Just Jane

by William Lavender

“In our trade, a man doesn’t have a fixed schedule,” Murphy said coolly. “Delays are bound to occur. But he’ll be along soon, I’m sure. In the meantime, I trust you’ll continue to act as his capable replacement?”

  Simon’s head shake was scornful. “You trust incorrectly, my friend. My sister was anxious that you get these supplies as soon as possible. And I agreed to deliver them because they are meant to sustain life, not destroy it. If they were weapons of war and destruction, I’d never have touched them. In any case, I’ll not do this again. I’m a schoolmaster, not a smuggler.”

  “And I’m a farmer,” Murphy countered. “Ordinarily. But in these desperate times, we’re all soldiers, whether we choose to be or not.”

  “Speak for yourself, sir. Do not attempt to speak for me.”

  “Well, at least allow me to thank you for your help on this occasion. General Washington will be pleased, I’ll warrant.” “Well, you may take him some advice from me, along with the supplies. Tell him he ought to distribute what’s left of his rations and send his men home, while there’s still a spark of life left in them.”

  “I very much doubt he’ll take that advice,” Murphy said with a smile.

  “In that case, I have nothing further to offer.” Simon got to his feet. “I trust you’ll inform my sister the minute you have any news of Jack?”

  “Tell Mrs. Herndon she may depend upon it.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good night, and good luck to you.” Turning away, Simon strode out of the tavern in the same purposeful way he had come in.

  It was two weeks later, in his hometown of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, that Simon again encountered the man named Murphy. Prominent on the dirt road that served as the main street of the frontier village was a barnlike building called Herndon’s General Store. A short distance up the road stood a small house with a swinging shingle outside that read, simon cordwyn, schoolmaster. Just as he had done on the Ainsley estate in Charlestown some years before, the schoolmaster occupied private living quarters in the rear.

  He was reading students’ essays there late one pale winter afternoon when there came a knock at his door. Opening it, he was surprised to find his sister standing there. Rebecca Herndon was two years older than Simon, a sturdy woman of plain looks but fine, intelligent eyes. Today those eyes were clouded. Behind her stood Mr. Murphy from Philadelphia.

  “What is it, Becky? What’s wrong?” Simon asked. But he was grimly certain of the answer.

  “It’s happened, Simon. Jack’s been taken. Either taken, or killed.” Her low voice was strangely calm, as if she was trying hard to resist the shock that had so suddenly struck.

  Murphy stepped forward. “All we know,” he said, “is that Jack was bringing a barge up Delaware Bay when he was intercepted by a British patrol vessel just off the mouth of the river. The man with him managed to slip overboard and swim ashore, and he brought me the news. There were shots exchanged, and the last our man saw, the British were boarding the barge, so we have to assume Jack was taken, at best. What his fate will be—who knows? The Redcoats are an unpredictable lot. Sometimes harsh, sometimes lenient. We can only hope.”

  Simon glanced at his silently grieving sister, then fixed a scowl on the visitor. “We thank you for this pleasant news, Mr. Murphy. We also thank you for enticing a gende, home-loving man away from his family and, quite possibly, to his death.”

  Murphy responded with quiet patience. “Jack Herndon never needed enticing. He was eager to do the work. Unfortunately, he always had a reckless disrespect for the enemy. Bringing a barge up Delaware Bay in broad daylight! Many a time I warned him about thumbing his nose at the British like that. He wouldn’t listen.”

  “You warned him, did you?” Simon snapped. “How very decent of you.”

  Becky gently intervened. “Stop it, Simon. Mr. Murphy’s not to blame. Jack was doing what he felt he had to do, the best way he could.”

  Simon turned a scowl on her. “Did you ever warn him, or try to talk him out of it? You knew he wasn’t suited to that kind of work, with his poor health. If the British hadn’t gotten him, sickness eventually would have.”

  Becky turned sharply away as Murphy spoke up again. “We are desperate, Mr. Cordwyn. Another winter like Valley Forge and Washington will have no army left—you said so yourself. When a man offers us his services, we don’t turn him away, no matter what his weaknesses. Why, if an educated, well-informed, and responsible man like yourself offered to work with us, we’d get down on our knees and thank God.”

