John put his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his clasped hands, covering his mouth. He stared at her, waiting to see if she would offer any further information. She remained silent. He liked that.
“Well, Mrs. Bates,” he said lowering his hands and smiling. “I believe you are just the person I want for an extremely difficult task. Everything I now tell you is strictly in confidence. No need for others to know. At the appropriate time, when we apprehend this spy, your role will be recognized and you will be well rewarded.”
John explained the basis of his suspicions about Elisabeth, exaggerating his role with the dragoons on Long Island and the encounter with her father. He described the unsuccessful efforts of his men who had followed her.
“I wish to employ you Mrs. Bates to befriend her, gain her confidence and in so doing, subtly let her know you do a trade behind the American lines. I believe this will induce her to take advantage of the opportunity presented and pass to you letters or packages for you in turn to transmit to her spy handlers among the Rebels. The trap will then be sprung and she will be caught and exposed.”
He noticed her appraising him and for a moment thought she knew of the gossip about his embarrassing accusation of Elisabeth at Major Andre’s ball the prior month. He almost sighed with relief when she mentioned money. “I will need to be compensated for such activities. After all, spending time with Miss Elisabeth will necessarily decrease my business as a seamstress.”
John nodded. “Tis a fair request. I trust five pounds sterling a week will suffice.” She nodded her assent. “I will send a man for you when I desire your report. Avoid suspicion,” he said, and as an afterthought, “but do not keep me waiting too long.” Best she be reminded who paid the piper.
When the door had closed behind her, John was satisfied with their meeting. It had gone well, he thought. Mrs. Bates was just the person to encourage Elisabeth’s trust, a plain sensible woman, an experienced seamstress with no airs or frills . Once he had Elisabeth’s compromising messages in hand, he would decide whether to turn her in or make her beg for his silence.
Chapter 2 - Setting a Trap
Elisabeth was giddy. Not from the wine served at the early supper at three. She had imbibed in moderation. It was the excitement, the pleasurable anticipation of attending her first theater performance. She honestly acknowledged that it was more than just keeping up appearances while spying for General Knox. She was eager, nay thrilled to attend a play at the Southwark Theater, escorted by Captain Montresor. She was titillated by the garish red two-story building with its ornate cupola and the promised licentiousness of women performing the female roles on a public stage. After arriving by carriage, Elisabeth and Montresor proceeded on a temporary boardwalk that had been erected to protect the ladies’ slippers and the Officers’ immaculate white stockings from being spattered by melting snow and mud.
The inside was brightly lit with candles set in sconces and chandeliers. A low iron spiked fence separated the green curtained stage from the gallery. Oil footlamps illuminated the apron. The interior was vast, with seating for more than six hundred patrons. The noise of so many voices shouting greetings and the gay laughter of women rebounded off the wooden ceiling.
Mary Lewis had sternly warned Elisabeth not to accept the Captain’s invitation. In a scolding manner, she reminded Elisabeth she must adhere to some degree of moral rectitude. There was no harm, Elisabeth told herself. All the young Philadelphia ladies from the best families of high society were in attendance. She and the Captain were seated in the second row of an upper level box, along with Lieutenant Colonel Richard Fitzpatrick, whose father, Montresor whispered, was an Earl in the House of Lords. Colonel Harcourt, Colonel Mawhood and his wife occupied the cushioned seats in the box’s first row.
On the other side of the gallery, in the spacious lower level box adorned with a large British flag, Elisabeth recognized Joseph and Mrs. Galloway, seated next to General Howe and Mrs. Loring, an attractive blond, known to be his mistress. Major Andre and Peggy Shippen shared another box with her parents, two of her sisters and their beaus. Below, the gallery itself was so crowded with officers in uniform, it looked like a field of red poppies. The dresses of their female companions were like orphan flowers scattered as if by chance amidst the rows of red.
