Sarah's War

by Eugenia Lovett West

  In Freehold, at dawn, Charles sat outside his tent. The huge camp was still quiet. Last night there were hopes of a thunderstorm, but though the grass was damp and dewy, the air was heavy. “Another scorcher, Gosse,” Charles said over his shoulder to his elderly groom. “Bring me paper and a quill. I have to write a letter.”

  While riding down the endless roads, there had been time to think ahead. As soon as he reached New York, he must bite the bullet and write to his family about the marriage. His grandmother would be irate; in February she had sent a stern warning about the dangers of colonial attachments. His mother would be coolly neutral: “Charles is returning with a bride. A pretty girl, he says. Not what one hoped for, but we will try to make her welcome.”

  There would be difficulties, but if his sisters put on any airs, he would wring their necks. Next winter he and Sarah would hunt together; he had just the right mount for her unless Rosamund had ruined the mare’s mouth.

  “Your writing things, sir.”

  “Obliged.” He took the paper, ink, and quill pen from Gosse. A few more days on the road before reaching Sandy Hook, but once in New York, he would find the best quarters available. Kind Lady Eden would take Sarah under her wing until he could resign. They would leave on the next available ship.

  The camp was beginning to stir. Rawdon came out of his tent and relieved himself against a tree. Somewhere in the baggage assembly area, a baby screamed; even the irritable Sir Henry hadn’t been able to rid himself of the camp followers, a ragtag lot that must be fed.

  With a sigh, Charles loosened the neckband at his throat. He was not much of a hand at letters; until now a hasty scrawl had sufficed. His letter to the family could wait, but for Sarah he must make an effort. No need to mention bloated bodies crawling with flies that lay sprawled on the roadsides, or the savage humidity that felt like hot bath water. At last he began to write.

  June 28

  My dearest one,

  This letter may not reach you for some time, but you are never out of my thoughts. Our love is a splendid gift that will grow more splendid in the years ahead. Today the colonials may engage us, but we should be in New York in a few days. I hold you, my darling, I kiss you, I love you with every breath in my body.

  Your devoted Charles

  “Cap’n?” Gosse held out his heavy scarlet coat.

  He folded the paper and shrugged into the coat. The terrier Jill lay at his feet, scratching at mosquito bites. “You’ll soon be home digging for foxes,” he told her, “but today you stay with Gosse. Clinton doesn’t like dogs in a skirmish.”

  “Will you be needing both horses, Cap’n?”

  “Keep Willow in reserve. I’ll be at the rear with Sir Henry and Lord Cornwallis, out of the fighting. With luck, Washington’s untrained militia will snap at our heels and run away.”

  “I’ll stay close. Don’t want Jethro going down with the heat.”

  “Good man. When we get to New York I’ll stand you and your friends a night of drinks.”

  “That I’ll remember, Cap’n.”

  As he walked toward the mess tent, Rawdon joined him. “Damned if I ever complain of the cold again. You should have gone to New York with the commissioners. By the way, what sent Eden off with such a long face?”

  “You know what. The mission failed. The Congress held out for complete independence. What’s more, the commissioners weren’t told before they sailed that Howe was leaving for London.”

  “Well, New York’s not such a bad place. At least the young ladies will be glad to see us back, though you’re becoming rather a dull dog.”

  They reached the tent. Rawdon clapped him on the shoulder. “Long hot day ahead, but a good chance to teach these upstarts a lesson. I’ve got brandy. When it’s over, come to my tent tonight for a drink.”

  The people who lived around Monmouth had never expected to find themselves at the center of a shifting battle. All day, under a pitiless sun, the lines veered back and forth; cavalry galloped along the road over Wemrock Brook and then across the bridge over the West Ravine. A local woman, Mary Ludwig Hays, carried pitchers of water for soldiers to drink and to wet down overheated cannon. “Not a scratch,” she was heard to say when the lower part of her petticoat was ripped away by a cannonball. “But I am thankful it was not an inch higher.”

