“After I pour the tea.”
“No, now. It must be now.”
“Then come to the withdrawing room.” As they went in, Mrs. Sage raised her eyebrows. “Well?”
Sarah choked and took a deep breath. “I—when Major Whitelaw began to sing, I went to help Lorelia in the dining room. One of the officers came down the stairs. He opened the front door. Another man came in. They said—they said—”
“Said what? Stop mumbling and speak slowly.”
“The one who came down told the other he was to go and meet someone at the almshouse on Front Street and take him to Valley Forge. Take him to kill General Washington. He does it with his knife.”
“What? Are you sure? Where were you?”
“Behind the door. They didn’t see me. They were whispering, but I’m sure. The one who came in wanted to be paid. The other said not until the general is dead.”
“Did you see their faces?”
“It happened so fast—the one who was leaving—just for a second. Not the one who’s still here. I only saw the backs of his boots, but—” She shook her head wildly.
Her aunt raised a silk-mitted hand. “A spy in our midst. There’s no time to waste. Some brought friends. We must try to get their names.”
“How will we . . . if only I’d been quicker. . . .”
“I said, we must try to get names. Pull yourself together, Niece. Act as if nothing is wrong.”
In the dining room, Lorelia’s cakes were being eaten with appreciation; the homesick officers were in no hurry to leave. Sarah took a cup of tea and put it down. A shaking hand would be noticed. Was it Lord Rawden’s guest? The new aide to General Gray? Those clipped British voices all sounded alike.
She looked around and saw that Constance was leaving with Captain Jamieson. The girl’s eyes were shining as if with fever. Was she sick? Why leave with him when her parents were still here? She started toward them, but Peggy Shippen came dancing up, blocking the way.
“Oh Sarah, it’s beginning to snow. Captain Andre says there’ll be sleigh rides tomorrow, and we’re getting up a party. Will you and Captain Colborne come? Can we have a few more carols? I’m sure the Major will sing again. Shall I ask him?”
“No, don’t . . . the snow . . . we didn’t expect it. You should leave before the streets are too icy.”
It was after eleven when the last of the officers left, wishing their hostess a happy Christmas and making plans to have a nightcap at Mr. Beale’s inn. She followed her aunt to the front parlor. Mrs. Sage closed the door and turned.
“This is hard to believe, but one of these officers—maybe one we know well—is leading a double life. Not Captain Colborne. He never left my side. Captain Andre and Lord Rawdon were near him, but anyone standing against the wall near the door could have slipped away without being noticed.”
“Someone who dances at balls and comes to the house and pays spies and killers—”
“Not now. Are you sure he didn’t see you?”
“I was in the shadows behind the door. If he had, he wouldn’t have let the other one in. Oh, dear God. I never thought even the British could stoop so low.”
Her aunt’s lips tightened. “You have no idea what people will do to win a war—or for money. I thought we might hear about troop movements. Nothing like this.” She paused. “There’s only one thing we can do. I will go out and leave a message at the City Tavern. Cato will come with me and hold the lantern—”
“No, it should be me. There may be people out in the streets tonight, not paying attention to curfew. If you’re knocked down and robbed, Cato would be useless. Besides, why would Mrs. Thomas Sage go to Mr. Smith’s Tavern at this hour? I’ll wear the clothes I came in, the bonnet and the shawl. I’ll look like a servant girl not worth robbing.”
“Out of the question. A young girl out alone—we will go together.”
“What excuses could we give when we get there? It’s not far. I don’t need a lantern, the street lamps give enough light. I know the way. I’ll say my mistress left her fan in the ladies withdrawing room.”
“Your mistress would never send you out tonight for a fan.”
“Then—an officer sent for me. No one would question that.”
“True. They would not.” Mrs. Sage took a deep breath. “It will have to serve. Put the note under your skirt. Wear a heavy cloak, not your shawl. Take meat from the larder. If dogs come at you, throw it to them. Now go and change while I write a note to Mr. Lewis—we can only pray that he finds it in time.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
December 24, 1777
The snow was falling harder as she started down Third Street. A group of soldiers and their women came staggering toward her, shouting. She shrank into the shadows. The city was usually quiet after curfew, but the holiday was making them bold.