In the midst of all this gaiety and excess, she thought guiltily of the half naked, shoeless deserters from Valley Forge who had escaped through the lines and straggled into Philadelphia with their pitiful tales of starvation, disease and the relentless cold. She was ashamed that Will and the men she knew were suffering so, while she enjoyed a brick house warmed by plentiful firewood and was well fed, now that the two forts comprising the Americans blockade of the Delaware had been captured.
Elisabeth leaned forward to scan the boxes on their side of the gallery and as she did so, she noticed Lieutenant John Stoner, twisting around in his seat in the pit. He spied her and stared arrogantly upward. Elisabeth nodded her head slightly with what she hoped was the correct amount of condescension. Her gesture hit home as John Stoner turned red in the face and looked away. Pleased that she had retained her composure she inclined her head toward Montresor. He had forgone a wig and instead simply powdered his hair for the event. She had to admit he looked elegantly masculine tonight. With all the excited voices in the theater, she brought her mouth closer to his ear to be heard. The memory of Will telling her how much it pleased him when she did that almost made her hesitate.
“The Playbill promises the characters are portrayed by the Officers of the Army and Navy,” she said in a playful tone. “Yet you told me there are some women’s parts to be performed by members of our fairer sex. Surely, neither the British Army nor Navy have women officers?”
Montresor threw back his head and laughed. “My dear. I adore your company,” he said. “You always find mirth, sometimes unwittingly in the most unlikely places. While the male performers, known as Howe’s Strolling Players, with the permission of His Excellency, are all officers, the women you will see on stage do belong to the Army and Navy in one sense.” He chuckled waiting for her to guess his meaning. When she continued to look puzzled he added, “They are the mistresses of some of the Officers.” Elisabeth blushed deeply and Montresor chuckled again. “Dear Elisabeth. General Howe, our respected Commander-in-Chief sits in plain view with his mistress, a married woman, in yonder box. What is displayed in public should be no cause for embarrassment.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Loring is the reason our Army remains master only of this city and some parts of the banks of the Delaware and Schuylkill,” Lt. Colonel Fitzpatrick said bitterly.
Colonel Harcourt turned around in his chair. “It is my considered opinion that no thought should have been given to Philadelphia until our army had joined forces with General Burgoyne and captured Albany. The Rebel General Washington would not have risked a battle to prevent our march northward or we would have annihilated his pitiful forces in the process and put an end to their miserable rebellion.” 1
Elisabeth imagined British troops marching into Albany and entering her parents’ home and taking up quarters. Some of the same British officers who were present in this theater would occupy the Van Hooten household, taking what they wanted at will, eating all of the stored provisions and confining the family to a few small rooms in the back of their own home. She had seen it happen in Philadelphia. So far, she and Mary Lewis had not been compelled to quarter any officers, probably due to the influence of Captain Montresor. She was not certain of this but thankful for the overall protection his rank and position provided her, especially against that despicable John Stoner.
She knew the British had lost a battle near Saratoga in midOctober, about a month after the American defeat at Brandywine. Their army of more than five thousand men, commanded by General Burgoyne, had surrendered. The rumors of the Rebel victory had reached Philadelphia by early November. It was a common topic of conversation among the officers at the teas and dinners she had attende
d. She had written in invisible ink in her letters to Will to report the deep dismay among the British Officer corps, the impact on their morale and their dissatisfaction with their Generals, particularly Sir William Howe.
In early February, British newspapers detailing the exact terms of the surrender arrived in Philadelphia. Montresor provided Elisabeth with The London Chronicle of December 11, 1777 that contained the very Articles of Convention signed by the American Major General Horatio Gates and British Lieutenant General J. Burgoyne. Judging by Colonel Harcourt’s harsh words, the arrival of these newspapers had reignited the criticism of General Howe for his ill-considered strategy.