  By evening, the two exhausted armies were forced to give up hopes of a decisive victory. The engagements had been fierce; the smell of gunpowder lay heavy in the air, and the wounded on both sides were being taken into tidy white houses that lined the main street of Monmouth. Over the years, women in the town had lost sons and husbands to the British, but for the present they were tending to the enemy with compassion that outweighed loss.

  Andrew Warren stood by the courthouse gate. His day had started before dawn. He was tired to the bone, but there was still work to be done. At the moment he was waiting for his lieutenant to come back with information. Bodies might be ripped apart by bayonets and cannon balls, but there was often valuable information in the letters found in coats.

  As he watched a tilt cart full of groaning wounded go to a makeshift tent behind the courthouse, his mind went over the battle. The long hours of drilling on the plain at Valley Forge had paid off. Continental Foot regiments had made a good showing against the 16th and 17th Light Dragoons. And at headquarters, the downfall of slovenly General Sir Charles Lee, a former British regular and once a favorite with Washington, was being met with barely concealed pleasure.

  After taking the command from Lafayette, Lee had issued rapid and confusing orders. Always reluctant to attack the British, he had ignored Washington’s plan to cut off the rear of the British column. Instead, there was a stumbling retreat. As Washington came up with support, he was astounded to see his own men come flying towards him.

  Washington’s outbursts of temper, like his sudden roars of laughter, were rare and satisfying. It was said that he swore till the leaves shook on the tree. Lee was sent slinking to the rear and a furious Washington galloped forward to rally his troops, dirt flying from under his charger’s feet.

  Another tilt cart went by, followed by women carrying water and bandages. Several dust-covered officers came out of the courthouse where Colonel Tilghman was receiving reports. Warren rubbed his head and looked up and down the street. Where the hell was Lieutenant Giddings? At last the lieutenant came into sight, but he was leading a strange procession: a pack of small boys, a woman driving a wagon, and an elderly British soldier holding a dog and leading a horse.

  The boys reached Warren first, all talking at once. “Sir, sir, we’re bringing in two redcoats . . . one is dead . . . we found them up on Briar Hill. . . .”

  He raised his hand and turned to the young woman. “Captain Warren, at your service, ma’am.”

  “Widow Napier. I was in my kitchen, putting back the valuables I hid in the well. These boys—my son and his friends—as soon as my back was turned, they sneaked out into the fields. They met this old redcoat carrying a dead man on a horse. He says he knows he’s behind the lines. He wants to speak to an officer, someone with authority. We put the body in my wagon and brought him here. What should we do?” Her face was white and strained.

  “I’ll have a look,” he said. This was an interruption he didn’t need, but he walked forward and looked into the wagon. A tall man was lying there. His hair was dark and wet. A mass of flies was crawling over the bloody shirt. Unfocussed blue eyes stared up like a newborn baby.

  Warren frowned. He knew that face. The dead man had been handsome in a careless, graceful way; he laughed easily and always nodded to the shaky old waiter behind the punch bowl. He hesitated before turning to the old soldier. “Your name?”

  “Gosse, sir.”

  “His name?”

  “Captain Charles Colborne, 17th Light Dragoons. I’m the cap’n’s groom, sir. Been with him since he was a boy.” Tears were running down the grimy face.

  “See here, Gosse. What was your captain doing behind en
emy lines? Why isn’t he in uniform?”

  “It’s this way, sir. All morning he’s with the generals in the rear carrying messages. I stays close as I can with the spare horse. After the fighting stops, no sign of him anywhere. No one’s seen him since mid-afternoon. I have to find him, so I goes back over the fields letting the dog run. She’s a hunter with a good nose. When she stops by a clump of bushes and begins to bark, I gets down from Willow to have a look. The cap’n is there, but he warn’t killed in any fighting.”

  “How, then?”

  “He were knifed in the back. Dragged into the bushes and hidden. His coat taken. All his insignia gone.”

  “Knifed in the back? His insignia taken?”

