Sarah's War

by Eugenia Lovett West

  As long as he lived, he would never forget lying on the hillside at Chadds Ford, watching the British troops coming out of the shadows below. Across the narrow strip of water, Washington had assembled his best men: John Sullivan of New Hampshire commanded the right wing, with Anthony Wayne of Pennsylvania to the left, and Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island in the center. An advantageous position, and from general to drummer boy, hopes were rising that a victory would convince the world of their fighting worth.

  It didn’t happen. A wheezing local squire, Major Spear, had galloped to headquarters, warning that a second army of redcoats had marched up the Great Valley road, crossing the river at Jefferis Ford. They were resting in Sconnelltown, giving Washington just enough time to regroup. Fading light allowed his outnumbered men to escape down the Chester Road, but the misfortunes of the day could have been prevented by better intelligence, a commodity as vital as arms or food.

  As Andrew passed the public markets, he slowed and lowered his head. This was a city in waiting, not knowing what to expect, but he had lived in Boston during an enemy occupation. He knew about the dirt. The destruction of property. The incidents of violence by lawless men. The shortage of food and wood. How would it end? For him, there was only the life of a spy—and the likely chance that he might die twisting at the end of a hangman’s rope.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  September 18, 1777

  Mrs. Thomas Sage’s white ballroom was famous in a city of beautiful houses. Three nights ago, carriages and sedan chairs had rolled up to the door on Third Street. The ballroom glowed with dozens of candles. Musicians played. Champagne was served. Sarah received with her aunt, curtseying to gentlemen in brocade coats and ladies in powdered wigs and wide skirts. Her gown of white silk over a quilted petticoat was decorated with yards of fine lace.

  The atmosphere grew animated almost to the point of shrillness, but smiles and laughter hid a strong undercurrent of tension. Sir William Howe was said to be well-disposed toward Americans, but even those loyal to the king knew that a pleasant way of life was about to end. No occupied city could avoid pain and destruction.

  This morning Mrs. Sage and Sarah sat in the dining room finishing their breakfast, though Cato no longer waited on them wearing white gloves. Yesterday all the slaves except Daniel, Cato, Lorelia, and Pompey had left for Sageton in the country. “Fewer mouths to feed,” Mrs. Sage told Sarah,” and I prefer a winter with the British than to be at the mercy of profiteers who call themselves Committees of Safety. We saw what happened last year in Jersey when the have-nots found themselves in the driver’s seat. I have more faith in the British to control their men than in our militia captains, and I hope I’m proved right.”

  The day was bright and sunny. Mrs. Sage put down her coffee cup. “Please go to Mr. Strant’s and see if my books have arrived. Then I have a task for you here, so don’t dawdle with your new friends.”

  “No, Aunt.” During the reception, she had been aware that the girls her age were passing judgment on William Lang’s arrangement of her hair, her white silk gown, her buckled slippers. She had no hopes of being admitted into their tight little circle, but as they left, Becky Franks whispered in her ear, “Our mothers told us to be polite, but we didn’t know you would be so pretty. Meet us tomorrow at Mr. Strant’s bookshop. We go there every morning.”

  Mrs. Sage busied herself with papers. Sarah went to get her new clogs and skimmer hat, and moments later she was hurrying down the street.

  Her first visit to the bookshop had been a revelation. Parson Champion believed in a classical education for girls, but here, temptingly displayed, were the latest novels from London. She admitted to Mr. Strant that she had no French, no musical talent, and couldn’t embroider. He was sympathetic and recommended The Amours and Travels of Two English Gentlemen in Italy.

  Today the girls were already there, and Becky Franks was scolding Mr. Strant. “It’s too bad of you, Mr. Strant. Very much too bad. You must have a new shipment from somewhere. We are sick to death of Dr. Young’s Night Thoughts.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Franks, but there’ll be no more shipments while the rebels hold forts in the river and keep the British fleet from coming up.”

  “Those two little forts are spoiling all our fun. I could take those nasty rebels by the throat and shake them.”

  Mr. Strant turned to Sarah. “Good morning, Miss Champion. How may I serve you?”

  She made a little curtsy. “Good morning, sir. Does this mean my aunt will have to wait for her books?”

  “It does. My apologies,” he said with a smile. Not many young ladies curtsied to tradesmen.

  Peggy Shippen shook her blonde curls. “No browsing today, Sarah. We’re going to the Chews to practice papyrotamia.”

  “Papy—what?”

  “Making designs out of paper. It’s the latest fashion in New York.”

  “That may be, but my aunt wants me to come straight home.”

  Becky Franks raised her hands. “Your aunt is a mean taskmaster. I wonder you can put up with—no, I don’t wonder. I would never dare to cross that lady.”

  Sarah smiled. She was learning to hold her tongue when patriots were berated—and it was hard to despise these lively girls, her new friends. There had been little time for being with friends in Myles.

  The walkways were crowded with shoppers as Sarah hurried along. She was becoming used to her aunt’s eccentricities, her little cigars and constant use of a special kind of snuff. Lately there had been no talk of politics. In fact, she was beginning to admire her aunt’s capable and evenhanded way of managing the large city house and Sageton, the vast country estate.

