by Susan Foy
“Those rebels can’t stand against the King’s army,” one of the men boasted. “A gang of yokels with sticks and stones is all they are. No discipline, and deserting right and left from what I hear.”
“They hate the bayonets.” The portly soldier with the peach brandy waved the bottle at Nicholas as he spoke. “They’ll fire their muskets at us, but as soon as we start a bayonet charge, they turn and scatter like a bunch of little scared rabbits.”
“You can’t blame them,” Nicholas pointed out. “Look at their generals. Look at their officers. Not a real gentleman in the lot. Washington is the commander-in-chief of the army, and who is he? Just a planter from Virginia. The only war experience he had was in the French and Indian War, and he didn’t even distinguish himself there.”
The portly soldier laughed. “French and Indian War! These colonists have never fought in a real war. Now they’re learning. Now they’re finding out what it’s like to face a real army.”
Nicholas nodded as if granting the truth of his words. “Once you men get to Philadelphia, the rebellion is practically over, I hope.”
“Aye.” The soldier with the snuff dipped it and smeared it on his gums. “But that won’t be till spring. I don’t suppose General Howe wants to fight during the winter.”
Nicholas nodded again, his voice very casual. “So you’ll be staying this side of the river till spring. That’s sensible, and I know the New Jersey folk will be glad of it.”
A lean, fair-haired man was eying Nicholas with an expression he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Was it suspicion? He went on, careful to keep his voice even, “Everyone around here is loyal to the King. Or rather, my family always has been. All my neighbors and friends. We just want this war over so life can get back to normal.”
“Don’t you worry, boy.” The snuff man spit at the fire. “It’ll be done with in no time. One more fight, come spring, we’ll take Philadelphia, and all will be over. You’ll see.”
The fair man was silent, watching Nicholas. Nicholas turned and began packing his wares back in his bags. In spite of the cold he was beginning to sweat. Time to move on, without being too obvious. “I think I need to get going,” he began, and then, over the back of Syllabub, he saw a man approach the group by the fire. Not a soldier; he wore no uniform. But the man looked exactly like one of his former neighbors from Philadelphia. Sam Wilcox. What was Wilcox doing here, in the middle of a British camp? What if he recognized Nicholas? He would know that Nicholas was no peddler; he might not have difficulty guessing his true mission.
Nicholas’s heart nearly stopped. He swung up onto Syllabub, turning the horse to move away from the approaching figure. He could feel the eyes of the fair-haired soldier on his face.
Beside him someone called out, “When did you arrive, Hemmings?”
Involuntarily he glanced back at the new arrival. He had been mistaken. The face resembled Sam Wilcox, but belonged to a different man.
His heart slowed its mad hammering. He waved farewell to the redcoats around the fire and started down the long path to the road.
His breathing didn’t return to normal until he was out on the road, heading away from the camp, and then he had leisure to consider what he had learned. No immediate plans to take Philadelphia. Perhaps he should have stayed longer; he might have learned more. That one soldier had panicked him by the way he was watching. And then that man with the uncanny resemblance to Sam Wilcox. Better safe than sorry, after all.
The sun was sinking low on the horizon and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He would need to find a place to spend the night, but before it got darker he would eat. He found a dry clearing on the side of the road, dismounted, and spread his blanket on the ground. He took the cornbread and half of the meat pie left from his noon meal and laid them on the blanket. He hesitated, then pulled the Bible from his bag. It was the Bible his sister Lavinia had thrust into his hands before he left home, and he had kept it as a memento of his family. He settled on his blanket to enjoy his meal, and as he did he thought of the thousands of men in the army who had not tasted such food in weeks.
Lord, thank you for this food…and for getting me safely out of another British camp…
What was happening to him? He had never prayed so much in his life. But he had never been so lonely and frightened and desperate, either. He knew he could die any day, and he knew he was not ready to meet God. And in spite of his anger and rebellion against God, he couldn’t completely disbelieve in him.
He flipped the Bible open in the middle and his eyes slid over the page. The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy...For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is his mercy toward them that fear him. As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.
His eyes fixed on the last sentence. Phoebe’s words came back to him: “God accepts you, he loves you, even if your father doesn’t.”
Was it true? Could Phoebe be right? In his anger at his father, had he mistakenly rejected God’s love as well? He wanted to believe, but how could he know?
For a long moment he lay on the blanket with his eyes closed, not actually praying, but thinking, remembering, trying to understand. Finally the chill winter wind roused him and he rose to remount Syllabub.
Lord Stirling had told him to return to the army before Christmas. Perhaps it was time. Perhaps he could find a way to get to Philadelphia and see Phoebe again. He wanted to see Phoebe, to talk to her, to remind her he was still alive. He felt a strange ache inside him that he could not completely define.
