Sarah's War

by Eugenia Lovett West

  The colonel shifted in his chair. “About the Coomes affair. With hindsight, a number of mistakes were made. We should have arrested Coomes at once and saved you and Miss Champion the journey. He never broke down under interrogation. He was questioned hard, but he died without naming names. Silent to the end. We were sure he was holding back information, but he had the look of a man who expected to die, one way or another.”

  “What about the man he was hiding?”

  “Another setback. Coomes was picked up a few minutes after you left, but with just enough time to alert the assassin. There were footsteps in the snow. Either the man died of cold or he got back to the city.”

  “And could be used for another plot.”

  “That’s the fear.” He paused. “Any word on the officer who gave Coomes his orders Christmas Eve?”

  “Finding him is a priority, but so far no leads. He may still be going to Third Street, playing a double game.”

  “Do your damndest to find him. When we break camp and move on, it will be harder than ever to protect the general. If the French come in, we might win the war without him, but afterwards only the general can hold us together.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he has great endurance in mind and body. A grasp for both small and large details, and a brain that works in slow, firm steps to the logical conclusion. We must find the officer behind Coomes and the hired assassin before he can do more harm.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Right.” He stood up. “Before you start back, I’m taking you to Captain Benjamin Tallmadge, formerly with the Connecticut Light Dragoons, a recent addition to intelligence. He appreciates that you have a difficult and dangerous job and has asked to meet you.” He paused and touched Warren’s shoulder. “Take heart, my friend. The future looks less bleak than in January. If there’s another battle and we make a good showing, the king’s advisers may tell him the war is costing too much. There could be negotiations.”

  Warren’s session with Tallmadge lasted for over an hour. It was mid-afternoon when he left headquarters. There were new instructions to follow, but he would keep on playing the part of a waiter at the City Tavern. Mr. Smith’s special recipe for punch had a wonderful way of loosening tongues.

  As for Miss Champion, it was said around the punch bowl that she was desperately ill. He was relieved to see her enter the Long Room on Captain Colborne’s arm

  The men were still drilling on the plateau. He watched, aware that he would sell his soul to give up the miserable life of a spy and be part of this new fighting force. The little baron with the flat face had performed a miracle—no, the men were the miracle. They had survived. The core of the country was sound.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  April 23, 1778

  The Little Society of Third Street, Captain Andre’s name for the lively group, was meeting at various houses with renewed energy. To avoid questions, Sarah had been forced to take part. Once again Charles was her escort, but the relationship had changed in a cold parlor, as she and Charles held each other tightly, joined in despair about the deception around them and the need for secrecy about Constance.

  In the weeks before Christmas, she had used him shamelessly, the lighthearted partner who treated her like a younger sister. Now she felt breathless when he came into a room and his blue eyes met hers. She was intensely aware of the way his neck fitted his shoulders, the look of his long muscled legs in tight-fitting white breeches. She felt consumed by these strange feelings, this startling invasion of the senses. Admiring glances, a tap on the back of the hand with a fan were acceptable contacts with a man, and that was all.

  As well, it was wrong, very wrong, to be so strongly attracted to a British officer. Her aunt would scold. Her family would be horrified. At times, as they danced and played cards, she was sure that he too had changed, but he gave no sign. All she could do was to immerse herself in daily chores and hide this growing compulsion to be with him. Live in the moment.

  This morning when he called to make plans for the evening, the weather was fine enough to walk in the garden. For once, they were alone. Her aunt had kept to her room with a rare upset. As they passed through the neglected rose beds, she became aware that Charles was saying very little. His head was bent, as if he had something on his mind.

  “You’re very quiet today,” she said lightly. “Has Sir William lost a fortune at cards? Or has he finally quarreled with Mrs. Loring?”

  He straightened. “Nothing like that. It’s that tomorrow your aunt may be well again, and we’ll sit stiffly in the parlor. I watched you last night. You must have one hidden fault. Do you cheat at cards? No, or I’d have noticed.”

  She hesitated, not sure how to answer. “Well, I could say the same about you. Why don’t you knock an old lady down in the street or kick your dog? She’s coming from the stable.”

  The dog approached, her stumpy little body quivering with pleasure. “Enough, you miserable cur,” he growled and lifted his foot. She backed away, rolling her eyes.

  Sarah laughed. “Not very convincing. Now for the old lady—”

  “Never mind the old lady.” He seized her arm and drew her behind a yew bush.

  “What are you—?”

  “This.” He took her face in both hands, kissed her eyelids, then put his arms around her, holding her tightly against him. She stood still, shaken by the surge of sensation that numbed the brain and heated the blood.

  For a long moment they stood there until he stepped back and let her go. “That was wrong of me. If I’ve made you unhappy—”

  She raised her face. “It’s wrong—yes, but it makes me happy. Very happy.”

  “Truly?” He touched her cheek.

  She nodded. Her bones felt like water. Her senses glowed. No matter what happened now, there need not be a wall of pretense between them, a need to hide their feelings—except in front of others.

