Blood Upon The Snow

by Martin Ganzglass

  “Will that be all, Sir?”

  He reached down and noted the coffee was the color of light muddy water.

  “What is this?” he said in disgust. “There is a pound of real coffee in the pantry. I brought it here no less than three days ago. Have you stolen it?”

  “Oh no Sir. I thought we were saving it for when you gentlemen entertained.” Her hands nervously wrung her white apron.

  “No. We are not saving it,” John answered angrily. He swept the cup and its diluted contents off the desk, breaking the saucer and spilling the contents on the rug. “Clean this up and brew me a proper pot of coffee as I asked. One more mistake like this and you will be out on the street.”

  “Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir.” She bent down to pick up the shards and he had the thought put his boot to her rear. The coffee had been a gift from a grateful merchant of fine foods and spices who had appreciated John’s willingness not to probe too deeply into the captains and mates who, when in town, lived in a garret above the store. They were only transients and good coffee was so hard to find these days. Besides, it had endeared him to his other housemates and there was no telling when that could redound to his favor.

  He opened a file entitled “North of Market,” and perused the names of the Quakers listed. The homes were organized by street and house number, their occupants’ names written unfortunately by people with varying skills of penmanship. John held the cup in his right hand, inhaled the aroma of the hot coffee before savoring its taste while his left index finger ran down the list. The name Elizabeth Van Hooten stared back at him. Could that be a relative of the spy Van Hooten he and the Dragoons had encountered on Long Island? Or a coincidence. How common is the name Van Hooten, he asked himself. If she is a Quaker she would not be related to the spy who certainly was not of that faith. Well, it certainly required further inquiry. It would have to wait a day or two. This weekend there were dances and dinners to attend. He would make the tailor work all night if necessary to alter at least one of his uniforms. He wanted to look his best.

  Elisabeth acknowledged that her good looks and the interest of Captain Montresor, together with the Shippen sisters’ friendship, had gained her an invitation to the exclusive dinner at Major Andre’s house. Judge Shippen and his wife, together with Peggy and the oldest sister had arrived in one carriage, Sarah and Mary Shippen, together with Elisabeth and two friends in another. They had driven through a high brick arch in the center of the residence into the inner courtyard.

  As Elisabeth alighted she was greeted by Captain Montresor, cleanly bewigged, the gold buttons on his uniform sparkling in the flames from the torches in the iron scalloped sconces. He was not as tall as Will and old enough to be her father. However, she had to admit, he was a handsome man with a strong chin and piercing eyes. He carried himself well, as one experienced in the world with an air of earned self assurance. Peggy had told her in whispered confidence that Captain Montresor had the reputation of being a rake. 2 Elisabeth was not deterred. Indeed, she was pleased the Captain had fastened his eye on her and become her regular escort. He took a genuine interest in not only her appearance but in Elisabeth’s seemingly insatiable desire to learn about plays, poetry and literature and her interest in his drawings. Sometimes, when with him, she acted her part of charming companion so naturally and absorbed the information he revealed so easily, later she would question whether she had performed her part because she enjoyed it or because it was her duty as a spy to play that role.

  Without being able to say how, she knew the Captain was too much of a gentleman to force the matter and she would never be his mistress. She shivered guiltily imagining how it would be, and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her throat, affecting it was the chill night air.

  Montresor gallantly linked his arm in hers and escorted her up the stone stairs, through the double doors and into the reception room. Major Andre was standing next to Peggy Shippen, petite and stunning in a deep blue beaded gown consisting of a plunging bodice and skirt joined together. Where her skirt opened in the front, her outer petticoat was baby blue with an intricate iridescent design of darker threads. Her pale skin, in comparison to the weathered faces and hands of the officers, made her seem like a porcelain Chinese sculpture.

  Elisabeth herself had chosen a dark green gown and an embroidered petticoat from a wardrobe of clothes Peggy had insisted she could no longer wear as being too familiar to Major Andre. The bodice of Peggy’s gown was raised for modesty so that it ended slightly below her collar bones and was less revealing when she curtsied or sat. Her arms were covered with long sleeves set off by lace-trimmed ruffles at the elbow. Elisabeth deemed her gown to be reasonable and appropriate but Mary Lewis had expressed her severe disapproval when Elisabeth had departed.