  In her two letters home, Sarah had written that she was well, her aunt was kind, but that it was almost certain that the British would soon occupy the city. That was all. No need to tell them that Mrs. Sage was a loyalist, or how quickly their daughter was adjusting to a frivolous life. Still, there was no harm in learning how to use a fan and conduct a polite conversation. These were only superficial changes. She would help her aunt through the occupation and go home ready to wear homespun and work in the fields again.

  But one situation was a growing worry. By now she knew very well that Mrs. Sage did nothing without a reason. At the reception, Josiah Trent had hovered as if there were an attachment, and Aunt had not discouraged him. Marriage with Josiah would be a way to join the Sage and Trent business and give Mrs. Sage more control. But marry a spoiled weakling with moist hands and wine on his breath? It was all she could do to keep a civil tongue in her head during the lessons and when they met elsewhere.

  As she reached the front door, Daniel passed by carrying wooden boards, followed by a muttering Cato. Her aunt was standing in the hall. “What kept you? Do you have my books?”

  “There won’t be any more shipments until the British ships come up the river.”

  “Well, the rebels will give up before long. Take off your hat and come to my bedroom. I have something to show you.” She paused. “I hear people are starting to bury their valuables in their gardens, the first place intruders would look. I plan to make an extension of the wall by the fireplace with two concealed doors, one into my bedroom, the other into the hall. There will be shelves for my jewelry, the best silver, boxes of gold worth a fortune. Fortunately I have a remnant of the Chinese wallpaper, so no one will notice the difference.”

  “You think soldiers will break into the house?”

  “It’s best to be prepared. One never knows.” She turned and gave Sarah a stern look. “No chattering to your friends about a secret closet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Aunt.” She took a deep breath. Until now she had done her best to believe that the British might be stopped before they reached the city. No longer. She might as well face the truth. Once she might have run at them screaming “Murderer!” but weeks with Aunt had taught her a certain amount of restraint. When they came, she would force herself to pretend that they were noth
ing but straw men, like scarecrows in a field. She would never betray James and the cause of independence by speaking to them. Never.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  September 26, 1777

  At mid-morning on a warm autumn day, Lord Cornwallis led the first wave of soldiers into Philadelphia. Cornwallis was second in command to General Sir William Howe. He was short, heavy-set, with a cast in one eye. Well-liked by his men, it was known that he was anxious to get back to an ailing wife in England.

  The army’s entrance was slow and dignified. The Royal Artillery Band played “God Save the King.” Wide-eyed boys ran alongside the Hessian grenadiers, fierce-looking men dressed in black with brass combat hats. Then, like a monstrous flock of butting sheep, came the soldiers, women, and baggage trains, all vying for space as regiments went to their quarters. As they swarmed into town, the very seams of the buildings seemed to struggle to contain them. But this was only the start of the occupation. Sir William, now headquartered in the Chew country house, had remained in Germantown with a large part of his troops.

  Late that afternoon, Captain Warren made his way to the house of Mrs. Thomas Sage on Third Street. By dressing like a Quaker and rubbing flour into his face, he was able to pass for a tall, strongfeatured lady.

  As a black man in livery came to the door, he adjusted the strings of the gray Quaker bonnet. “Good day,” he said in a low, slightly hoarse voice. “Kindly ask Mrs. Sage if she will see a Mrs. Lewis.”

  The old man pulled down his lower lip. “The mistress expecting you?” A poorly dressed Quaker woman was not a welcome caller.

  “A matter of business, tell her.”

  The man hesitated, then opened the door and led him to the front parlor.

  A small fire burned in the grate. He twitched at his skirts, surely an invention of the devil. A fine house, but his own in Boston was even finer. Two years ago he had stormed out of that house followed by his father’s angry words: “I have eaten the king’s bread. I will not turn against him.”

  A tall, dark-eyed woman came through the door. She held her head high and was wearing a blue silk gown trimmed with lace; his mother would have admired her morning cap, a mother who must be wondering if her only son was alive or dead.

  “Mrs. Lewis?” A cool questioning voice.

  “Good day, ma’am. I understand that you have offered assistance to a certain military organization. Assistance of a delicate nature. If I’m mistaken, I beg your pardon.”

  She hesitated, but only for a second. “You are not mistaken. May I ask how you know this?”

  He walked to the door and flung it open. No one was there. When he came back, she lifted her eyebrows.

  “My servants are too well-trained to listen at doors, Mrs.—or perhaps I should say Mr. Lewis. You are quite safe here.”

  “A foolish assumption. No one is safe these days,” he said curtly and watched for her reaction.

  “Indeed. Tell me this. Why are you dressed like a Quaker woman? To what do I owe this unusual call?”

  “I’ll be blunt. Some weeks ago, did you write a letter to General Washington offering him your services as an informer?”

  “I did. I gave it to my friend Colonel Tilghman, one of the general’s aides. I never received a reply.”

  He hesitated. Tench Tilghman was one of Washington’s most trusted aides. Increasingly, the thirty-five-year-old colonel, son of a confirmed Maryland loyalist, carried a heavy load of problems. “The letter was received, ma’am, but the offer is unusual, to say the least. It requires an explanation.”

