She stopped abruptly and turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “This is not your own thought, Will Stoner. It is a calculated plan by someone who is more concerned with valuable information than my feelings for you. If you are dead I have nothing more to live for. I cannot tell you now what I will do.” She spoke quickly, a tinge of anger and fear in her voice. “I will not spoil our precious time together by discussing what I am to do if you are dead.” She took his hand in hers, aware of the disapproving look of two Quaker women, who hurried by, one uttering a loud “tsk, tsk.”
“You must understand it is harder for me than for you. You know where I live and can see my surroundings in this city in your mind. I only am aware you are with your Regiment, not knowing whether you are in camp or in the field.” She squeezed his fingers hard and held his hand tightly. “At the very moment when I am having tea or returning from market, or why even writing a letter to you, you may be in the thick of an artillery duel or major battle. I have seen the carnage cannons and musket balls wreak upon our soldiers. I have been to field hospitals where men scream in pain, blood flows along the floors and piles of amputated limbs are stacked up outside operating rooms like so much cordwood. I will be in constant fear for your well-being.” She shook the clasp of her cape. “Please do not treat this lightly as if I am simply to address letters to another as I would change this light cape for a heavier woolen cloak when the weather requires.” She tucked her arm in his as they continued walking. “Now, let us renew our promenade and set aside these grim thoughts.”
They turned toward the river and walked in silence past shuttered auction houses. The smell from the few operating small breweries blended with the stronger animal smells from tanneries and acrid, sooty coal fires, still smoldering from the now abandoned smelters.
Will hurried her along past the doorway of a tavern, with a wooden insignia whose faded arcs of paint announced it was “The Sign of the Rainbow.” From the raucous shouts within, it was clear some laborers were drinking heavily to ward off the reality of the impending British occupation.
When they reached the waterfront, Will wrapped his arms around her to protect her from the sharp wind blowing from the Jersey shore. The docks now were a hive of grim, hurried activity in contrast to the festive air of Independence Day when flags had festooned the ships of the Pennsylvania Navy. Torches illuminated those who had waited until the end to flee, loading crates, furniture and merchandise on to sloops and small river schooners, ready to cast off at a moment’s notice.
Elisabeth and Will stood in the shadows, solemnly watching the desperate, disorganized scene unfolding on the docks.
“All of these people hurrying to escape before the British Army arrives and I have chosen to remain,” she said softly. Will rested his chin on the top of her head. He bent down so that his mouth was next to her ear.
“None of them know of your courage, and none staying behind will either. It is our secret and unifying bond, giving us strength for whatever will come,” he whispered.
She turned her head and rubbed her cheek on his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin. She almost believed if they could stand in the darkness close together viewing the scene on the waterfront, they would remain here forever with the moment never changing. What a silly conceit, she thought to herself. Their separation was imminent and of undetermined duration. She knew her anxiety for Will’s safety would be with her every waking hour of every day. It was time to recognize that reality.
“I will miss you my love,” she said taking his arm in hers and turning away from the river.
John Stoner angrily brushed the flanks of his mare with the currycomb. The pleasure of being allowed to ride with two select squadrons of the 16th Light Dragoons and escort General Cornwallis into Philadelphia dissipated with each rough stroke. Colonel Harcourt and the other officers had grooms and servants for this work. The fact that some troopers were currying their own mounts did not lessen the affront to his sense of dignity. Worse in his mind, without a batman, he had been compelled to clean his own uniform, brushing the dirt from his red coat and the dark green facing, a uniform that set him apart from the other Dragoons. Nor did he wear a crested brass helmet with the death’s head insignia on the black front plate and a red crest on the top. He had taken care to make sure his black knee high boots were highly polished as well as a sword he had purchased from a Hessian, booty captured by the guttural speaking peasant in some battle or other. The shorter one he owned seemed like a toy compared to the Dragoons’ lethal looking sabers.
