Sarah's War

by Eugenia Lovett West

  Abigail’s hand went to her neck. “The captain’s at his headquarters. They’ve been looking for you. Shall I run and fetch him?”

  “No, that’ll take too long. I’ll go with you.”

  “Your feet—”

  “Get me stockings and the soft black boots. How can we get away without alerting Mrs. M?”

  “I’ll run down and tell her you’re asleep, not to bring the broth. We can take the back stairs and use the door to the alley.”

  No one saw them as they slipped out of the inn. The streets were silent, and they kept to the shadows. As they passed Rivington’s Coffee House, officers came out, laughing and talking. Cathcart and Tarleton were among them. Abigail pushed her against the wall. They slid along the rough stone—and almost into the arms of a night watchman.

  “What’s this?” he barked.

  “Oh, sir, our mother is dying.” Abigail gave him a shove that sent him staggering into the street.

  He recovered and shook his fist. “Catch them, catch those two women,” he called and started after them. The officers turned. “Here’s good sport,” they shouted, and joined in the chase.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  October 23, 1778

  The rats in the warehouse cellar were more invasive than usual, running overhead and sitting in corners, little eyes peering out. Andrew Warren looked at Pogy.

  “After nine o’clock. By now there should have been some word from the network.”

  “Curfew don’t help. Could be more watchmen out tonight. Mebbe we should call off the search for places where they’d never be found. Don’t want to lose more of our people.”

  “No.” He leaned against the damp wall. Sarah Colborne was just another agent in his network, but persistent memories came creeping back. The feel of her arms around his waist as she rode pillion behind him. The trick of looking up under her lashes and smiling. Her courage and quick wits. Much as he fought it, there was no escaping the truth. For him, this woman had become more than just an asset.

  “You stay here,” he said to Pogy. “I’m going back to Strant. He knows more than he told me. A threat to burn his shop down to the ground might loosen that lying tongue of his.”

  “Wait. Someone up there.” Pogy pulled out his pistol.

  “It’s Abigail,” a voice called.

  In seconds Pogy had the trap door open. Abigail came down the ladder and stood there, breathing hard. “We had to run. The watch chased us but we got away.”

  Warren raised his hand. “We?”

  She pointed to the ladder. A pair of boots, a long skirt, and Sarah Colborne was standing on the dirt floor. Not buried in the woods. Not floating in the river.

  He reached out and touched her arm as if to keep her from disappearing. “You’re hurt. Sit down.” He led her to the nearest pile of rotting sails, then seated himself nearby. Her hair was tangled, her face was scratched and white, but she was alive. The rest could wait.

  She took a few deep breaths. “We were on the Bowery Road. That man Landers, the one who killed Charles, jumped into the chaise. I think he killed Nate, then he took me to Jamieson’s house. There’s another plan to kill the general.” The words came out in a rush.

  “Another—how do you know?”

  “I was lying on Jamieson’s bed. He was about to—but it didn’t happen. Riders came up. I heard the leader talking. He said the signal had come from Agamemnon. They were there to get Landers, take him to a safe house near Fredericksburg.”

  “Go on.”

  “Landers was too drunk to ride. The leader said Jamieson would have to go with Landers. I knew he had to kill me. He came back to the bed. I took a pin from my dress. I stuck him in the eye and ran. A boy bringing hay gave me a ride to the city.” She choked and stopped.

  “Oh, ma’am.” Abigail took her hands.

  Warren stood up. Startling news, but one thing was clear: quick action was needed. He must organize his forces and follow those men. The girl deserved to rest, but first he needed information.

  “You’ve had a terrible ordeal, Mrs. Colborne, and you’ve been very brave. Are you able to answer a few questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have an idea of how many riders?”

  “Four or five. I’m not sure.”

  “Did you recognize the leader’s voice?”

  “No.”

  “I think I know who it was. Besides Jamieson, how many in the house?”

