He fumbled again, not sure how to reply, and Elizabeth laughed.
“So many of my friends have set their caps for the English and even the Hessian officers now with us this winter.”
“Well,” Allen offered, “they can be a charming, well-bred lot.”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, and he found the gesture to be absolutely touching.
“And you, miss?”
“Sir, you are being impertinent with such an inquiry!” She said it with a laugh, and they both smiled.
“I do remember you from my cousin’s wedding,” Allen ventured.
“And I you. Why didn’t you request a dance with me that night?”
He reddened at her brash directness.
“I feared,” he stumbled.
“Feared what?”
“That you would refuse. Or that you would accept. Either would have been painful. I am not very good at dancing. And the end result would have been embarrassment for both of us. I did not wish to subject you or me to that.”
She laughed and he found that thrilling. Shaking her head, she let her hand rest on his forearm for an instant. “I have, as they say, two left feet. Peggy can dance all night long and charm the entire room. But not I. That is why it is convenient for me to hide here while she holds forth over there.” She gestured to the next room.
“If you had asked me to dance, Allen van Dorn, we would have been a good match.”
She chuckled softly and, as if embarrassed, motioned to the pie, but he was too taken with her to wish to eat now.
There was a long moment of silence, the two looking off in different directions.
“Yet you play music well. With such a refined appreciation of music, surely you can dance as well.”
“You have yet to see me dance,” Allen offered with a nervous smile.
“My cousin and yours were a handsome couple, were they not, when they were wed?” she offered, a wistful note in her voice.
“Yes. I know he loved her dearly.”
“I know she adored him.”
She hesitated and then lowered her voice.
“How is he?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you heard from him at all? She is in agony wanting to know if he is safe.”
“Not since the war started. Last I heard he was with a Pennsylvania regiment.”
“Those poor boys,” she sighed. “Rebecca last heard of him before the fighting at Brandywine, not a word since.”
“She shouldn’t worry too much,” Allen offered lamely, “the post now rarely carries letters through the line.”
If he had survived Brandywine, surely he would by now have written a reassuring letter to her.
“We all hear rumors, though. What the,” she hesitated, “what the Continental army is enduring up at Valley Forge.”
“Perhaps his regiment was sent elsewhere,” he offered. “It’s reported a number of regiments from Pennsylvania were sent to garrison Lancaster, Reading, York, or even out toward Pittsburgh. We have word many of them left the ranks at the start of the new year. Maybe he was discharged and simply cannot return home now until this war is over.”
“I’ve heard the same, but it is small comfort for her. She is due in another month.”
“Really?”
She blushed slightly.
“Yes, really.”
“Where is she now?”
“Back here in Philadelphia, with her parents. They insisted she return home from Trenton, saying she needed proper care. She’s had a difficult time of it, and they feared she might lose the child, and that she is in danger as well. Her family knows Dr. Rush, who they hoped would be with her when her time came, but he is off in York, so they are frantic with worry as to who will attend her.”
Allen was thoroughly abashed by the turn of the conversation and could not reply.
“Damn this war,” Elizabeth sighed.
He nodded, still unable to speak, not surprised or taken aback at all by her sudden bitterness or choice of words.
“Your family, are they well?” he finally asked.
“My parents, yes.” She hesitated. “I recall a brother of yours.”
“James?”
“No, your youngest, Jonathan. A sweet lad.” She smiled.
“He did ask me to dance even when you would not. All flustered and blushing when he did so. He must have stepped on my toes a dozen times. He was such a sweet, innocent lad.”
“He’s dead,” Allen said, voice barely a whisper.
Sitting by his side, she reached out, resting her hand on his arm. He could feel her hand trembling.
“I heard rumors, but wasn’t sure if they were true,” she whispered, voice suddenly choked. “Rebecca said he was sick and died after the battle. I’m so sorry, Allen, I didn’t want to believe it. You know how it is with this war—so many rumors, and you are not sure what to believe.”
Allen lowered his head.
“He was with the rebels. They never should have put him in the ranks that day,” he said bitterly, as he fought for control of his emotions. “He was still a boy. So sick that when they pulled out of Trenton after the fight, I helped to carry him back to the ferry and across the river. He died that evening.”
She squeezed his arm again, leaning closer.
“Go on, I would like to hear if it does not pain you too much.”
“He actually took me prisoner,” and he shook his head, sighing. “He joined the rebels and I joined the Loyalists. What more is there to say? When the Hessians occupied Trenton, I was assigned to be on the staff of Colonel Rall since I can speak a bit of German. I hoped I could bring my village and the German soldiers to an understanding with each other. I saw that as my duty to the Crown and also to my family and neighbors, and to this day I do not regret it.
“After the battle, Jonathan actually was the one to take me prisoner, along with his comrades. Maybe you recall young Peter Wellsley?”
She shook her head.
“One of his comrades.”