He was angry for a deeper reason. After the Battle of the Brandywine, he had seen the accolades accorded to those who had excelled in the field. He had observed the easy, almost careless friendship afforded to those who were heirs to landed estates and titles, Earls and Dukes of this or that, sons of powerful men in England. How naive of him to believe he would garner favor with them and enter their world of privilege, where one sat down at a table with Lord Cornwallis or Colonel Harcourt. If they treated John Stoner as a lower class Colonial, then he would make them take notice of him as a Loyalist. How he would do this he was not yet certain, but he was resolved to succeed.
With Colonel Harcourt in the lead, the two hundred Dragoons trotted along three across, each trooper with his saber drawn and held vertically at their right shoulders. John now felt he had made a poor choice with his sword resting on his shoulder. It was obviously too long. As he was in the middle line, he hoped no one would notice. Behind the Queen’s Dragoons, came Lord Cornwallis himself, accompanied by his staff and several wealthy Loyalists from Philadelphia. They had caught John’s attention as the Dragoons rode past them. He knew they were extremely important men to be accompanying Cornwallis himself on the triumphal entry into the city.
Regiments of British and Hessian Grenadiers followed the General’s entourage, flags waving in the breeze, muskets at shoulder arms with bayonets flashing, marching in unison ahead of the horse drawn gun carriages, the highly polished brass cannons gleaming in the sunlight. 9 John’s mood brightened as the horses hooves drummed on the cobblestone paved streets, and they were greeted by smiling people, mostly women, many of them well-dressed and good looking and small boys cheering and waving enthusiastically. He took note of the vacant elegant homes along their route and decided these places were likely ones to be expropriated for officers. He would see about finding appropriate quarters for himself and a servant as well. His days of being treated with disdain and indignity by others were over.
They formed up in front of the State House and remained mounted as Cornwallis, escorted by two bewigged and smiling Loyalists walked ahead of the General’s staff and entered the colonnaded brick building.
“Do you know who those two men with our General are?” John asked one of the troopers next to him.
“I have no idea,” he said unhelpfully and deliberately concentrated on staring resolutely straight ahead as if that was more important.
“I heard Colonel Harcourt mention their names,” the trooper to his right said.
“Thank you,” John replied, smiling.
“But I have forgotten them,” he said provoking a loud guffaw from the one John had first asked. John turned red and bit his lower lip in anger. I will find out soon and by God end this constant humiliation.
For two days, John was quartered with the 16th Dragoons at Schuylkill Stables, a mile or so outside of Philadelphia. Lt. Chatsworth had assigned him and a few other troopers to arson patrol that first night, commenting that John had some experience with fires in New York. It was meant as a personal joke between the two of them but John took it as another slight, a reference to when he had not “acted like a gentleman,” as Chatsworth had put it.
However, he played the part of an obedient soldier and pretended to go gladly. From the local Loyalists who joined the troopers on patrol from midnight to six a.m., John learned the city’s streets and more importantly the locations of the homes of the prominent and wealthy Tories of Philadelphia. The n
ext day, Lt. Chatsworth in casual conversation gave him the precious information- the names of Joseph Galloway and Andrew Allen, the two distinguished gentlemen who had accompanied Lord Cornwallis and escorted him into the State House.
On the third day John rode alone into Philadelphia and called at Mr. Galloway’s home. A servant informed him that Mr. Galloway was attending a meeting at The City Tavern. John boldly decided to present himself.
He entered the meeting hall and noted he was the only one of those present in uniform. The others, dressed in fashionable, prosperous but civilian clothing were seated at a long table. Galloway looked up at John, his dark eyebrows accentuated by his powdered and curled wig, appraising him carefully. John had providentially decided to wear his sword that morning, signifying he was an officer and a gentleman. Galloway inquired as to his identity.
