A setback, because he had every intention of being a good husband, raising children, and establishing himself as a respected member of society. It was easy to see that this country was ripe for plucking. A man who played his cards right—and he had made a small fortune from cards—could profit from opposing forces pulling against each other.
However, there was one flaw in this picture. Two people knew he was the father of Miss Brown’s aborted child: Charles Colborne and Sarah Champion. Neither was likely to speak out now, but down the road one of them might decide to tell the truth about the young girl’s death.
He straightened and stood up. Difficult to remove these two obstacles, but there were ways. Officers were killed in skirmishes, patrols, and in battles. Silencing the girl would be more difficult, but sooner or later the chance would come. The chance would come.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
February 28, 1778
The news of Constance Brown’s death raced from house to house. Even the most dedicated mourners did not hurry to call on the family. There had been many tragedies in the past year: sons killed in battle, daughters taken in childbirth, little children lost to flux. Even so, this death shocked society into tight-lipped grief. Constance was a quiet favorite. The Browns were a close-knit, powerful clan.
No one was given details about the accident. There was talk of a runaway horse and an overturned carriage as Constance was on the way to call on her grandmother, but details were confused and murky.
On the day of the funeral, family and friends walked sadly down the brick walk that led from Second Street to Christ Church. As the service ended, sun shone through the great front window, but the symbolism brought no comfort. Traditional gifts were given and accepted with tears; the lavender wool gloves, the gold mourning rings enameled in black with a strand of Constance’s hair enclosed. Sobbing friends vowed to wear them forever.
Parents now treated officers who came to call with marked coolness. There had been no betrothals to English aristocrats. The girls had grown headstrong, and the cost of entertainment was ruinous. Judge Edward Shippen groaned as he added up the bills for wine, food, and dresses. His ungrateful daughters were complaining that the upholstery was so shabby they could scarcely hold their heads up. He told his wife he wished they had gone into exile.
Later, in the evening after the funeral, a group of officers gathered to dine at Saint George and the Dragon. The landlord, Jed Beale, mixed the best flip in town, a strong mixture of beer, sugar, molasses, and rum, but the mood was not cheerful. “The coolness toward us won’t last long; we’ll soon be in favor again,” New Yorker Oliver De Lancey said to Lord Cathcart. “You’ll see.”
But in spite of De Lancey’s words, uneasiness prevailed. Few believed the carriage accident story. The girl’s death and Jamieson’s sudden departure might be linked, but no one had confronted him before he left.
Cathcart drained his tumbler. “Never liked the man. Twisty little smile. Made himself a fixture with Miss Brown because he wanted her money.”
Lord Rawdon cleared his throat. “Same thing happened in London before we left. Daughter of the Earl of—well, no need for names. One of those girls you see sitting against the wall at Almacks. No looks, but money from her grandmother. Jamieson swept her off her feet. He went to Papa and got packed out of the house in a hurry.”
“How d’you know?” Cathcart asked
“Cousin told me. Strictest confidence.”
Banastre Tarleton turned to Rawon. “Should have told us sooner, Rawdon. Same thing happened in New York last winter. Ought to have taken him out and horsewhipped him.”
Rawdon laughed. “Not so pious, Tarleton. You’ve had a few affairs over here.”
“Nothing you wouldn’t do. Well, good riddance to that Johnny Sharp. He must have fleeced enough pigeons at Mr. Smith’s to buy himself a gaming house, though he was daring enough on patrols.” He paused. “You’re uncommonly quiet tonight, Colborne.”
Charles tossed off half a glass of flip. “The next round’s on me,” he said, motioning to the waiter. It was better to go to bed drunk than thrash between the sheets until dawn. His plans were made. As soon as possible, he would resign his commission and go home to Rokum. His mother and sisters would welcome him back with open arms. There might still be some hunting.