  “All. If I hadna gone looking for him, he’d might never been found. And even if he was, there warn’t no way to know his name.” The man wiped his eyes.

  “Show me the wound.”

  “Yerss, sir.” He shifted the tall body to expose a bloody back under the torn shirt. A small, sharp, cut showed where the knife had been thrust straight into the heart, a quick and skillful way to kill. It was clear that someone had gone to great lengths to find this man and murder him in the heat of battle.

  “Right.” Warren straightened. He should take the man prisoner and turn him over to the authorities, but grooms and batmen could be good sources of information—and this situation required a few questions.

  “See here, Gosse. Do you have any idea who would have done this?”

  “Aye. Soon as I see the wound, I know who followed him here. Saw his chance and did him in.”

  “Name?”

  “Landers. A murderin’ little weasel, and I know why. It was orders from his cap’n.”

  “His captain’s name?”

  “Jamieson, sir. Captain Ian Jamieson what used to be with the 17th Light Dragoons.”

  “Tall, dark. A heavy gambler?”

  “That’s him. He and my cap’n had a falling out. He wanted my cap’n dead because he knew too much about a scandal that’d give the regiment a bad name.”

  “What kind of scandal?”

  “My cap’n never told me. We thought Captain Jamieson was going back to England taking Landers with him. I say they never went. Soon as I see that knife wound, I knowed this was Landers’s work. Kill you with a knife as soon as look at you, he would. Bragged about being a spy.”

  “A spy? Why do you say that?”

  “Some nights the little rat, he got into the sauce. He had a favorite whore. Hungry Sue, her name was. One night he spouted off to Sue about how he’d gone off to Valley Forge to spy on the rebs and kill General Washington. Told her how he ran away through the snow and got back to the city. Sue told her friends, talked too much, Sue did. The next day she was found floating in the river.”

  Warren straightened. Every muscle in his neck tensed. Jamieson must have been the officer who had come down the stairs and met Coomes. Landers was his servant. This was a major breakthrough— and he had come within an inch of sending Gosse away.

  The boys were dancing around, cuffing each other. The little dog began to whine. Gosse shifted him from one arm to the other. “Take me prisoner, sir. All I want is for my cap’n to be buried decent. He liked good sport, he did. His heart warn’t in the fighting.” He wiped his face. “Poor Lady Colborne in England—and now there’s the cap’n’s wife back in Philadelphia.”

  “The captain has a wife?”

  “A Miss Champion. No one knew but me and the chaplain. The cap’n said it would be safer for her that way.”

  Another tilt cart filled with wounded men went by. “Sir.” The woman stepped forward. “What’s to be done? I must get back to my house.”

  “I understand.” He turned to Lieutenant Giddings. “Get two orderlies and a cart.” He looked at Gosse. “No man deserves to die like that. Tell this story to my colonel, then you can take your captain back through the lines. I’ll give you a pass.”

  “I take that kindly, sir. Very kindly. I’ll see him buried proper.”

  “You say no one else knew about the marriage?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then you’d better write to his widow. Let her know he’s dead, not missing.”

  “I will, sir. Poor young lady, so pretty and full of spirit. She could have waited for him forever. I’ll say he was killed in battle. She mustn’t never know the truth about how he went.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  July 16, 1778

  The funeral for Elizabeth Sage was held in Christ Church, a small, sad, gathering. Many friends had left for New York, and those who stayed were living in a state of panic. As feared, General Arnold and his henchmen were busily settling old scores with the remaining loyalists. They were making big profits, but so far had respected Colonel Tilghman’s letter and spared Sageton and the house on Third Street.

  The Willings were endlessly kind to Sarah. She still spent nights with them, but her days were filled with an avalanche of decisions. Nothing had prepared her for managing great wealth. She made her first trip to Sageton and was dismayed by the sheer size of the place. The big house, the slaves, the land rented to farmers that provided much of Aunt’s money.

  Responsibilities loomed, but even harder was the need to keep practicing deception. Watch every word. No one must find out about her marriage or that she would be leaving the country.

