“There is no next step.” He got to his feet and picked up his basket. “My most sincere regrets, but under the circumstances, there can be no further communications between us.”
“What?” She stood up. Anger showed in her dark eyes. “I call this a poor reward for my willingness to help. I expected a far different response.”
“Again, my regrets, but my answer is the same. The situation involves too many risks for everyone concerned. Good day, ma’am,” he said and walked quickly to the door.
Back on the street, he shook his head and started toward the corner. It would take the rest of the day to reach the Rising Sun Tavern and report the failure to Major Clark, his superior in the rapidly expanding intelligence service. In fact, Washington himself was playing a major part by preparing, in his own hand, a number of outrageously false documents.
In a few short hours, barriers had been placed across the road to Frankford. He reached the checkpoint and joined the slow moving line. The sentry, a ruddy-faced British soldier, studied a note with maddening slowness then glanced at a small man standing a few yards away. The man nodded. The sentry turned and put his hand on a middle-aged man with a short dark beard.
“Step this way,” and the man was led off. Warren winced. No doubt that bystander was there to identify suspected patriots. A sign of what was to come.
The sentry was waiting. Warren nodded and handed him a hastily written paper. It read: Permit Quaker Mrs. McChesney to pass to the Frankford Road.
“Pass,” the sentry said. Quakers generally did not engage in conflict.
Once the barrier was out of sight, he raised his skirts and went faster. The informer at the checkpoint might have recognized him. An agent could have followed him to Third Street. Last week he had lost two of his best recruits, a baker and a blacksmith. Spies were everywhere. Some were paid by the politically predictable British, but he was discovering that many loyalists were far more treacherous.
He gritted his teeth and increased his pace. Mrs. Sage had not foreseen the possibility of a spy at Washington’s headquarters, one who could read her compromising letter, but the thought chilled the blood of everyone in intelligence. A year ago, Thomas Hickey, a member of Washington’s trusted Life Guards, had been hanged for treachery. There could be other infiltrators acting as couriers or cooks or even aides—and the saying “no man was irreplaceable” did not apply to General Washington. It was becoming clear that losing the general could do more than all of Howe’s men to change the course of the war.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
October 8, 1777
The once beautiful city was bending low under the weight of occupation. Fine old trees had been felled for firewood. Washing was hung out to dry in once dignified squares. Officers strolled the streets as if they owned them. Sullen farmers complained that the British had taken the covered stalls between Fourth and Second Streets for stabling.
As well, changes were underway at the big house on Third Street. The largest rooms were closed. Meals were simpler, and Sarah had taken on many chores. One was to feed the guard dog chained near the stables, a large mongrel who howled endlessly and flung himself to the end of his chain. At first she was tempted to set him free, but here he was fed; most dogs roamed the city fighting for scraps.
That afternoon as she was taking him his dish of leftover food, nine-year-old Julia Willing came running from the alley. “Sarah, Sarah, come play with me. I brought a ball!” The Willings lived in the big house on the corner. Mrs. Willing, with seven children, was only too glad of Sarah’s help with the younger ones.
“Two games, then. In the garden.” Mrs. Sage’s large garden had been laid out by the well-known horticulturalist John Bartram. Now it was bare and cold; the box bushes that bordered the wide paths had an acrid smell.
After two games, Julia seized Sarah’s hand. “Another, Sarah. Please, please. If I go, in my mother will make me mind the baby.”
Sarah laughed and swung Julia’s hand high in the air. “Don’t complain. When I was nine I had to card, spin knots of linen, make brooms, set red dye, spin harness twine, pluck geese, cook, and take care of the animals.”
“You made brooms? Look. Here’s Tommy.”
Fourteen-year-old Tommy Willing came down the path. He picked up the ball and tossed it to Sarah.
“Catch! I just saw the billeting officer leaving your house.”
She dropped the ball. “Are you sure?” But Tommy had an uncanny way of knowing much of what went on in the city.
“Fat little major. He wanted to take the Norris house for Lord Cornwallis, but when Cornwallis heard there were eight children, he took the Reeves house instead. I wonder how many officers you’ll get.”