“I am Lieutenant John Stoner, formerly Aide-de-Camp to General Timothy Ruggles of the Massachusetts Loyal Associators and currently attached to Colonel Harcourt’s Queen’s 16th Light Dragoons,” he replied in a measured steady and clear voice.
“Ah. General Ruggles. I made the pleasure of his acquaintance when I was in New York City,” Galloway said smiling at John. “And Colonel Harcourt I know passingly well. You are welcome to attend this meeting and perhaps you can aid us in our work.” He paused as servants entered carrying pitchers of ale and cider and trays of cold meats, cheese and bread, and waited until they had left and closed the doors behind them.
“Gentlemen. I have been appointed by General Howe to establish the civil administration of our city. To this end, His Excellency has made me Superintendent of Police and the Port,” he announced to the group. John leaned back and loosened his sword belt and the bottom buttons of his waistcoat. He studied Galloway as he spoke and guessed he was a man in his mid- forties, with a mature and confident air, and obviously experienced in addressing influential people. Galloway stated he needed loyal, competent men in his administration to help fulfill the great trust General Howe had placed in him. John recognized the emphasis was to rally the men in the room to do their utmost with the underlying message that Galloway had the General’s ear. A sound and efficient civil government would not only restore order Galloway continued, but lead the good citizens of his city to enthusiastic support of the Crown and end this unfortunate war which was destroying the prosperity of Philadelphia and his beloved Pennsylvania. 10
One by one, Galloway called upon the men to offer their ideas as to how they could contribute to a competent well-run administration of Philadelphia. John found the responses of some egotistical and pompous while others were more practical. During a self-serving and particularly lengthy declaration by one merchant of how he would run the port, John suppressed a smile that provoked a conspiratorial smirk from Galloway.
“And you Lieutenant Stoner. Do you see any manner in which you may be of assistance to my administration?”
“Sir,” John replied, surprised by his own audacity. “With all due respect to the loyal gentlemen in this room, I believe the description of my talents are best reserved for your ears only.”
Galloway stared at him a long time with his hands folded in front of his thin, tight lips, the tip of his small nose resting on a knuckle. “As you wish, Lieutenant Stoner. Tarry a moment after the meeting.”
When they were alone, John recounted his serving as liaison with the Dragoons on orders from General Ruggles, expanding on his role in ferreting out rebels on Long Island and exaggerating the encounter with the rebel spy, Van Hooten at the Rising Sun. He related his efforts in New York City and New Jersey to confiscate rebel property and to discover their sympathizers and supporters, again exaggerating his part in various skirmishes and battles.
“So, you see Sir. I too have held positions of trust to protect Loyalists, encourage others to see the advantages of supporting the Crown, and punish those who continue to stand against us. I hope that some of my experience may prove useful to you.”
Galloway studied John. “Answer me this, Lieutenant. When we entered the city, how would you describe the reception by the people?”
“Some were genuinely enthusiastic, most in my opinion were merely pretending to warmly welcome us.”
“Precisely,” Galloway said slamming his hand down on the table. 11“The city is filled with rebel sympathizers and spies who will do everything in their power to undermine both the civil and military governance of this city. We will need to ferret them out. And,” he added, “ keep a watchful eye on the Quakers as well. You Lieutenant,” he said, pointing an elegant long finger at him, “with your experience and of course having been in battle with the Dragoons, will help me do just that.”
John permitted himself a small smile and nod of acceptance, although he did not see how his relationship to the Dragoons fit into Galloway’s plans.
“I cannot give you a title more than Aide to the Civil Governor, but in reality you will be my chief assistant with broad responsibilities for preventing subversion and uncovering rebel spies. I will more than match your pay and I can provide for handsome lodging together with other advantages, shall we say. Report to me at my house tomorrow. I will speak to General Cornwallis about your transfer to my office.”
John left The City Tavern and it was all he could do to suppress a shout of joy. He could only imagine what some of the advantages of his position would be. Whatever they were, he was certain, one would be a man-servant and perhaps even a cook. It was as if all the bad luck, slights and indignities he had suffered were being erased by one stroke of good fortune.
