“I do not see a single officer emerging from their quarters to quiet this outbreak,” Holmes said. Adam focused on the huts at the beginning of each line, the ones set aside for the two ranking officers of every company. The doors remained closed, the long icicles hanging from the roughly hewn corner beams. Other soldiers walking along the road to the Grand Parade ground stopped to listen. Some of them joined in, breaking ranks to stand on the lower slats of a split rail fence, cupping their hands and hooting loudly.
“Look at that horse,” someone shouted.
Adam turned to see Big Red lying on his side in the road. Will knelt beside him and undid the traces, now taut to the wagon fork. The starving horse lay there, breathing heavily and then struggled to his feet. It staggered over toward the fence and lay down again on his side.
“When that one dies, if we get to him soon enough, we can skin him for moccasins to cover my poor bloody frozen feet,” one soldier said, staring down at his blackened naked toes. “Not as good as calfskin,” another grumbled, before being wracked by a wheezing deep cough. “But better than rags and wood,” he added in a hoarse voice, after hacking up a thick wad of yellow phlegm.
Adam moved closer toward Will, thinking the soldiers might hasten Big Red’s end. The horse writhed around on the ground, rolling from one side to the other, pawing the frozen earth with his hooves. Will stood back watching and then knelt at his horse’s head. “Come on big boy. Get the knot out. Roll some more.”
“What is he doing?” Adam asked. “What is the matter with him?”
“I believe he has a twist in his intestine. It comes from not eating forage. It will kill him if he does not undo it,” Will said anxiously.
Adam watched the horse thrashing violently from side to side, mashing down the snow on the side of the road, kicking his legs out and arching his back.
“Looks like he is in his death throes now boys,” a soldier said gleefully. Adam motioned to Titus and the two of them took their muskets from the wagon and rejoined Nat and Will. The cries of “No Meat! No Meat!” coming from the men in the huts, oblivious to the drama playing out on the road nearby, sounded to Adam like a satanic prayer for the death of his friend’s horse. Their bird cries were the calls of turkey vultures arriving for the feast. What bestiality and sins will men commit when they are starving? What are their limits? And what are mine? he thought to himself. Why had he followed Captain Holmes and come to this place? No answer came to mind other a vague sense he wanted to fight but not at sea where, if captured he would be hung as a pirate. He gripped his musket tighter, glad that the bayonet was affixed and not in its sheath.
Big Red had stopped thrashing and lay with his belly against the ground, his legs bunched beneath him. He heaved himself up, shook his head, sending snot flying in every direction and then, in a sudden gesture of sheer exuberance, kicked his two rear feet in the air, rose up on his hind legs pawing the air and stood quietly, emitting loud gaseous horse farts. Adam waved his hand in front of his nose to dissipate the odor.
Will led Big Red slowly back to the wagon and redid the worn, leather straps.
“If I do not get him some forage soon, it will happen again and this time, it will most likely kill him.” Adam shook his head in commiseration. Another week like the last one and they would all starve to death or succumb to disease, man and beast alike, he thought. He felt the strength ebbing from him each day.
They unloaded the gun carriage at the big shed that served as a repair depot, and blacksmith shop. It was near General Washington’s stone house, his headquarters since late December.6 Will took one of the metal buckets the blacksmiths were using for immersing the hot iron, carried it outside and returned with it full of snow. Wrapping a cloth around the handle, he held it near the forge until the snow had melted and carried it outside to Big Red. The horse drank greedily. Will repeated the process three more times before Big Red was sated.
Reluctantly, they left the carpenters to work in relative comfort near the two flaming forges. Adam walked with Will who was leading Big Red toward the Massachusetts Artillery’s rows of huts between the star redoubt and another inner defensive line off Nutt’s Road.
“He needs plenty of water to flush through him,” he said by way of explanation. “It may prevent another seizing up until I can get him proper forage.”
Adam nodded. All he wanted was the rations he was due that had not been issued for several days. One pound of beef or pork, and one pound of flour, not the sour kind. He had no need for the gill of rum or whiskey, although he would appreciate the weekly allotment of soap and vinegar.
Two women, both Negroes, were walking toward them on the road, their cloaks billowing around them from the wind at their backs. They carried covered baskets looped around their arms, their hands hidden by a cloth muff. Their feet were bare except for the thinnest, low-sided shoes, that served only to keep the soles of their feet from contact with the ice and snow. One, older than the other, kept her eyes downcast as they approached. The other, much younger and appearing to be more slight, despite her bulky cloak, eyed the four of them and Big Red with curiosity. Will and Nat moved the horse to the side of the road.
As the two women passed, Adam impulsively untied his tri-corn, removed it from his head and bowed. As he did so, he caught sight of a well-turned ankle. The younger woman laughed and acknowledged him with a nod of her head. She had high cheek bones, her skin was the color of polished oak and her eyes were an unusual green grey. The older woman, tsk-tsked and hurried along her companion, who looked back once more.
“Do you know who they are?” Adam asked Will as he held his tri-corn tight to his head with one hand.
“Not by name,” Will answered. “They are part of General Washington’s household help. One is a cook. The other I have seen her come and go from the General’s house but I know not what she does.”