“Merciful heaven, I must go.” She tossed the ball back to Tommy and ran toward the house. Billeted officers would have the use of the stairs and the parlor, as well as several bedrooms. It would be impossible to avoid them.
Mrs. Sage was in the front parlor, standing by the window. “Where have you been?” she asked sharply.
“Feeding the dog. Tommy Willing saw the billeting officer on the steps. How—how many will there be?”
“None.”
“None?”
“The stupid little man blustered and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Two,’ he said, ‘and their servants.’ I soon put a stop to that. No officers and their servants will tramp through my house, breaking my porcelain. I made it clear that they would be treated like intruders. A Captain Colborne, one of Sir William’s aides, will have the use of the stables for his horses, and that is all.” She walked toward a chair. “Sit down, Niece. I have something of importance to say to you.”
Sarah didn’t move. It was here, another moment she was dreading, and she must stand her ground no matter what the consequences. She put her hands behind her back and took a deep breath. “I think I know what it is, Aunt. I know you will be angry. I—I’m sorry to go against your wishes, but I will never, ever, marry Josiah.”
Mrs. Sage stared. “Marry Josiah? What nonsense is this?”
Sarah stared back. “But—the lessons, the dinners, the way he acts as if he—”
“What I have to say has nothing to do with Josiah.”
“You don’t want us to marry?”
“Certainly not. You two are not suited.” She picked up a paper that lay on a nearby table. “The little major brought an invitation from Sir William. There’s to be a ball on October twentieth at the City Tavern. Once he comes to live in the city, it makes sense to get off on the right foot with us.” She studied Sarah intently. “Yes, you must wear the white dress with the pearls again, and Master Lang will come to do your hair. I will ask Josiah to escort us. Now that he’s with the Queen’s Rangers he will certainly be invited.”
Sarah’s head jerked back. “The British are giving a ball? With dancing?”
“Of course there will be dancing. It will be good for you and your friends to be exposed to English manners. Hard as he tries, Josiah can never achieve them.”
“No.” The word came out with force.
“What?”
“No. I’ve done my best to please you. I’ve hidden my views. I’ve lived in a way that would upset my parents, but I will never dance with the enemy. I’d as soon dance with the devil himself. Sooner.”
Mrs. Sage put the paper down. “Lived in a way that would upset your parents? I must say, you seem to have enjoyed it very well.”
“Punish me. Punish me any way you like, but I will never dance with a man who may have murdered James.” She pulled off her apron and threw it on the floor.
For a long moment, aunt and niece stood motionless, facing each other. From the dining room came the sound of Lorelia putting dishes on the table.
Mrs. Sage adjusted her cap. “Enough theatrics. Hold your temper and come to the withdrawing room. What I am about to tell you is not for Lorelia’s ears.”
The withdrawing room on the second floor was the most comfortable room in the house; the
breakfront cabinet was filled with fine books, and a round table stood in the center. Sarah placed herself in front of the door and waited.
Mrs. Sage picked up the enameled snuff box, then put it down. She ran her hand over a Staffordshire figurine and moved it a few inches. After what seemed an endless time, she straightened and looked at Sarah.
“Pay attention. I once told you I sent for you because I needed family around me. I misled you. That was not the reason.”
“Then why—”
“Kindly don’t interrupt. You nearly went home when you thought I was a loyalist.” She paused. “You may find it hard to believe, but I am not a loyalist. What’s more, I have never been a loyalist.”
“You—not—?” Sarah jerked back as if her aunt had struck her. This couldn’t be right. For weeks she had forced herself to listen in silence to insults about patriots, about General Washington himself.
“Never. In fact, last summer I wrote a letter to General Washington offering my services as a spy.”
“A spy?” She put out a hand to steady herself. Her brain was spinning like one of little Julia’s tops “You offered to spy for the general?”
“Understand this. I loathe and despise the British. I have loathed and despised them for years. My reason is personal, and that is all you will ever know.”