“Our own army also suffers from General Howe’s improper practices of promotion,” Fitzpatrick added, glancing at Harcourt. It was well known the 16th Dragoons blamed Howe for the failure of London to promote their Lieutenant Colonel. “Every day I grow more disgusted with the folly and inequity we are condemned to endure while a parcel of mere boys with inferior claims are promoted based on the volume of their flattery of our General. It is enough for me to consider selling my commission.” 2
Colonel Harcourt shrugged. “My promotion is more important to my dragoons than me. Rather it is my wish for a more aggressive campaign instead of comfortable winter quarters and a delay until spring to resume the offensive. We should sally forth now from Philadelphia and move to crush the remnants of the Rebels.” A drum roll sounded, drowning out his words and Elisabeth turned her attention to the stage, while committing to memory the Colonel’s comments. It would make for interesting reading at Valley Forge.
The actors, save for the women, had assembled on stage, some in costume, others in uniform with small props to indicate their roles. One officer stepped forward and the drummers ended with a flourish.
“Sir William, assembled guests and ladies,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “With the permission and support of His Excellency, we are Howe’s Strolling Players.” There were cheers and applause. Several officers in the gallery stood and faced the General’s box clapping ostentatiously. Howe offered a slight wave in acknowledgement.
“The proceeds from our mirthful performance,” the officer on stage continued, “will benefit the widows and children of our brave soldiers who have shed their blood in our noble endeavor to end this treason against our most gracious King.” He was interrupted by men shouting “God Save the King,” and “Hear! Hear!” accompanied by the stomping of feet in unison from the officers in the gallery.
The officer held up his hands for quiet. “This evening, we present a comedy called ‘The Liar,’ for your amusement. But first,” he signaled for a drum roll, “a prologue written by one of our prominent local poets.” The actors stepped forward on the apron and recited a long poem over the general hubbub of the audience. Elisabeth half listened to the first several verses, while she studied the upswept hair styles and gowns of some of the ladies in attendance. Many were more revealing than she would have been comfortable wearing.
Once more ambitious of theatric glory
Howe’s strolling company appear before ye
O’er hill and dale and bogs and wind and weather With many a hairbreadth ‘scape we’ve scrambled hither Now beats the Yankee busom at our drum
Hark Jonathan, zounds here the strollers come.
At the last two lines, the actors had dropped their clipped English accents and attempted a broad New England manner of speech that Elisabeth recognized as mocking of uncouth Americans.
Spruced up with top-knots & their Sunday dress With eager looks the maidens round express “Jemma see—a’nt this a charming sight? Look Tabitha—Oh Lord, I wish ‘twas night.” 3
The audience broke out into hoots of derision, laughing at the Colonial bumpkins, their peculiar manner of speech and their obliviousness to their own ignorance. The green curtain was drawn back to reveal painted scenery of a garden with two benches and a chair in the foreground. Elisabeth listened intently, laughing at the broad humor and blushing at some of the more bawdy lines, often directed toward the ladies in the cast. The sound of thunder echoed across the theater, followed by the patter of a heavy rain. The flat of the garden scene seemed to miraculously glide off stage revealing another painted setting of the interior of a snug cabin. 4 The audience clapped in appreciation. Elisabeth was embarrassed by the lewd advances of one of the characters toward a buxom young serving maid and hid her flushed face behind the printed playbill. Some in the audience cheered the young male performer on with shouts of “deflower her now,” and “give her a flourish.” One officer in the gallery offered to come on stage and do it himself if the actor was not up to it. His comment drew a raucous response from his comrades. Montresor grinned and leaned over.
“My dear. Your natural innocence enhances your beauty and creates a glow by which the candles in these sconces pale in comparison.”
“Why Captain Montresor,” she replied coyly. “This play has inspired your poetic side. That pleases me greatly. But tell me,” she said, wishing to deflect the conversation to a safer subject, “how do they create the sounds of the impending thunder storm? I thought to cover my head it was so convincing.”
He laughed, casually putting his arm around the back of her chair and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “It is a military secret.” He paused dramatically. “I will reveal it willingly, because your beauty compels me to tell you. Rolling cannon balls for the thunder and musket shot in a tube for the downpour. I believe they use birdshot for a lighter rain.” She smelled the claret and felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. If he were Will, she would have leaned her head on his shoulder despite being in public. Instead, she straightened her back and focused anew on the stage.
