The Rebel's Return

by Susan Foy

  “Are you wet?” She examined his uniform with concern.

  Nicholas shrugged. “Not very. I think the jug was mostly empty.”

  They both stepped back as the tavern keeper rushed into the scene, blasting the servant girl with threats and a shaking.

  “Worthless wench,” he raged, adding a kick at the huddled figure for good measure. “I’ll never let you handle my good glassware again!” He turned to Nicholas, eying his uniform warily. “My profuse apologies, sir. That girl is very clumsy.”

  “’Twas my fault entirely.” Nicholas reached into his pocket for a coin to sweeten the man’s mood. The servant peeked up at him, and Phoebe saw Nicholas give her a wink. “Perhaps you could stick with pewter,” he added to the owner. “It doesn’t shatter as easily.”

  He took Phoebe by the arm and guided her to the door.

  “I’m glad you defended that girl,” she said as soon as they were out of hearing. “He seems like a most unpleasant master.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Accidents happen, and he couldn’t beat me as easily as her.”

  He glanced left and right up the street; she had the feeling he had something else on his mind. “Can you wait here just a moment, Phoebe? I’ll be back quickly.”

  He slipped into the alley that ran along the side of the tavern. Phoebe waited a few minutes and then, curious, peeked into the alley to see if he had disappeared. She saw him lift the lid of a crate in the alley and stuff something white into his pocket.

  How odd, she reflected. To be sure he is a courier, but he seems to pick up letters in the strangest places. First the man in the crowd at the fair, and now this. Clearly he had not wanted Phoebe to see what he was doing. She drew back and tried to seem oblivious when he came out of the alley.

  “I’m ready now.” He gave her a cheerful smile. “Listen, Phoebe, there’s a pretty little walkway down by the river, and I thought we might take a turn in it before we go home.”

  Phoebe hesitated, for she knew it would be wiser for her to be home before her mother returned. She glanced at the sun sinking on the horizon. Surely with all the work at her uncle’s, her mother would not be home before dark. Who knew when she would spend another such lovely day, or when she would even see Nicholas again? “If we don’t tarry long,” she smiled up at him.

  He smiled back at her and she felt her heart catch at the look on his face. The air had cooled from the heat of the afternoon, and as they strolled along the river the breeze carried the scent of muddy water and dried the sweat on their faces. Nicholas became quieter and held her hand as they walked together. They passed sailors along the landing, a cluster of little girls playing scotch-hoppers, and a pair of boys fishing in the river.

  Today has been the most perfect day, Phoebe thought. If only it would never end.

  Nicholas led her into a little sheltered path and to a small clearing surrounded by shrubbery. He removed his coat and spread it on the grass. “Let’s watch the stars come out,” he suggested with a smile.

  Her heart racing oddly, Phoebe settled beside him and spread her petticoat down over her feet. Nicholas’s sleeve just rested against her own. They stared up at the sky for a moment in silence.

  “I see the first star!” Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

  Nicholas turned his head to watch her face. “Are you going to make a wish?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she whispered. “What should I wish for?”

  “I know what I would wish,” Nicholas said.

  Phoebe turned toward him, met his gaze, and lowered her own in confusion. Her heart was hammering so loudly she could hear it. She felt one of his arms go around her back, and then he drew her against him and kissed her.

  It was her first real kiss, she exulted. The kiss from Rhoda’s brother under the mistletoe last Christmas didn’t really count, and neither did the kiss on the cheek she had received when she was sixteen. And it was the most perfect kiss imaginable, warm and sweet and delicious, and from the one man in the world whom she most wanted to kiss.

  Nicholas kissed her once, and then a second time, and then a third. Through the pounding of her heart and the swirling confusion of her emotions, it suddenly dawned on her that he had no intention of stopping after a few kisses. Having never found herself in such a situation before, Phoebe had no idea how to react. She felt him pull away the kerchief she had tucked into her bodice and kiss her on the neck.