  “Sarah—”

  She touched his lips with a finger. “Later. I’ve been gone too long, and my aunt needs me.” She moved away and leaned against the sundial. Slowly, with great care, she began to trace the letters on the stone: I count life by sunny hours. From now on, she would count the hours until the moments when she and Charles could be alone together.

  It was almost noon, but Mrs. Sage remained in her bed. Yesterday, with no warning, she had been felled with stomach pains so severe that she’d had to swallow large doses of laudanum. By night the pain was better, but today she was weak and lethargic.

  “Ridiculous,” she said to Sarah who was bringing her a cup of tea. “I am never ill, but I shall stay here a little longer. Open the window, if you please. It looks very fine, and the air will do me good.”

  After the girl left, she lay quietly with her head on her favorite pillow; over the years the embroidered case had been washed and ironed to the point of disintegration.

  Birds were jabbering in the trees as they made their nests—a distracting noise, because it was time to put her mind to the problem of Sarah. The illness after Valley Forge, then grief for Constance Brown had drawn the girl down. Now she looked happy, too happy

  True, last fall she had encouraged Sarah to accept Charles Colborne as her escort. After the warning that they might be watched, she had insisted that the girl resume going to parties, again with Charles as her escort. But yesterday, as they sat in the parlor, she had intercepted Sarah’s look at Charles, her studied nonchalance as they talked of plans for whist at the Shippens’. Oh, they were discreet, this pair, but there were the silences, the accidental touch of the hand. A looming disaster. Why in the face of all that was sensible, must her niece be attracted to a British officer?

  The sun was moving to the other side of the window. She closed her eyes. Spring was a busy time. The painted awnings should be put out, the roses fed with the special fertilizer provided by horticulturalist John Bartram. She winced at a sharp twinge of this mysterious pain. The garden could wait, but by tomorrow
she must be well enough to go down and sit with those two, a chilling presence. For the sake of Sarah’s future, she must try to end this ill-fated attachment. Use every ploy in her power to cut it off at the roots.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  May 7, 1778

  “It having pleased the Almighty Ruler of the Universe propitiously to defend the cause of the United American States, and finally by raising us up a powerful Friend among the Princes of the Earth, to establish our liberty and Independence upon lasting foundations, it becomes us to set apart a day for gratefully acknowledging the Divine goodness and celebrating the important Event. . . .”

  George Washington

  “Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!” The roar swept over the plateau at Valley Forge and echoed from the hills, now showing green against a blue sky.

  Thousands of caps flew into the air, as General Washington and his entourage left the temporary amphitheater, ending the epic celebration in honor of the new alliance with France. A fine dinner with wine, music, and entertainment had been served under tents of canvas stretched on poles.

  Warren watched Mrs. Washington as she spoke to the dashing Marquis de Lafayette, a favorite with her husband. Neither young nor a beauty, the lady exacted respect and treated her military “family” in a motherly way. There was no condescension in her manner, yet, like her husband, she was meticulous in exacting the respect due to his rank. It was no secret that she and the general both longed to be back at Mount Vernon, their home on the Potomac River, troubled only by problems like blight on the tobacco crop.

  As he walked towards headquarters, Captain Benjamin Tall-madge, now a major player in American intelligence, joined him.

  “I have news for you, Captain,” Tallmadge said. “It’s settled. Washington is going to reward General Arnold by making him the military governor in Philadelphia.”

  “General Arnold is to take over Philadelphia?”

  “Not much experience in that kind of position, but his bad leg keeps him from active service, and General Washington does not forget his friends.” He paused. “About Sir William. Any more talk of when he leaves?”

  “In June. I don’t know the exact date, but he’s getting a rare sendoff. I hear about it at Mr. Smith’s while I’m pouring punch. The younger officers have subscribed several thousand pounds for a farewell party. They’re calling it a Mischianza.”

  Tallmadge raised his eyebrows. “What the hell is that?”

  “I gather it’s another word for medley. Picture, if you can, a tournament of knights jousting for the favors of young ladies dressed in Turkish costumes. They’ll sail up the river, knock each other off their horses, then dine and dance in a big empty house whose rich owner died a while ago.”

  “Good God.”

  “Just so. The French navy is on the way, and the officers are out practicing how to hit each other with wooden spears. Good. Reminds me of a song we sang back in 1775 when the Cerberus came sailing into Boston harbor. It went something like this:

  Behold the Cerberus the Atlantic plough

  The precious cargo Burgoyne, Clinton, Howe

  Bow! Wow! Wow!”

  Tallmadge threw back his head and laughed. “Two generals down and one to go. I remember what Dr. Franklin said in Paris when he heard Howe had captured Philadelphia. ‘Say rather that Philadelphia has taken General Howe.’ Damned if Franklin didn’t have it right.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  May 18, 1778

  Dogwood and cherry trees bloomed on every street. Hyacinths, tulips, and daffodils presented themselves proudly, and the scent of lilac filled the air. Ladies stepped out in chintz gowns and boys cluttered the footways with their games.

  But appearances were deceiving. Word had spread that the army would be leaving in June. Loyalist households were convulsed with anger and shock. Last fall it had been patriots out and loyalists in. Now it was patriots back in and loyalists out. When the Continental Army came in, who would be punished for not taking the oath of allegiance? Whose property confiscated? There was a long list of old scores to settle.

