“Dust, then go to the apothecary.” Sarah stood up. “On the way back, may I stop at the Browns and ask about Constance? I haven’t seen her for days, not since she’s been laid up with a putrid throat.”
Mrs. Sage nodded. She approved of quiet little Constance, and Mrs. Brown was an old friend. “Very well, but make sure she’s not contagious. I can’t have you down again with fever, and Dr. Twifoot in and out, bleating about the merits of bleeding.”
A few minutes later, Sarah was standing on a chair in the white ballroom, dusting a tall mirror.
“Missie Sarah.” She turned as Cato appeared in the doorway. His lower lip was drawn down. “A woman here to see you,” he said in a deeply affronted voice. “She waiting on the doorstep.”
“On the doorstep? Ask her to come in.”
“No, Missie, not she, and she want you to come out. I best send her off.”
“No. I’ll see her.”
But when she got to the door she could understand Cato’s dismay. The woman’s face was painted. She was wearing a torn shawl and a fancy frilled red skirt. Sarah had seen this sort of woman walking with the soldiers on Front Street.
“Are you Miss Champion,” she whispered, glancing at Cato who stood a few feet away, ready to slam the door.
“Yes.”
“A young lady sent me. Constance, her name is. She’s in bad trouble, miss. Very bad trouble. She wants you to come to her, miss. Now.”
Sarah bit her lip. This made no sense, in fact, it could be a trick. Since receiving Colonel Tilghman’s warning, she and Aunt were extremely careful where they went.
“You’ve made a mistake,” she said firmly. “I happen to know my friend is at home with a putrid throat.”
“No, miss. Tiny she is, with fair hair. She said you would come.” The woman twisted her hands. “Please, miss, she was in the family way. The midwife’s knife slipped and she’s bleeding to death.”
Midwife? Family way? Sarah put her hands behind her back. “I don’t believe you. My friend would never—”
The woman shook her head. “Miss, it can happen to any of us. Your friend was no different. She had to get rid of it. A captain brought her.”
“What captain? What was his name?”
The woman hesitated. “Captain Jamieson it was. The midwife— she takes care of these by-blows. I’ve never known her make a slip before, but this morning she cut too deep. She did what she could to stop the blood. Then she ran away. Come quick, miss, before it’s too late.”
Jamieson. Dear God, this might not be a trick. She reached out and held onto the door. “Where is she?”
“At Jones’s Alley that’s off Front Street.”
“I’ll come. Wait for me on the corner,” and then in a voice that Cato could hear: “You’ve made a mistake. Now go away.”
Twenty minutes later she was standing at the entrance to Jones’s Alley, breathless from running after the woman. This part of town had been taken over by the soldiers and their women. No respectable girl would ever show her face here. If she went missing, no one would ever look for her in Jones’s Alley.
“This way, Miss,” the woman said. She turned into a courtyard set in a square of small houses crowded together. A woman screamed at a child from a window; in a corner, boys were teasing a mangy dog.
A narrow doorway let to a flight of dark stairs reeking of excrement. As they reached the landing, a door opened and a young girl peered around.
“Gawd, Jessie, what took you so long? First she was thirsty. Now she doesn’t move.” There was stark fear in the girl’s voice.
“Came as fast as I could. I brought her friend.” She pushed Sarah into the room, shut the door, and stepped over a pile of bloody cloths.
Constance lay on a small bed, covered with a torn quilt. Her hair was tied back. Her lips were white. Her eyes were closed.
The smell of blood was sickening. Sarah felt her stomach heave. She swallowed and took her friend’s hand. It was very cold. “It’s me, Sarah,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I’m here.”
“Sarah.” A faint whisper. “Christmas Eve in the coach . . . he asked for my hand but Papa refused. A baby . . . he wanted me to tell them but I couldn’t . . . the disgrace . . . Mama must never know.”
Sarah clutched the hand. “There must be something—”
“It’s over. No more pain. I’m glad.” The last words were barely audible.