As he approached the Schuylkill Barracks of the Dragoons, he put on a long face. When he met with Lieutenant Chatsworth, he would appear disappointed and unhappy about the assignment but there was nothing he could do about it. The Civil Governor, acting upon a directive from General Cornwallis himself, had insisted.
Chapter 13- Difficult Tasks Fulfilled
“Bant struggled to keep pace with McNeil, his short legs putting
him at a disadvantage, even without the weight of their haversacks and blankets left at their camp, now eleven miles behind them. Each man in Hand’s Regiment carried nothing more than their rifles, forty rounds and two day’s cooked rations of “Injun,” roasted potatoes and a small piece of beef. Many of the men had filled their canteens with whiskey or rum, saving their ration for the march and battle. Bant’s held his usual- hard cider diluted with water.
The Orders of the Day, which had been read to all of the troops and to which Bant had paid scant attention, urged the men to be firm and brave in attacking the British at Germantown and victory would be theirs. After that, General Washington promised to lead the Army into Philadelphia. 1
Bant did not give one whit for going to Philadelphia. In fact, he thought there would be no fighting for the city - the British would either burn it and retreat or simply leave it intact. Either way, there would be no opportunity for his sharpshooting skills.
The Officers, from Colonel Hand on down had stressed the need for silence on the march and no lights of any kind. They left camp, in the early evening, when there was still a remnant of the sun’s rays toward the west under ominous grey clouds. No moon rose that night and the darkness was almost impenetrable. Some of the men had attached pieces of white paper to their tri-corns, which Bant even with his keen eyesight was barely able to perceive in the gloom. Marching along in silence, sensing the presence of McNeil on the road to his right, Bant thought it was much like the night march from Trenton to Princeton. Although he was not a talker, he would have preferred to exchange an occasional word with McNeil, instead of every soldier marching along in wordless self-imposed muteness, broken only by the coughs, sneezes and farts that escape all men, even those under orders to maintain silence.
Bant estimated they had been tramping on nameless roads for five hours when they stopped to rest. Although they were now presumably closer to the enemy than before, the officers gave permission for the men to talk in low voices. No fires were to be
lit. Indeed there was no need. The night was mild and the men had left their cooking pots, pans and food behind. Bant leaned against the tree where McNeil and a few others from their Company had settled. He pulled off his moccasins and ran his fingers inside, feeling for the small stone that had irritated his right heel for the last mile or so. He found it wedged against the stitching and held it between his fingers feeling its one sharp edge, before throwing it on the ground behind him.
“My guess is not too much further to go,” McNeil said. Bant, who had been eager for conversation during the march, merely grunted. But McNeil was undeterred by his reticence.
“This darkness makes our chance for surprise greater but slows our progress at the same time,” he observed. “With a little moonlight we could get there faster. What say you, Bant?”
“No sense engaging him in conversation,” an unseen soldier answered from the far side of the tree. “Might as well be talking to a post.”
McNeil came to his friend’s defense. “Bant talks when he wants to and that is good enough for me. As for engaging, it is engaging with the enemy that he is good at. For me, I would rather be alongside him in any battle than one who is amiable to a fair the weather but runs at the first sign of trouble.”
“Are you saying I am a coward?” the unseen soldier snarled. “No,” McNeil replied. “Not speaking about anyone in particular. Just saying that Bant is one of the most reliable of men in battle. That is all.”
The soldier seemed mollified. The men sat silently listening to the noises of the night- the hooting of a nearby owl, twigs cracking as men returned from relieving themselves away from the road, farm dogs barking in the distance.
“No moon helps to hide us from British patrols,” Bant said, as if McNeil had just asked his question. “Our scouts will know where their pickets are by their fires so we have no need of light.” Thinking he had said too much, he kept quiet.
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