  Elizabeth Sage was now a very sick woman, unable to retain food, though her worried friends brought every sort of restorative jelly. Portly Dr. Twifoot came daily. “There are four humors in the body,” he told her. “The sanguine, the choleric, the phlegmatic, and the melancholic. You are afflicted with the sanguine. If you refuse to let me bleed you, we must try another remedy. He applied a caustic solution to draw inflammation from the center of the body. The results were blisters and more pain.

  Last week he made a final diagnosis: “There are certain symptoms that I fail to understand, but I believe you have the wasting disease. As you know, there is no cure.”

  “Indeed. How long do I have?”

  “My dear lady, I cannot say, but I will keep you well supplied with drugs to ease the pain.”

  A death sentence. As she lay in bed, she tried to focus on the time that remained. Outrageous of her body, that trusted old friend, to turn traitor at such a time of turmoil. Many loyalist families would be uprooted, but she had a letter signed by Colonel Tilghman. It stated that because of valuable services to General Washington, the Sage properties could not be confiscated.

  But there were other life-changing problems that must be address and solved before she lost her wits. One was Josiah. A few weeks ago he had appeared after a long absence and announced that he wanted to learn more about the business. They had met several times in the withdrawing room, but it was obvious that he had little aptitude or interest. Last week Cato found him poking around the house, looking into cabinets and chests.

  “I’ve made it clear he’ll get no more money from me,” she said later to Sarah. “No doubt he’s gambling again, in debt and looking for valuables to steal. A great pity. His father was a fine man. I feel obligated to help his son, and I have, but giving Josiah more money would be like throwing it away.”

  Today, as she woke from drugged sleep, she looked around the room that she had furnished so carefully over the years. The escritoire from a chateau in the Loire, the Italian mirror over the dressing table. Possessions—they had absorbed too much of her life. There should have been a large, lusty family. Grandchildren, but at least she had Sarah.

  She closed her eyes and thought about her niece. No daughter could be more caring, carrying pans, changing her, administering doses of laudanum, now almost pure opium. The girl was stronger than she looked. “You forget, I’m a farm girl, I’m used to hard work,” she would say, but there was something new in the girl’s expression. A lightness in her step.

  A week ago she had dragged herself to the window to look out at the garden. The canes of roses were greening, perennials filled the squares lined by low box hedges—and Charles and Sarah were kissing by the sundial. She had stumbled back to bed, and lay there, filled with anger and dismay. How far had the affair progressed? What must she do? No use, now, to make ultimatums that she was helpless to enforce. As well, Charles was owed for his silence about the compromising letter.

  As a couple, she had to admit they were well-suited. Both had looks and good nature. Charles was a gentleman who played by the rules. Sarah had been brought up strictly, but hot young blood could overturn the most virtuous intentions.

  More than once she had tried to spell out hard truths to Sarah. The officers were leaving soon. They had amused themselves very well during the winter, and the hopes of ambitious mammas about engagements to eligible Englishmen had come to nothing. If Sarah was foolish enough to think that Charles would go home with a colonial bride, it was time to face facts and forget him.

  The girl had listened and said nothing. Not a promising sign. In order to nurse her, Sarah had given up parties, but after some thought, she had given the girl permission to go with Charles to the farewell folly for Sir William. A mistake, perhaps, but the child was owed one last festivity.

  The room was growing warm. The door opened. It was Sarah, bringing a brew of chamomi
le and sassafras tea. “Are you awake? Could you eat a little bread dipped in tea?”

  “Pap. Snuff seems to do me more good.” She picked up the small box she kept beside her. “Empty again. Fill it from the one in the withdrawing room.” She paused. “What time do you leave for this extravaganza? Old Mr. Wharton was a Quaker. ‘The Duke,’ we used to call him. He’d rise from his grave at the use of Walnut Grove.”

  “If the pain is worse, I won’t go.”

  “Nonsense. Mrs. Shippen tells me it will be a replica of a fête champêtre given by the Earl of Derby in 1774. You mustn’t miss watching your friends make fools of themselves. Besides, it’s all arranged. Mrs. Brown will be here at three o’clock. Lorelia will stay with me when she leaves.”

  In spite of their own troubles, her old friends insisted on coming to be with her. A sad ritual, when one woman was dying and many were leaving the city. As for Sarah, a few more hours with Charles wouldn’t change the inevitable. No matter how she tried to conceal it, the child was head over heels in love. When he left, there would be heartbreak and tears.

  Another spasm was coming. She braced herself against the pain. There was a last step she must take without further delay. In her old will, Josiah received most of her estate, but it was clear he was incapable of handling great wealth. She would give him back his shares in the company, but the rest of her fortune would go to her niece. Sarah was her flesh and blood, and she should be rewarded for caring so patiently for a dying woman. Money never mended broken hearts, but it could provide a lifetime of resources and independence, often denied to women.

  Sarah picked up the cup. “Will you sleep now, Aunt?”