Sarah's War
Page 5
At the end of the hall, a curving flight of stairs led to private rooms, where the gambling took place. “Come upstairs and try your hand at faro,” Jamieson was saying. “All the ladies there play it madly.”
The girl hesitated. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t play cards.”
“Oh, but you should try. Faro is far more entertaining than dancing. I’ll be your instructor. What’s more, I’ll pay your stake.” He smiled and held out his hand.
So that’s how he’ll scuttle her, Charles thought. Once she’s seen upstairs with him, she might as well wear a label around her neck: Property of Jamieson. Charles and his friends gambled and bedded women, but they kept to an unwritten code. This man was not behaving like a gentleman.
To her credit, the girl looked uneasy. “I must go back, sir. My partner for the next dance will be waiting.”
“Let him wait. I guarantee you’ll enjoy yourself. Come.” He took her arm.
Charles straightened. His chief aim in life was to avoid unpleasantness, but this was not acceptable. Jamieson would not forgive him for interfering—there would be consequences—but the man deserved a proper setdown.
He cleared his throat, moved out of the shadows and faced them. “Captain Colborne, aide to Sir William, at your service, ma’am. I’m looking for a young lady, Mrs. Sage’s niece. Her aunt is asking for her.”
The girl turned. She looked confused. “I—I’m Mrs. Sage’s niece. Where is she?”
“Playing whist with Sir William in the card room. Perhaps Captain Jamieson will escort you there.”
He and Jamieson exchanged looks. They understood each other very well—and Charles had the advantage. Jamieson could not afford another black mark concerning women. Jamieson shrugged. “I think not. Captain Colborne may have that pleasure. Your most admiring servant, ma’am,” he said as he went up the stairs.
Charles looked at the girl. She was staring at him. “Wait. I know who you are. Jethro and Willow are your horses. I’ve seen you coming out of the stables with your dog in the saddle.” She began to talk very fast, as if she knew she should never have left the Long Room.
He smiled at her. “Shall I take you back to the dancing? I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Miss Champion, Sarah Champion, but my aunt—you said my aunt is asking for me.”
“A lie,” he said cheerfully. “A damnable lie. I could see you didn’t care for gambling.”
“I don’t—that is, I’ve never done it, and I never will.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you for coming forward, Captain. I was brought up in the country. I’m not used to balls, but I thought—I thought—” She stopped.
“Yes?”
“I was told that the British have fine manners, very fine, but that man had no manners. None at all.”
Charles coughed to hide a laugh. This girl didn’t mince words. “So you know my dog Jill,” he said, changing the subject. “An engaging little rascal. She arrived in my tent a few weeks ago and now she runs the show. Do you like horses?”
“Oh, I love horses; there was a field behind the house where Daisy and I would gallop. Daisy is old, more used to plowing—” She stopped again. “I beg your pardon. I should be using my fan and making polite conversation.”
Charles threw back his head and laughed. She reminded him of Rosamond, his favorite sister, who was forever in trouble for speaking her mind.
In the Long Room, there were signs that the ball was ending. “We’ll meet your aunt in the front hall,” he said. “By the way, did you hear about Sir William’s dog? The little brute—and he is a little brute—ran off during the battle at Germantown and ended up in the Continental Army camp. Your general sent mine a message: General Washington’s compliments to General Howe. He does himself the pleasure to return to him a dog which accidentally fell into his hands. Then back came the dog, trotting very proud and dignified under a flag of truce.”
“Like a high-ranking prisoner.”
“A general, at the very least.” He paused. “Miss Champion, I need your help. I should have called on your aunt days ago—very remiss of me—and here she comes with Sir William. Will you introduce me?”
In the card room, the players had settled up and were coming into the hall. Introductions were made. Mrs. Sage was happy to meet her tenant, and she would be pleased if he would pay a call.
Indeed it would be his great honor.
“Very well.” She looked around. “Where is Josiah, Niece? The sedan chair will be waiting.”
“I don’t know, Aunt. I haven’t seen him since the first dance.”
Charles bowed. “Allow me to find him.”
The gaming rooms upstairs were thick with smoke. He was told that Trent had lost heavily as usual and left much the worse for drink. “Better to lose your money at a cockfight,” Charles muttered to a glassy-eyed lieutenant.
Back in the hall, departing guests were thanking Sir William for a delightful evening. Plans were being made for card and supper parties.
“Captain Trent was taken ill and left some time ago,” Charles said to Mrs. Sage. “Two of our troopers will see you home.”
As the sedan chair disappeared down Walnut Street, he helped Sir William into the large coach commandeered from Mrs. Pemberton.
“A good party, Captain,” Sir William said thickly. “Everyone seems well-disposed toward us.”
“A great success, sir.” The coach moved off towards Stenton, the estate where Sir William and Mrs. Loring were now in residence. He watched him go, a tall, paunchy man with an olive complexion and coarse features. A man who liked his pleasures. Not that he lacked courage; those who were with him on Breed’s Hill still talked of his words to the men: “I shall not desire you to go a step further than I myself at your head.” And with stockings red from the bloody grass, he had carried out his promise, though some claimed it had weakened his taste for fighting.