  “Flattery!” Simon almost spat. “The same kind you fed Jack, no doubt.”

  “He spoke about you often, you know,” Murphy went on, ignoring Simon’s hostility. “‘How I wish we could get Simon in with us,’ he’d say. ‘He’s far more clever than I, and what’s more, he knows the South.’”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Simon demanded impatiently.

  “It’s clear we’re going to have to shift our operations to the South. With the British watching all our usual landing sites, the only good ones left are the wooded inlets and river mouths along the Carolina coast. The Great Wagon Road, between there and Pennsylvania, has got to become our main supply line. Trouble is, we don’t have anyone to oversee operations down there. Southerners are insanely proud men, impossible to deal with. But you lived in the South for several years. You must still have valuable contacts down there. Am I right?”

  Murphy paused to wait for a reply, but getting nothing but a stony glare from Simon, he went on. “Surely, Mr. Cordwyn, you can see where your duty lies. Out there, giving your countrymen the benefit of your abilities. Not here, hiding in a schoolroom while men fighting for our liberty are dying for want of supplies. Think it over. You know where to reach me. And now I must be off, so I’ll bid you both good day.”

  Becky put a hand on the visitor’s arm. “I thank you for bringing us the news of my husband, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Madam, believe me, I regret the necessity for it. But we may yet hold good hopes that he survives. Meanwhile, my admiration for you knows no bounds. God keep you, dear lady. You are a true Patriot.” And with a curt nod to Simon: “Remember, sir. Grimsby’s Tavern, Philadelphia. Anytime.” Then, jamming a grimy cap on his head, he turned abruptly and walked away.

  In the silence that followed, Simon studied his sister’s face. It was blank, the eyes vacant. “I’ll stay with you and the children tonight,” he said gently.

  She shook her head. “No. No, thank you, Simon. I’m all right.”

  “Well, at least I’ll walk you home, then.”

  It was a quarter of a mile to the Herndon house, and they walked halfway there in silence, immersed in their own dark thoughts. At last Simon spoke.

  “Tell me something, Becky. And be honest. Would you really want me to leave you on your own here and rush off to replace Jack?”

  Becky drew a heavy sigh. “I’m sure you’re doing what you think is right, just as Jack did. But you can’t blame Mr. Murphy for trying to recruit you. You’d do a far better job than my poor Jack ever did. Dear God!” Seized by some wrenching emotion, Becky stopped in her tracks. “If only I could wave a magic wand and combine my husband and my brother—what a man that would be!”

  She walked on, and Simon followed, saying no more.

  The next day the children in Simon’s classroom found their normally attentive tutor surprisingly inattentive. He spent much time gazing broodingly out the window at low hills in the distance, leaving the students to do as they liked. That afternoon, he dismissed them early and went for a long walk over those hills, still brooding. And that night, after pacing for a long time in his silent rooms, he sat down at his writing desk, dipped pen in ink, and began a letter.

  Mr. John Murphy

  c/o Grimsby’s Tavern

  Walnut Street, Philadelphia

  Sir,

  This is to advise you that I expect to be in Philadelphia on Saturday next, at which time I would be pleased to confer with you further concerning
a matter we recently discussed . . .

  Chapter 14

  Rumors were flying in Charlestown that the British, stymied in the North, were turning their eyes toward the Southern colonies. Just before New Year’s Day, 1779, those rumors suddenly became reality. In striking contrast to their failed assault on Charlestown almost three years before, British forces attacked and quickly occupied Savannah, Georgia, a hundred miles to the south. No Loyalist or Patriot in South Carolina doubted there would soon be another British assault on Charlestown.

  Thrilled the city would soon be back under British rule, Robert Prentice moved his family to their Legare Street home. He wanted to be among the first to welcome the Redcoats. And certain that those sympathetic to the rebellion would soon need places to hide, he suddenly felt a burst of compassion for his brother-in-law, Arthur Ainsley, and his cousin Hugh Prentice—both, in his view, sadly deluded. He wrote to them, urging that they renounce the insane notion of American independence before it was too late. Naturally, they would have to explain themselves when the British occupied the city. But Robert, whose loyalty was well known, would gladly offer them shelter and help them reestablish themselves as loyal English subjects.

