Mary ordered four pounds of wheat flour. As she drew her pouch full of coins from under her apron, the woman next to her said quietly, “Make him weigh it again. His thumb was on the scale.” Mary looked up in surprise. “Elisabeth. Did you watch him for the weighing?” Elisabeth shook her head.
“Weigh it again, please,” Mary asked in a loud voice.
“You do not trust me Madam?,” he said angrily, appraising Mary’s short stature and Quaker cloak and cap. “I run an honest shop and my scales are fair and balanced.”
Mary insisted and the stall owner became abusive. “You Quakers are all alike. You take no side but your own while accepting the Crown’s protection. I have no need for your money. If you do not trust me then take your business elsewhere.” He waved his hand in dismissal.
“If you do not weigh that four pounds of wheat again, no one else here will trust you,” the woman standing next to Mary said loudly. The other women began chanting “Weigh the wheat. Weigh the wheat.” The man became red-faced. He anxiously glanced up the street, concerned the commotion would attract a city patrol.
“Perhaps you were distracted. If it comes up short, I will consider it an honest mistake,” Mary said pleasantly. The man grumbled and, making a big show of the uselessness of his doing so, put four polished brass cylindrical weights on the pan on the right. The scale tipped down while the pan on the left containing the wheat rose up. He scooped more flour from the barrel and poured it until both pans balanced. “Must have been fuzzy minded when I weighed it out,” he said, as he poured the wheat from the scale into Mary’s used flour sack.
“Mistakes can happen to the most honest among us. Intentional misdeeds are the devil’s work,” Mary said agreeably, handing the man one pound sixty shillings and tucking her coin purse securely under her apron. They moved away from the stall. Elisabeth placed the purchased flour in her basket and covered it with a cloth. She noticed the woman who had warned them had paused before a cider stand ahead of them.
“Thank you, sister, for your alertness,” Mary said, touching the woman’s shoulder. “It was short by almost one quarter of a pound.”
“Closer to a third if you ask me,” the woman replied, still fuming from the encounter. “However there is no need to thank me. We women must look out for each other in these times. There is no dearth of cheats and rascals eager to take advantage of us.”
Mary introduced herself. “And this is my friend, Elisabeth Van Hooten.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances,” the woman replied. “My name is Ann Bates,” she said, repositioning her basket on her arm and closing her cloak against the cold wind. She looked the women over. “I see both of you are well dressed. I am a seamstress and even ladies such as you may be in need to modify some dresses or even repair a worn garment, coverlet, quilt or cloth.”
“I am perfectly competent in sewing my own garments and do not engage in the licentious behavior common now in Philadelphia after the arrival of the British,” Mary said rather brusquely. Then, realizing she was being impolite to the woman who had saved her from being cheated, she added, “Elisabeth, however, does on occasion attend a dinner or tea.”
Ann appraised Elisabeth’s willowy figure. “I have also been of service to many young ladies who need to look their best at certain times.”
Elisabeth smiled brightly, thinking she would prefer not to rely so much on Peggy Shippen’s dressmaker. She disliked being the recipient of Peggy’s charity. Her friend always managed to make Elisabeth feel not only beholden but inferior as well.
“If I wished to avail myself of such services, where would I find you?” Elisabeth asked.
“My shop is off Elfreth’s Alley. Not far from here. I think you will find my rates reasonable, and,” she gestured with her head back toward the flour merchant’s stall, “I do not cheat my customers.”
Mrs. Bates left them at the cider stand and Mary and Elisabeth hurried back toward the Lewis home.
“While I disapprove of your attending all manner of teas, dinners and now even theater, where scandalous behavior takes place in public, both on and off the stage,” Mary lectured as they walked quickly on, “Mrs. Bates appears to be a sensible woman. At least she would ensure you would wear modest dress, befitting a proper lady.”
“You are a dear friend Mary and I truly appreciate your understanding of what I must do. Please, for the sake of our friendship speak no more of my social activities. I will visit Mrs. Bates soon for Captain Montresor will be escorting me to the usual weekly ball at the City Tavern.”