The fresh round of flips arrived. He pulled out a half-crown and threw it on the table. Picked up the tumbler and put it down. He needed a clear head, because tomorrow he must stop dragging his feet and go to Third Street. First, make sure Mrs. Sage was out— that lady could outmatch him in a confrontation. Then get the girl alone and accuse her of spying. Watch her closely. If she wavered, he would tell her that he knew about her aunt’s letter to General Washington. He must try to extract a solemn promise that she and her aunt would stop acting as informers. If not, he would do his duty and inform Sir William. They might not be sent to the Walnut Street Prison, but they would be exposed and vilified in both British and loyalist circles. The punishment would be severe.
For Sarah, nights had become a time of torment. For hours she lay shivering under the down coverlet, overwhelmed by guilt. True, she had been distracted by what she had overheard Christmas Eve, but somehow she should have stopped her friend from going off with Captain Jamieson. Day and night, suddenly she would find herself back in that little room with Jessie. She kept hearing Constance’s last words: “It’s over. No more pain. I’m glad.” Impossible to imagine her friend’s despair as she faced shame and disgrace. James’s death in battle was still painful, but James had died for a cause. The world could take pride in his sacrifice. Grief for Constance could not be shared. No one must know how her life had ended. The horror in that little room.
Aunt was losing patience. “Stop picking at your food,” she snapped this morning as they sat at breakfast. “Your eyes are like black holes in your face. It’s right to mourn, but the living cannot cling to the dead forever.” She put down her spoon. “I will spend the day with Mary Brown. It helps her to sit quietly with a friend. Keep in mind, Niece, that that her sorrow is far greater than yours.”
“I will.” But Mrs. Brown hadn’t seen the bloody cloths or been with her daughter as she died. Sarah’s only comfort was to spend time with young Julia Willing, immersing herself in a child’s world of cross-work stitching and games.
She was in her bedroom, about to leave for the Willings’, when Cato knocked on the door.
“Captain Colborne here, missie. I tell him the mistress not at home, but he ask to see you. He say it important.”
She hesitated. She had hoped to avoid seeing him again, but by coming to Jones’s Alley, he had done her a very great service. She had insulted him, screamed at him like a madwoman, but he had stayed and faced Jamieson. He was owed thanks—and there was something else she must tell him.
“Tell Captain Colborne I’m coming,” she said, then picked up her warm fringed shawl, and walked slowly down the stairs.
There was no fire in the parlor; the supply of wood was getting low. Still, a cold, cheerless room might shorten the unwanted meeting.
Charles was standing by the window. Even at a distance, she could see that his face had lost color. His blue eyes looked almost gray.
“What is it?” she asked, forgetting her careful speech. “Have the Browns found out?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
She twisted her hands, struggling to find the right words. “Captain Colborne, I asked a great deal of you that day. It was wrong of me to—to speak to you as I did. Please accept my apologies. I am— we are all—very much in your debt.”
He made a slight bow. “You may have heard that Jamieson has sold out and left the country.”
“Thank God for that. If I met him on the street—” She paused and tugged at the ends of the shawl. “Captain I—that is, there is something I must tell you. Something you should know.”
“What?”
“It’s this. I won’t be going to any mo
re parties. What’s more, I don’t want to see you and your friends again. This must be your last call.”
Silence. He frowned. “Let me get this straight. You want nothing more to do with me. With any of us. Not even after the mourning period is over?”
“No, and I won’t be teased into changing my mind.” She looked away. “After what—after what happened to Constance Brown, I wish I had never set foot in this city. If I could, I’d go home tomorrow.” She took a deep breath and held out her hand. “Thank you again for coming to that dreadful place and helping me. Good day, Captain Colborne.”
“Wait.” He put his hands behind his back, the parade ground posture. “Wait. I came today for a reason.”
“A reason?””
“It’s this. I want to know where you were New Year’s Eve. Your aunt told me you were visiting an old lady across the city. Is that true?”
She hesitated. “It’s true that I was away.”
“Away at Valley Forge disguised as a boy?”
Her head jerked up. “How did you know?”