  The note to Arthur went with Clarissa and Jane to the Ainsleys’ house. Arthur’s simple reply declined the generous offer with sincere thanks. “He’s determined to sink or swim with this rebellion tide,” Clarissa reported.

  “And I must say,” Jane dared to add, “I believe he’ll prove a very strong swimmer.” This only brought an angry glare from Robert.

  The note to Hugh was delivered by Clarissa’s maid, Nellie, who always came over from the Ainsleys’ to Legare Street when the Prentices were in town. In short order, she returned with a brief note from Hugh.

  Thank you, Cousin, for your kind offer of protection. But I hardly think the British, if they come, would concern themselves with an obscure cabinetmaker like me. I will take my chances. However, I am glad to hear from you. Lydia and I send greetings to you and Clarissa, and to our dear cousin fane, whom we once had the pleasure of meeting.

  Robert threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know which is the bigger fool, Hugh or Arthur. The devil take them both, I say!”

  He also did not know that Nellie brought a second note—for Jane. “A mutual friend, who has left here, wrote to me recently,” Hugh wrote. “He asked to be remembered to you, and he looks forward to seeing us all again soon.” It wasn’t much, but it lifted Jane’s heart with joy. Perhaps there was hope, after all, that one day she might see Mr. Cordwyn again.

  After capturing Savannah with ease, the advancing British met months of fierce Patriot resistance. But by May of 1779, they were poised at the outskirts of Charlestown. While their friends in the city eagerly awaited their arrival, the Patriot-minded prayed for another escape from disaster.

  One hot night in late May, Robert Prentice paced the floor, unable to rest. The hour was late, the night air heavy with a drizzling rain. But all was peaceful, and peace was not what Robert wanted this night.

  Jane appeared in her nightgown at the top of the stairs. “We’ll know if they come, and meanwhile, you need some sleep,” she said in the uneasy calm.

  “In God’s name, where are they?” he growled. “The rebel defenses are ridiculously weak. The Redcoats could storm in any time—what are they waiting for?” He continued to pace, muttering to himself.

  Her advice ignored, Jane went back to her room. But unable to sleep, she sat absently brushing her long dark hair and worrying. What will happen to Arthur if the British take the city? To Cousin Hugh and his cocky stepson, Peter Quincy? Aren’t they worried? At last she heard Robert coming upstairs, giving up his vigil for the night. Then she, too, finally went to bed.

  In the cold light of dawn, she awoke with a start. Raising herself on one elbow, she froze, listening. Riotous shouting reverberated in the distance. She knew instantly that it was not the Redcoats. Throwing on a dressing gown, she hurried into the hallway. Robert, fully dressed, and Clarissa, in her nightgown, were just leaving their bedroom as well. Nellie stood trembling at the bottom of the stairs, wide-eyed in fright.

  “I’m going to investigate,” Robert announced, starting down the stairs. “Stay upstairs, and don’t open the door to anyone.

  The women dressed quickly, then huddled on the stairs. Now they could hear a raucous celebration outside, full of exultant but menacing laughter.

  A few minutes later, Robert was back, scarlet with fury. He slammed the door and bolted it behind him. “It’s beyond belief!” he shouted. “The Redcoats have vanished like thieves in the night!”

  Clarissa gasped. “But why, Robert?”

  “The sentry at the powder magazine says Continental troops were coming up fast on their rear. So now we’re left surrounded by rebel scum roaming the streets, attacking Loyalists. And they’re coming this way!”

  Indeed, they had already arrived. The house was assaulted by a mob shouting taunts at the known Loyalist inside. “Open up, Tory Prentice! Tell us what became of your yellow-bellied Redcoats! Are they too spineless to fight?” The words were hurled in contempt, along with sticks, stones, rotting vegetables—anything handy for bombarding the house.