  Startled, she pulled back. “Nicholas, what—what are you doing?”

  He tried to draw her close again. “Just enjoying the evening with you, Phoebe.”

  “Enjoying the evening!” she spluttered.

  She glanced around at their surroundings. The sun had long since vanished and the greenery around them was fading to gray in the dusk. There was no one in sight, only, far away, the piping voices of the children and the rough ones of the sailors. She was suddenly aware of the impropriety of being here alone with him after dark.

  She pulled out of his arms, groped for where her cap had fallen in the grass, and adjusted the neckline of her bodice. Fortunately all her buttons were still fastened. She wet her lips and swallowed.

  “I don’t know if this is your idea of enjoying the evening,” she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice, “but ’tisn’t mine. Do you behave this way with every girl you meet?”

  “What do you mean?” He drew back and folded his arms, glaring at her, and Phoebe couldn’t tell if he were more annoyed or indignant.

  “We’re not betrothed, we’re not even courting.” Suddenly she remembered that she was just a stand-in for her sister. If Alice had been at home today instead of with her mother, Nicholas no doubt would have invited her instead. “You—you aren’t even interested in me, you’re interested in Alice!”

  “Who—who told you that?” Nicholas stammered.

  Phoebe searched his face, hunting for a clue to his emotions. “Well, it is obvious. She’s the one you talk to all the time—you wouldn’t even have asked me here today except that she was away from home.”

  Nicholas opened his mouth to protest again, then flushed and remained silent. A well of silence opened between them. Nicholas rose to his feet.

  “You are right.” His tone was cool. “I was sporting with you, and that was not gentlemanly of me. I apologize, Phoebe.”

  He held out his hand to help her up, but she scrambled to her feet without his assistance. “You were trying to seduce me,” she said stiffly.

  At that he suddenly broke into laughter. “Just like Mr. B! Poor Pamela! Next I was planning to carry you off to my country estate and hold you prisoner!”

  Phoebe bit her lip, torn between anger and mortification. The sickness of disappointment churned in her stomach and she felt tears sting her eyes, which she would die rather than let him see. Nicholas was clearly accustomed to kissing girls. It meant nothing to him. He’d probably felt no more genuine attachment for any of them than he did for Phoebe. How could she have been so foolish? She turned and started back down the path toward home.

  He fell into step beside her and after a moment of silence squeezed her arm. “Don’t be so angry with me, Phoebe.” His tone was both penitent and cajoling. “’Twas only a kiss, after all.”

  No thanks to you, Phoebe thought. The Lord only knows what you really wanted. But she did not trust herself to speak, to expose her indignation to his levity or her disappointment to his pity.

  They walked mostly in silence until they reached the Fuller home. “I am leaving tomorrow for New York,” Nicholas told her as they approached the door.

  “I wish you a very safe journey,” Phoebe returned. He bowed once, turned, and started down the walk, and Phoebe opened the door to her home and went in.

  Chapter Four

  The war, which had simmered along to no great effect for months, suddenly boiled over at the end of August. Word trickled down to Philadelphia of a battle fought on Brooklyn Heights, and although reports at first were contradictory and confusing,
it soon became clear that Washington’s army had been decimated, with over a thousand men captured and nearly as many killed or wounded. The only good news for the Rebel cause seemed to be that Howe had allowed the Continental army to escape back across the harbor into New York, when he might easily have crushed it.

  Sarah Fuller was frantic for news of George, and the whole family seemed to hold its collective breath for two weeks until they received a letter which assured them that, although his cause might be crippled, George himself was alive and well. But once they were reassured on that point, there seemed little else to cheer them. The battle was George’s first real combat, and Phoebe could sense that her brother was badly shaken by the experience.

  “The mercenary Hessians are especially dreadful warriors, and made us feel their brutality,” he wrote. “I have heard tales from different sources, that they bayoneted fleeing Yankees in the back, that they slaughtered those who were trying to surrender, and in one horrible case pinned a young boy to a tree with a bayonet, leaving him to writhe there in agony for hours. You can imagine how such reports intensify our dread of battle.”