  The dinner was sumptuous, course after course of fowl, fish and meat, grilled, steamed and boiled vegetables, some delicately carved and cleverly arrayed in bouquet-like designs on large serving platters, cheeses hard and soft, breads still warm from the oven, and wines and ales poured almost as soon as one took a small sip.

  Elisabeth was moderate in her intake of both food and spirits. She listened with a practiced semi-bored look, as Montresor described to another officer across the table the status of the construction of the Tete de Pont and redoubts on the west side of the Schuylkill at the Middle Ferry, an earlier one having been carried away in a storm at the end of October. She waited until he had finished and stifled a laugh.

  “What is it my dear that causes you to smile so?” “The British and French are the greatest of enemies, not only on the Continent but here in our part of the world. Yet, you use their words to describe your own fortifications. It seems the French have won the war of language.”

  Montresor laughed heartily. “You could say the same about me- the Chief Engineer to General Howe has a French name. The Rebels use the same terms and seek an alliance with the French. The word trench comes from the French ‘entrenchment.’ Do you really desire a lecture on the origins of fortification terminology at this splendid dinner?”

  “No, Captain. I am merely pointing out the irony of it. As for your name, I like the way it sounds and would tolerate no other.” He raised his glass to her.

  “Gentlemen. To all the lovely ladies who grace our table with their presence, to their beauty and their wit.” To a chorus of agreement, Elisabeth lifted her wine glass and took a small sip, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, thanking the Captain for his toast.

  After dinner, instead of the men adjourning for the usual brandy while the women went to a separate sitting room to chat and freshen up, the entire party by design, led by Major Andre and Peggy Shippen moved to the spacious ballroom. It was festooned with red and blue bunting that partially obscured the decorative white plaster motifs above the light yellow walls. The concave ceiling was segmented by carved wooden faux beams, making the room seem higher than it actually was. At one end, a chamber orchestra of professional musicians selected from the regimental bands sat on a rectangular raised stage. The dinner guests arranged themselves on the settees and couches along the walls. Major Andre announced there would be a brief concert until those who had been invited solely for the dance arrived. After the musicians had played one or two short pieces, Peggy Shippen, clearly tired of sitting and doing nothing, rose and took Major Andre’s hand. The Major motioned to the orchestra and they began to play a minuet.

  “One of the most popular in London,” Captain Montresor whispered in Elisabeth’s ear. After the first dance, he extended his hand to her and they joined other couples on the floor. They were third in line, the Captain aggressively asserting his position as Chief Engineer to General Howe regardless of his rank. Elisabeth blushed slightly, knowing many who had not chosen to dance were watching her.

  “You see, my dear,” Montresor said quietly as they waited for the music to begin. “Here we have another example of French triumphant not only in our language but in our pleasurable activities. As you know, the first eight bars
are for the Deportment,” he said giving the word a heavy French accent. “And then, we begin to dance,” he paused for effect- “a Minuet.” He smiled at her and she lost in the moment, straightened her back and reached down to hold her skirt between her thumb and four fingers, and stared upward into his face, cognizant that his eyes were taking in her entire body.

  John Stoner arrived at Major Andre’s ball together with Captain Lieutenant Chatsworth. The sounds of music and a dance in progress floated through the open doors as they followed Colonel Mawhood and a rather matronly looking lady up the stone stairs, her full figure made seemingly more bulky enveloped in a heavy cloak. John detested the Colonel. He was conceited with an absolutely idiotic sense of duty that had almost resulted in John being killed at the Battle of Princeton. Mawhood would have done better to bring his two dogs he thought, as the woman handed her cloak to a servant and turned to smile at Chatsworth who bowed slightly. She stared at John, determined she did not know him and favored him with a slight nod of her head. John forced himself to bow but did not smile. Nor, fearing a slight from the Colonel, did he wish to step forward and introduce himself.