“Are they indentured servants,” Adam hesitated, “or slaves,” he asked, spitting out the word.
“I do not know,” he responded, looking at his friend. “Does it make a difference?”
Adam shook his head, not wishing to continue the discussion with Will. How could he even begin to understand? Of course it mattered. An indentured servant was a person, free to engage in conversation and use her own time as she pleased. A slave had no time that was her own and was considered the property of her master. He knew what his father told him when he had tried to court his mother before he purchased her freedom. Adam vowed to find out who the younger woman was. Then, he would know what was permitted and what was not. Maybe he would not care.
The following day, with no burdensome assigned duties, Adam stayed in the vicinity of the General’s headquarters when he surmised the younger woman might be sent out on errands. He warmed himself at the sentry fires and made himself useful by hauling and stacking additional firewood. On the second day of his seemingly casual hanging around, shortly after noon, she came out alone and hurried easterly along the road that paralleled the river. He left the axe leaning against a tree trunk and trotted after her.
“Excuse me ma’m,” he said tipping his tri-corn in greeting. She turned but without slowing her pace, rewarded him with a smile. “Permit me to introduce myself? Private Adam Cooper, formerly of the Marblehead Mariners and now attached to the Massachusetts Artillery. I am a free man from that Commonwealth.”
“I could guess from your accent you are a New Englander,” she said. “I have heard many such officers speak at the General’s Headquarters and their words are strange to my ears.”
“Your accent,” Adam said slowing his pace to walk with her, “is like the sound of gentle waves washing on a shore. ‘Tis soft and sweet. But you have not told me your name?” He looked at her, admiring her high cheek bones and noticed her skin was blemished here and there with marks of the pox.
“My name is Sarah Penrose.” She had looked at him directly and he caught a glimpse of her green grey eyes, before she turned away. “I have been lent to General Washin
gton by Reverend Penrose of New Jersey. Before,” she hesitated, “that is before I was sold to him by my master in Virginia.” 7
Adam felt a hollowness inside. She was a slave with her master’s last name. He feigned cheerfulness. “And where Miss Sarah are you off to now?”
“I have been tasked by the General’s cook, Isaac Till, to purchase several items for the General’s dinner. He is entertaining five members of Congress today and we have need of whatever vegetables I may purchase. There is a place where local farmers bring produce. I have sterling to pay. They will sell to me. They have in the past.”
“Permit me to accompany you there and back. With so many men on short rations, the contents of your basket may be too much of a temptation.”
“I am of the General’s household,” she said proudly. “That is protection enough. However, I do accept your offer for companionship. May I inquire how you came to be a freedman, Private Adam Cooper? There are many such in this winter camp but you are the first I have spoken to directly.” 8
“I was born free,” Adam said and related how his father purchased his mother’s freedom from her master almost two decades ago for twenty-six pounds sterling.
“Reverend Penrose has allowed that after, he has been paid fiftythree pounds, I shall be set free. I keep forty shillings each month for clothing and my necessities. The remainder is paid directly to my master. I am not able to save much.”
“I will put aside all of my wages to help you gain your freedom,” Adam blurted out.
“I do not intend to trade one owner for another,” she replied haughtily.
Adam bowed. “And I did not intend to cause offense. I hope to earn your admiration and love and one day ask you to marry me. Please note Miss Sarah, I did not say make you my wife. For no one should make another human being do anything against his or her will.”
“Are you always so forward with the young ladies Private Cooper? We have met only once and already you are talking of marriage.”
“No,” he replied rather meekly. “I am normally shy around women. I cannot explain it other than to say my feelings for you are true and well-intentioned. I believe in time you will feel the same way of your own free will.”
“My life has been nothing but being forced to do things against my will,” she replied. “Deep in my heart I do believe your words about free will. I have read books that say the same thing.”
“How did you come by your education?” Adam asked, afraid he might offend her by the question.
“The Reverend’s wife undertook to teach me to read when I first came to their house five years ago. Their daughters were learning French when Reverend Penrose sent me to be part of General Washington’s household. It sounds like a pretty language,” she said wistfully.
“Your accent is pretty enough for me.”
“I’se bin edjucated,” she replied, teasing him with a plantation dialect. He liked her playfulness but inwardly winced at the sound.
Adam left her as they approached the General’s Life Guards, wishing they could talk for much longer. As he walked away, he was more certain than ever he would marry her, although she had given no such inclination. How many years would it take for the two of them to accumulate fifty-three pounds? If Sarah would accept, he had almost a third of that amount from his share of privateering. As a Private, he made six and two-thirds dollars a month. At the rate of one pound to two and two-thirds dollars, in a full year the total would be close to forty pounds. How much of that could he save? The numbers tumbled around in his head. His stomach growled to remind him first he had to survive starvation and this disease-ridden camp before he could think ahead a year and of buying Sarah’s freedom.
John looked up as his orderly entered the office and placed a sheaf of reports on his desk.
“Yes, Corporal?” Stoner asked. “Why are you standing there?”
“There is a Mrs. Bates waiting outside, sir. She says you were expecting her though not who sent her.”