Gently, Sarah laid the hand back on the quilt, afraid to upset the precarious balance of life. This couldn’t be happening. Constance should be sitting in her four-poster bed, the fair hair falling over her shoulders. “Thank goodness you’re here. It’s only my throat, but Mama is treating me like a fragile flower, keeping me in bed.”
Sarah straightened. She looked around at the women. “A surgeon. One of you go as fast as you can to Dr. Twifoot. Dr. Jonathan Twifoot on Second Street.”
The one called Jessie shook her head. “No, miss. It wouldn’t be no use. You wouldn’t credit the blood she’s lost. I’ve seen soldiers die from bleeding and it’s the same. First the thirst, then the weakness. Besides, the poor thing wants to hide her shame. Would this doctor hold his tongue?”
“But there has to be something, anything—where is Captain Jamieson?”
“He had to go off on patrol, he said he’d be back. Mistress Barb—the midwife, she knows her business. How she came to do such a thing—”
“She was afraid of the captain, that’s what,” the other broke in. “She took a swig of rum to steady herself, that was the mistake. Then she run off, leaving us to clean up her mess. Me and Jessie, we stayed, though we shouldn’t have. The little lady, she promised us money to fetch you.”
“But I don’t have money. Not with me. Not here.”
“Then we’re leaving. We’re out of here before the captain gets back.”
“Wait.” She hit her forehead. Her brain felt numb, as if she too had been cut open. Who could be trusted to help and be silent? Only one name came to mind. She dropped her hand.
“One of you run to Sir William Howe’s headquarters on Market Street. Ask for Captain Colborne. Tell him Miss Champion needs five pounds and to bring it to her. Tell him she’s in trouble and she needs it now. If he’ll come, he’ll pay.”
The two looked at each other. “You go, Nan,” Jessie said. “You look more respectable like, but don’t let the men give you sauce. Just keep saying that Miss Champion wants his help till you get an answer.”
As Nan clattered down the stairs, Jessie pulled a chair forward. “Sit down, miss.” She went to the other side of the bed and touched Constance’s forehead. “It’s almost over. She can’t hear us now. No more pain and no fear of being punished. I almost envy her, I do.”
“Envy her?”
“Aye, Miss. I help the midwife, but it wasn’t always like this. I’m from Brunswick in Jersey. Me and my sister, we were riding to our cousin’s house in Somerville. We crossed the path of a patrol. We were raped, over and over. We couldn’t go home and they wouldn’t take us with them. Too many women in their company.”
“Too many women?”
“There’s rations for just so many women and children in a company. Anyhow, we followed them. I turned my hand to nursing and scavenging what I can after the battles.” She touched Constance’s face again. “It’s a shame, that’s what it is. Captain Jamieson hadn’t ought to have fancied a little thing like her. A real little lady.”
“That man—he forced her. He must have forced her—but how?”
“Drugs, miss. Maybe something in her wine. That’s how it’s done. The captain, he’s a blackguard, for all he pretends to be a gentleman and an officer. Women like me know about him. His scum of a servant Landers is worse. Everyone fears Landers. He’d kill you as quick as look at you. That’s why neither of them must find out our part in this.”
Wine. Constance’s flushed face on Christmas Eve as she left with Jamieson. Sarah grasped the cold hand as if she could hold back d
eath and then laid her face on the edge of the bed. Something could have been arranged, a long visit to a grandmother or a cousin. Betsey Doane had gone to an aunt in Norwich, and everyone knew why. She had come back and began to walk out with Jeb Comstock, but Betsey was strong. Not like Constance.
“It’s over, Miss.”
“What?” She raised her head. Jessie drew up the quilt, covering Constance’s face. “It’s over, and I see Nan and an officer crossing the courtyard.”
“He’s here? He came?”