  The news that she was an heiress was widely known and well-received. For a large annual fee, Judge Shippen had agreed to manage her affairs, but yesterday she and the judge had a conversation that left him shaking his head.

  “Sir, I’ve made up my mind,” she told him. “The Third Street house is too large, and it brings back too many memories. I want to sell it and keep Sageton.”

  The judge was full of objections. She might not get a good price. She was too young to give up city life and isolate herself in the country. She stood firm.

  As well, there was the burden of guilt about her family. Last week a letter had come from her father. Now that her aunt was dead, she must come home. They missed her, and she was needed to help with the harvest.

  His letter lay on her desk, a silent rebuke. Ruth, in the Bible, said “Whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge.” Charles was her husband; she must go to him, but to lose her family cut deeply.

  Because she was in mourning, no one expected her to appear in public, but her young friends came to see her every day. They were excited about the inheritance and begged her not to give up the big house.

  “It’s too bad of you, Sarah,” Becky Franks scolded. “Think of the parties we could have here once you’re out of your blacks. Except it will never be the same, not with these provincials. I cried my eyes out when Andre and the others left. Admit it, Sarah. Aren’t you missing Charles at all?”

  “Oh, I am, a little.” She smiled, imagining what they would say when they heard about the marriage. Only Constance would have understood and forgiven what the others would most certainly condemn.

  Today she and Lorelia were sorting out Aunt’s clothes. There was news of a skirmish in New Jersey, but by now the army must have reached New York. Soon she would have word.

  “The dresses,” Lorelia said, sniffing back tears. “She taller than you.”

  “And wider in the shoulders.” She picked up a lilac morning dress made of imported silk. “I think the dressmaker can alter this.” For Charles’s sake, she must make a good appearance when she arrived in New York. Later, at Rokum, Aunt’s fine furs and jewelry would help to smooth her way. It might be hard at first, but Charles would be with her. And they would have children.

  “What to do with these, Missie Sarah?” Lorelia held up another pile of clothes.

  “The slaves at Sageton can use the vests and petticoats. The rest can go to the Quaker charity.”

  “Yes’m.” Lorelia was crying again, wiping her eyes on a corner of her apron. Sarah had assured Lorelia and Cato that they would always have a home at Sageton, but t
hey continued to behave like lost children.

  “You can finish here,” she said to Lorelia. “I’m going to sort out the books in the withdrawing room.”

  Aunt’s silver snuff box lay on the round table. She touched it gently. This keepsake would go with her, though it would take a large coach to carry all her possessions. So many decisions—she must keep telling herself that every day she was closer to meeting Charles. Closer to telling the world about the marriage.

  The books in the breakfront cabinet were valuable. Some were first editions that would go to Sageton. She was standing on the ladder, working on the top shelf, when Cato appeared in the doorway holding a paper.

  “Letter for you, Missie. Mr. Beale the innkeeper say it come by stage. He sent it over with a boy.”

  At last. She jumped down from the ladder and unfolded the paper. It was closed with Charles’s seal, but the writing was unfamiliar, the letters large and badly formed.

  Dear Ma’am, I write to give you bad news. The captain died of wounds at Monmouth. He was buried in a graveyard nearby. It was a proper service. I have the little dog. I will go back to England soon. Yr. Obedient Servant Lemuel Gosse

  Wounds. Dead. She crumpled the paper and tore it into pieces. Gosse was wrong. Charles wasn’t dead. He was waiting for her in New York. He was coming towards her, arms outstretched, his fair hair shining in the sun.

  Robert Strant was arranging his recently arrived periodicals when the shop door opened. It was Miss Champion. He hadn’t seen her since her aunt died.

  “Good day,” he said, bowing low to hide surprise. It was natural that the girl should mourn, but she was chalk white. Her eyes had the blank look of a sleepwalker.

  “Good day, Mr. Strant.” She held out a small satchel. “I’m leaving for Connecticut to be with my family. And I would like you to have this gift.”