“It matters not to me who referred her,” John said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He opened one of the folders before him. “Tell her I am engaged and she must wait. Ask the serving maid for another pot of coffee. This one has grown cold and is unfit to drink.”
He caught a look of disapproval on the Corporal’s face that quickly disappeared. The impertinence of the man, Stoner thought. Maybe a transfer to the redoubts and a few frozen nights of sentry duty would improve his attitude.
He knew all about Ann Bates, having first made inquiries in a general way with Superintendent Galloway. He had asked about Loyalist spies who regularly passed between the lines, not revealing that he was particularly interested in females. Galloway was livid with anger that day and John had taken advantage of his mood. The Superintendent’s wife had arrived from the countryside the day before and John had expected him to be in a merry frame of mind.
“Can you imagine John, the effrontery of these Rebels,” he shouted, his long, narrow face convulsed with rage. “Safe passage for Grace, my dear wife through the lines while they confiscate her belongings in the carriage trunks. And the furniture in our country house,” he said his voice rising almost to a screech. “All declared forfeited by decree of those rascals who pretend to be the Pennsylvania Assembly.” 9
He praised John for his initiative, thinking his aide was intent on helping in the hunt to kidnap Patriot leaders. “First, let us strike terror amongst those in Pennsylvania and then turn the dragoons loose in New Jersey as well. No Rebel leader shall sleep easily at night. Let them fear to hear horses’ hooves and to feel the cold night air as they are taken back to Philadelphia in their nightshirts. We will bring them to trial and hang the most prominent ones for treason to the Crown. The others can rot in jail.” John let Galloway rant on, nodding in agreement. Let the fool think what he wanted.
His real intention was to ensnare Elisabeth van Hooten. She had been too clever in hiding her actions. The men he assigned to follow her as she went to the market on Fridays, usually in the company of her Quaker landlady, Mrs. Lewis, and then her social calls, teas and parties, reported nothing untoward. Now, he would find someone to befriend her instead.
Several names had been given to him as reliable but Mrs. Bates was one of only two women. She was a seamstress, who made dresses and garments for those in Philadelphia who were not among the most wealthy, but aspired to be invited into those social circles. She lived with her husband, a repairer of guns, in a small one-story house off Elfreth’s Alley. His shop was near the Hessian Barracks, close to the waterfront.
Ann Bates frequently disguised herself as a peddler and entered the American lines, to sell thread and needles, scissors, small knives and bars of soap, lice combs and the like to the female camp followers of the American Army. As she went from one group of women to another, she listened to their complaints about short rations for their men, lack of medicines and the fear of inoculation against the “speckled monster.” All the while she counted the numbers of men on the Grand Parade ground, observed the drilling, noted the artillery emplacements, and picked up gossip about Generals’ wives and the comings and goings of foreign officers. Passing back through the British lines, she would report to an Adjutant of Major Andre’s, accept her pay in sterling and resume her identity as a seamstress. 10 Now John thought it was time to put her to talents to use in Philadelphia. He closed the folder on his desk and called loudly to his orderly. When he showed Mrs. Bates in, John studied her standing in front of the door before offering her a seat. She was of hefty size, large boned with a washerwoman’s figure, and ruddy complexion to match. She stared back at him with a mixture of curiosity and caution, neither fearful nor defiant, but watchful, waiting to see where this encounter would lead. Her lips were thin and tight, serving as the guardhouse to her thoughts. “May I,” she said breaking the silence as she undid the clasp to her dark brown cloak and slipped it from her shoulders. John pointed to the clothes tree in the corner and waited for her to turn around before mot
ioning to the chair in front of his desk. She was dressed appropriately for the winter weather and presentably, as one would expect from a seamstress. She smoothed her dress before sitting and placed her hands in her lap, her intense grey eyes studying him.
“You have come recommended to me by an officer whom I shall not name. He has extolled your keen sense of observation behind the American lines. He has also praised your quickness of thought and ability to seize opportunities when they arise.” He expected her to acknowledge this praise with some sort of false modesty. Instead, she inclined her head slightly in acceptance.
“How may these talents be of service to you, Lieutenant?” she asked. John disliked her challenge and the directness of her response. It was time to make her understand she was not an equal in this conversation.
“Have you ever carried letters or packages for someone to the American camp?” he snapped. “Something that our sentries would seize unless it was borne by a trusted person, someone with an authorized pass or known to them.”
“I bear a pass signed by Major Andre himself,” she said somewhat defensively. “I am permitted to bring sundries and items to the American camps for purposes of performing my duties.”
John waved his hand. “I have no concern about such trifles. I am interested in illicit goods or correspondence, not sanctioned by your masters.”
Mrs. Bates shifted in her chair uneasily. He guessed she was struggling to determine what would be the correct answer, or rather the response to satisfy him. Her face remained fixed, her brow unfurrowed, her lips set. Her grey eyes revealed nothing.
“I confess I have on occasion carried love letters from one or two of my clientele to their beaus, young men they knew before the King’s troops drove the Rebels from Philadelphia.”
Spies and Deserters Page 2
