by L. E. Waters
Clinton stares at me for a moment. “Espionage is a whole other skill, not something you get promoted to, André.”
“I understand, sir. I was just offering my services as best they might serve you.”
I bow to leave the room and he calls out, “I did not say no, you ninny! See what you can do then.”
Chapter 9
We wait down the dirt path from the grand rebel mansion. The ladies have been wandering together outside in the courtyard since the church bell struck seven o’clock. I raise my sword and call my knights forward. Twenty of my men ride behind me in grand costume, holding lances and shields. My vest is of white satin with pink, puffy sleeves strapped with black and silver lace. The hose I wear are such a brilliant white they nearly glow in the twilight.
A pink scarf drapes on my right shoulder, fastened with a grandiose white bow and ending with long silver fringes that hang low on my left hip. My sword belt is embellished, my garters are decorated with pink and silver bows with fringes and my wide, buff leather boots scrunch lazily around my ankles.
The best part of my costume is the white, satin hat with large red, black and white plumes I wear turned up in the front atop my curled hair, which is tied back in a silver ribbon. My men spent a week’s wages on similar costumes of pink, white, and silver. As we halt, in tight formation, in front of the clapping ladies, I have my trumpeter announce me.
I call out, “We are the Knights of the Blended Rose.” I pause for their cheers. “We droop when separated.”
Laughter echoes out around us. I have my trumpet ring again to announce the other group of Knights behind us, dressed in black satin with orange and gold lace.
Just as regally their leader announces, “We are the Knights of the Burning Mountain”—more applause—“I burn forever.”
The ladies all cheer and laugh. The Knights now dismount to find their Turkish Maidens. I saw mine from down the dirt lane. She dazzles in her gauze turban, with a gold and silver silk veil streaming out and around the bottom of her face, revealing only her large dark eyes. Her veil drapes beautifully over the long-sleeved, white, silk dress with the pink satin sash around her waist. Last, but not least, a large bow, with fringe, on her left side matches her knight.
I bend on one knee to her. “Sweet maiden, I beg you to give me your favor for the tournament.”
She laughs at my theatrics, but plays along. “Any knight who can design me a dress such as this always has my favor.”
As the other men get their ladies, I escort Peggy to lie on one of the many couches we brought out into the garden and clap for the servants to bring out the exotic fruit we acquired from the West Indies. I jump back on my Narragansett Pacer and march my team out under the triumphant arches we built as the trumpets sound. We salute each other and the ladies call out our names.
I hear Peggy’s clear voice. “Knight André, my Thorny Rose!”
I laugh at her silliness, as all the knights salute each other with our lances out. We charge each other and joust without anyone getting thrown. Some resort to firing off their pistols—although I feel it ruins the ambiance.
The women clap, and I shout, “I reconcile with happy compromise! I see we are all winners tonight!”
We all take our women inside. Peggy and I go in first and her breath catches. I have transformed the old mansion into a one hundred, eighty-foot, wall-to-wall castle: decorated the triumphal arches, painted murals on every wall, and forced enlisted men to stand in the corners of the rooms as statues in full armor. Large arrangements of wildflowers grace every table and shelf candelabras are placed all around and lit with sweet, aromatic, bayberry wax candles. Even the lustres over the long dining table glow. Classical music fills the house, and I’ve been sure to provide the orchestra with every sheet of music I can get my hands on.
Peggy gasps. “You did all this?”
“Oh, me and my army.”
She laughs. “Finally! I have never seen them so busy.”
“We have gone whole hog.” I point the large pig flayed and being hand-turned in the large fireplace. I ask a servant to be sure to start the tea service.
Small hands grab my waist, and I turn to find three women surrounding me. “Lt André, paint us please!”
I smile and Peggy gives me a look—quite possibly of jealousy— before she finds something to entertain her while I appease these young women by cutting silhouettes of them. After each frenzied fury of my sharp scissors, each girl beams at my interpretation of her and gives me a kiss on my cheek in payment. By the time I search for Peggy, she is dancing with a short knight, and I decide to assert myself on my maiden by cutting in and spinning her off to the cantata.
She grins. “In the greatest respect for your masculinity—”
“Oh, it is never a good thing to follow after that.”
We laugh, as she continues. “I dare say you dance with the grace of a woman.”
I laugh again—laughing comes so easy with her. “Well, if you said I dance like you I should think of it as quite a compliment, for I have found many women to be poor on their feet.”
Just then the cantata ends, and the minuet begins. I freeze as Peggy searches for the problem. “Wretched Minuet! I never handed them this sheet music.”
She giggles. “Such hatred for such a gentle rhythm?”
I take her by the arm and lead her onto the balcony as a servant carries a tray of champagne to us. I reach for two glasses and hand her one.
She brings it to her lips as I hold mine in the air. “To King George the III.”
“To the King,” she says, and we both sip, then hang our arms on the balcony, overlooking the garden maze.
I stiffen at a sound in the distance, and Peggy startles.
“It’s the pickets coming closer,” I deduce. “They’re swarming like sharks around the city. It won’t be long before we’ll have to leave it to them.”