  “Landers and a servant named John. That’s all—no, there was Josiah. Josiah Trent from Philadelphia.”

  “Pasty-faced fellow. Gambled upstairs at Mr. Smith’s. What was he doing there?”

  “He owed Jamieson money. When the Queen’s Rangers left, he deserted. He was found in New York and taken to Jamieson. He’s there, drinking himself to death.”

  “Four in the house and several riders. They have a head start. It will be hard to catch up with them.”

  “They may have taken my chaise.”

  “Which would slow them up. Can you give me directions to the house?”

  “It’s beyond the British outpost. I was tied up on the floor of the chaise. I didn’t see where we were going, but walking back I knew I was on a lane that’s off to the right of the Bowery Road. Another lane leads to the house by the river. A big white house. There are two watchdogs. Vicious.”

  “Right.” He turned to Pogy. “With any luck, we find them. If not, we go on to Washington’s headquarters and give the alert.”

  “Who goes, Cap’n?”

  “Get word to Seth, Daniel, and Tom to go on the double to Jonathan Beebe’s livery with lanterns and pistols. He’ll lend us horses. We’ll ride first to Jamieson’s house. See who’s there.”

  “What about the sentries?”

  “We know who’s careless at this hour.”

  Pogy left. Abigail and Sarah were still sitting on the pile of sails. He leaned down and took her hand. “You’ve done well, Mrs. Colborne. More than well. Now you can rest. After curfew, Abigail will take you back to the inn.”

  She stood up. “No, not to the inn. I have to go with you.”

  He hesitated. Soldiers were apt to talk wildly after the stress of battle. Delayed shock required careful handling. He must speak gently and apply reason.

  “Believe me, that wouldn’t be wise. You’ve had an ordeal, and it takes time to recover. Abigail will take good care of you—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You have to understand. You may find Jamieson, but he’ll tell you lies. He’ll twist the story, make you believe his lies, but not if I’m there. I heard the plans to kill the general. I’m a witness.”

  Warren took a deep breath. There was no time for confrontation. “Mrs. Colborne, believe me, we’ll find him, and there’ll be a trial. That’s when you’ll be needed. To come with us tonight is asking too much of you.”

  “Asking too much?” Her voice rose. She turned and faced him, hands on hips. “You didn’t think twice about dressing me up like a boy and taking me to Valley Forge in the middle of winter.”

  He winced. “That was different. We knew where we were going. We may be riding all night, not knowing what lies ahead. It would be far beyond your strength.”

  “I slept in the wagon, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a farm girl. I grew up working in the fields.” She took a step forward. “You must let me come. I know what Jamieson can do. He’s a devil, and he’s clever. I promise you, until he has a rope around his neck, that man is going to find a way to slip through your fingers.”

  Two rats were fighting in a corner. He thrust his hands into his pockets, needing to make a decision. So far every effort he’d made to catch Jamieson had failed. The man was as slippery as an eel, but Mrs. Colborne was right. Seeing her appear might shake him. It was wrong to put her in harm’s way again, but every source was needed to stop this plot. The stakes were too high to refuse her help.

  He straightened. “I’ll take you, but once we leave there’s no t
urning back. It may be dangerous. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  Abigail spoke up for the first time. “Captain, her feet are covered with blisters. She can hardly walk.”

  “No walking. Cut a slit in that skirt so she can ride pillion behind me. Between us, we’ll carry her to the stables.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  October 23, 1778

  A light mist was rising from the underbrush as the little band rode down the Bowery Road. The moon drifted in and out of clouds, giving enough light to ride without using the lanterns.

  Warren peered ahead, alert for a British patrol or one of the roaming band of marauders. The Cowboys were a loyalist provincial corps attached to the British. The Skinners served both sides. Both were the bane of the countryside.

  Leather creaked. The horses were breathing hard. Sarah Colborne’s arms circled his waist. When she came down the ladder, it had taken all his self-control not to reach out and hold her close. This was the woman he wanted to comfort and protect. Instead, he was exposing her to unforeseeable dangers.