He sighed. “They found me in my parents’ house. I was taken prisoner. I gave my parole so I could help tend to him. I didn’t go with the Hessians into captivity but was allowed instead to go with the rebel army as they crossed back over the river. He was dying even as we marched, but they wouldn’t let us stop. Jonathan was never all that strong. The march to Trenton and back killed him that day, but that didn’t stop them from using him. He was gone an hour after we crossed back over the river.”
His voice trailed off.
“I’m so sorry, Allen,” she whispered. “I regret asking now.”
“The following day, Peter Wellsley,” he continued, as if not even hearing her words of sympathy, “went to General Washington and asked for my release without terms or condition.”
“Washington actually heard him?”
“Yes, he heard me, too.”
“Tell me?” And there was suddenly a curious light in her eyes.
“I did not ask for release. I was willing to go into captivity with the Hessians. I had signed to serve and felt it my duty to go with them. I told Washington that. He replied that in exchange for the service and sacrifice of my brother, he was willing to sign my release without exchange if I agreed to honor the conventions of war and not reveal anything that I saw. I did not see that as a violation, so I agreed. I went back to Trenton to see to my parents and tell them about Jonathan, but when the Continentals returned there a week later I went to Princeton to join with Cornwallis. It was there that General Grey took notice of me and I was recruited to be his liaison for working with the Loyalists in Jersey. He asked me about what I saw while with the rebels, I told him I was honor-bound not to reply, and he actually smiled, then asked me to join his command.”
She squeezed his arm again and then pulled her hand back as if she had overstepped propriety.
“I am so sorry about your brother.”
“He was a noble soul.”
“Yet he died fighting for the rebels.”
“He was still a noble soul,” Allen replied softly, looking straight into her eyes, and she did not lower her gaze.
“Why, then, are you fighting on the Loyalist side,” she asked, “if you feel that way?”
“Because this is where my duty calls me.”
“Yet Washington treated you justly, even with compassion.”
“That is the tragedy of all of this,” Allen sighed. “We are not that dissimilar. Take Captain André. Until tonight I felt a distance from him that could not be bridged. And yet we did find common ground here in this room.” He touched Franklin’s invention as he spoke. “We share the same blood and heritage. If we fracture apart, if the rebels join themselves to the French, what then? Some say Washington is another Cromwell or Caesar in the making. I cannot believe that. But those around him, perhaps yes. If we stay with the king we can be a nation secured. The waters my brother was willing to wade into are driven by passions. Perhaps his dream will come true if they win, but I fear not.”
“But if your fears are ill founded?”
“Then that will be a miracle,” Allen replied.
“Don’t you believe in miracles?”
He looked back at her and smiled.
“Do I detect something of the rebel in you, Miss Risher?”
She arched her back slightly and looked at him defiantly.
“And so what if you do?”
He laughed softly.
“Your secret is safe with me. For after all, it could be said we are kin by marriage, are we not?”
She relaxed and smiled.
“So my secret is evident?” she offered.
“I think more than one lady here tonight is at heart a rebel.”
“More than a few,” she replied. “And still more than a few will cheer for the winning side when all is done.”
“And you?”
“The Shippens are family friends, which is why I am here. She is only sixteen, and her parents insisted that a friend must attend to her. So this old spinster of twenty-four is here as a result.”
“You could have stayed home.”
She laughed softly.
“My parents have been Loyalists from the start. I have a brother with the Royal Navy. But, if I might be so bold, Allen, there is a bountiful table in the next room and my parents did urge me that a meal in exchange for a few dances was not degrading for a lady and might help insure her position if this army is here to stay.”
She looked at him, eyes suddenly cold. “Or do you see that as the selling of myself?”
“Never,” Allen cried, “I meant no insult.”
She forced a smile.
“Well, that pie is good,” she offered.
“I’ll try some later. But you did not answer my question. Are you a rebel at heart?”
She laughed softly.
“What do you think?”
“I think you are.”
“That is bold of you, sir, to think you know a woman’s heart, and when we have been but barely introduced.”
He blushed and she laughed softly. He dared to look back at her. Her blue eyes were radiant, her figure slender, and he remembered that at his cousin’s wedding, wisps of blonde hair had peeked out from beneath her wig. He did not dare to admit how the memory of her had haunted him afterwards, how he had cursed himself as a fool for not having the bravery to ask for a dance, while his innocent, fumbling brother of but fifteen had gone up to her, she at least five years his senior, and begged for a dance.
And now to see her again, tonight, years later.
“Do you think less of me for staying with the king?” he asked nervously.
“No, of course not. You went where you felt duty called you. But, still, is it not all so tragic, after all? Your brother gone. My cousin with child not sure if the father of that child is alive. Even those officers in that next room, laughing, cheering—so many of them are torn from families and loved ones.”
They paused as if listening. André had finished with his poem of praise for the naval captain, and a lively dance was now taking place.
“And more than a few of them, as well, absolute rakes, I dare say. A woman can barely walk on Market Street without being accosted.”
“Has anyone been trouble for you?” he asked protectively.
“Would you fight a duel for me if I said yes?”