  “Very well. Sit down, Mr. Lewis, or whoever you are,” she said, and seated herself by the fire.

  He adjusted his skirts again, took the chair facing her, and cleared his throat. “To begin, I need to know why a prominent loyalist lady would risk collecting information for General Washington. Are you a gambler who feeds on risks? A double agent hoping to be paid by both sides? There are more double agents in this city than squirrels in the trees.”

  “I am neither.” She paused. “Rather, call me a realist who prefers to be on the winning side. As Voltaire once said, ‘History is filled with the sound of silken slippers going downstairs and wooden shoes coming up.’ The British must fight from a great distance. Their leaders in London have little or no knowledge of this country. In the end I believe they will count up the cost and leave.”

  “Fine words, but I need facts, not opinions. You would be putting yourself in great danger. You must have a compelling reason.”

  “A reason compelling enough to make my offer acceptable?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “I see.” She adjusted the embroidered fire screen to shield her face and stared into the fire. At last, as if coming to a decision, she folded her hands. “I have never spoken of this before. I trust you will not pass on what I tell you now.”

  “I make no promises.”

  “So I must rely on your discretion?”

  “You must.”

  “In that case—” She turned and pointed to a portrait hanging on the far wall. “When my late husband, Thomas Sage, started his trading company, he depended on English buyers. In the early days I traveled with him. On this particular trip, a London merchant contracted to buy a year’s worth of our lumber.”

  He waited, saying nothing.

  “I was young and thought to be handsome. One night my husband was called away. I was alone in our rented rooms. This merchant came to call. He was drinking. When he discovered I was alone he became . . . abusive. He paid no attention to my protests, he took them for coquetry. Ladies in his set were very free with their favors, and I was only a colonial. He forced himself on me. Later that night I lost the child I was carrying.”

  She paused. Her mouth was set in a thin line. “I could have told my husband, but losing the business would have ruined him. And . . . I didn’t know then that I would be childless. I never returned to England. Over the years, I managed to hide my hatred of the British, but when I heard they had left New York I saw a chance to strike back. My reasons for revenge are personal, but they are all the stronger for that. I am not a forgiving person. I wanted children. I wanted them very much.” She got to her feet and went to the window.

  He studied the rigid back with growing interest. So far he had found no way to insert an informer into Sir William’s inner circle. This woman had steel in her spine, and her story had the ring of truth. Mrs. Sage should be the matriarch of a large, powerful family. She had good reason for deep and lasting hatred, but he must keep holding her feet to the fire.

  “Your feelings are understandable, ma’am, but how did you think you could help us?”

  “When Sir William comes, he will reach out to loyalists. I will be invited to his parties, but officers talk far more freely in front of pretty young girls. Several weeks ago I sent to Connecticut for a niece I had never seen. A homely girl would have been no use, but this one is a beauty. Countrified, but she is having lessons in dancing and deportment. Because of her looks, officers will flock to her side.”

  He frowned. “You sent for a young girl to help you spy? Does she know about your plan?”

  “No yet, but Sarah Champion is a dedicated patriot. Her brother was killed at the battle of Long Island. When she discovered my loyalist views, she almost went home. Believe me, her hatred of the British is as strong as mine.”

  A piece of coal fell in the grate. He stared into the fire. The woman was fashionable, cool, primed for the kill. The very person he could use, but she had made two serious mistakes. The first was to put her intentions in writing. That letter could have been passed from hand to hand. Both sides were making every effort to infiltrate the other’s headquarters. There was no guarantee that Mrs. Sage’s letter had not been read by an informer.

  The second mistake was to use her niece as bait. Officers might talk loosely in front of this niece, but young girls were about as reliable as frayed rope. He could hear his little sister Lucy’s voice: “La, you must ne
ver tell anyone, but my aunt and I have a secret.”

  Mrs. Sage raised her hand. “I know what you are thinking. Young girls cannot be trusted, but in this case you are wrong. Sarah would give her life to avenge the death of her brother.”

  He cleared his throat again, thinking fast. A disappointing outcome and a waste of valuable time. He must extricate himself as quickly as possible.

  “Mr. Lewis?”

  He tightened the strings of his bonnet. “Your offer to help is commendable, most commendable, but the risk is too great.”

  “Too great? What can you mean?”

  “You stated your intentions in a letter. There’s no knowing who may have read it—may yet read it and report you to Sir William.”

  “Are you telling me there are spies in General Washington’s headquarters?”

  “Couriers come in and out. Servants. Orderlies. Not everyone around him can be vouched for.”

  “But surely—”

  “Ma’am, consider the consequences. For a double agent, the information that a well-known loyalist lady is a secret patriot would pay well. Extremely well. For a British spy, it would be a feather in his cap. I doubt Sir William would hang you—that would cause too much bad feeling—but he would have to act. You might find yourself in prison. Your property confiscated.”

  “I understand and I accept the risk. I have waited a long time to pay back what was lost. I’m willing to take a chance on the letter.” She raised her spectacles. “That said, what is the next step?”