It was only two blocks to Walnut Street. She slipped along, wearing her old cloak and crumpled bonnet. The thick whiteness gave protection, but it blotted light from the street lamps. Like a mole hurrying through a dark tunnel, she must depend on her sense of direction.
The letter was tucked into her underdrawers. With every step, it scratched her skin. God forbid that she was stopped and searched and it was found. The cold-eyed Mr. Lewis had made it clear that she would be taken straight to Captain Cunningham at the Walnut Street Prison. She could expect no mercy, and no one would risk helping her.
As she ran, she fixed her mind on James. “Grit your teeth, Sas, and do it,” he would say. Sas was his special name for her.
At last, the corner and Mr. Smith’s City Tavern. Lights shone out. People were still there. She straightened her bonnet, went up the steps, and knocked. After a moment, a yawning waiter appeared.
“Please let me in,” she whispered. “I’m expected.” The waiter yawned again, winked, and let her in.
Voices sounded from the coffee room, but no one was in the front hall. Pulling her cloak closer, she hurried to the ladies withdrawing room, lifted her skirts, and pulled out the paper.
The cabinet contained several dusty books and a few bits of china. She opened the glass doors. “Third shelf behind a piece of china,” Mr. Lewis had said. She slipped the paper behind a chipped compote, then leaned against the wall to catch her breath. No one else knew about the plot, and by the time the note was found, the killer could have reached Valley Forge.
The snow was thicker on the footway. She turned left and headed for the little bridge over Dock Creek. When a lantern showed through the whiteness she flattened herself against the nearest rail. The figure went by.
Flakes melted on her face. She tried to run, but her shoes were wet and heavy. Lately she had neglected her prayers; it was harder to pray after a long evening of dancing or cards, but tonight, without fail, she would get down on her knees and ask for the life of George Washington.
“Ho, what’s this?” A man loomed above her. He grasped her shoulders. She pushed him away. He caught the edge of her cloak and pulled her back. “A lass, b’God.”
“Let me go.” She kicked at his legs. There was a strong smell of liquor on his breath.
“Not so fast, missie.” A grinning mouth with broken teeth. His hand gripped her arm tightly, pressing against the bone.
“Let go.” She kicked out again and hit him in the groin. He groaned and clutched himself with both hands.
“Hellcat! You’ll pay for this.” He caught her arm again, eyes glaring. Her mind blurred with panic. There was a familiar sign hanging overhead, half hidden by snow. A light shone in the window. She wrenched free and stumbled up the steps, threw herself against the door, and beat on it with her fists.
“Mr. Strant, Mr. Strant! Let me in!”
Robert Strant detested Christmas. For him, it meant an empty shop, no sales, and no profits; his customers were busy with family and friends. He had cut all family ties and left Germany one jump ahead of the law.
Pulling out his cash box, he began to put money into a sack before locki
ng it in the safe along with his rapidly growing collection of silver, jewels, and gold. A portable fortune if he ever had to leave the city in a hurry and sail for the West Indies.
And that could happen. Even the most agile jugglers made mistakes, but so far he had been able to play one side against the other. He knew which members of Congress could be bought and where secrets were buried. Profitable business came from the British and from the powerful loyalist networks that stretched from the Carolinas to Boston. Some were rich extremists, plotting to gain power. Others were sitting on the fence, waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
Turning to the large center table, he began to rearrange books and throw out old periodicals.
“Mr. Strant! Mr. Strant! Let me in.” He reached under a counter, took out his pistol, and opened the door a few inches. A girl covered in snow stood there.
“Mr. Strant, let me in. Please let me in.”
“Why, it’s Miss Champion.” He lowered the pistol and pulled her inside. Slammed the door shut and bolted it.
“That man—he tried to—I hit him.” She was shaking, her face was white with shock.