“I know because your aunt sent a letter to General Washington offering to pass on information she could get from us. The reason we were made very welcome here, why I was encouraged to be your escort.” He paused. “You were very clever. Until recently, I never suspected how I was being used. I should have gone to Sir William, but I decided to come here first.” He lifted his hand, “If there’s any explanation, for God’s sake let me have it.”
A company of soldiers passed by, the drummers making it impossible to hear. She stood still, touching her neck. What must she say? She had danced with this man, laughed with him, deceived him. Captain Warren had warned them what could happen if they were caught.
The noise died away. She dropped her hand and looked him in the eye. “I won’t lie to you. Yes, my aunt wrote a letter. Yes, she sent for me to help her. Yes, we were going to pass on careless talk, but you never talked about military matters. It was all about cockfights, balls, the plays. We got nothing from you. We didn’t even know when you went off to fight in Chestnut Hill.”
He ran a hand over his face. “But why? Why in God’s name would you take such a risk?”
She pulled the shawl tighter, as if to ward off the next blow. “My aunt has a particular reason, but she refuses to tell me. My family and I are patriots. My brother was killed at the battle of Long Island. When I came to Philadelphia and thought my aunt was a loyalist I nearly went home.”
“But then?”
“You came marching in. That was when she told me she hated the British. Told me why she gave me dancing lessons, dressed me up like a doll. It was all so I could be invited to your parties.”
“You were willing to do this?”
“It went against everything I was taught to believe, but I did it for my brother.”
“What about Valley Forge?”
“You remember Aunt’s Christmas Eve party. When Major Whitelaw began to sing “Adeste Fidelis,” I went down to the dining room to help Lorelia. One of you came down the stairs. He opened the front door and let another man in. I heard him give orders to go to Valley Forge and kill General Washington.”
“Kill General Washington?”
“Yes, kill him. I went out in the snow to leave a message. Later I was taken to Valley Forge to identify the man I had seen for a few seconds as he left.” She stopped and stared down at the Turkish rug; the red and blue threads in the border were fraying.
“What about the other man?”
“He went back up the stairs. I never saw his face, but he had to be one of you. Maybe someone who often comes here. Later we were told—my aunt and I—to do nothing more in case we’re being watched.”
“You stopped passing on information?”
“Yes.”
“You and your aunt are no longer acting as spies?”
“No we are not. Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”
He passed a hand over his forehead again. “I believe you. What’s more, the man who came down the stairs may have been that scoundrel Jamieson.”
“Jamieson?”
“I told him if he didn’t resign I’d present Sir William with the truth about Miss Brown. He said if I did that, he’d go to Captain Cunningham at the Walnut Street Prison and show him that letter. God knows how he got it, but I’ve been to that prison. I’ve seen Captain Cunningham. I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in his power.”
She dropped the shawl. Tears were coming, choking her throat. “You—you were willing to do that? After what you knew about us?”
“None of us has a clear conscience. I used to think that soldiering was an honorable profession. I was wrong. It’s a quagmire of incompetence and deception. I’m planning to sell out as soon as I can and go home.”
“Go home?” Through tears, she stared at Charles Colborne as if seeing him for the first time: a tall, rangy man in a beautifully fitting scarlet coat. A man who hated unpleasantness but cared deeply about honor. The night of the first ball, he had kept her from gambling with Jamieson. He had answered her plea for help and come to Jones’s Alley. He had saved her from the Walnut Street Prison.
He picked up the shawl she had dropped. “Here’s your pretty shawl, don’t use it as a mop. Jamieson has gone back to wherever he came from. No more trouble there. You told me your story and I believe you.” He made a small bow. “We were friends. We laughed at each other. I wish you well. He turned toward the door.
“Wait.” The tears were pouring down her face. She tried to wipe them away with her shawl. “You could have sent us to prison and you didn’t. So many lies—I never thought I could deceive anyone, I meant no harm, but the war has changed us all. When will it end? When?” She reached out and clutched his sleeve.