“Tall, fair hair, wearing a uniform. Pull yourself together, miss. There’s no time to waste with grieving. When Captain Jamieson comes back and sees what’s happened—there’s no telling what he’ll do to keep it quiet.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
February 17, 1778
Charles Colborne avoided unpleasantness whenever he could, and the growing depression at headquarters was taxing his good humor. The German mercenaries, now short of food and wood, were restive; their dukes were quick enough to demand compensation for the dead and wounded, but the men were seldom paid. Many had been lured into service by promises of fortunes in America. To make matters worse, British soldiers, also short of food and wood, were beginning to follow their lead. Colonel Harcourt of the 16th Light Dragoons, generally known as a kindly officer, had seen fit to punish one of his men with a hundred lashes.
As Charles came into headquarters this morning, Major Neville Balfour, the senior aide, stopped him in the front room, now used as an office.
“Orders from Sir William. He wants you to go down to the Walnut Street Prison. Tell Provost Marshal Cunningham that his bills for wine and food are excessive. Don’t let him make excuses.”
“Right, sir.” Charles swallowed his annoyance, put on his cape and went out. He felt stale and down-at-the-mouth, a condition his old nanny would have attacked with quinine and rhubarb. Sir William could show great courage in battle; he had many good qualities, including fairness, amiability and authority, but he was apt to put off decisive action. In fact, he seemed almost reluctant to wage this war. A number of officers, hearing tales of the desperate conditions at Valley Forge, were urging him to muster his forces and end the rebellion. Instead, he was ignoring them and allowing his mistress, Mrs. Loring, to behave like an imperial empress; as recompense for turning a blind eye to the affair, her husband, a Boston loyalist, had been made commissioner of prisoners and was paid six thousand pounds. As well, a little doggerel was being sung in the streets:
Awake, arouse, Sir Billy
There’s forage in the plain
Ah, leave your little filly
And open the campaign.
Even more annoying was the change in Miss Champion. Before Christmas, they had made a light-hearted pact to protect each other from unwelcome advances. They had enjoyed being together, but now, for some reason, those high spirits and artless humor had vanished. Last night, at the play, she was distracted and listless; even his imitation of the actress Miss Hyde hadn’t made her choke with laughter behind her fan.
He needed more exercise, he decided, as he reached the Walnut Street Prison. And it might not be a bad idea to escort Miss Franks to the next ball. A little competition often led to good results.
But as he entered the prison, the sight beyond the door brought him up short. The building had never been completed and now held over a thousand prisoners. Dozens of soldiers lay huddled on the stone floors with no blankets to cover them. Snow had drifted in from the broken panes of glass, shattered by the explosions on the river; it shifted gently in the drafts of wind.
A man pulled himself up and came towards him. He looked around and then spoke in a low voice.
“Major Cochran of the Fourth Pennsylvania. Sir, conditions here are intolerable. Those with friends in the city get a little food, but the rest go hungry. The dead are thrown into a common grave. Captain Cunningham beats us with the butt of his gun, always on the sly, never in front of officers like yourself. The man is a devil, sir. There will be retaliation against British prisoners, that I promise you.”
Charles frowned. Major Cochran had the voice and the manner of a gentleman. “I’ll see that Sir William is informed,” he said, and kept walking.
There was a fire burning in Captain Cunningham’s fusty little room. He greeted Charles warmly and begged him to assure Sir William that all was in hand at the prison, everyone merry as a grig.
The big, red-faced Irishman was pock-marked, and his teeth were yellow stumps. His uniform was stained and there was a strong smell of wine on his breath. As he talked, he scratched at the lice in his cropped, grayish hair.
Charles delivered his message about exorbitant bills, barely able to contain his disgust. Junior aides were not in a position to improve prison conditions, but in his report he would lean hard on Neville Balfour.
When he returned, Balfour was sitting at his desk, giving orders to an orderly. Charles took a deep breath. “Sir, I can tell you that the Walnut Street Prison is a disgrace. Men are starving. Cunningham swore his bills were in order, but his breath nearly blew me out of my boots. The man is a scoundrel, not fit to be a private, let alone an officer.”
Balfour shook his head. “Not an appetizing fellow, I agree, but he has his uses. It’s said that the rebels fear him so much that some will desert or even join with us, anything but fall into his hands.”
“British prisoners may get the same treatment. There must be a way to replace him.”