The play ended to loud applause. During the intermission, while the scenery was changed for a brief farce called “A Trip to Scotland,” servants brought wine and cheese to the occupants of the boxes. Vendors selling fruit and a variety of other food stuffs circulated in the gallery, loudly touting their wares. When the villain of the next performance appeared on stage, he was greeted by apple cores and nuts, as well as boos and cries of displeasure from the rowdy crowd.
It was past eleven when Captain Montresor helped her alight from the carriage and escorted her to the door of the Lewis home. Ever the gentleman, he effected a deep bow and lightly kissed her extended hand, letting his lips rest on her skin a trifle too long, she thought.
“Remember. It is my innocence that pleases you,” she said with a slight smile.
“It is the promise of the loss of your innocence that intrigues me,” he replied, bowing again before re-entering the carriage.
Troubled by his words, Elisabeth unlocked the door and let herself in. It is a difficult line to draw between leading him on and maintaining her virtue, she thought. It was a danger to spying she and Will had never anticipated. Elisabeth fell asleep thinking of Will in a crisp, clean blue uniform sitting next to her in the theater, whispering in her ear and laughing along with her. Across the gallery, John Stoner stood in a box with a pistol aimed at his brother. He fired and she awoke with a start. The shutter banged against the window and blew back to reveal snow falling on the street below.
Early Friday morning, she and Mary Lewis left the house and hurried to Market Street. The flimsy wooden flaps of the stalls were already propped open with knobby, notched sticks. The plain slatted tables were covered with winter vegetables, parsnips and potatoes, carrots, cucumbers and cabbage, pickled in the fall, apples from the slate racks of farmers’ cold rooms, jugs of cider, mushrooms and herbs gathered from the forest, sacks of flour, fish freshly caught that morning and carted up from the river and slabs of beef, veal, lamb, some local wild game, venison, rabbit and squirrel and, imported from the Caribbean, cinnamon, cloves, pepper, bay leaves and other spices.
Elisabeth took Mary’s arm as they went over slippery cobblestones from stall to stall, weaving their way through the crowd of women, some looking hungrily at food they could not afford, others competing for
the best there was to offer. Prices were set by Superintendent Galloway to prevent inflation. These meant nothing when the item was in great demand. Mary purchased two fish that were cheap and reasonable and passed by a meat seller offering veal and lamb for exorbitant amounts. Elisabeth found Mary to be a frugal and shrewd purchaser even though she had more than enough money. Her one extravagance, now that the blockade had been lifted was tea – her favorite hysop tea brought by ship from England every few months.
Elisabeth was dependent upon Mary for all her necessities, having no source of income of her own. Mary Lewis maintained her husbands’ wagons and hired them out to sutlers and the British Army Quartermaster’s Corps at six pounds sterling per day. In addition, promptly on the first of the month, she received rental from different ship owners and merchants for the space they rented in the three warehouses Edward Lewis owned down by the river.
Although Elisabeth benefitted from the abundant and varied supply of foodstuffs brought to the city, inwardly she seethed at the farmers’ refusal to provision the starving soldiers at Valley Forge. She knew it was their greed, not loyalty to the Crown, that drove them to the Philadelphia markets where they received payment in sterling or pieces of eight, instead of the almost worthless Continental dollars offered at the American camp.
Elisabeth stood behind Mary’s short stout figure as she bargained with a farmer selling live chickens and arranged for delivery of the bird to her cook. Further up the street, they stopped at a stall where a small group of women were purchasing flour, running the powder through their fingers, assessing the color, texture and fineness.
“Nothing but the best quality here ladies,” the man behind the counter shouted, pointing to sacks of flour arrayed on either side of him. “Forty shillings for a pound of the finest wheat, thirty for rye and twenty five for barley malt. ‘Tis all cut and stored well - no moisture or weevils in this lot,” he said sifting his thick fingers through the brown colored wheat meal. “Buy the best wheat and I will drink the barley malt with you,” he said, winking at one of the younger women.
Spies and Deserters Page 3