  He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “Are we near that lane?”

  “We just passed a farmhouse where I asked for help. Keep looking to the right. It’s a sharp turn, easy to miss.”

  “I see it.” He tightened the reins on the chestnut mare and held up his hand. The riders slowed, made the turn, and stopped. He turned in the saddle and spoke to the others.

  “Stable boys have big ears, why I couldn’t tell you more at Beebe’s. The aim is to find and capture a Captain Jamieson, a British ex-officer turned spy. He’s been hiding in a house nearby. He has a servant, name of Landers, who’s quick with his knife. This afternoon he killed Nate and took Mrs. Colborne to that house.”

  “Bastard,” someone muttered. Nate had been well-liked.

  “While Mrs. Colborne was there, she heard riders come up, with orders to collect Landers and take him to a safe house near Fredericksburg. Infiltrate him into our headquarters so he can assassinate the general.”

  The men began to mutter.

  Warren raised his hand again. “We’ll go first to this house by the river. See if anyone’s there. Surprise is key. When we get close, we’ll dismount and lead the horses. If there’s no sign of riders, we go closer. I’ll fire a shot into the air. That should bring out two watch dogs. I take them down, then we go in. Pogy and I do the front. Tom and Seth go to the back and catch anyone trying to get away. Daniel and Mrs. Colborne stay with the horses. No shooting to kill. We need them alive and able to talk. Is that clear?”

  Nods and grunts.

  “Right. From now on, silence.”

  The men fell into line behind him and they started down the lane. Another turn and the house appeared. At a distance it looked peaceful and dignified. Lights shone in the windows. There was no sign of riders.

  For a moment, he surveyed the scene. It was important to go into action with a clear mind, prepared for any outcome. He dismounted, lifted Sarah from the pillion, and motioned to the others to leave the horses on the grass verge. Went forward a few yards and shouted “Who’s there?”

  No answer. He pulled out his pistol and fired. Reloaded and waited. No dogs appeared.

  “Now,” he said under his breath to Pogy. Bending low, they ran to the house and up the front steps. The door was unlocked. He opened it a few inches and peered in.

  The scene before them was one of battlefield carnage. Blood pooled over the floor in a slow-moving stream. Two dogs stood over the body of a man, snarling deep in their throats. One dog looked up, stiffened, and started toward them. A shot took him in the chest. The other dog rose. Pogy shot him. He howled, twisted in the air and fell.

  “Jesus,” Pogy whispered.

  Warren walked forward and stared down at the mangled flesh and torn scalp. His stomach heaved. “It’s that fellow Trent,” he muttered. “We’ll do a quick search. I’ll take the front, you do the rear.”

  In the library, drawers of a desk were open and papers were scattered about, signs of a hasty departure. Upstairs, in the front room, a trunk and a woman’s hat box stood on a table. The bedcovers were crumpled. He averted his eyes, ran down the hall and checked the other bedrooms. One reeked of brandy. No one was in the house.

  Back in the front hall, Pogy was standing by the door, his hand over his nose. “Never seen the like. What happens to the body, what the dogs left of it?”

  “Nothing we can do tonight. Not a word in front of Mrs. Colborne. She knew him.”

  “Poor sod. What’s to do now, Cap’n?

  “All we know is they’re going to a safe house near our headquarters and they’re hours ahead. There may be a number of roads they can use. That’s the problem. Do you know the area?”

  Pogy scratched his chin. “No, but there’s those that do.”

  “Who?”

  “Them wild Skinners. Can’t be trusted, but they’ll do anything for gold.”

  “I’ve got the fifty guineas I took from the cellar, but Skinners will be out riding around the countryside.”

  “Mebbe not. There’s a little shack beside Spuyten Duyvil Kill. Went there once to sell them a horse. Big Emile, he’s the boss, a trapper from Connecticut. Crazy, but he knows all the roads.” He began to gag. “I’m out of here.”