* * *
A week before Christmas Nicholas appeared at the Fuller home to share their dinner, although he had to rejoin his commander by nightfall, he said. His news of the army was no more sanguine than what they had heard from other sources, although it seemed to Phoebe he tried to steer the conversation in other directions. The optimism and enthusiasm of the summer months, the rapture that had accompanied the Declaration of Independence, had evaporated with the bloodbath of Brooklyn Heights, the mortification of the loss of Fort Washington, and this wretched retreat to the Delaware. Phoebe overheard him telling her father in a low voice that Washington himself had said “the game is pretty near up,” and that one more defeat would spell the end of the rebel cause.
He joined Phoebe after dinner as she was washing the dishes in the kitchen and offered to wipe them for her. Phoebe tossed him the towel with a look of surprise.
“We’re used to doing all sorts of tasks in the army,” he informed her loftily. “We have to get along without women, you understand.”
“Somehow I doubt you do many dishes in the army,” Phoebe laughed.
“We don’t usually have dishes. We’re lucky whenever we have food.”
“Which is why you use any pretext to come into the city and get a decent meal.”
“Aye,” he grinned, “And to catch a glimpse of the fair sex.”
She dipped a soapy bowl into the tepid rinse water and handed it to him. “So you still haven’t learned to get along without women?”
“We get along,” he told her, “but ’tis mighty uncomfortable.”
There was a brief pause.
“Is that Quincy fellow still coming around bothering you?” he asked.
Phoebe smiled into the dishwater and shrugged. “He was here once last week.”
“My cousin was in a situation like yours once.” He set down the bowl and picked up another. “Her parents wanted her to marry one fellow, but she preferred someone else.”
Phoebe wanted to ask why he would think she preferred someone else, but decided against it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. “What did your cousin do?”
“She got a child,” Nicholas said, “then her parents let her marry who she wanted.”
Phoebe shot him an indignant glare. “You would think of something so vulgar!”
“’Twas
n’t my idea!” he returned with a grin. “You asked what my cousin did; I never suggested you should follow in her footsteps.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she told him contemptuously, adding as an afterthought, “besides, I’d more likely be left with no husband at all.”
“Phoebe!” he exclaimed, “how can you say—” He broke off, biting his lip and looking annoyed. He seemed to realize she was referring to him, although she hadn’t quite said so.
Phoebe turned away to hide a smile, secretly pleased by his response. She sometimes suspected Nicholas was not nearly as hard and cynical as he liked to pretend.
She scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the bowl she held. “What are your plans, Nicholas? Do you plan to leave the army at the end of the year?”
“Nay,” he replied simply. “I will stay with Washington until he surrenders, or until I am killed or wounded, whichever comes first.”
At the gravity of his words Phoebe turned to study his face as she handed him the bowl. “So you do not hold out hope for victory?”
He hesitated, turning the bowl over in his hands and wiping it carefully. “It does not look well,” he said finally.
Phoebe’s heart dropped, although she was not totally surprised. For Nicholas, usually so sanguine and confident, to sound so hopeless meant the army’s situation was grim indeed. And coupled with her fear for the army and their political cause was also concern for her family’s personal safety. “Do you think the British plan to cross the river and occupy Philadelphia, as people are saying?”
“From what I have observed, they intend to stay in New Jersey throughout the winter. I hope it is true.”
“What you have observed? What do you mean?”
He hesitated, glancing up and down for a moment, then around the room, as if looking for listening ears. “Do you want to know where I have been the last two weeks?” He lowered his voice. “I have been wandering through New Jersey, selling tobacco and talking Tory to the British and Hessian troops.” He grinned mischievously. “For someone with a Tory family like mine, it comes naturally.”
Phoebe dropped the bowl she was washing back into the water and turned to grasp his sleeve, her face horrified. “You mean you were spying? Oh, Nicholas, no! If they catch you, they’ll hang you!”
His smile vanished, replaced by a grim expression. “Well I know it. Just like they hanged that poor devil in New York, Nathan Hale. I think about that fellow every night. But the army has learned something about spying since then. We don’t carry any papers, so they aren’t likely to be able to prove anything against us. And Washington needs to know what the enemy is up to.”
His words gave scant comfort to Phoebe. She remembered Mr. Kirby saying that spying was the most dangerous job in the army, that experienced soldiers with little fear of battle shrank at the prospect of being caught up and hanged as a spy. And Nicholas was daily putting his head in a noose!
Suddenly he dropped his towel and swung her toward him, grasping her shoulders in his two hands. He searched her face intently. “Listen, Phoebe, you mustn’t tell anyone about this, do you understand? Not even your own family. Especially your family. Do you promise?”
She nodded, frightened by his tone.
“I shouldn’t have told you, I shouldn’t have told anyone, but I wanted someone to know, in case I don’t come back—” he hesitated and looked away, swallowing hard, “would you tell my mother?”
She nodded again, her throat too tight for words. Nicholas released her and picked up the towel again.
“So you are going back there again?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. If a battle is planned soon, I might be kept with the army.”
Phoebe did not know whether to be consoled by that possibility or not. She went to the back door and threw out the dirty tepid water, and then began to stack the clean bowls and replace them in the cupboard.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” Nicholas said suddenly.
Phoebe glanced at him over her shoulder. “What did I tell you?”
