“Sarah.” She turned to the woman. “This is my niece, Miss Champion. Sit down, Sarah, and don’t be misled by the Quaker dress. This man is attached to General Washington’s intelligence, though he calls himself Mrs. Lewis. He came once before and decided not to use us. It seems he has changed his mind.”
“Good day, Mrs.—that is, sir.” A man in disguise? Sarah made a small curtsy, sat down on the gold brocade sofa and waited.
He gave her a sharp, assessing look and cleared his throat. “Ladies, I’ll be blunt. Because you’ve both been accepted in British circles, I’m here with an urgent request.”
Mrs. Sage folded her hands. “Indeed,” she said in a cool voice. “And what is this request?”
“As you know, General Washington is still in Chestnut Hill. We think the British will plan a surprise attack before winter sets in. If plans for parties are suddenly cancelled, advance warning will be crucial. We will need word.”
Mrs. Sage nodded. “No doubt, but if we should overhear something, how would we reach you?”
“At Mr. Smith’s City Tavern. You know it from the Thursday night balls. There’s a cabinet in the back hall beside the door to the ladies withdrawing room. Put a note on the third shelf behind a piece of china. The cabinet is often checked.” A pause. He looked at Sarah, an even colder look. “Repeat this back to me. Word for word.”
She tossed her head. Did he think she was witless? “Put a note on the third shelf behind a piece of china. I think I can remember that.”
“Miss Champion, at Sir William’s first ball you came into the Long Room with Captain Trent of the Queen’s Rangers. You danced with him once. Later you left the room with Captain Jamieson and never returned. Did you go upstairs to gamble?”
Sarah stiffened. She clutched the arm of the sofa. “No, no—I never went upstairs with Captain Jamieson. I should never have left the dancing, but it was my first ball. Then I was taken to find my aunt.”
“I trust you learned your lesson. Spies are everywhere. Even one of your gallant dancing partners may be a spy. If you make a slip, others could suffer for your carelessness. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. How could he know about her lapse?
“Ladies, understand this. If you are caught or even suspected of passing information, no one will come forward to help you. The Walnut Street Prison is run by Provost Marshal Cunningham. The man was born in a Dublin barracks. He was once a tool for kidnappers who gag young apprentices in England and send them here, priced at so much a head.”
He paused, as if to let the words sink in. “Captain Cunningham is pock-marked and covered with lice. Both sides fear him. In fact, many on our side fear him so much that they will desert rather than find themselves in the Walnut Street Prison. If you should fall into his hands, he might rape you, even torture you.” Another pause. “Mrs. Sage, are you still willing to take that risk?”
“I am.”
“Miss Champion?”
“Yes.” Those cold gray eyes under the Quaker bonnet—if she never saw him again, it would be too soon.
He picked up a basket that was lying on the floor. “You know what to do if you hear any loose talk of an attack, any sudden change of plans. I repeat, advance warning is essential. Servant, ladies,” he said and walked to the door.
Sarah waited until the door closed, then gave her skirts a violent shake. “That detestable man. He had no right to lecture me as if I was a backward child.”
“Nonsense. He had every right. I was ready to box your ears when I heard you’d left the dancing with Captain Jamieson. Because of your foolishness, he might never have come back. But now—I suspect we’re needed because our troops are in grave trouble. So grave they might not survive another fight.”
Sarah didn’t answer. Every night she was tormented by the thought that the desperate men holding the forts might die while she was dancing the gavotte. Die while she was attending services at Christ Church with its organ and silver chalices sent over by Queen Anne.
Her aunt frowned and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Niece, swallow your resentment—you were in the wrong— and remember this. That detestable man, as you call him, took a risk by coming here, even in disguise. A miserable way to live, and my guess is he’s a gentleman. Well-educated. We may be his last resort, but now at least we have a place to take information.”
“If we ever have any—”
“We must do better. Perhaps you should concentrate on Captain Colborne. Try to gain his confidence. As an aide, he’s privy to Sir William’s plans.”