  Robert peered out the window at the attackers, then barked at the women. “Back in your rooms, all of you, till I say it’s safe. Quickly now!”

  Clarissa and Nellie obeyed, but Jane lingered on the landing. Again muttering to himself, Robert dug in his pocket for keys, then hurriedly fumbled with the lock on a heavy cabinet in the parlor. Pulling the door open, he reached in and took out a pistol.

  Jane, watching, recoiled in alarm. “What are you doing, Uncle Robert?”

  He scowled up at her. “I told you to get back to your room!”

  “What are you doing?” she repeated, starting down the stairs.

  “I’m defending my property!” he bellowed, heading for the front door.

  But Jane got there first, blocking his path. “Are you mad?” she cried.

  “What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll shoot one of our own traitorous kin?”

  “You know very well Uncle Arthur’s not out there, and neither is Hugh!”

  “They’re rebels, aren’t they? All rebels are alike. Stand aside!”

  “Uncle Robert, get hold of yourself!” Jane held on to his arm. “Those are crude, ignorant people. There are plenty of them in England, too. I’ve seen them. But it’s not their fault. They just need education.”

  “Fine!” Robert waved his pistol. “I’ll educate them!” “Not like that! They don’t deserve to be shot!”

  “Don’t lecture me, you impudent girl! Get out of my

  “No!” Eyes blazing, Jane threw herself across the door. “You must not go out there!”

  Robert was so astonished by this unexpected show of defiance that he could only stand and stare. Jane stared back, equally astonished, but she did not retreat. Then to her vast relief, Clarissa intervened. “I must say I agree with Jane,” she said coolly from the top of the stairs. “If nothing else, Robert, think of your own safety. You would do battle single-handedly with an angry mob? You could get yourself killed.”

  Even as she spoke, the noise outside began to subside. Tiring of the sport, the boisterous crowd was moving on. Robert went back to the cabinet and put his pistol away. Then he turned to Jane, his anger still hot.

  “It is not your place to instruct me,” he said with simmering rage. “How dare you defend a gang of thugs who want to run me out of the city. I won’t abide such insolence, from you or anyone else!”

  Jane tried to respond calmly. “I wasn’t excusing them, Uncle Robert. But look at their situation. For years they’ve been subjects of a distant king they think doesn’t care about their welfare. With no voice in their own government, they resort to—”

  “Good God, what am I hearing!” Robert’s rage flared anew. “Has rebel fever infected you, too? I should never have let you traipse around unsupervised. Obviously, you still
can’t be trusted!”

  Clarissa hurried downstairs, again trying to intervene. “Now, Robert—”

  “No, you both listen to me! We have survived an ugly incident this morning without serious harm. But apparently neither of you has the sense to realize the danger we’re in here. Well, no more! We’re going back to Rosewall, and we’re going to stay there until this city is safely back under British rule, once and for all!” With that Robert stormed out through the back of the house, doors slamming behind him.

  Next Clarissa turned accusingly on Jane. “Now see what you’ve done!” she snapped. “Your divided loyalties just got us sent back to prison, thank you very much! In future, kindly remember that handling Robert is my job, not yours.” She wheeled about and rushed upstairs.

  Left alone, Jane stood for a long time gazing out the window. Something Clarissa had said had stuck in her mind. Divided loyalties—is that what ails me? she wondered. If so, things may get a lot worse before they get better.

  Chapter 15

  Despite its grand name, the Great Philadelphia Wagon Road was little more than a rutted old Indian trail, winding south from Pennsylvania through Appalachian foothill valleys into western Virginia and the Carolinas. Years before, the king’s mapmakers had surveyed the road as far as Salisbury, North Carolina, pronouncing it 453 miles from Philadelphia.

  Some distance below Salisbury, at a shallow crossing on the Pee Dee River not far from the village of Badin, there was a run-down inn operated by a rough-hewn frontiersman named Josiah Hobson. Traders’ wagons, farmers’ carts, and packhorses with their sweating drivers often turned the Hobson Inn’s bare courtyard into a tangle of dust and confusion.