A Question of Consequence

by Gordon W. Ryan

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Chapter One

Hyde Park, New York
October 2004

Whipped by a brisk northerly wind rushing down the river gorge, whitecaps danced on the surface of the Hudson River, lifting a fine spray and misting the morning air on both banks of the great waterway. From where he stood on an east shore promontory, roughly a hundred miles upriver from New York City, Matthew Sterling could just make out the gray cliffs that formed the western edge of the river gorge, nearly a half-mile across the dark, roiling water.

Despite three centuries of increasing human habitation, thick forests still covered the bluffs above both sides of the river. A dense thicket of evergreen and leafless hardwood trees on the western shore was just barely visible in the thin, early morning light.

The previous evening, while standing in the same spot, Matt had listened to the singing of the Benedictine monks, carried on a gentle, westerly wind. The rich, male voices came drifting across the river from within the venerable stone walls of the two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old-monastery atop the speckled granite cliffs. Their traditional Baroque music, so unlike the melodic hymns of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir yet equally soothing, calmed his melancholy, and he found himself wondering if Grandmother Sterling, in her long, lonely years as a widow, had enjoyed the same pleasurable experience.

This morning, while waiting for his taxi in front of the open space left by the demolished house, he had walked across River Road for one final view of the magnificent river, knowing, somehow, it would be unlikely he would ever return. His luggage, consisting solely of a small suit bag, evidence of his rapid departure from Salt Lake City, stood mutely beside the colonial-era mailbox, the only remnant of the once proud estate.

He’d asked the hotel shuttle driver to take him to River Road, rather than to the Dutchess County Airport. At first reluctant, she relented when Matt produced a twenty-dollar bill. When she reached the address, she pulled into the driveway and stopped.

“I can’t wait, ya know,” she said.

“That’s okay,” Matt replied, exiting the vehicle. “Can you call a taxi for me?”

She nodded, picking up her radio mike. He set his suit bag on the ground and glanced at his watch. “Tell them about nine.”

The woman driver nodded again, shrugging her shoulders. She called for a taxi, backed the hotel van out of the drive, and disappeared into the mist.

At twenty-eight, standing just over six feet with black hair, dark blue eyes, and a quick smile, Matthew Andrew Sterling was on an errand not of his choosing. His trip to New York, to settle the estate and to witness the demolition of his widowed grandmother’s two-hundred and fifteen-year-old family home had unleashed a flood of nostalgia for the young lawyer. He found the prospect of watching the demolition of a favorite childhood retreat emotionally daunting, but under the probate induced supplication of his beloved grandmother, he had summoned the strength to carry out her final request to her only grandson.

Born in New York City, he had come here often as a boy, traveling from Staten Island with his parents to visit his grandmother, Elizabeth Winchester Sterling. The deep woods surrounding her home had been for him a foreboding yet magical playground. Rather than sit with the adults and listen to their grown-up talk, he preferred to roam the acres of thickly wooded hills surrounding the estate. He was fascinated by the stories told by his older cousins of soldiers, battles, ghosts, and long-forgotten heroes who had tramped these same grounds, and he developed an awe for the land and the river and the history they had witnessed. That the property was, and had been for most of the previous century, bordered by the estates of the Vanderbilt’s and Roosevelt’s only added to its mystique.

During his youthful, woodland romps with his cousins, he had envisioned the landscape as it had once been: absent the commuter railway carved into the rock between the river and the large, imposing homes; absent the power lines that ran the length of the road; absent the rising condos and commercial developments that were swallowing up the wilderness of his imagination. With the fantasy that only a young boy can muster, he had conjured up a frontier landscape providing concealment for the ghostly Redcoats as they marched through the woods, their bayonets flashing. In his mind he’d watched Jack Tars as they landed from small, black boats, set afloat from the British Man-O-War he mentally positioned in the river. He could see the gun ports drop open as the cannon prepared to enforce the demands of a distant and ever reproachful king—a king increasingly disdainful of the interest of his far-flung, mostly loyal subjects.