“I’ll try, but from what his friends say, he comes from a titled family with money. He’s never serious, and it would be hard to get him to talk about anything military—oh, dear God.” With a thunderous boom, a barrage shook the house to its foundations. A wall sconce crashed to the floor.
The two women sat in silence until the reverberations ended. Then, still in silence, Sarah kneeled down and began to pick up the broken sconce. Impossible to mend. Like lives.
CHAPTER
TEN
December 24, 1777
In Buckinghamshire, England, the large Colborne family always dined together on Christmas Eve. All ages, from oldest to youngest, gathered in the Great Hall that dated from the time of Henry VII. Yule logs blazed, and the boar’s head was carried in by a sweating boot boy and under footman. There was caroling in the minstrel gallery. Light from tall candles shone on glittering jewels and lively faces.
Tonight, in spite of Lady Colborne’s best efforts, the talk centered on the uprising in the colonies.
“It’s a matter of holding the empire together,” her brother the bishop expounded. “We defended those people against the French, so why should a few malcontents balk at paying their share?”
Dowager Lady Colborne was seated next to her son, Sir Ault. She was very deaf, and he had to shout into her earpiece.
“Charles writes that Philadelphia is a pleasant place,” he roared. “People there have welcomed him into their homes.”
The dowager snorted. “Humph! Write to Charles at once, Ault, and tell him on no account to come home with a wife. Inferior creatures, colonials, though the men have a better appearance than the women.” She paused, waiting for someone to agree with her. The three Colborne daughters exchanged glances. Pamela, the eldest, leaned forward.
“Quite right, Grandmamma,” she said loudly. “Such horrid voices—and we should have to be so careful not to hurt Charles’s feelings.”
Lady Colborne, who was tall and fair like Charles, spoke from the far end of the table. “He has said nothing about a girl. Do you realize this is our first Christmas without him? I miss him quite dreadfully.”
“Time for a toast,” her husband said and pushed back his chair. “Here’s to our Charles over the water. May he return in health, in good spirits—and without a wife.”
In Boston, Mr. and Mrs. John Warren were dining alone in their large home on Queen Street. The Chippendale chairs had come from England; Warren sailing ships had brought sets of Chinese export porcelain made with the family coat of arms.
As motherly Anne Warren went upstairs to bed, she tried to ignore the echoing silence. Andrew had been gone for over two years. Katharine was married and lived in Ipswich. Even the youngest, Lucy, was away tonight, helping her sister with the new baby.
After pulling the crewelwork curtains tightly around the four-poster bed, she lay back on the pillows and sighed.
“Don’t fret,” her husband said sleepily. “We’ll be with the girls tomorrow, but we should make an early start. There’s snow in the air, and I don’t want to be caught on the Post Road.”
“It’s not the girls I’m thinking of, John. It’s Andrew. I haven’t stopped worrying since Sam Thayer in the First Massachusetts told you he hadn’t seen Andrew in over a year. So many have died of camp fever.”
John Warren reached over and took his wife’s hand, a rare gesture. He had a fairly good idea that Andrew w
as on some special duty. “He’s alive, or we would have been notified.”
“True, but it’s hard never to hear from him. Harder, because he left in such anger. Do you remember how loving he was when he was small, how he would put his arms around my knees and not let go?”
Her husband cleared his throat. “Looking back, I may have been too harsh with the boy. He was close to his Cousin Joseph. When Joseph was killed, Andrew must have felt he should take up the cause of independence.”
“This war that divides families like ours—I pray it will end soon.”
“Pray, my dear, but Howe’s army is large and well-equipped. General Washington will be hard-pressed to find new recruits in the spring. I hear the militia are going home by the hundreds. Some have served their time. Others are deserting.”
“If he can’t get more men, what then?”
“He will have to surrender. All these high-flying thoughts of liberty will disappear, and the colonies will be kept on a very tight rein. Treated much like the Irish, a troublesome sore on the body of the British Empire.”