She slumps at this sad news and, as we listen to the slight gunfire in the background of the sickeningly happy minuet, it seems as though worlds are colliding. She straightens sharply. “I don’t believe it.”
She squeals and hands me her champagne glass, almost dropping it in her haste.
“What is it?”
“My patriot!” she whispers loudly as she runs back into the mansion. I turn with both glasses in hand and stare down at the figure of a man coming from the woods across the garden. He hops over the hedges and jogs up right beneath me. The man stops and looks up, but his identity is concealed under a knight’s helmet. His has come in a plain costume of black satin with no embellishment, except a simple sword. Peggy opens the door under me and I imagine them running to embrace, as everything is quiet for the next few moments and then the door shuts. I decide to make my way back inside when the balcony curtains rustle and, to my surprise, Peggy and her tall man stand before me.
“This is Lt. André.” Peggy glows in the half-moon light. I put my hand out to him, the ample sleeve lace cascading down from my wrist to my knuckles.
The man brings his hand up to lift the steel flap, and I can’t believe it when I see the indigo eyes of the man I had shared a bedroll and bombard with.
He bypasses my hand and picks up one of my bows, searching, and asks, “Where’s your little weasel?”
Peggy laughs at my surprise and blurts, “He told me to seek you out. I wish I could have told you!”
I feel slightly foolish for the setup but try not to show it.
He looks my costume up and down. “I like your…pink…bows.”
Peggy pulls him away to the dance floor with a luminous grin. I take out the sheet music I had held for our last dance but decide it’s better spent now. I make my way to the orchestra and instruct them for the next song. I watch from the archway, and it’s worth it when I see her gasp and search the room for me as Pachelbel’s Canon begins. She finds me and smiles then gazes back at Smith, and they float around the room like those without the hindrance of feet. He dances her out the open French doors and into the g
arden where they still dance alone. At the end of the song, they kiss, and for the first time in long time, I feel the hole Honora left within me.
I must stop watching the happy couple and decide to go back inside to see what the general is up to. I catch him as he heads up the stairs, rather wobbly, with not one, but two giggling women at his side. I shout up to him, “I would think that the British were trying to depopulate America!”
Everyone laughs within earshot.
Clinton turns, sways a bit, and shouts, “This Brit intends to father a bastard for every rebel he has killed.”
The crowd laughs three times as hard.
A shout comes from outside. “The British fortification near German town is up in flames!”
We dash to the windows as the drummers around Philadelphia sound the alarm. Cannons boom out in different directions, and Clinton sobers quickly and yells, “All men to your horses.”
Dozens of silkened and bowed men jump on their steeds and pull out their guns as Clinton reassures the ladies, who are beginning to fret. “These are only fireworks that we’ve arranged for the merriment of the party.”
I ride off, looking back quickly to see Peggy standing alone in the garden, her knight having disappeared with the cannon fire. We ride all the way to the pickets where Kentucky riflemen hide, trying to pick each one of us off our horses. We’re forced to retreat back to the city.
Chapter 10
That night I have another vivid dream.
Smith stands up, swaying slightly with drink. “Well, then I’ll give a toast!” He holds up his glass and slurs, “I have known many, and liked not a few,”—he turns to look at Peggy across the room—“but loved only one, and this toast is to you.” Everyone quiets in the awkward moment, and he raises his glass to her.
Despard yells, “Just kiss her and get it done with, Smith!”
The room rocks with laughter.
Smith smiles, taking the jest in stride, and points to the fiddler. “Play my song and I’ll bless everyone with a little song and dance!” The happy music starts, and he yells to the center of the room, “Clear the floor, make room!”
The men push the tables to the side and get up on them clapping. Smith stands in the middle, still as an oak until he springs to life at the first word.
“Lift MacCahir Og your face
Brooding o’er the old disgrace
That black FitzWilliam stormed your place,
Drove you to the Fern
Grey said victory was sure
Soon the firebrand he’d secure;
Until he met at Glenmalure
With Feach MacHugh O’Byrne.”
At the chorus the whole room joins in, and he stops singing and runs over to grab Peggy, and the two of them spin around the floor together.
“Curse and swear Lord Kildare,
Feach will do what Feach will dare
Now FitzWilliam, have a care
Fallen is your star, low.
Up with halberd out with sword
On we’ll go for by the lord
Feach MacHugh has given the word,
Follow me up to Carlow.”
Smith handles his feet well, and Peggy floats on air. She beams as they dance, and I wonder why I never noticed before that they’re so obviously sweet on each other. The chorus stops, and he lets go of Peggy to sing as she continues to jig around him, kicking high and springing up unnatural like.
“See the swords of Glen Imayle,
Flashing o’er the English pale
See all the children of the Gael,
Beneath O’Byrne’s banners
Rooster of the fighting stock,
Would you let a Saxon cock
Crow out upon an Irish rock,
Fly up and teach him manners.”
Again, the chorus comes in, and the boys are now jumping from table to table, all singing at the tops of their lungs. The excitement is so thick in the room it makes my eyes tear—not wanting this great moment to end.