In his youthful flights of fantasy and imagination, it had never entered Matt Sterling’s mind that there might lay in these romantic settings a true tale of intrigue—a tale more complex and compelling than even the fertile mind of a young boy could create. He could not have known that deep within the foundation timbers of Riveroaks lay concealed a profound mystery involving one of his own revered ancestors.

Riveroaks! It was the name his sixth-great-grandfather, Andrew Sterling, had given to his estate—a home to which, in 1790, Sterling had taken his wife, the beautiful and socially prominent Laura Faye Delacorte of the Westchester County Delacorte's, and their young son, Josiah, born the summer after the American victory at Yorktown had ended the war.

The imposing home had captured Matt’s imagination when, on his very first visit, at age eight or nine, his grandfather, Jonathan Sterling, had taken him into the basement and pointed out the enormous wooden beams that supported the house. Burned deeply into the center timber, a massive oak beam, was the inscription, “Riveroaks, 1790.” Grandfather Sterling had explained to the boy that at the time Andrew Sterling built the home, the United States had been a free nation for only nine years, and its first president, George Washington, had been in office less than a year.

Now, with twenty-first-century property values escalating astronomically, these historic estates had become the targets of developers, eager to gain control of the wooded, scenic landscapes overlooking the Hudson. So long as Matt’s ninety-six-year-old Grandmother Sterling was alive, Riveroaks had not been for sale. But with her death, all that changed. Matt was named as executor in Grandmother Sterling’s will, charged with settling her affairs, including overseeing the demolition of the ancient house.

Angered by the necessity of witnessing the destruction of the venerable old home, Matt had carefully watched for three days as workers dismantled the structure, floor by floor. Many of the neighbors had dropped by, seeking remnants of the historic home for their bric-a-brac collections. Nearly two hundred rosebushes, dormant in the winter frost, had been uprooted and transferred to the garden of a nearby hospital where Elizabeth Sterling had served on the board of directors. When the workers reached the first floor and basement the previous afternoon, Matt had instructed them to cut a four-foot section out of the central support beam—the section that included the carved inscription. A massive beam it was too, a beam whose internal rings would have confirmed a hundred and sixty-three year life before it had fallen to the woodsman’s axe in 1789.

After sawing through the great timber and lowering it to the dirt floor of the basement, they discovered a hollowed-out section in what had been the top of the beam—a hand-hewn niche approximately eighteen inches long, twelve inches wide, and eight inches deep. Surprised by the discovery, the workers stopped momentarily and Matt stepped forward. He reached into the crevice and lifted out a leather bundle, loosely bound with strands of rotting twine. Refraining from unwrapping the parcel in the presence of the workers, he placed the bundle in the trunk of his car and continued to observe as the remaining foundation timbers were dismantled.

That evening, in his room on the ninth floor of the Poughkeepsie Grand Hotel, Matt had gingerly opened the decomposing leather pouch. Camphor flakes fell onto a stack of yellowed, dog-eared pages, the top one of which was a brief, quill-penned letter. The letter had immediately intrigued him. Noting its date, the genealogist in Matt quickly realized that before surrendering to the inevitable condominium complex, complete with sailboats and four-man sculls at the new marina, the ghostly inhabitants of Riveroaks had found a way to preserve the secret of why, as a consequence of his role in helping to found a nation, Matt’s ancient ancestor had felt compelled to cloak his past in secrecy and change his identity.

In the comfort of his hotel room, Matt read the letter several times, savoring its content and style. Then, with gentle fingers, he lifted from the bundle a twine-bound journal of some length and what appeared to be a manuscript in the same handwriting, entitled A Light Reign.

Through the long night, the handwritten pages had fired his imagination, filling his mind with scenes of intrigue, treachery, family honor, courage, sacrifice, and, to his surprise, public shame. Only when gradually encroaching light began to filter through the eastern window of his hotel room did he set aside his reading to get ready to return to the life from which he had so recently and reluctantly departed for this unwanted family responsibility.