“But how can they govern at such a distance? There would soon be more rebellions.”
“Aye, there would.” He shifted in the big bed. “Most statesmen in London have never seen this country. They have no idea of its size, the hardiness of its people.” He paused. Anne Warren waited. Her husband seldom spoke his feelings.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, scratching his bald head under the nightcap. “Locke’s law of nature states that man is born with the right to liberty. Cousin Joseph Warren, one of the finest men who ever lived, died for it. On the other hand, I have been an Englishman all my life. I have eaten the king’s bread, and I cannot turn against him. No, the war will go on for years, and I blame the king’s advisors in London. They see this country as they would like it to be, not as it is, and their blindness may be their undoing.”
Mistress Jane Champion got up from the loom and lit a lamp. After checking the meat pies in a Dutch oven flanked by trivets, cranes, and kettles, she went to a window that looked out over the back pasture. A few rocks showed black above the whiteness. A rabbit ran from the edge of the woods and sat turning its head from side to side. She was not an imaginative woman, but the sight of snow falling always gave her a primal feeling of danger. Big storms killed travelers.
Often at this time of day she found herself thinking of Sarah— her impulsive, affectionate ways, the temper they had worked together to control. The two letters that had come from her in October said only that Philadelphia was a fine city and that her aunt was treating her well. Had it been wrong to let her go? Eighteen was an impressionable age, and now that the British had taken the city, it might be years before she could come home. The loss of a son was hard enough. It pained her that Sarah was so far away and that they knew so little about the way she lived.
Later, as the family sat down at the table, covered with a cloth woven from their own flax, she bent her head as her husband began to pray:
“Great Father, we ask Thy blessing upon Thy servants gathered here. We ask it for our loved ones who, though absent in body, remain constant in our hearts. We pray for Thy everlasting comfort and help in this troubled time, oh God, and we look to Thee to guide us through myriad perils. Bless the leader of our great cause, Thy servant George Washington and those who serve under him. May we persevere in faith until the shadow of peace falls over our land. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed his wife and daughters.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
December 24, 1777
It was Christmas Eve, and Mrs. Sage’s white ballroom was filled with officers who were only too happy to leave their quarters and attend a musical evening. Captain Risdale signaled to the musicians with the bow of his violin and the final selection began: Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach’s Sonata in E minor. Constance Brown had, at last, been persuaded to play the harpsichord.
Sarah was sitting near the door. Before the piece ended, she must go downstairs and help Lorelia put refreshments on the table. Earlier today she had carried green boughs from the garden and placed a few remaining candles in the chandeliers.
Congregationalists in Connecticut did not celebrate Christmas. In spite of shortages, she was amazed at the preparations, the gifts, and the parties. It seemed that there were many ways to celebrate the birth of Jesus.
As the musicians struggled through a difficult passage, she folded her fan and looked around. Many of these officers must be thinking of their families, wishing they were at home. Just for tonight, she would try to not to think of them as enemies.
Josiah Trent was standing against the wall. He looked bloated and ill; a tic flickered under one eye. Last Friday he had come and asked her aunt for money to pay his gambling debts. Mrs. Sage had been furious. Later, she had unburdened herself to Sarah.
“The war has changed him into a wastrel. He may never repay me,” she said, taking a pinch of snuff and sneezing violently. “Now his shares of Sage and Trent are in my hands as security. He used to pay such marked attention to you. Could you talk to him?”
“He barely speaks to me when we meet. I think he resents me because I’m accepted by Captain Colborne and his friends, and he isn’t.”
“Which I can well understand. Drinking and gambling away a fortune at Mr. Smith’s does not impress them. Josiah was once the cock of the walk. Now he finds himself on the dunghill, and it brings out all his weaknesses.”