  They stepped out and stood there, gulping in fresh air. Warren wiped his face. “Right. Anything’s worth a try when there’s nothing to lose. We’ll be off. You lead the way.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  October 23, 1778

  The horses were growing restless, stamping and tossing their heads. Sarah kept a tight hold on the chestnut mare’s bridle and stared at the house where she had nearly died. Moments ago there were two shots, then a long, ominous silence.

  As the clouds shifted, she let out her breath. Thank God they were returning, running across the drive. Captain Warren took the bridle.

  “No one there. No sign of the chaise or horse, so that’ll slow them down. We’re off to find the Skinners, rough types who ride around the countryside causing trouble. They’ll know the roads to Fredericksburg.” He paused. “It may mean riding all night. You’ve done your part. Tom can get you through the sentries. Take you by boat to the warehouse.”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Up with you,” and he lifted her onto the pillion. The men mounted and turned toward the lane.

  It was a short ride to the King’s Bridge at the end of the island of Manhattan. They crossed and came to a small stream. Pogy halted. “That’s it, Cap’n. Over there.” He pointed to a small broken-down shack, almost hidden in the woods.

  Sarah let go of the captain’s waist and stared. There was no sign of life. He shifted in the saddle and spoke to the others. “Skinners are an itchy bunch. Be ready with the pistols.” And to her: “Keep behind my back. Don’t show yourself.”

  He touched the mare with his heel and rode forward a few yards. “We’re patriots fighting against the redcoats,” he called. “We have a job for Big Emile.”

  No answer. The place seemed deserted, but she had the feeling that eyes were watching from the darkness.

  “We’re hunting for British spies,” he shouted. “We’ll pay in gold for Big Emile’s help.”

  The door of the shack opened. A bear of a man came rolling out. “What’s wanted?” he growled.

  “We’re after four or five riders and a chaise. They may have crossed the King’s Bridge a few hours ago.”

  The man came closer. He was grinning. “Eight of them there was, counting two in the chaise. Boss was in work clothes but he talked like a toff. Paid up nicely, he did.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Out on the Bowery Road. Like you said, a few hours ago.”

  “They’re headed for Washington’s headquarters in Fredericksburg. They’ll stop at a safe house nearby used by British or loyalists. Do y
ou know the area?”

  “Like the back of me hand. That’d be the old mill. Joseph Pratt left when the wife died. Redcoats and couriers use it to rest and water their horses.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “John Briscoe. Rich loyalist toff. Land around there belongs to him.”

  “Briscoe.” A pause. “Right. Here’s my offer. Ten gold guineas if you can take us there.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Twelve. Six now, six later.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money pouch. She watched as Big Emile lumbered forward. He took the coins and counted carefully.

  “Thankee,” he said with a grin. There were gaps in his mouth where teeth were missing.

  “No tricks, Skinner. My men are quick with their pistols.”

  “Tricks, is it?” He put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. As if they had been waiting, five bearded men armed with rifles rode out of the woods. The Skinners, it seemed, were game for a sortie into the night.

  The string of men was long as they started back through the woods with Big Emile leading the way. Sarah concentrated on the feel of Captain Warren’s rough wool coat. She was beginning to have a sense of history repeating itself, but tonight there was no snow or bitter wind, just the fact that once again she was on a mission with Captain Warren.

  The woods ended, and they emerged onto a main road that followed the river, with Connecticut on the other side. The moon was still shining, and there was no need for lanterns. They passed through one small town and then another. Few citizens were out at this hour, and no one would challenge a bunch of hard-riding men.

  The hooves pounded along in steady rhythm. Sarah loosened her grip on the captain’s waist, laid her head against his back and closed her eyes. On and on, until she felt the horse slow and stop. She raised her head and looked around. Big Emile was holding up his hand.

  “Shorter way through the woods,” he growled. “It be dark in there. Light the lanterns.” The lanterns were lit and they were off again, single file.