“But—your friends, everyone thinks—”
“Remove that stunned expression from your face. A few days ago, a man connected to Washington’s intelligence came here disguised as a Quaker woman. He did his best to discourage me, talked about risks. I’ll get no help from him, but I’ve made up my mind. I intend to go to Sir William’s parties and listen for information. There may yet be a way to pass it on.”
Sarah shook her head to clear it. “Go to parties? Listen and pass on information?”
“You heard me. No matter what the cost, I shall do my best to defeat the British and send them home. Bring them to their knees— and you are going to help me.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
October 20, 1777
Sir William’s first ball was in full swing. The Long Room in Mr. Smith’s City Tavern was filled with loyalist guests: Galloways, Allens, Gurneys. Portly Judge Shippen was straddling a political fence, but after enduring a night of high hysterics, he decided to let his three daughters attend; no sensible parent would deny them the chance to meet these eligible officers.
By eleven the young ladies were in high gear; even the plainest had partners, and the prettiest were heady with compliments.
Captain Charles Colborne moved from group to group, doing his duty as one of Sir William’s aides. Colborne was tall, with a rangy horseman’s build, fair hair, and blue eyes that viewed the world in a humorous, easygoing way. An uncle’s word in Lord North’s ear as they dined at White’s in London had resulted in a commission, but he felt no animosity toward the colonies, no more than for an unruly cousin who needed a kick in the backside. The rebellion had given him a timely chance to cut loose from his expensive London mistress and from looming pressures to take more part in running the family estates.
Looking into the card room, he saw that several colonials were seated at Sir William’s table. One of them was the lady who owned the stables where his horses were quartered. She was wearing a formidable purple headdress and appeared to be losing heavily. Best stay clear of her, he decided, and went back to the Long Room.
A number of his friends were standing against the wall, watching the dancers. Like buyers at a Newmarket sale, they were assessing the points of these fillies.
Lord Rawdon was an experienced, rich, younger son, always ready for sport. He turned to John Andre, the artistic captain who had spent time in Philadelphia. According to Andre, this was the most civilized place in the colonies; some citizens had actually taken the Grand Tour in Europe. “Who’s the dark one dancing with Bradstreet?” Rawdon asked Andre.
“Becky Franks. A sharp wit and a tongue to match.”
“The blonde with Rawdon?”
“Peggy Shippen, the youngest of three sisters. Lively but inclined to tantrums. Father is a former King’s Court judge.” Andre paused and turned to the tall officer standing beside him. “Pay attention, Jamieson. If you’re still after an heiress, Constance Brown, the little one over there, is an only child. Father made a fortune in land and timber. No offense, of course.”
Jamison smiled and said nothing. As a fellow officer, he was accepted by the others—up to a point. No one knew much about him, where he came from or what he had done before joining the regiment.
Rawdon shook out his sleeves. “For looks, the redhead is the prize. Who is she?”
Andre shook his head. “Never saw her before. She came in with Trent, fat, pasty-faced fellow who gambles and tries to pass himself off as English.”
Charles spoke up. “Don’t know the redhead’s name, but she lives with a Mrs. Sage where I keep my horses. Seen her leaping about playing ball. Fact is, I didn’t recognize her tricked out in silk and pearls.”
“That would be Mrs. Thomas Sage,” Andre said. “I heard she had a niece with her. Never saw the girl before, but I’d rather face a firing squad than Mrs. Sage.” He glanced at Jamieson. “By the way, Auntie Sage has no children and even more money than the Browns.”
Jamieson smiled again, saying nothing. His success with the ladies was legendary. Some said it was his voice, low with an odd, caressing drawl; others said it was his twisting smile. As well, he had a cool, calculating head at the gambling table and led his men on daring patrols around the countryside.
Rawdon took a pinch of snuff. “See here, Jamieson, I’ll make a wager with you. Five guineas says I’m the first to get my arms around the redhead’s waist.”
Andre raised his hand. “Be careful, my friend. The mothers here are virtuous and ambitious. Take liberties with their daughters and you may find yourself shackled.”