Charles yawned. It was a short way to his rooms at the Widow Snelling’s. Not a bad looking woman. She had waited up for him twice this week, a good sign, but she might not be pleased to find a dog in his bed.
Unlike many others, his entourage was small. His servant, Gosse, was a wrinkled, bow-legged man who had been a groom at Rokum for years and had crossed the water to be with Charles. And there was the dog, Jill. She had appeared in his tent as the twelve mile-long army straggled through Maryland. He had named her after his former mistress; she now rode with him on his saddle and ruled the roost.
The night air was cool and bracing. As he walked, he began to plan for tomorrow. First a few hours at headquarters on Market Street, then the cockfight in Moore’s Alley, followed by a drinking party at St. George and the Dragon. Andre and De Lancey were forming a theatrical group called Howe’s Thespians. Fox hunters like himself were organizing point-to-points in the Northern Liberties. There might be a few skirmishes, but winter quarters here looked promising, filled with good sport and entertainment.
As the sedan chair passed the Friends’ Almshouse, Mrs. Sage took a pinch of snuff and sneezed. “You met a great many officers, Niece. Did you hear anything of interest?”
“Nothing. You warned me never to ask questions, and I didn’t.”
“Quite right. It was extremely painful to lose so much money to Sir William, even though it means more invitations. Not a serious man. I’ve heard he’s the natural son of George I, but that might be just gossip.”
Sarah shivered and drew the swansdown cloak closer around her shoulders. She had been rigid with fright when she entered the Long Room. At first the heat was overpowering, and the room seemed far too small for the mass of towering men in gold, scarlet, and white uniforms. But all at once they were smiling, bowing, and asking her to dance.
After a while, her heart had stopped beating like a regimental drum. These officers were competing for her attention—and the feeling of success must have gone to her head. Madness, to let that tall, handsome captain persuade her to leave the dancing. Once in the hall, he had almost
forced her up the stairs, as if he could do what he liked with a gullible little colonial. Fortunately, Sir William’s aide had come to the rescue, but she had learned a hard lesson. From now on she would be wary of all these dashing officers.
The sedan jolted over the cobblestones. Through the small window, she could see the outline of a trooper marching alongside; even with the curfew, there were looters and worse lurking in the shadowy streets.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Her head ached under the weight of her elaborate headdress. Hairdresser William Lang had refused to powder her hair. Instead he had drawn it up with a cluster of curls at the back and a triple row of pearls at the top; she had kept her head high all day for fear of dislodging the pads and combs.
“Niece.”
She opened her eyes. “Yes?”
“I watched you after the dancing started. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you will be the leading belle this winter.”
“Peggy Shippen had just as many—”
“Kindly don’t interrupt and listen to what I have to say. There’s no way to account for it, but you have a rare gift.”
“A gift?”
“The ability to attract men. I’ve seen it in women of all ages. I saw it again tonight, but I must warn you. Never let their attentions go to your head. From now on, think of them as pawns in a game. Discover who has a loose tongue, who is vulnerable to flattery. Remember, we are spies, and spying carries risks. You must be careful, extremely careful not to make a mistake that could put us in danger. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She twisted her fingers. Aunt must never find out what had happened tonight with Captain Jamieson.
They passed Willings Alley and reached the house. The men lowered the sedan chair. Mrs. Sage gathered her skirts and stepped out, and Sarah followed. The troopers saluted and disappeared.
The night air was growing cold. She waited, shivering, for Cato to open the door, longing to get to her bed. Was spying an accomplishment to be learned like French or embroidery? Must she change her character as well as her dress and manners? Her life in Myles had been governed by strict rules. Work. Church. Simple pleasures. The Champions were raising their children to revere truth and honesty. Nothing, she was beginning to realize, had prepared her to carry out the dangerous art of deception.
It was after two in the morning when Andrew Warren finished washing up his glasses. He’d keep the job of waiter at Mr. Smith’s City Tavern because British officers had a way of treating servants as if they were invisible. Lewd and insulting remarks had been exchanged around the punch bowl as the loyalist chits paraded about in their contraband silks, aping London ladies and making fools of themselves.
As he listened and watched, he could see that the undisputed belle was Mrs. Sage’s niece, the fetching Miss Champion. She was treating the experienced officers with a liveliness that had them rising like fish to the lure. Her aunt was right. Men would flock to the house. On the other hand, to go off with Captain Jamieson, a gambler with a bad reputation, showed a regrettable lack of common sense. He had been right not to use her—and he had never liked red hair.
Curfew in the city was tightly observed. Still wearing a gray wig and waiter’s clothes, he slipped through the dark alleys to the apothecary shop on Front Street.
“Good news,” he said to the sleepy apothecary. “The British lost a big battle at Saratoga, thousands of prisoners taken. Spread the word. I’m off on the rest of my rounds.”
The apothecary shook his head. “This late? You can’t win the war single-handed, my friend.”
“Safer to do them at night.” He was now the main link between headquarters and his seventeen networks scattered around the city, manned by citizens who could be arrested at any moment.
