by Ron Carter
At forty yards the road turned toward the river, and the shouting, cursing officers were lost from view. At one hundred yards the narrow trail veered left to follow the river, and suddenly one of the squads of three regulars appeared, thirty yards in front of them. The red-coated soldiers recognized the two horses, but stood dumbstruck at the sight of the riders.
Neither Billy nor Eli slowed. They kicked the horses in the ribs and held them in the road, thundering down on the confused regulars. One began to raise his musket, then all three leaped to one side as the two mounted riders flashed by them and were gone. One hundred yards later there was the popping sound of one musket, and of a musketball knocking branches somewhere in the forest, and then only the sound of their horses’ hooves, and the two animals starting to labor for wind.
The two pounded past the pond and the barn where they had held their night rendezvous with Isaiah, on for a quarter mile more, then pulled the horses to a stop, blowing, prancing, throwing their heads against the pressure of the bit. They waited for the horses to quiet, then sat listening for a sound, watching for a flash of crimson on the road, or in the forest, but there was nothing. They reined around and raised the horses to a canter for a time, then slowed to a walk.
They paced the horses—walk, canter, lope, walk—to keep from killing them or wind-breaking them in the heat as they covered the twenty-six miles back to Valley Forge. Twice they stopped to water them and let them blow, then continued on. Six miles from the American camp along the bank of the Schuylkill River they began looking for American patrols in the woods. At five miles Eli raised his rifle high and pulled his horse to a stop, facing north, toward the woods and the river. It took Billy a moment longer to pick out the two men in an oak tree, rifles leveled across a branch, aimed at their chests.
Eli called to them. “Eli Stroud and Billy Weems. Coming in to report to Gen’l Washington.”
“That tack and those saddles look British.”
“They are. There’s two British officers twenty-six miles back who’d be happy to get them back.”
“What regiment you from?”
“Massachusetts.”
“Who’s your commanding officer?”
“Morgan or Dearborn or Arnold. Take your pick. We fought under all three at Saratoga.”
There was silence for a few seconds, then, “Go on in.”
The sun was slipping westward when they came onto the Gulph Road. Twenty minutes later they reined in at the Massachusetts encampment, looking for Turlock. He came trotting from the river, carrying an empty water bucket.
“You two all right?”
Billy answered. “Fine. Going on to report.”
“We saw light against the clouds in the night. Thought we heard cannon.”
“Exploding gunpowder. Tell you about it later.”
Turlock raised a pointing finger. “Stroud, you stop at the hospital and see Mary on the way back. You hear?”
Eli nodded. “I hear.”
“You two hungry?”
Billy bobbed his head. “We could eat.”
“Make your report and git back.”
Ten minutes later they stopped the horses before the square, stone building where the commander of the Continental Army kept his headquarters and knocked on the door. It swung open with Colonel Alexander Hamilton facing them.
Billy saluted. “Corporal Weems and Scout Eli Stroud to report to the general.”
Hamilton stepped back to let them pass. Billy was still carrying the bundle of British officer’s uniforms.
Before he closed the door, Hamilton looked at the horses. “Are those British saddles?”
Eli answered. “British horses. British saddles.”
Hamilton’s eyes narrowed as he speculated on the story behind the stolen horses. “Leave your weapons and that bundle of clothing here. I’ll inform General Washington you’re back. I presume you are both unharmed.”
“Unharmed, sir.”
Two minutes later Hamilton ushered them into the sparsely furnished room where General Washington stood waiting behind his desk. On Washington’s gesture, Hamilton closed the door and remained in the room.
Billy saluted. “Corporal Weems and Scout Stroud reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Colonel Hamilton said you are both unharmed.”
“We’re fine, sir.”
“Be seated.”
They all took their places—Billy and Eli facing the desk, Hamilton beside the desk, General Washington behind it. There was an expression of controlled urgency on his face as he began the interrogation.
“Did you get a reliable estimate of the number of men in General Clinton’s command?”
Eli remained quiet while Billy made the answers. “About fifteen thousand, sir.”
“Cannon?”
“About twelve hundred.”
“Wagons?”
“About twenty-five hundred.”
“Food, medicine, blankets, supplies?”
“Thousands of packed crates, sir. We had no time to get an accurate count.”
“Horses?”
“At least five thousand, and enough oxen to pull the cannon.”
“How did you get the count on cannon and wagons and horses?”
“Counted the rows of cannon and wagons, and estimated the horses.”
“You were in the British camp?”
“We were, sir. And we also talked with a British forage sergeant. What he told us was almost exactly what we counted. I believe the numbers are accurate, sir.”
Washington leaned forward on his forearms, intense, eyes points of icy gray-blue light.
“Do you know which way they intend moving?”
Billy turned to Eli, who made the answer. “They’re headed for New York, and they’re going overland. The ships are there to move them across the Delaware. Been at it for days. We were on both sides of the river, but most of what we saw was on the New Jersey side. They’re abandoning Philadelphia.”
Washington’s voice was low. “You’re certain?”
Eli nodded. “Dead sure.”