“From Tassagart to Clonmore,
There flows a stream of Saxon gore
Oh, great is Rory Oge O’More,
At sending loons to Hades.
White is sick and Lane is fled,
Now for black FitzWilliam’s head
We’ll send it over, dripping red,
To Liza and her ladies.”
A cheer roars out, and all the boys jump into the circle for dancing the last chorus. It’s a sea of bobbing heads, all shouting and pushing each other off them for room to dance, all the while smiling, though. They hold the last note for as long as they can, and when done, cheer so loudly I have to hold my ears to keep them from ringing. Smith is up on the table, and he jumps onto the boys in the circle who catches him and spins him high in the air. I look to Peggy who glows at Smith’s performance.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Days later, the British pack up and get in lines throughout the dusty roads of the city. I reach the Shippen’s door and knock as civilians scamper in the street behind me, filling their carriages to flee the city. Rosey clings on my shoulder, worried by all the commotion. I knock again, much harder. The window opens from the second story, and her father peers out suspiciously. “Oh, it is only your man.”
Peggy pushes him over abruptly and smiles down.
I yell up, “General Clinton has given orders to reinforce New York. We leave in but two hours.”
She bites her bottom lip. “This ruins all of our plans.”
“Clinton has issued an offer to allow any loyalists to join us?” I offer, hopefully.
Peggy looks behind her, and her face drops immediately. She turns back, downcast. “Father wants to stay with the house.”
“Well, this is a shame. The British shopkeepers and dressmakers are all packing their trunks as we speak,” I try to sway her.
She gives a pleading look behind her again, even stamps her foot as if a tantrum is coming on, but then wilts on the windowsill.
“Well, good luck to you all, and it would have been far too enjoyable having you accompany me to New York anyway. Total distraction. And I think you should find some comfort with the patriots on their way.”
Her eyes widen at my risky joke, and I laugh as she notices. “What is it you have there?” Pointing to the painting I have under my arm.
I smile broadly and hold up the portrait of Benjamin Franklin. “I cannot leave without a souvenir.”
Her laughter rings out amidst the background gunfire.
I call up, like Romeo to Juliet:
“If at the close of war and strife
My destiny once more
Should in the varied paths of life
Conduct me to this shore;
Should British banners guard the land
And factions be restrained;
And Cliveden’s mansion peaceful stand,
No more with blood be stained—
Say! Wilt thou then receive again,
And welcome to thy sight,
The youth who bids with stifled pain
His sad farewell tonight?”
She kisses her hankie and releases it in a dainty, fluid movement. I catch it as it pirouettes in the fall, and I make a grandiose bow, then stand and tuck the painting back under my arm to join my regiment at the front.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
As I ride up next to General Clinton, I hear his cursing from many horses away. “God damn shoulder always aches whenever it’s time to march out.” He rolls his shoulder around with his face drawn up in pain. “And what is this God-awful heat, in May?”
I move my way betwixt his aides, and he gives me a quick, sideways look before ducking under a low tree branch along the road out.
“Sir.” I nod.
“André, my boy.” He pats his red face with a handkerchief, then squints to examine what I have on my shoulder. “Either I’m losing my eyesight or you have a small weasel on your shoulder.”
“No, your eyes are
not deceiving you. It is my Rosey.”
He seems amused by it but continues, “I have been thinking. My reaction to your inquisition was defensive and unprepared.” He turns to the soldier riding to his left and gives him a hard look and sweeps his hand back for him to fall behind. Then he glances back at me. “I have been urged to pull together a board of intelligence, consisting of the best loyalist refugees from each state; gathering information, granting passes, crossing borders”—a small burp erupts mid-speech, yet he sucks it back in as quickly—“and employing their own spies.”
“I understand.” I try to keep my words short, not wanting to irritate him in his agitated state.
“I am telling you this, André, because I have realized that you are my only man of abilities, and I look to you to set an example to others.”
“Thank you, sir. An aide is only as important as his General’s orders.”
He flaps his hand, annoyed by such flattery. “What I’m saying, André, is that I would like to promote you to my spy ring.”
“Yes, sir. I accept eagerly.” My mind drifts off immediately to Peggy and Smith. “And I already have a few persons of ability in mind.”
“I am particularly interested in encouraging disaffection among any important rebels. Seduce them back over, home to mummy.”
“I will keep on the lookout for big fish, sir.”
“André, I don’t think I need to tell you to pick your informants and messengers wisely since bringing your letter to Washington, instead of me, will fetch a far greater reward.”
“You are right.” I smile. “You don’t need to tell me.”
I stretch my arm out above Clinton’s shoulder, which Rosey is trained to follow. As soon as her light feet land on his coat, Clinton chuckles in a childish way. He brings his hand up to pet her minky coat and turns to me. “I think I shall borrow her for the march.”
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
A month later, on a thick summer night, I’m riding along a dusty road no wider than a deer path. The absence of a pass makes dubious side roads a necessity. I can see the city’s lanterns through the woods and hear music playing above the accompanying chirp of tree frogs from the lake beside me. The danger and thrill in the air makes the whole night seem enchanted.