Captain Colborne was there, sitting beside her aunt. He shifted in his chair and tried to hide a yawn. “The Major’s Song” is more his style, Sarah decided, wanting to take him by the shoulders and shake him. The man was good company, high-spirited, careless— and close-mouthed. A few cautious questions about Sir William’s winter plans had been useless. At three in the morning of December fourth, she had been horrified to wake to the sound of men marching and cannon being dragged through the streets. There were a few days of skirmishing around Chestnut Hill. It was said that the two sides glared at each other with little fighting. Then back came the British, unable to camp out in bitter weather. The surprise attack on Washington had failed, but there might be another.
With that in mind, the captain was encouraged to make daily calls at Third Street. Sarah was amused at the way he could treat prickly Mrs. Sage with the respectful humor of a favorite nephew, complimenting her on her caps, teasing her about the little cigars and her taste in snuff. She appeared not to mind. “You young people think that taking snuff is coarse and out of fashion, but believe me, there is nothing like it to clear the head.”
And now, instead of distributing her favors equally, Sarah was allowing him to be her escort to the parties given by the “Little Society of Second and Third Streets”—Captain Andre’s name for their lively set.
As Lord Rawdon once predicted, a number of young ladies and their mammas were setting their sights on that crowning success: a well-born English husband. As part of Sarah’s plan to win Captain Colborne’s trust, she was making it clear that she had no interest in lasting attachments. “Marry one of you?” she said to him one evening. “I’d as soon go to Africa with a Hottentot.” He had roared with laughter and told her she’d be lucky to have such a good offer.
The Bach sonata was reaching its climax; the musicians bent feverishly to their work and managed to end the piece in style. The applause was loud. “A carol, Major Whitelaw,” someone called. “Give us a carol.” As Major Whitelaw began to sing “Adeste Fideles,” Sarah got to her feet, slipped through the door and ran down the hall.
Lorelia was in the dining room putting out platters of jellies, macaroons, marchepanes, and trifles; the food supply had improved since the Continental Army had lost the river nearly a month ago. By some miracle, the patriots had escaped from the forts with their lives.
“It’s almost over,” she said to Lorelia. “You fetch the tea urn. I’ll arrange the punch glasses and light some candles. It’s very dark in here.”
The sound of Maj
or Whitelaw’s fine baritone drifted down. “Natum videte, Regem angelorum. . . .” She stood still as her throat tightened with tears. It was shameful that tonight, in the midst of celebrating, she had almost forgotten her family. Was her mother moving about the kitchen missing James, missing her? Was her father out visiting the sick?
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Someone was coming. She wiped her eyes and ducked behind the half-open door. No one must see her crying.
The footsteps stopped. A head looked in and was gone before she saw a face in the darkness. A few seconds later she heard the front door open.
“Quick. Come in. Be quiet.” A man’s low voice.
The door closed. “You kept me waiting out there long enough,” the newcomer said. “My orders are to take back a hired killer. Where is he?”
“Waiting for you at the almshouse on Front Street. Your job is to hide him and feed him. Watch for the right moment. The man’s an expert with a knife. Strikes from behind and slides it into the heart. Never misses. When are you expected back?”
“Early tomorrow. I left without a pass.”
“How will you get through their sentries?”
“Rough paths through the woods. I marked them well, but it’s a long way to Valley Forge and it’s snowing. Where’s my pay?”
“You’ll get it when General Washington is dead. Not before.” A pause. “The singing’s over. They’ll be coming. Off with you.”
She leaned forward and peered around, her heart thudding against her ribs. One man was already halfway up the stairs. She could only see the outline of a back. She had a quick glimpse of the other’s face before the door closed and he was gone.
Lorelia was bringing in the tea urn. “Everything ready, Miss Sarah.”
“Light the candles. I’ll tell them.” Picking up her skirts, she ran, but the air seemed to have left her lungs.
In the ballroom, people were getting up. Mrs. Sage was moving toward the door. Sarah took her arm. “Aunt, we have to talk,” she whispered. “Now.”
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