Billy interjected, “He’s right, sir. They’re preparing cooked food for twenty days for each man, and they’re carrying another four pounds of food in their packs. They’ll be able to cover about five miles a day in those woods and hills, which means they’ll be about twenty days getting to New York. If they were leaving by sea, there’d be no need for cooked rations.”
Washington leaned forward before he put the heaviest question to them.
“When?”
Eli answered. “June eighteenth.”
“On what authority do you know about the cooked food, and the day they intend to leave?”
“The forage sergeant responsible for the horses and oxen that will move them, he told us, sir.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I do. A lieutenant heard him tell us and sent a patrol to catch us.”
Washington straightened in his chair. “They were searching for you?”
A faint smile flickered on Eli’s face. “Both sides of the river.”
Washington leaned back, and for three seconds he studied the two with narrowed eyes. “My patrols reported light in the night, in the direction of Philadelphia. Several explosions. A haze of smoke on the horizon to the south, in a clear sky. They thought the sound might have been cannon, but twenty-five miles is too far for the sound to carry. Would you know about that?”
Eli nodded. “The British were short about one hundred barrels of gunpowder this morning. Maybe fifty wagons in bad shape. A lot of supplies burned. I expect they’ll have most of those four or five thousand horses gathered by June eighteenth.”
A rare smile flickered for a moment on Washington’s face, and was gone. Colonel Hamilton leaned back, grinning broadly.
Washington continued. “Colonel Hamilton said you rode in on British horses, and that you left a bundle of British uniforms beside his desk.”
Billy said, “Yes, sir. We took the horses
to get back here. We brought the uniforms of the officers who were riding them because there might be papers in them that could be useful.”
Hamilton interrupted. “Where are the officers?”
Eli turned to him and shrugged. “Don’t know. Last we saw they were in the middle of the road north, dressed in their underwear.”
Hamilton threw back his head and guffawed. Washington smiled immensely. Billy grinned. Eli looked satisfied.
Washington sobered. “Can I depend on the date of June eighteenth for General Clinton to march his command north?”
Eli answered. “Yes.”
Billy nodded. “You can, sir.”
Washington drew and released a great breath, then stood. “Do you men need anything? Food? Rest?”
Billy said, “We’ll be all right when we get back to our camp, sir.”
Washington concluded. “You have done well. Make yourselves available for the next few days. I may have further questions. You are dismissed. Colonel Hamilton, show them out, then return to this office.”
As the general stood, so did the others. Billy saluted, Washington returned it, Hamilton opened the door, and the two walked out of the room, Hamilton following.
Outside the headquarters building, they paused to buckle on their weapons belts and sling their powder horns and shot pouches about their necks, then set off with their guns in hand at a swinging gait south, toward the Massachusetts camp.
Billy spoke without turning. “You better stop at the hospital to see Mary.”
“I will. You go on. Tell Turlock I’ll be along soon, and I’ll be hungry.”
Inside Washington’s office, Alexander Hamilton faced the general.
“I’d like to hear the full story from those two. One hundred barrels of gunpowder? Four or five thousand horses running loose?” He shook his head in wonder. “And, sir, would it be appropriate for me to suggest to Scout Stroud that it would be proper for him to salute?”
For one split second a look of humor flickered in Washington’s eyes. “You can suggest it, Colonel, but I doubt it will be worth your time to dwell on it.”
Washington sat down behind his desk and pushed parchment and quill and ink toward Hamilton. “Have a seat, Colonel, and write as I speak.”
Hamilton sat, dipped the quill, and waited.
“Today’s date—June fifteenth. To General Benedict Arnold. Usual salutation. You are hereby authorized and ordered to enter the City of Philadelphia, State of Pennsylvania, on the nineteenth day of June, 1778, where you will assume the position of military governor of that city, such authority to continue until further orders. Recommend you select aides appropriate to said position. Your means of entering the city, including number and arming of your escort is according to your desire. You are vested with full command of all American forces in said city, as well as all civilians therein. You will timely report to this office all events of unusual significance.”
Washington stopped. “Add to that such as you think proper, then submit it back to me for final approval.”
“Yes, sir.” Hamilton stood, then hesitated. “Four days. Is General Arnold going to be able to take command of Philadelphia in four days, considering that injured leg?”
Washington reflected for a moment. “Yes, he will. He needs activity. A command. He’ll find a way.”
Notes
Upon the resignation of General William Howe and his departure on May 25, 1778, General Sir Henry Clinton was appointed commander of British forces in America. General Clinton ordered the evacuation of Philadelphia immediately, by marching overland to New York. To do so he had to move his entire army with supplies across the Delaware. There were 5,000 horses, wagons, cannon, munitions, and close to 20,000 men to be moved across the river, and it took days to complete it. The crossing was finished, and they began their march north on June 18, 1778. Two days earlier the British set fire to the shipyards where several ships were under construction. The terrible condition of the city, with fences, sheds, barns, and some homes totally destroyed or stripped for firewood, together with the dead carcasses of animals left in the streets, as described herein is accurate. Billy Weems and Eli Stroud are fictional characters (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 468–69; 543–45).
