jefferson, Franklin… well, the majority of the Founding Fathers. But true democracy was something Hamilton and a few others had been opposed to ever since the Revolution began.'
'And who besides this Gates was definitely involved in this almost coup?'
'That's always been a little vague, though one of the ringleaders was almost certainly Hamilton.'
'But there's no proof?'
'Well, not what you would call proof. You see, the group that supported Gates-a General Alexander McDougall, a Colonel Walter Stewart, and a Major John Brooks-had exchanged letters during the whole affair. Some of them came to light years later, and in them they'd used code names to refer to one another. McDougall's was 'Brutus.' '
Wolfe laughed. 'How appropriate.'
'And there were mentions in some of their letters to another group, or club, whatever you want to call it, which supposedly included Gates and some other proaristocracy types, a sort of anti -Masonic society. These letters made reference to another code name, someone they called 'the Indian Laird,' in a way that suggested he was either the founder of this anti-Masonic group, or a very prominent member.'
'Indian Laird?' asked Wolfe.
'Alexander Hamilton was born in the West Indies. And he was the illegitimate grandson of a Scottish laird.'
'All right, that gets us Hamilton's connection to the conspiracy perhaps. But not Fletcher's interest in it.'
'A prominent New Englander was also implicated in the plot. One Gouverneur Morris. He was famous-or perhaps infamous is a better word-for stating that no successful country ever existed without an aristocracy, and that voting should be restricted to those who owned property.'
Wolfe chuckled, then a thought struck him. 'Morris?' Wolfe said with surprise. 'As in Seaton Morris's family?'
'I'm not sure,' said Benjamin. 'But it would be quite a coincidence, wouldn't it.'
'Like Freud, I don't believe in coincidences,' Wolfe said. 'So you think Fletcher's interest in the diary led him to Morris, and Morris led him to this Newburgh plot? But still, what does either have to do with Indians or Puritans?'
'I don't know,' said Benjamin. 'I don't understand it yet, really.' He was quiet for a moment. 'But the other night I read over my father's notes about Bainbridge, and there are extracts from two of his letters. In one of them, Bainbridge used this word 'Puramis' in a rather odd context. And my father had made a very curious mark by that word. I'm not certain, but-'
'Here we are,' Wolfe interrupted him, turning into a side road. 'Soon we'll have this precious diary in front of us and we can settle all these questions.'
Wolfe turned the car through the gates of the Morris Estate-and Benjamin decided the word 'palatial' was perhaps an understatement.
CHAPTER 18
Samuel drove through two redbrick pillared gates into the long, graveled driveway of the Morris Estate. As they passed down a lane of overarching oak trees, Benjamin's first reaction was that the grounds looked remarkably like the Foundation-the same Colonial architecture of red brick with white trim, the same carefully arranged flower gardens, the same sense of protected privilege.
But here there was also a sense of immense personal rather than public power. As they pulled up near the front door, Benjamin noticed that, rather than the typical bull's-eye window in the attic far overhead, there was a stained-glass rendering of a coat of arms.
As they got out of the car and approached the front porch, he could see a glassed hothouse set apart to the left, and some other smaller buildings farther back, on the right. Benjamin counted two Mercedes, a BMW, a Jaguar, and a champagne-colored Bentley parked in the driveway.
Before he rang the front door chimes, Wolfe turned to Benjamin.
'Let's be a little circumspect about what we're here to see,' he said. 'Seaton knows we're interested in the Bainbridge diary, but there's no reason to focus primarily on just that.' He smiled, and once again Benjamin noticed the trace of a certain craftiness in his smile, as though Wolfe was rehearsing his role for Seaton Morris. 'In other words, we know it's important, but Mr. Morris doesn't need to. Understand?'
Benjamin smiled, nodded.
The door before them was a massive, dark-wood, Gothic portal, book-ended by two enormous urn-shaped flowerpots, which conflicted with the otherwise Colonial architecture of the house. They pressed the bell and, after a two-minute wait, were admitted by a small, thin, and absolutely stone-faced butler.
Before Wolfe could utter a word, the butler said, 'Mr. Morris is momentarily engaged. If you would kindly wait in the library?' He indicated a room through sliding French doors left of the enormous foyer.
The Morris library was a cross between a typical library from a country estate and a museum. The floor-to- ceiling bookcases, walnut wainscoting between them; a wallpaper with a Zuber Cie Chinese design above that; a tall bay window in the center of the wall opposite the French doors; the wingback chairs, couch, and coffee table neatly arranged before a large marble fireplace, above which was a portrait of an elderly gentleman in Colonial garb… all suggested the mix of intimate comfort and grand display one expected in such a well-pedigreed house. The furniture was an impressive, if eclectic, assemblage of bright, silk-upholstered Chippendale chairs and dark, Sheraton Federal-style tables, with the requisite Hepplewhite bird's-eye maple grandfather clock standing guard in one corner.
But the real treasure of the room was obviously not its furnishings. Displayed in several long cases set in the middle of the room, with several others along one wall, that treasure was proudly displayed beneath the transparent protection of curving glass.
Books. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of books. Everything from enormous volumes in heavy leather bindings to small pamphlets and broadsheets to woodcuts and engravings set in tiny frames or displayed simply, unadorned, as if lying about on their printer's desk; all of them arranged with apparent care-and a certain pride of ownership.
Wolfe went to one of the cases containing over a dozen leather-bound books and began walking slowly along its length, studying the pages to which they were opened.
'My god,' he said. 'Benjamin, look at this. Here's an illustrated Bible, dated 1751. And a copy of Newton's Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica! And here's one for you, Institutio Christianae Religionis, by one John Calvin. Collected Sermons of Richard Clyfton, whoever he is. And Magnalia Christi Americana, by Cotton Mather himself. Ha! And it's cheek by jowl with a first edition of Paradise Lost…'
Wolfe turned around, saw that Benjamin wasn't behind him, but instead had crossed the room and was standing in front of a mahogany secretary. Wolfe walked over and stood beside him.
'Did you hear me?' he said. He pointed back toward the display case. 'There's Newton's Principia Mathematica over there, in perfect condition. And god knows what else.' He noticed Benjamin didn't seem to be listening to him. He looked at the piece of furniture Benjamin was studying.
'What's so interesting about this bookcase?' he asked with some irritation.
'Secretary,' Benjamin corrected. He was looking intently at a small brass plate set above the glass window of the right-hand door.
'All right,' sighed Wolfe. 'What's so damn interesting about this secretary?'
'Look at the name,' said Benjamin, pointing to the brass plate.
Wolfe read it out loud. 'I. Winslow.' He looked back to Benjamin. 'And what is so extraordinary about Mr. Winslow's… secretary?'
'It's one of a kind,' said a voice behind them.
They turned and saw a man standing in the open doorway. His face was that of a man in his late twenties,