“Sit down,” and he led her to a chair near the stove. “Sit down and give me your wet cloak.”
“If you hadn’t been here—”
“You’re safe now. Quite safe.” He spread the cloak on another chair, then to the window and peered out. No sign of a man, but by now his every sense was alert. Only a waif or a whore would be out in the streets tonight, and Miss Champion was no waif or whore. This required an explanation.
She was holding her hands to the warmth, still shaking. He waited for a moment then sat down beside her.
“There’s no one there. The man’s gone. I’m happy to be of service, but why are you out alone in this storm?”
She swallowed and looked away. “I—my aunt is ill. She may have congestion in her lungs. I was going—going to fetch medicine from her doctor.”
“Indeed. Well, rest here until you’re warm. Then I’ll escort you home.” He got up and went back to the table. A lie. The girl was a bad liar. He happened to know that Mrs. Sage had entertained officers earlier in the evening.
For a moment he stood there, turning the situation over in his mind. He often wondered why Mrs. Sage had transformed a countrified girl into a belle who attracted men like bees to the honey pot. When she first arrived, she had confided to him that her only reading at home had been Milton and the Bible. Fashionable clothes and new friends hadn’t changed her character. There was always a smile and a curtsy when they met on the street, or when she came hurrying into the shop. He had developed a rare liking for this girl. If Mrs. Sage had sent her niece out alone in a storm with no lantern, she must have a pressing reason. What?
He went to the stove and picked up her cloak. “I’m sorry to hear your aunt is unwell,” he said. “If you’re warm again, I’ll take you home. I have a lantern and a pistol. No one will dare to attack us.”
The falling snow was growing lighter, it was easier to see ahead. He gave her the lantern and took her other arm as they walked the short distance to Third Street. As they reached the door of the dark house, she turned.
“I can never— I can never thank you enough for your help, for letting me in and bringing me home.”
“I was glad to be of service. Shall I knock?”
“No, no, I’ll slip in at the back.”
“Wait. You will need the light,” and he followed with the lantern. As they reached the back quarters, a door opened a crack as if someone was watching for her.
“Thank you again, Mr. Strant,” she whispered and disappeared.
He turned and began to retrace his steps on the icy footway. His instinct was right. Something worth his attention was afoot. Starting tomorrow, he would try to ferret out the truth behind this mysterious errand, and there was little in this city that his sources couldn’t unearth, one way or another.
As he walked, he began to smile. Mrs. Sage was one of his best customers, but she had never lowered herself to come to his shop. Orders were picked up by a slave and lately by her niece. Nothing would please him more than to find a reason to blackmail this high and mighty lady. In fact, if his investigation was successful, before long he might be sipping Mrs. Sage’s best Madeira and warming his coattails by her fire.
CHAPTERT
HIRTEEN
December 28, 1777
Andrew Warren shook snow from his peddler’s coat, rapped three times on the door, and waited. A room at the back of The Rising Sun Tavern in Frankford was now the designated place to meet his superior, Major Joe Clark, a former cavalry officer who was responsible for delivering information from Warren’s networks to headquarters at Valley Forge. Clark thought nothing of riding forty miles a day, and the two men were learning to respect and trust each other.
Warren knocked again. Clark opened the door. “You’re late,” he said, and they made their way to a small room provided by a Widow Nicely. Two chairs and a table were hidden by high shelves of dried meal and molasses.
Warren took off his cap. “Late because new sentries at the barrier are asking more questions. I had to make my way through the woods.”
“British patrols?”
“They’re out again after the storm. Have those two spies been outed?”
“Not yet. Headquarters has been working around the clock ever since the courier came with your message. Security around Washington is tightened. Investigations are underway.”
“Any leads?”
“Everyone close to the general has able to account for himself. The search has widened to couriers, stable boys, cooks, and blacksmiths. This man was away without a pass for several days. Someone in the camp must know, but no one is talking.” He paused. “Anything more at your end?”
“Only what I passed on to you.”