He was flustered, but nodded his head, and she laughed. “Oh, Mr. Allen van Dorn, you really are a provincial.”
He was not sure how to react.
“Now eat that pie before it is too cold. I daresay there are thousands up in Valley Forge tonight who would give a month’s pay for such a repast.”
She took the plate and offered it to him. Unable to resist, he did as ordered. As he ate, she sat silent, watching him. He was too embarrassed to stop until he had carried out her order.
Finished with the pie, he set the plate back and looked over at her.
“So tell me about this Mozart that you and Captain André so admire.”
He rambled on for several minutes until sensing that she was simply being polite. But he was now somewhat lost as he launched into the brilliance of the mathematics of the works of Bach, which lacked this new soul of music that Mozart was creating.
“Think you can play it?” she asked.
“Mozart?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure. Let me see.” He straightened himself, turned back to the instrument, pressed the pedals, and, feeling that Franklin’s device was ready, pressed a key. Again that soft, strange sound.
“Can I try?”
“But of course!”
He continued to press the pedals as she randomly touched the keyboard, exclaiming with childlike delight at what she created.
A bit of a tune started and he was surprised by her audacity. It was “Chester,” the marching song of the rebels.
She played but a few bars and then sat back, looking at him with a smile.
“So you are a rebel!” he said softly.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I just like the tune. Now to the Mozart,” she said. Trying to remember what André had played, he gently touched the keyboard, worked out a few chords, and began. After a few attempts she joined him, the two playing together.
They were so absorbed in their joint effort that neither of them noticed John André, who had been standing in the doorway ever since she had played the few chords of “Chester.” Nor did they see his sad smile as he turned and went back to join the party in the other room.
Nor did André see Allen’s right hand and her left brushing together as they played, Allen trembling with a thrill of delight as they touched.
Chapter Eight
Near Valley Forge
January 27, 1778
“Do we all clearly understand General Washington’s orders?”
Anthony Wayne paced down the line of men. They were ragged, filthy. They stank and looked like scarecrows, but most of them were grinning as Mad Anthony continued down the line.
“It’s about time. We’re with you, General, now let’s go!” someone cried, and a cheer went up.
Wayne grinned, stalked back to the front of the column, and mounted, motioning for them to follow his lead. When the dozen wagons in the column, each pulled by a team of four bony horses, bogged down in the mud of the road within a hundred yards after they set off, the hundred infantry accompanying him put their shoulders to the wheels and tailgates of the wagons to force them along.
A typical late January thaw had set in, temperature well into the forties. Fortunately, with the sky clear and no threat of rain for at least the next few days, they could yet move forward. Rain now would render the roads entirely useless. Wayne’s first target had been carefully chosen. He had set a goal for this command, a command he had never wanted, but now, stuck with the task, by God, he would fulfill it.
They dropped down into a gentle hollow, a bit of morning mist clinging above the muddy, swollen creek. Men had to push and shove the wagons thro
ugh the mud on the opposite slope and back up the hill. Still he heard little complaining, the troops seemingly feeling as if they were almost on holiday.
Gaining the crest, Wayne looked back. After more than five weeks, the encampment at Valley Forge was taking on the semblance of an actual military post and not just a gathering of beggars. Regimental streets lined with cabins were spread across the upper plain. Orders for this day were to save on firewood and to let fires in each cabin die down until dusk.
The last of the shelters were supposed to be finished by the end of the week. Men focused their limited energies on corduroying roads with saplings and brush. Those not assigned to firewood duty or excused by illness—which now afflicted more than a third of the men in the ranks—were to fall out for fatigue duty to build the fortified lines guarding all approaches, the battery positions atop Mount Joy and Mount Misery, and the bridge to their rear across the Schuylkill, which would be their bolt hole if ever attacked.
The prospect of that threat, at least for the next several days, was nil. At daily officers’ call this morning, at dawn, the general had, as was his custom, reviewed the reports of the day before. He had included, in general outline—for he never revealed his private sources—the latest intelligence from Philadelphia, New York, and elsewhere. There were no indications of any planned movement. No reports of officers in Philadelphia calling for last-minute repairs of equipment, unusual movements of their patrols, or the telltale preparation of three days of marching rations, reshoeing of horses, and the issuance of fresh cartridge and ball. The latest intelligence was about a party hosted by General Grey to honor some Royal Navy captain who had brought in a captured American ship laden with much-needed supplies for the Continental Army, now to be used or simply burned by the British in Philadelphia. The mere mention of Grey’s name of course triggered a grumbling reaction from Wayne, who had personally sworn to face the man one on one before this war was over and cut his heart out. Outrage at British atrocities in Paoli by Grey’s command still rankled that deeply in Wayne’s mind.
Besides, given the thaw of the last few days, it was one thing to move a dozen wagons and a hundred men in this quagmire. But an army? They’d bog down into utter chaos and collapse in less than three miles. The first troops to pass would make the roads impassable for the rest of the army.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 22