Mary snorted. “The City Tavern. That cesspool of vice. The only saving grace for you is your attendance with me at the New Jail to help those poor unfortunate soldiers held in that dreadful place, freezing and starving to death inside. And we are already late. The guards will not let us pass after three in the afternoon.”
After depositing their own purchases at home, they scurried up Walnut Street, stepping in the now grey, dirty slush that made the pavement more slippery. The forbidding stone jail was within the shadow of the former Pennsylvania State House, now a prison for Rebel Officers. According to the rules signed by Provost William Cunningham, posted in public houses around the city and displayed on the jail’s gates, the more than five hundred enlisted men were allowed to receive food and sundries between the hours of one and three on Tuesdays and Fridays. Only certain items were permitted
- bread, cooked or cold vegetables and soap. No drink of any kind, especially rum or other alcoholic beverages were allowed. Nor were any containers, either sealed or unsealed, such as jars, jugs or crocks. All baskets were subject to being searched and anyone carrying contraband goods would be arrested immediately. Items of clothing and blankets were also permitted.
Today, in addition to food, they were bringing a few of Mr. Lewis’s old linen shirts and two worn blankets, although Mary feared they would be confiscated by the guards and either given to their camp followers or sold at the open market near the wharves. The rumors were dozens were freezing to death each day so she felt obligated to try.
The guards were British soldiers declared invalided for regular duty but deemed fit for prison service. There were only a few women lined up for inspection of their baskets.
“It is a pity there are not more of us,” Mary said, shaking her head in disgust. “Our good Quaker women, brought up in our faith of compassion for the poor, sick and suffering souls amongst us, have been frightened away by the rigidity and untruths of our Church’s leaders.” 5 Elisabeth was surprised by the ferocity of her comment and was about to inquire as to her meaning, when it was their turn at the sentry table.
Mary pulled back the cloth covering her basket and removed a few loaves of stale bread, some parsnips and a head of cabbage. She showed the guard the shirts and he made her unfold them, felt the cloth and grunted, whether in approval of the quality or that they were not hiding any contraband, she was not clear.
Elisabeth threw back her hood, revealing her blond hair and smiled at the guard. “I have a few old blankets for the poor souls inside,” she said, “bread and the few vegetables we can afford to spare.”
“I’d wager you’d keep me warm beneath these blankets on these accursedly cold February nights,” he said leering at her.
“Oh sir. I am sure someone as handsome as you has no trouble attracting the ladies for that purpose. Besides, I am already spoken for by a Captain on General Howe’s staff,” she said sweetly, leaving unsaid the consequences to this Private if he continued to make lustful remarks to her. She knew he would assume she was the Officer’s mistress.
“And why would sech a lady as you who warms the bed of a King’s officer, bring food to sech scum as we have imprisoned here?” he asked, picking at a sore on his cheek.
“My Captain knows I do this mission of mercy. He regards it as proof of my innocence which he says makes me more desirable to him,” Elisabeth replied, echoing something of Captain Montresor’s expression of admiration.
The guard smirked, undressing Elisabeth with his eyes. “Tis our lot that the Officers git the fine ladies and we poor soldiers ar stuck with the poxy whores and weathered camp followers who lift their skirts for a piece of soap, a dented spoon or a glass of rum.” He salaciously looked her up and down one more time. “You may pass through to the entry hall,” he said waving the two of them on.
Inside, it was much colder, as if the very walls retained the icy temperatures and rebuffed any warmth from the air outside. Elisabeth pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders and throat. The air was dank, bone-chilling, with a whiff of the stench from the living held inside.
They approached the long table in the entry hall and placed the contents of their baskets on the bare wood. Elisabeth thought how little there was to share among all those prisoners, even if the guards permitted the foodstuffs, clothing and blankets to be distributed. Yet for some, it would mean life or death. She knew of the reports of the prisoners not receiving even a morsel of food for five days at a time. All they could do is come on the days allotted, leave what they had brought and hope for the best.