“I’ll look into it. In the meantime—”
“Captain Colborne, sir.” It was the guard who stood at the front door.
“Yes?”
“Girl in the hall to see you see you,” he said flatly.
“What name did she give?”
“None, sir. Just says Miss Champion wants you to come to her and it’s urgent.”
Heads looked up from desks. Captain Pierce began to laugh. “What’s this, Colborne? Hurry before she changes her mind.”
Charles went into the hall. A doxy was standing just inside the front door, her cloak was pulled tightly around her shoulders; her face was scarlet under the paint.
“Beg pardon, sir,” she whispered and turned her back on the guard. “Miss Champion sent me to get you and for you to bring five pounds. She’s in trouble. She needs your help.”
Charles frowned. Lord Cathcart had a regrettable way of playing practical jokes on his friends. “A likely story,” he said firmly. “Go off and don’t come back.”
The girl didn’t move. She clasped her grubby hands, “Please, sir, it’s like this. Miss Champion’s friend went to the midwife. Constance, her name is. She’s dying. We was promised money if we went for her friend Miss Champion. We fetched her, and now we want our money.”
He stepped forward. “Keep your voice down. Where are they?”
“Jones’s Alley. Captain Jamieson brought the little lady there this morning. The knife slipped. Like I said, she’s dying.”
Jamieson and Miss Brown. “Wait for me outside,” he muttered. Ignoring the guard, he retrieved his hat and cape and went back into Market Street.
A steady rain was falling. The streets were nearly deserted as he followed the girl to the other side of town. If true, heiress-stalking Jamieson had gone too far with gentle Miss Brown. This had all the makings of serious trouble.
The girl turned into a courtyard surrounded by shabby houses. He picked his way over piles of garbage. No one was in sight, but he had a strong sense that dozens of eyes were watching from behind closed windows.
At the top of the filthy stairs, the girl stopped and opened a door. “In here, sir.”
He stood still. The smell of fresh blood filled the small room. Sarah Champion was standing bedside a bed, looking down at a small form covered by a quilt. Another woman came forward.
“Captain Colborne?”
“Yes.”
“The lady on the bed, she just died. She promised us money for going to Third Street and fetching Miss Cham
pion. We were going to leave unless we was paid, so she sent for you.”
“The girl told me Captain Jamieson brought the lady. Where is he?”
“He had to go off on a patrol. We’re out of here before he comes back. You have money?”
“Wait.” He hesitated, trying to think this through. “What’s your name?”
“Jessie. Everyone knows me.”
“Five pounds after you give me your word to say nothing about what has happened.”
“Oh, we’ll be tight-lipped, no fear. The midwife—she won’t talk, but news spreads fast in this place. It’ll be through the ranks by tomorrow.”
“That may be, but no one must know the names of these two ladies.” He reached into a pocket and counted notes. “Five pounds in exchange for no names. Give me your word or you’ll get nothing.”
“No names, is it?” The woman took the money. She put it in her bodice then faced him, hands on hips. “The poor soul lying there, it wasn’t dying she feared, it was the disgrace. You high and mighty officers think you can rape and ruin and walk away without a scratch. You’ll cover up for your friend Captain Jamieson as if this never happened. You’re animals. You make me puke. Come on, Nan.” She pushed the other forward and they clattered down the stairs.
He stood still, taken aback by those words. Miss Champion was looking at him, the blank stare of a person deep in shock. He went forward and took her arm.
“Terrible. This should never have happened. I’ll stay, but you must leave. A story will be put out, one that people will believe. An accident. Maybe a carriage overturned—”
“She’s dead. He killed her.” The staring eyes widened. “She was my dearest friend. We used to walk together under Governor Shippen’s trees. They’re gone. She’s gone. That girl Jessie, she and her sister were raped by common soldiers, but you officers are supposed to be better.”
He winced. Unfair, but she was in shock. “Go straight home,” he said tightly. “Act as though nothing is wrong. The Browns won’t want a scandal. Neither would Sir William.”
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