Philadelphia
June 19, 1778
CHAPTER VII
* * *
Major General Benedict Arnold squared himself with the full-length mirror in his small quarters, leaned his crutches against a chair, and took his weight on his right leg. Carefully he touched the toe of his left boot to the ground for balance, and gritted his teeth against the white-hot stab of pain that reached upward past his hip. He had defied and bullied the doctors to save the leg, but it would be two inches shorter than the right; he was condemned to walk with a limp as long as he lived. The pain he could bear, but it tormented him, revolted him, to accept himself as a cripple. It rang in his head like a judgment of the Almighty: cripple . . . cripple . . . cripple.
He shut out the fingers of pain and forced himself to ignore the relentless chant in his mind, concentrating on the man in the mirror.
This was to be his day. June 19, 1778. The day history would forever remember as a new and glorious beginning for the city of Philadelphia, Capital of the United States of America. The day Major General Benedict Arnold rode in to take command as the new military governor. The day he would commence the next chapter of a storied career that would raise him to immortality.
He had missed no detail. His Continental Army buff and blue uniform was spotless, crisp, pressed. Boots polished to a mirror finish. Small, blunted silver spurs gleaming. With deep satisfaction he peered at the gold epaulets on his shoulders, glittering with their message to the world that the United States Congress had contritely recognized the grievous wrong done him and restored him to the rank that had been stripped from him by the spineless General Horatio Gates. That they had not yet restored his seniority among the generals in the Continental Army was a matter that would be corrected shortly. With rank and a new command, and the unqualified support of General George Washington, he had all the tools he needed to hound the fickle politicians in Congress into restoring his seniority, or suffer an all-out attack in every major newspaper in the country. While Arnold was very nearly blind to the art of politics, he did understand that few things could strike terror into the practitioners like the threat of letting sunshine into the dark corners where they hid their sins.
He started at the sudden rap on his door.
“Enter.”
The door swung open, and Major David Salisbury Franks walked in. Resplendent in his uniform, immaculate in his grooming, wig powdered, he was a gregarious, pleasant, light-minded, passably handsome dandy. Possibly related to the wealthy Franks family of Philadelphia, David had emigrated from England to Canada, then joined the Americans to fight General John Burgoyne’s British command at Saratoga, where General Arnold had suffered the near-fatal smashing of his left leg. Franks had ingratiated himself with the general by acting as scribe in writing voluminous letters. When Arnold’s rank was restored, he promptly appointed Franks to serve as one of his two aides-de-camp.
It was of little consequence to Arnold that neither Franks nor his other young aide, Matthew Clarkson, had any experience in civilian administration. Arnold had already resolved that during his tenure as governor, the affairs of the city would be conducted as a military rather than a civilian institution. Lack of experience in the shadowy business of politics was meaningless because there would be none of it.
However, the bond between Arnold and young David Franks ran deeper than general and aide. When the State of Pennsylvania and Congress refused to reimburse Arnold for the thousands of dollars he had spent out-of-pocket to pay his troops and buy medicines and supplies for them, Arnold saw nothing wrong with engaging in private enterprise as a means of recouping his losses. He invested in the sloop, General McDougal, and later, while serving as officer of the day at Valley Forge, issued a pass to Robert S
hewell allowing another sloop, the Charming Nancy, to load at Philadelphia and dock in any American port for purposes of selling medicines and imports at tremendous profits. That Shewell was known to have two partners, James Seagrove and William Constable, both with suspected British leanings, did not concern Arnold, so long as he quietly received his one-fourth share of the gains.
Thus it was that when David Franks confided in Arnold that he was considering leaving the military in order to recoup his own losses, Arnold had persuaded him to stay by entering into a clandestine agreement with the young man. Franks was to purchase highly coveted European and India goods in Philadelphia in any amount he felt prudent, with money Arnold would provide. The goods would be shipped to other American ports, to be sold at handsome profits, which the two of them would divide. Both men knew that such profiteering by Arnold was improper and struck an agreement that Franks was to tell no one. Because Franks was gregarious and talkative, Arnold had their secret agreement reduced to writing, but with the understanding that neither man would sign it, since discovery of their partnership by unsympathetic persons would be catastrophic.
Neither Arnold nor Franks knew that by purest accident, Colonel John Fitzgerald, aide to General George Washington, would happen onto the written agreement in the crowded quarters shared by some officers at Valley Forge. Fitzgerald was shocked, but said nothing since at that moment Arnold was yet the bigger-than-life hero who had saved the Revolution by his unparalleled bravery in leading the charge that broke the back of the British defenses at Saratoga.
Inside the small quarters, Franks took one look at General Arnold and intuitively knew his mood. He smiled broadly and spoke lightly.
“You’re looking fine, sir, entirely fit for the occasion.”
In the short time he had been in the service of General Arnold, Franks had learned that success as an aide-de-camp had less to do with the science of military deportment than with the delicate art of accurately reading Arnold’s state of mind and catering to his commander’s appetites. Painful experience had taught him never to speak when he should listen, never to wax humorous when he should be serious, and never to miss a chance to heap flattery on the head of his general.