She was relieved once they were outside the gates in the waning afternoon sun and away from the forbidding stone building. “A proper lady does not engage in lewd banter with men like that,” Mary said disapprovingly.
“Harmless flirting for a good cause cannot be immoral,” Elisabeth replied, wondering whether Will would agree. They passed the State House where more than sixty captured Rebel officers were imprisoned. Rumors were the conditions here were only slightly more tolerable than for the prisoners held in the City Jail. Wives and relatives were forbidden to visit, and after a recent escape, the guard had been doubled and not even the charity of the women of Philadelphia was accepted.
Elisabeth would include something about the miserable condition of the prisoners in her next letter to Will. She would couch it as idle gossip. Perhaps, some arrangement with respect to the treatment of British prisoners could lessen the harsh conditions at the City Jail and State House. As they passed near Elfreth’s Alley, she remembered she needed to visit Mrs. Bates soon, well before the weekly ball. She had a notion of how she wanted one of her dresses altered so it would look more fashionable.
John Stoner walked down Broad Street into the teeth of the wind. He should have been at home before a warm fire or perhaps, after dinner, visiting Mrs. McCoy’s establishment for a taste of one of her delectable young ladies. Instead, he braved the bitter winter afternoon cold, searching for Captain Chatsworth. He had sent his man to the Captain’s quarters. The stupid sod had returned without even having inquired where Chatsworth might be this afternoon. The man was useless. He regretted hiring him but the prestige of having his own “batman” gave him pleasure. Maybe threatening to cut his wages would improve his performance.
He pushed open the door of the City Tavern located on the south side of Market Street. It was a relief to come in from the cold. Even if Chatsworth was not within, he would drink a beer and mingle with other officers. To his delight, he saw the Captain seated at a table surrounded by several dragoons. It was obvious they had all been drinking for quite some time.
“Ah, John.” Chatsworth called out in greeting. “You have torn yourself away from all those reports to go out on the town? Here fellows. Make room round the table.” Three of the dragoons shifted on the bench, one commenting loudly that there was no need for a chair back for ‘Ramrod John.’
John realized he would have to spend time in faking merriment and serving as the butt of their jokes until he could speak to Chatsworth in confidence. He amused them with a few tales of gossip his spies had brought him, including one of two officers whom he discreetly declined to identify, both of whom had the same mistress but did not know it.
“You must reveal her name,” several of them urged. “Perhaps, we could add a third or fourth to complicate the situation.” John half listened to the ribald comments as the dragoons discussed the possibilities of the poor maid forgetting with whom and when she had made the assignation and rushing from bed to bed to fulfill each lover’s desires.
He was tired and bored by these drunken troopers. He wanted to get Chatsworth alone and dangle before him the plan for a foray to New Jersey. He was sure he would have the Captain champing at the bit. And when John arranged for Elisabeth to learn of the imminent raid it would require her to act quickly and without her usual caution, turning to Mrs. Bates as a trustworthy messenger immediately at hand. He leaned over to Chatsworth, cupped his palm over his mouth and suggested they ask the tavern’s owner for a private room to talk.
Once inside the owner’s office, a small garret on the second floor, overlooking the snow covered race track, Chatsworth immediately lost the haze of alcohol.
“Well, John. What do you have for me?” he asked in his clipped British accent.
Stoner smiled. “This is a grand opportunity for glory and promotion and I trust you will remember who it was who made this possible.” May as well plant the hook of indebtedness early, he thought.
“Do you recall that fine home in Princeton General Cornwallis occupied as his headquarters?” Chatsworth nodded in assent.
“It belongs to John Witherspoon, a rabble-rousing Presbyter Reverend. He is one of the signers of the document the Rebels have misnamed their Declaration of Independence, a pack of lies and insults against the Crown. Witherspoon is a member of their Congress and until recently was in York where they have been holding forth.” John leaned forward as if the next piece of information was the best. “His son was killed at Germantown. The grief-stricken Reverend is taking his son’s body back to Princeton to be buried in the family plot at the Presbyterian Church.”