Nicholas was staring down at his hands, picking at his fingernails. “You said my father isn’t God, and God accepts me even if my father doesn’t.”
Phoebe remembered. It had seemed like a weak unconvincing comment at the time. “Aye, ’tis true.”
“I want to believe it,” Nicholas said in a low voice. “For so long I have seen God as the enemy, but perhaps I was wrong.”
“God isn’t your enemy, Nicholas,” Phoebe said earnestly.
He smiled crookedly. “I have read the Bible, too. Those nights across the river, all alone, I’ve read the Bible my sister gave me before I left.”
Phoebe tried to think of some profound response, and failed. “I’m pleased.”
He shrugged, and she had the feeling that he was trying to make light of a situation that affected him deeply. “I reckon that if I’m going to be hanged, I’d better prepare to meet my Maker.”
“Oh, Nicholas!” Phoebe felt tears sting her eyes, and then bit her lip to gain self- control. “Any of us could meet our Maker at any time, you know.”
He came to face her, once more laying his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “Will you pray for me?” he whispered.
She met his gaze then, his sparkling hazel gaze which was now uncharacteristically solemn. “I always do, Nicholas,” she said softly, “and I won’t stop until you are safe at home for good. In every way.”
* * *
“Only two more weeks till George is home to stay!” Sarah declared. The family was gathered around the table after dinner the day following Nicholas’s visit, their father glancing through his newspaper while the women cleared the table. “I will be so relieved to have him safe and sound and not have to worry anymore.”
Sally clapped her hands. “George is coming home?”
“His term of enlistment expires at the end of the year,” her mother explained.
“But he can’t come home then!” Phoebe swung around to face her mother. “If no one reenlists, the army will disintegrate!”
Her mother turned on her in fury. “It is already disintegrating, don’t you understand? The war is over! I just want George safely home!”
Phoebe fell silent, as she always did in the face of her mother’s wrath. A gust of wind blew down the chimney and into the kitchen, along with smoke and sparks from the fire. Phoebe coughed and fanned the air before her face, then carried a fresh log to the fireplace and laid it on top of the sputtering embers, her eyes smarting from the smoke.
Her father said, “I have something here that you might interest you, Phoebe.”
Phoebe joined him at the table and followed where his finger was pointing at the newspaper. He was reading in the Pennsylvania Journal an article by Thomas Paine, whose Common Sense had earlier in the year fanned the flames of revolution. She scanned the words.
These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country, but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.
“That’s what I mean!” Phoebe exclaimed. “I worry about George too, but I don’t want George to be a summer soldier or a sunshine patriot; I want him to stand by the cause even though it seems to be the darkest day.”
Her mother suddenly clapped a hand to her mouth and ran out of the room, nearly in tears. Phoebe watched her in astonishment, then turned to her father in helpless bewilderment.
Her father smiled his gentle, sad smile. “Be patient with your mother, Phoebe. This is all new to her, and ’tis hard for her to see one of her children in danger. It is hard for her to let go.”
Quick tears stung Phoebe’s eyes. “I don’t want George to die either!”
“Of course not.” Her father patted her shoulder. “But you are able to stay focused on the larger picture, while your mother can only see what is directly before her. Be patient with her, Phoebe. Perhaps she will understand in the end.
”
Chapter Nine
Christmas Eve awoke cold and overcast, with the damp scent of snow or sleet in the air. Sarah and her daughters began working on the feast for the next day, dutifully preparing for their guests, although Phoebe could not remember such a gloomy holiday in her life. Sarah wondered aloud if George would have any celebration with the army at all, and Phoebe, recalling Nicholas’s comments about the state of the army, wondered if he would even have a real meal. Did her brother even have shoes and blankets in this bitter weather to keep the cold away? And Nicholas—however much she tried to focus on her own brother, she couldn’t help remember that he might even now be spying for the army in the British camps of New Jersey. Although perhaps warmer and better clothed, his situation would be far more dangerous.
“I hope you don’t object, Mother,” Alice said as she cut into the pumpkin that would make their pie, “but I invited Edmund to our dinner tomorrow, and he agreed to come.”
Sarah brightened at the news. Phoebe’s courtship might be sputtering, but Alice’s was blazing warmer than ever, and Phoebe knew that her mother had high hopes of a wedding in the near future. A wedding—and grandchildren. It was something for her to look forward to, and it comforted her to think Edmund had no interest in the war.
“Of course Edmund is always welcome,” Sarah replied, and then was interrupted by the opening of the front door and her husband’s and sons’ heavy footsteps and voices. “Sarah! Girls!” their father called. “Come see your Christmas surprise!”
The surprise was a new Franklin stove, named for its inventor and known to be far more efficient in heating homes than the huge, open, drafty fireplaces which were used for both warmth and cooking. Richard Fuller and the boys lugged it into the parlor in pieces, where they began to assemble it with clangs and bangs.
“If the rest of the winter is as cold as this month has been, we’ll need something to warm this house,” Richard said. “I hope to get it all ready to use before tomorrow when our guests arrive.”