Clark shifted on the chair. “About Miss Champion who delivered the message. I take it she’s part of your network and associates with the British officers. What else has she done?”
Warren hesitated. “Nothing else. She’s an accomplished flirt. Lately she’s been escorted to the balls by a Captain Colborne, one of Sir William’s aides, but there’s no guarantee she’ll get anything of value out of him.” Last week he had watched that lively pair. There were no deep looks as they touched hands in the dance, no serious conversations in corners. In fact, he had overheard the captain give the belle a sharp setdown: “Hold those simpering smiles, miss. That young lieutenant doesn’t deserve to be played with like a toy.”
“Spare me your lectures,” she had said, tossing her head.
Clark frowned. “Would you say the girl has stamina?”
“She dances until all hours and never looks tired. Why?”
The major flicked a riding crop over his boots and cleared his throat. “I’ve come with new orders for you, Captain. Orders from Colonel Tilghman himself, and I can guarantee you’re not going to like them.”
“New orders?”
“The colonel wants you to bring Miss Champion to Valley Forge to look at faces. He hopes she might recognize the man she saw leaving the house Christmas Eve.”
“Good God, no.” Warren rose as if yanked up by a rope. “Take a girl to Valley Forge? It can’t be done. He’s out of his senses.”
“You’d have a cavalry escort. She would wear a boy’s clothes and a wig and ride pillion behind you. The story would be that she ran away to join the army and be a drummer boy.”
“But to take a girl—any girl—”
“You say she has stamina. It took real courage to go out in that storm and deliver the message.”
“Even so—” he hit the table with his fist. “It would never work. She saw him for two seconds. There are hundreds of faces in camp.”
“The point is, she saw him. Tilghman thinks it’s worth a try, and you’re the only contact. You recruited her.”
“She may refuse to go. I was blunt when we met. What’s more, her aunt may not let her take the ri
sk.”
“Persuade them. It’s a last resort, I agree, but put yourself in Tilghman’s place. He’s run out of options.”
“All the same, it’s a crackpot scheme.”
“Crackpot or not—” Clark leaned forward. “Jesus, Warren, we’ve been at Valley Forge since the sixteenth of December and the situation is desperate. Huts are replacing the tents, but the men are hungry. Many have no shoes. Their feet are frozen, rotting away until they have to be amputated. No soap, so the itching from lice is unbearable. Makeshift hospitals are filling up with smallpox and bloody flux and typhoid. Many have deserted and gone home. Graves go unmarked because we try to keep the news from spreading to the enemy.” He got to his feet. “I have to be back before dark. What shall I say to Tilghman?”
Warren stared at the sacks of meal on the wall. Aside from Colonel Hamilton, Tench Tilghman was General Washington’s most trusted aide. Orders from Tilghman must be carried out as if they came from General Washington himself. If he refused to obey them, he would have to resign.
“Bloody hell, Clark” He shoved back his chair and stood up. “It’s asking her to do the impossible. The ride and then the search— there must be a better way to find those two, but you’ve given me no choice. I’ll do it. I’ll speak to the girl tomorrow.”
It was noon on the following day. Wearing a wool cap and a greasy apron, he stood behind a stall in the busy open market, a stall that belonged to a trusted recruit who sold used clothes. Minding his stall provided good cover for this meeting.
As a clock struck the hour, he shifted a pile of shirts. Last night a street sweeper had left a message at Mrs. Sage’s back door, and he was relieved to see the two ladies appear, stopping first at the cheese stall, then coming to him.
Mrs. Sage picked up a frayed gray bonnet. “This might do for Lorelia,” she said to Sarah. And to Warren: “What is your price?”
“Thruppence, ma’am, and cheap at that.” He leaned forward and spoke to her in a low voice. “The camp has been searched with no success and time is critical. Your friend Colonel Tilghman has given me orders to take your niece to Valley Forge in hopes she can recognize the face she saw at the door.” He paused. “It’s asking a great deal, but the man must be found.”
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