This morning, as he stood on the bank of the Hudson, thinking, remembering, waiting patiently to depart, Matt turned his collar up against the rising breeze and the drifting mist. In silent wonder, he contemplated the startling discovery of the previous afternoon. As if to ensure its reality, he opened the slender, leather binder he always carried, to look again at a plastic document holder, a genealogist’s foresight, into which he had placed the brittle parchment. Its contents were visibly weathered with age, yet protected from the elements for the first time in nearly two hundred years.

Standing perhaps for the final time amidst the family grounds, mesmerized by the unrelenting flow of Henry Hudson’s hoped-for Northwest Passage, he marveled at the circumstance that had put him in touch with a heretofore unknown tale. He read slowly, savoring once again the antique phrasing of the document.

The Honourable Josiah Sterling, Esq.                                 15 August 1821
New York State Senator
Albany, New York

Dear Senator Sterling,

We have the honour, Sir, of expressing our deepest respect and appreciation for the opportunity you have afforded us to review, with pleasure we might add, the contents of your recent submission, entitled “A Light Reign.” Indeed, as you have recounted the events of your father, Major Andrew McBride, and his exploits during the Great War, we have gained a deep measure of admiration for the story and deep respect for the man. Despite the scurrilous public humiliation to which Mr. McBride was ultimately subjected, your father, we are certain, was a man of his times, unjustly pilloried by public ignorance of his true stature. Without such men in service to their country, our fledging democracy would likely have faltered at birth, as so often it was thought to have been imperilled.

Regrettably, Sir, our timing is most inopportune. We are in process of publishing another work of similar content, by a resident of Scarsdale, New York, entitled “The Spy.” Notwithstanding his own guarded precautions, which array against the publication of a truly “American” novel and his expressed fears of a lack of readership—fears which we do not share—Mr. James Fennimore Cooper has most graciously acceded to our publishing requirements. In consideration of the comparable intrigue replete within the two stories, we find it would be imprudent to place both before our readers simultaneously.

Given the proper interval, and the hoped-for success of Mr. Cooper’s suspenseful tale, we would be pleased to consider a resubmission of your father’s rendition of our nation’s struggle for independence. We look forward to such an occasion. In that regard, we remain,

Your most obedient servants,

Wiley & Halsted, Publishers

New York City

The sound of tires on the graveled road intruded, and Matt quickly returned the letter to his briefcase. Not noticing that his passenger stood across the road, the taxi driver pulled into the driveway of the now demolished house, barking his horn and shattering the morning silence. He exited the car and lifted the suit bag, tossing it into the trunk of the vehicle.

Matt took a long look around, gazing out over the river, which for more than two centuries had provided commerce and transport for the inhabitants of the middle and upper reaches of New York State. Barely ninety miles down the meandering river lay Wall Street, the twenty-first century’s financial capital, despite the physical and mental devastation of September 11 that had so changed the psyche of the nation. But here, on an obscure road in Hyde Park, New York, securely lodged in Matt Sterling’s briefcase, lay a tale of ancient intrigue—an untold tale newly come to light.

With one final glance at the hole in the ground that had once been the stately Riveroaks, Matt entered the taxi and was driven away, firmly resisting the urge to look back.

“Dutchess County Airport, please,” Matt said.

“Right,” the driver responded.

Matt rode in silence during the twenty-minute drive, his thoughts mixed with sorrow at the turn of events the past two months had brought. First, there was the call from her bishop about Grandmother’s death, the flight to New York with his parents, Dick and Sally Sterling, and his two older, married sisters, Rachel and Emily, for the funeral. Then, his grandmother’s attorney called two weeks ago to advise that Grandmother had directed the estate be settled by her grandson, Matthew A. Sterling of Snowy Ridge, Utah. And then, he made this second trip back to oversee the demolition of the grand old home and to attend to the other details of the will.