  The women of the family could certainly imagine it, and their own horror was multiplied when other rumors of the Hessians reached them. The mercenaries had looted and plundered the homes of civilians in Brooklyn, using excrement to defile the houses in order to make them uninhabitable. Women were raped in their own homes; old people were murdered.

  How many of these rumors were actually true they had no way of knowing, but the loathsomeness of the tales convinced them that if only a portion were legitimate, the Hessians must be terrifying indeed. The poor women of New York! And only Washington’s army stood between the enemy and Philadelphia! The British at least were their countrymen, bound by ties of blood and history, however misguided and estranged. But the Hessians!

  “You see how dreadful King George is,” Rhoda remarked in an undertone as she and Phoebe sat together in the Fuller kitchen soon afterward, peeling apples for pies that Pheobe’s mother wanted to bake. “He claims we are his subjects, his own countrymen, but here he’s sent this brutal army of savages to murder and rape and plunder us all. That shows what a tyrant he is. He cares nothing about the colonists, he just wants to subdue us, and he’ll stop at nothing.”

  Phoebe shuddered. “It does seem that way. Even Alice was shocked by the stories about the Hessians. She’s never cared about taxes or representative government or anything of that sort. But these stories have upset her and my mother too. How do the Hessians even know who is loyal to the crown and who is a rebel? That’s what my mother wonders about. We hear everyone is treated the same, even if they’ve stayed loyal all along.”

  Rhoda nodded, a triumphant flash in her eyes. “’Tis true! If the King really saw us as true Englishmen, do you think he would treat us this way? Would he bring the Hessians into England to behave this way? That’s what my father says. So now all the loyalists who’ve defended the King see what he really thinks of us all. Maybe it will open their eyes to the truth.”

  “It will have one effect or the other: turn them against the King, or frighten them into loyalty. I don’t know which.” If Phoebe were living in New Jersey, just across the Delaware River from Philadelphia, which way would she turn? Her sympathies lay with the rebels, even though she still debated within herself whether they had the right to overthrow their legal historic rulers. When the rulers committed such atrocities, was it acceptable to “institute new government,” as the Declaration insisted? Did governments really “derive their just powers from the consent of the governed,” and could the governed therefore overthrow them at will? Of course God put governments in power, but maybe that didn’t preclude people from choosing new rulers if it would “effect their safety and happiness.” Or was that reasoning wrong? She wished she knew for sure.

  Aloud she said, “My mother says that it’s our duty to obey the government, and so it must be wrong to overthrow the king.”

  Rhoda glanced around the kitchen, keeping her voice low. “My father was talking to his friends about that very subject just last night. And one of them was telling us about the revolution that they had in England just about a hundred years ago—I think it was called the Glorious Revolution. I don’t think I knew about it before. But Mr. Norton was saying that the British overthrew the king then, but fortunately they didn’t have to go to war to do it. That’s why they called it the Glorious Revolution, because nobody died. They got rid of James the Second and put William and Mary in his place, and they decided—I wish I could remember exactly how he explained it—but that’s when they decided that the king could only rule “by the consent of the people” or something like that. So if they can overthrow the king whenever they want, why can’t we do the same?” Rhoda gave her a triumphant look.

  Phoebe nodded slowly. “I think I remember hearing about the Glorious Revolution, but I never understood it all.”

  “Well, it seems hypocritical to tell us that we’re obligated to be loyal to King George after they got rid of King James because they didn’t like his rule. We’re standing up for our rights the same way they did back then. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes, that makes sense. We shouldn’t have to accept a ruler we don’t like.”

  But even if she were completely convinced of the ethicality of this action, would she have the moral courage to stand up for her beliefs in the face of death? To behave as George and Nicholas were doing? Or would she turn coward and sign the loyalty oath as so many others colonists were doing?