Rawdon grinned. “You’re right. I’ll wager those mammas over there are sharpening their claws. ‘May I present my daughter, Lady Rawdon?’ By God, m’father would disown me if I came back married to a colonial.”
“So would mine,” Charles said, and walked over to the table where punch was being served. Several of the older officers were standing together. No one was smiling.
“It’s still not certain,” Colonel Harcourt of the 16th Light Dragoons was saying. “The word came in a private letter from Albany, not an official report. Best to keep it under our hats until we hear more.” He moved away.
Major Montresor, Howe’s chief engineer since Boston campaign days, took a glass of punch, and turned to Charles. “If true, heads may roll. Seems Johnny Burgoyne surrendered to the Continentals. A place in the wilds called Saratoga. He’s also lost his wager to Charles Fox.”
“What wager?”
“It was at one of those dull evenings at Almacks. Gentleman Johnny bet Fox he’d be home by Christmas, a conquering hero. Fox told him he’d more likely be a prisoner on parole.” A pause. “Not dancing, Colborne? Ought to stake out your territory at once. Best tactic, I find.”
“Just studying the maps, Major. Don’t want to make a mistake on unfamiliar terrain.”
“Good hunting, then.”
An elderly waiter was standing behind the punch bowl, arranging the glasses with a shaky hand. Charles glanced at him. Montresor was apt to talk too freely, but news of a surrender would mean nothing to a doddering old waiter who likely was deaf as well as shaky, judging by those trembling hands.
Partners were gathering for a gavotte. Charles turned and headed for the back hall behind the Long Room. He needed a quick smoke before checking again on Sir William.
At the end of the hall, a wide flight of stairs led to rooms recently taken over by high-flying gamblers; in one evening, losses could cost a man his commission. Several senior officers had asked Sir William to intervene with no results. Sir William often gambled until dawn with Mrs. Loring. Tonight, with an eye to diplomacy, the pouting mistress had been left b
ehind.
Charles lighted a small cigar, inhaled deeply, and leaned against the wall. Being an aide was dull work. His only taste of war had taken place a few weeks ago. It had felt like a good hunting morning as he rode through a narrow valley, thick with five o’clock fog, his innards warmed with brandy. In accordance with military tradition, Lord Cornwallis, second in command, was leading a surprise march, intended to trap Washington in a pincer attack.
In the darkness, there had been an occasional low curse as a man stumbled. This was a picked bunch of soldiers, including Captain Patrick Ferguson’s riflemen, armed with a new weapon said to fire six rounds a minute.
As the morning went on, Charles could see that it was turning into a clear, hot day. Then, at noon, the order had come from Cornwallis to fall out and give the troops time to rest and eat before going into battle. Charles and his friends had taken over a big white house nearby and had a hearty meal with wine. He was not apprehensive about the fighting—he had accepted too many dares, jumped too many impossible fences to fear death.
It was mid-afternoon when the troops finally formed on the crest of a hill that looked down on stretch of prosperous farmland. Around him the battle flags were raised: red, blue, and gold. At last Lord Cornwallis raised his sword. The cannon roared and the fifes and drums struck up an old favorite, “The British Grenadiers.” With dignity, the army began to move; the grenadiers wearing their tall black hats were at the front, supported by the Anspach Chasseurs and the Hessian Grenadiers.
But across the valley, the enemy was waiting. There would be no surprise attack. For the next few hours, he carried out Cornwallis’s orders, first to fill the gap on Major Digby’s left flank, then to bring up the Second Lights. Black smoke darkened the lower slopes, and the barrage diminished as the sun began to set. In the end, dusk and darkness enabled Washington and his men to escape, wounded but not defeated.
The end of the cigar began to burn his fingers. He put it out, aware that the gavotte had ended. It was time to resume his duties, but as he turned, he saw Ian Jamieson and Mrs. Sage’s niece come out of the Long Room. He moved into the shadows and waited, curious to see how the man would cast his line. Last winter Jamieson had compromised a New York heiress and was threatened by her father. There was talk of an official reprimand. Now, thanks to Andre, the man had sniffed out another heiress and was up to his old tricks.
Sarah's War Page 4