Her wits sharp and incisive as always, Grandma Sterling had done well in the sale of the family home. Following the death of her husband, some eighteen years earlier, she had been approached in 1986 by a commercial development company that was buying up Hudson River waterfront property. Intent on acquiring her valuable land, they said that although it had been valued at nine-hundred-thousand dollars, they would give her one million for a quick sale. She agreed to the sale on condition that she would enjoy lifetime occupancy. Since Elizabeth Sterling was eighty years of age, and her husband had died two years earlier, the developers felt they had made a good deal. She set her own terms, and again the company thought they had the old lady under control: half a million down, and one-hundred-thousand dollars annually for the term of her life. Nothing would be due at the time of her death in the event she died before the million had been paid, but she stipulated that should she live longer, all equity would be forfeited by the company should they default in any single subsequent year.

The developer gambled, and lost. The real estate market plummeted, she lived another sixteen years and, by the time she died, Continental Enterprises had paid Elizabeth Sterling just over two million dollars for her home and property. Continental’s only victory was having stipulated that the razing and removal of the old house would be the responsibility of the estate and would be accomplished within sixty days of her demise.

Grandma Sterling had lived a long and fruitful life and had died peacefully in her sleep in the home she loved and in which she had instilled in her children and grandchildren a passionate interest in their family history. She had outlived three of her four children and had three living grandchildren, including Matt, from her one surviving son, Dr. Richard Sterling. As Matt met with Grandma Sterling’s attorney, he had been astonished to learn the amount of her wealth and of his own inheritance. When her real estate windfall was added to her husband’s considerable holdings, wisely invested since his death, she was able to bequeath just over one million dollars to each of her four survivors as well as designate that five million dollars be given to Brigham Young University, earmarked for use in sustaining the university’s molecular genealogy research program. An avid genealogist, Elizabeth Sterling was convinced that the Y’s molecular biology project would greatly facilitate the relationship between anthropology and ancient genealogical research.

At the funeral, held some six weeks earlier in an overflowing chapel, Bishop Roland Simpson had eulogized her by describing her extensive charitable contributions, recalling donations she had made to hospitals and a variety of other institutions. He said that what she had not wanted known while she was living was that over the years she had also anonymously funded the missions of some thirty-two missionaries from the stake, including Bishop Simpson’s own mission to Australia fifteen years earlier. He had grown emotional when he explained that except for Sister Sterling’s generosity, these young men and women would likely have been unable to serve. He concluded his remarks by suggesting that at the time of her arrival, there must have been genuine rejoicing in the corridors of heaven.

All this, plus the unearthing, almost literally, of additional family secrets—secrets probably unknown even to Grandma Sterling—had Matt’s mind whirling. What could have brought such shame as described in the few journal excerpts that he’d had time to read? He patted the briefcase absentmindedly as the taxi turned into the circular approach to the Dutchess County Airport.

“JFK shuttle?” the taxi driver inquired.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Matt responded, reaching for his wallet. Exiting the cab, he handed his ticket to the curbside porter, declined to check his bag, and proceeded straight through the new security measures, bound for the gate where the flight was already being called. He boarded the American Eagle twenty-nine-seat aircraft and placed his suit bag in the overhead rack, tucking the briefcase under the seat in front of him. Almost immediately, the plane, less than half full, began to back away from the terminal, and the pilot started the port and then the starboard turboprop engines.

Lifting off smoothly, the aircraft banked southeast and leveled out for the thirty-minute flight to JFK Airport, near New York City. After declining the offer of a morning cup of tea or coffee, Matt slipped the briefcase out, laid it on the empty seat next to him, and retrieved one of the plastic document protectors, holding yet another of the single page documents that were originally contained in the leather pouch. He read slowly, once again recalling his surprise, indeed his shock, the evening before as he had first seen this particular document.

Riveroaks

Hyde Park, New York

September 14, 1829

My father was by nature a philosophical man. A single excerpt from his journal, in the earliest days of the struggle, portrays his foresight:

A bold stroke, this new declaration from our brethren assembled in Philadelphia. And now they are irrevocably committed, for there is only one difference between a patriot and a traitor—he who wins is the patriot—for it is the winner who shall write the history, and the traitor who shall hang!