“God knows. God knows.” He put his arms around her. They stood there in the cold room, holding each other like children clinging together for comfort, warding off the misery that surrounded them.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
April 2, 1778
Spring was slow to arrive this year, but the signs were promising. The ground began to lose its frozen cover. Clouds moved gustily across the sky.
In the overcrowded city, windows were flung open, and householders swept up the debris on the pavements. The future was as uncertain as ever; occupation was still a massive burden, but the change of seasons always came in good times and in bad.
At Valley Forge, the first days of stronger sun brought on a frenzy of purification. By orders of General Washington, bedding was aired and dirty straw burned. Men unwrapped the bandages from their feet and tussled like boys as ice on the Schuykill broke with thunderous cracks.
Warren hadn’t been back to Valley Forge since January, but after receiving a summons from Colonel Tilghman, he left the city, picked up a horse in Frankford, and began the long ride to headquarters.
As he reached the parade ground, he stopped to watch men march with precision, then rush forward in a fierce bayonet charge. Major Clark had told him about a Baron von Steuben who was teaching the men to fight in the King of Prussia’s style.
“No more depending on snipers and undisciplined attacks. The Baron—a questionable title, by the way—gives orders in German. His secretary, Monsieur Deponceau, translates them into French. Whoever is handy with French puts them into English, even the curses. It’s a ruddy circus, and the troops love him. ‘Once more, my children,’ he bawls, and the poor sods stagger through another drill.”
And at headquarters, hopes were mounting. General Nathanael Greene had reluctantly accepted the post of quartermaster general. He had hoped to stay in the field, but under his leadership, food was coming by routes previously ignored. Recruits were arriving. It was possible that the French would declare themselves allies and send aid.
Colonel Tilghman wasted no time in pleasantries. “We hear rumors that General Sir Henry Clinton is coming from New York to replace Howe. What do your sources say?”
“The word is that Cl
inton will take the British back to New York by land and by sea. There may be a battle along the way, but I can tell you this: the winter has left Howe’s troops sluggish and the officers lazy.”
“Our men are training hard. What about the loyalists?”
“They see the handwriting on the wall and are rushing to ask for protection. Sir William’s crony, John Galloway, has outlandish ideas of forming his own kingdom, but the real leaders are using him as a front. They’re astute, and they’re financing underground networks. Finding them is critical. We have a few leads, but so far they’ve managed to stay well out of sight.”
“A serious threat. My mother was a Francis from Philadelphia. My own father is unable to bring himself to break ties with the king. It’s these extremists that pose a danger. When the fighting ends, they’ll rush to fill the void. Exiles will come back to take key positions, step into appointed slots in every colony. Colonel Hamilton and I sit up late at night worrying that a weak Congress won’t be able to form a new government.”
“The colonies won’t want to give up their rights.”
“No, they will not.” He picked up a paper. “We need to start making a list of the people who have worked for us undercover. They shouldn’t be punished when the British leave and the new lot comes in. Be sure it includes Mrs. Sage and Miss Champion, a remarkable young lady. I hope in time we can use her again.”
Warren didn’t answer. No need to tell the colonel how he and Miss Champion had parted. “I hate you, Captain Warren. I hate you. I will never, ever speak to you again.” Or tell him that last week, as he went down Second Street in his peddler’s clothes, he had seen her walking with Captain Colborne. She was looking up at him, holding his arm, and laughing. He had hurried by, annoyed by a sharp twinge of anger. At Valley Forge she had behaved with stamina and the wits to see that she had been used. But to be seen on the streets flirting with a British officer showed a deplorable lack of common sense. People had eyes. She’d be in serious trouble when the British pulled up stakes and left. Still, it was hard to forget the feel of her riding pillion behind him, the chapped hand rubbing a streaming nose. The girl had turned out to be shallow, capricious, changeable, but she continued to irritate him him like a burr under the saddle— and there was no place for weakness in his life.
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