It was after four when he headed toward Drinker’s Alley. Suddenly he turned and swung his stick in a wide circle. There was a grunt and the thud of a body falling. The gurgling sound of a man struggling for breath.
He pulled out his knife and leaned down. Kill or be killed was the law of the jungle, but the man was too drunk to be following him with a purpose. Less trouble to let him live and be picked up by the night watchman.
At the next alley, he loosened a board in a fence, looked around, then slid through it and into his cellar room at the Bunch of Grapes. It smelled of mold and mice. But instead of lying down on the straw bed, he began to pace. The City of Brotherly Love was now a cesspool of assassins, as putrid as the waste that overflowed Dock Creek. Tomorrow he must create new disguises. Probe for infiltrators in his networks.
He pulled off his coat and lay down. Cousin Joseph had owned a coon hound, a stubborn creature who would run all night until he had treed his quarry. The hound had drowned trying to swim across the Merrimack River. Like that hound dog, he must track down the enemy. Never give up until he had treed the elusive quarry.
CHAPTER
NINE
November 10, 1777
The mighty guns boomed, shaking the glass in the street lamps and filling the air with smoke. Against all odds, a handful of dedicated colonials were still holding tiny Fort Mifflin on Mud Island and Fort Mercer near Red Bank. Great spiked logs sunk deep in the river were keeping the British fleet from reaching the city. Food was growing hard to find. On market days, meat was weighed out by the clerk—so much for each person—and it was said that the British themselves were on short rations. Prices soared. Houses were cold. Nerves were beginning to snap from lack of sleep.
As Sarah and Constance Brown left the apothecary’s and hurried down Second Street, they covered their ears. Constance Brown was now Sarah’s best friend, a gentle, fair-haired girl who shrank from squashing a mosquito and spent hours practicing at her harpsichord. With Constance, there was no gossipy chatter about clothes and no petty jealousies and competitions over who had the most dancing partners.
“My mother is lying down with a pillow over her head,” Constance said as the noise died down.
Sarah shook her head. “Is that all? Aunt is as cross as two sticks. I wouldn’t dare go back without her special snuff,” she said, knowing that far more than guns were setting her aunt’s nerves on edge.
Curfew now began at eight thirty in the evening with the beating of the tattoo and lasted until reveille. This morning at breakfast, Mrs. Sage had turned on Sarah.
“All those parties. I can’t believe you’ve heard nothing of interest. Are you listening carefully? Are you paying attention?”
“I am paying attention. I am listening. There was talk about the defeat at Saratoga a few weeks ago, but since then nothing, nothing but gambling and organizing theatricals. You’d think they were all back in London, not over here fighting a war.”
“Unfortunate, and it’s the same at the card tables. It seems that some of the officers are younger sons who can’t inherit. Instead they join a regiment and live for entertainment and sport.”
Now that girls were not allowed to walk alone, sturdy fourteen-year-old Tommy Willing was their escort. “Barrage will soon be over,” he pronounced as they left Second Street. “Just you wait. There’ll be crowds out clapping and cheering to see those men twitching at the end of a rope.”
This was more than she could bear. She swung around. “Hold your tongue, Tommy Willing. They’re our countrymen and don’t you forget it.”
“Ho, miss. You sound like a patriot.”
“This has nothing to do with politics. Killing another human being is a mortal sin. A mortal sin.” She looked at Constance. “If Captain Andre plays the flute tonight, will you accompany him? That weedy lieutenant can barely find the keys.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. Not with everyone looking at me.”
In spite of the bombardment, there were nightly parties at various houses. Card games. Music. Dancing. To maintain her status as the leading belle, Sarah treated her followers alike, giving them smiles and coy looks from under her lashes, but couples were beginning to form. Peggy Chew and Captain Andre. Constance and Captain Jamieson.
Constance had reacted strongly. “Lord Rawdon and the others are unfair to Captain Jamieson. He’s told me about his life, how he was forced to find his own way. He’s a very sensitive person.”
Then last week, with much hemming and hawing, Lord Rawdon himself had spoken out. “Shouldn’t tell tales out of school, but your friend Miss Brown—well, Jamieson’s not one of us.”
A final attempt to warn Constance ended in tears. Her softhearted friend had fallen under the spell of Jamieson’s wry smile, his practiced charm, and his underdog story. Sarah felt helpless. She wanted to slap sense into her dearest friend, but there was nothing more she could do.
The 42nd Highlanders were marching by. After they passed, Constance settled the skimmer hat on her silvery fair hair. “Shall we stop and meet the others at Mr. Strant’s?”
“Not this morning. I must get back or have my head blown off.”
These days the house was always cold. As she came in, Cato was sweeping the floor, a job he considered beneath him.
“The mistress asking for you,” he sniffed. “She in the front parlor. She have a caller.”
“Who?”
“It be that Quaker woman with her basket.” He thrust out his lower lip and went back to sweeping.
By now Sarah knew that there were plain Quakers, worldly Quakers, Quakers who remained neutral, and fighting Quakers who were barred from religious meetings. She laid her hat on a table and went in.
A tall woman wearing a plain gray bonnet stood in front of the empty fireplace. Her aunt was seated in her usual chair.