                                                                           Journal of Andrew McBride

                                                                                   New York, July 1776

He wrote the enclosed account of his activities in the late War for Independence, in the fall of 1815, shortly after cessation of hostilities that had once again erupted between America and the motherland. His journal, of course, is a continuing document from a much earlier time, consolidated, by his own admission, at this later period of his life. Most startling to me, was his personal attestation that he used his true name for the primary character in his narrative—a name heretofore unknown to me, although I was seven when my father changed our name and moved our family from the city to Riveroaks. Therefore, whilst my father was a relatively modest man, not given to excess, a characteristic I now understand to be a necessity of political prudence rather than of nature, I believe these to be the actual recollections of Andrew McBride, late of Kildare, Ireland. His death, some four years later, in 1819, less than one year after my mother’s passing, occurred before I had been privileged to read the manuscript and precluded my ability to discuss the origins of the McBride-Sterling name change with either parent. However, many of the stories related in the journal were often recounted around the hearth throughout my youth, but always attributed, in those clandestine verbal accounts, to an “associate” of my father’s during the war. I now understand that the “associate” of whom my father spoke, was actually himself and that the events described were his own personal exploits. I cannot, in good conscience, attest to the veracity of my father’s claims, specifically those involving his participation at British military headquarters in New York, where ostensibly he served as legal counsel for General William Howe and then General Sir Henry Clinton. No documents confirm his contact with George Washington in his role as Commander of Continental forces, or President Washington’s reputed suggestion as to the new family name of Sterling. Nor can I document my father’s involvement with the uncloaked Major Frank Talmadge, now known to have commanded Washington’s intelligence network. Nor can I affirm his association with Nathan Hale, although I have confirmed that an Andrew McBride did indeed attend and matriculate Yale University at a time concurrent with that of Mr. Hale. Therefore, my father’s journal and historical claims must, unfortunately, remain unconfirmed. Yet neither can I dispute them. The truth of the story—of this small portion of our nation’s history—we must leave for the reader to discern, and to that great God to whom all men must ultimately appeal.

J.       Sterling, Esq.

Below the aircraft, the Hudson River disappeared on the right, and the landscape began to change from open brown fields and verdant forests to green bordered residential neighborhoods. Westchester County, so often described to him by Grandmother Sterling as the original home of Andrew Sterling and the first Sterling wife, Elizabeth Delacorte, passed by below. But perhaps they weren’t Sterling’s? Why Josiah Sterling had referred to McBride as a former name was a puzzle that churned inside Matt. Was this new genealogical treasure to change the family history? Would Grandma Sterling have known? Could she have known? Did she know about the basement hiding place? The journal? The manuscript? Would the journal or manuscript tell the tale?

At the pilot’s announcement of their approach to JFK, Matt returned the document to his briefcase which he once again slipped beneath the seat in front of him. The transfer of terminals at one of the world’s busiest airports went smoothly and upon boarding, he found his Delta flight to Salt Lake City also lightly occupied. As the aircraft slowly transited the access runway, waiting its turn to depart, Matt gazed out the window, watching other aircraft land and depart on the parallel runway until the pilot came on the intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re number two in the queue at present. We’ll have you airborne in a few moments, and the flight crew will do everything to make your flight to Salt Lake as pleasant as possible. Weather conditions in Salt Lake are clear, temperature a brisk thirty-three degrees, with unlimited visibility. Looks like good flying weather and we should be right on time. So sit back, relax, and enjoy yourselves, and thank you for flying Delta.”

Despite his lack of sleep the previous evening, Matt was too pumped up to doze. As the aircraft lifted clear of the runway, his only thought was to read the manuscript, starting at the beginning. He waited until the seat belt light was turned off, then retrieved his briefcase. Releasing the catches, he raised the cover and gently lifted the bound manuscript, placing it on the lowered food tray in front of him. In fine, antiquated penmanship, A Light Reign scrolled across the top of the first page. Andrew McBride had told the tale and the answers were here. They had to be!