  Phoebe could not hear the news of the battle of Brooklyn Heights without reflecting that Nicholas had also been involved, but she tried to dismiss the thought as quickly as possible. The memory of their last meeting made her wince inside with chagrin and mortification. Her brother had tried to warn her that Nicholas did not have a reputation for the highest morals, and his own comments to her had certainly indicated he did not share her religious convictions, but she had allowed her attraction for him to override her good judgment. And then she had compounded her folly by displaying her feelings to him and imagining they might be reciprocated. What a fool she had been!

  Just once, the next day, she had been tempted to confide in Alice about the experience, but she knew her sister well enough to predict her response, almost to the exact words. “Really, Phoebe, what were you thinking to go off alone with a man you barely knew, who had never even asked Papa for permission to court you? You should have known he had no honorable intentions. Next time, don’t be such a ninny.” So Phoebe had prudently held her tongue and spared herself the lecture.

  How had George described her during their last conversation? Soft and sentimental and persuadable. Nicholas surely held the same opinion, possibly adding very silly to the list, but then, she did not have a very high opinion of him now, either. She would probably never see him again, and that was a relief. Her chief comfort was that no real harm had been done, and her insight into Nicholas’s character had gone far to crush her schoolgirl infatuation. Next time she would be more cautious, more prudent.

  The month of September passed with news of more battles trickling down from the north. Lord Howe successfully crossed the East River and occupied the city, welcomed by the swarms of Tories in New York. Washington’s struggling army was pushed farther north. Phoebe heard names that meant little to her: Kip’s Bay, Harlem Heights, Montressor’s Island. She prayed for George and tried not to think about Nicholas and overall sensed that they had little to feel encouraged about.

  One evening when Edmund was visiting and the family gathered in the parlor, Edmund introduced the topic of the war. Phoebe had never heard him speak on the subject before and had always assumed that he, like Alice, had no political persuasions at all.

  “I hear the redcoats are pushing the Rebels all around New York,” he remarked, sipping the noggin of cider Phoebe had brought him. “As soon as Washington settles in one place, Howe comes along and kicks him out. The next thing we know Washing
ton and his army will be knocking on doors here in Philadelphia, begging for protection.”

  His tone of levity filled Phoebe with surprise and indignation. She glanced around the circle of her family, waiting for someone to speak. Her mother was scolding Kit for ripping his new breeches and appeared not to have heard the remark. Alice was sewing peacefully. Her father looked up from the Bible in his lap and gave Edmund a troubled look, but said nothing.

  “Washington will never be pushed this far.” Phoebe jabbed her needle through the petticoat she was embroidering and pricked her finger on the other side. She put her hand to her mouth to keep the drop of blood from staining the petticoat.

  Edmund shrugged. “Time will tell. Up till now the Rebels have been marching around and making a lot of noise, playing soldier. Now they know what it’s like to face a real army.”

  “Poor George.” Alice shook her head over the shirt in her lap. “What a terrible time he must be having. I hope he hasn’t made a dreadful mistake, joining the army.”

  Edmund nodded. “Your brother is a romantic. I’m sure going off to war seemed very exciting when he was safely at home. Now he’s learning what it’s really like.”

  “He’s fighting for a cause he believes in.” Phoebe had never argued with Edmund before, and could feel her heartbeat quicken, but someone had to stand up for George and the cause. What was wrong with her family? “Nobody said it would be easy or pleasant, but what if everyone wanted to stay home and be comfortable? Who would fight for freedom?”

  “Freedom!” Edmund’s voice was heavy with contempt and indignation. “Do you think if Congress and Washington win this war you will be freer than you are under King George? Do you think Congress won’t tax their subjects into the ground to pay for this war and all the other wars they’ll need to fight to keep their ‘freedom’? That’s how this whole thing got started, you know. We fought a war right here in America to get rid of the French, and someone had to pay for it. That’s why the King taxed us. The colonists here want the protection of British troops but don’t want to pay for it.”