Chatsworth, excited by the information, stood and began pacing the small room. “We could cross the Delaware north of Darby and proceed on the Jersey side. A hard ride would bring us to the outskirts of Princeton within a few hours, camp in the surrounding woods overnight,” he said thinking out loud. “Then seize the good Reverend in the early dawn, and be back in Philadelphia in time for a late dinner.”
“It may take you longer than that. There is another prize to be plucked.”
Chatsworth stopped pacing and sat down opposite Stoner.
“Go on.”
“Dr. Benjamin Rush. Another signer of their treasonous document. He is in charge of a hospital at Princeton. You could capture both and bring them back to Philadelphia trussed up like pigs for market.”
“Two would be a fine prize,” Chatsworth said, gloating as if he envisioned already bringing them before Colonel Harcourt. “I do not want to seem greedy but are there any wounded worthy of snatching as well?” he asked.
“I have no specific information but I would doubt it. They keep their wounded senior officers in homes of Rebel sympathizers. My network will soon locate such places.”
“Well then. We will simply torch the hospital and bring back the good Reverend and Doctor Rush,” Chatsworth said. “Thank you John for this information. I am certain Colonel Harcourt will approve. He has been eager for any kind of action for his dragoons.” 6
John left the City Tavern well pleased with himself. Chatsworth was like a hound on a fox. Once he knew the dragoons were ready to leave, John would call on Mrs. Bates and instruct her to contact Elisabeth. He reveled in the thought of confronting her with her own traitorous letter in his hand.
Chapter 3 - For the Love of a Slave
The early February blizzard delayed Will’s departure. He was anxious to leave Valley Forge. He fretted about Elisabeth and was frustrated by his helplessness to protect her from his older brother. None of his friends offered any solace. Nat was worried there had been no letter from his wife about her health nor the well-being of their infant son. Adam was never around and when he was, he was morose and truculent.
Big Red seemed to have recovered but without forage soon, his intestines would knot again and this time could prove fatal. Every day brought the death of more men from disease, expo
sure or starvation. Burial crews built fires and hacked at the frozen ground with pick axes and shovels. Dead horses lay all about the camp. Over two hundred had died since the beginning of January. The starving troops lacked the energy to bury their large carcasses.
Not even his promotion to Lieutenant at the beginning of February had raised Will’s spirits. Doubling his pay to thirteen and one third dollars per month, the equivalent of almost ninety-five shillings, meant nothing if you were never paid. He might as well be earning a Colonel’s wages of fifty dollars per month for all it mattered. 1
Despite General Knox’s words about Will’s bravery at the battles of Brandywine and Germantown, he was certain he did not deserve the promotion. He was only elevated in rank because so many officers were resigning their commissions and returning to their homes and farms. Most explained their families were starving and they needed to provide for them. Others simply left to be with their loved ones. 2 If he did not merit being promoted, then General Knox had lied to him about the reasons for it. That distressed him even more.
The rumors in camp about the hired wagoneers’ abandonment of the wounded in Reading had been true. After a three-day journey over ice-rutted roads, crowded into wagons with little in the way of food or blankets, the wounded had been left in the streets of Reading to fare for themselves. Some froze to death, unable even to crawl to a home and seek shelter. New General Orders had been issued. Henceforth, all incapacitated soldiers at Valley Forge would be moved only by wagons driven by military personnel. 3
Two new hospitals had been established, one in Yellow Spring, a little more than ten miles from Valley Forge. Will was one of the drivers in a sixteen wagon train transporting soldiers to the other hospital at Princeton. Most of them suffered from typhus, fevers and fluxes which left them barely living skeletons, too weak to sit up but not quite dead yet. The hope was that by moving them from the makeshift, overcrowded converted barns at Valley Forge, they would recuperate with some modicum of medical care.
Spies and Deserters Page 4
