Without effort Roderick Barclugh could control his feelings and be nonchalant to sentiment, and on necessary occasions be frivolous and gay. His composition had all the artful diplomacy of a French courtier and the canny ways of an ingenious and bold Scotsman--altogether, a brilliant and dangerous being. CHAPTER VI Revolutionary New York was enveloped in an atmosphere of sombre unrest. The English had driven out the patriot families; some loyalists, however, who were persecuted in other colonies sought refuge in New York, but they simply became hangers-on at a huge military camp. Gayety was forced. The monotony of military cares bore heavily upon the British leaders and at length desperation was traced upon their faces. There was no enterprise. Something must be done or the spirit of militarism would die. Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander-in-Chief, was fat and short. Punctilious with his officers, formal,--even distant, in his manners--he was not one to inspire enthusiasm. His face was full, his nose was large and prominent, and although an expression of animated intelligence at times pervaded his countenance, still he lacked the rare ability to inspire confidence and conviction. He was simply in command because favoritism had placed him there; he was a drawing-room general. On a crisp day in November, General Clinton and Lord Carlisle were surveying the landscape from the drawing-room of the Beekman mansion, which was a beautiful seat of revolutionary times, and the chosen country residence of the British Commander. The blue waters of the bay were whipped into white waves as the nor’east gale swept over the water. The energy of the wind broke forth in sparkling waves upon the bosom of the harbor and Sir Henry explained to Lord Carlisle how the commerce of the new continent would center in this haven that was now controlled by his British forces. He gestured confidently as he maintained that the admiralty had a base in New York harbor from which to fit out its men-of-war and carry on the conflict in any direction. In the midst of his laborious arguments Sir Henry exclaimed: “My Lord, there comes one of our forty-four-gun frigates! Zounds! She’s standing right up to the inner anchorage. She may be a messenger from our War Lord, Germaine.” Sir Henry took up his spying-glass and stepped out upon the portico to see what ship it might be. Lord Carlisle walked back and forth impatiently, while Sir Henry closely watched the movements of the ship.