  He had hoped, as Superintendent Galloway’s principal assistant, Major Andre would invite him to the dinner. After all he reasoned, it was he, John Stoner, who was essentially responsible for detecting Rebel plots and establishing security in the city. He had performed admirably. Galloway himself had recognized it and thus, it was proper in John’s mind that he should be acknowledged by entry into the elite circles. Still, he had to admit, he was among a select group invited to the dance. There was some consolation in that but he remained in a sour mood as they entered the ballroom.

  “That is the renowned and most beautiful Miss Peggy Shippen,” Chatsworth said, motioning to the stunning young lady dancing with Major Andre. “I have been told Captain Hammond of the H.M.S. Roebuck, invited her to dine with he and his Officers and they all are in love with her. One can see why,” Chatsworth said wistfully, accepting a glass of claret from a servant.

  John was content to observe from the relative anonymity among the guests lined along the wall. He became part of the group of young officers waiting for their opportunity, hoping to have at least one dance with an attractive young lady. Most of the young women were truly stunning, several dressed in gowns revealing much of their bosoms accentuated by the stays beneath. The overall effect of so many striking females, swirling around the dance floor and the scents of their perfumes intermingling in the air, created an intoxicating sensuous atmosphere, enlivened by the pleasing sound of women’s voices and laughter.

  After a few more dances, during which John’s eyes roved from one elegantly dressed beauty to another, the music ceased. Servants circulated with trays of cheeses and little sweets while others carried glasses of claret and tankards of ale. John roamed the room, glass in hand, listening for snippets of conversation and found himself drawn to a cluster of officers and young ladies standing near the musicians’ stage. A Major of a Light Infantry Regiment was discussing a play in Covent Gardens his mother and sister had attended. John listened as the Major recalled, in his clipped accent, when he was in London dining with this Lord or that Duchess. He hated the condescending tone, the assumption of upper class entitlement and most of all, that these beautiful young ladies of Philadelphia appeared mesmerized by his every word.

  “Pardon me, Major Howard. While I admit our English comedies are well written, they lack the sharper bite of French playwrights, whom I prefer.”

  “Ah, Captain Montresor. How delightful to see you again,” Major Howard responded welcoming him and his companion. John fixed his gaze on the slender blonde with bright blue eyes whose hand rested lightly on Montresor’s forearm. He was smitten by the white skin of her throat. Her curls flowed down her neck to her shoulders and contrasted with the dark green fabric of her gown. She was familiarly comfortable with the Captain, and seemed amused as he discoursed on a play by Moliere, as if they shared a joke between them.

  “And who is this lovely young lady you have brought to grace our presence,” Major Howard inquired.

  “Major. Please, forgive my manners. May I present Miss Elisabeth Van Hooten.” Elisabeth curtsied slightly and the Major bowed deeply in reply. John was dumbstruck. He tried to imagine Elisabeth as a spy. No, perhaps she was unrelated to the man they had encountered on Long Island. There was a series of introductions made by the Major and his young lady, then by the other couples, followed by the single officers in their group. John realized it was his turn.

  “Lieutenant John Stoner, Aide to General Ruggles of the Massachusetts Loyal Associators and now Aide to Superintendent Joseph Galloway.” He bowed slightly to Montresor and Elisabeth, pleased that he had compelled that miserable tailor to alter his uniform for tonight. While his appearance was smart, he knew his accent immediately betrayed him as a colonial with no pedigree. He straightened from his bow and thought he caught a glimmer of alarm in her eyes.

  “Miss Van Hooten. Permit me to inquire whether you have family in the vicinity of Albany?” He watched her carefully for any reaction, emboldened by the wine and the sense that she regarded him with some apprehension.

  “Yes, I do, Lieutenant.” Her composure had returned but John was certain there was more to this. “My father is a merchant there.”

  “I met a Mr. Van Hooten from Albany in Long Island just before the campaign. He said he was a merchant, but in actuality he was a spy for the Rebels. Are you also a Rebel spy, Miss Van Hooten?”

  “Lieutenant,” Major Howard said harshly. “Remember where you are.”

  Captain Montresor took a step toward him but was restrained by Elisabeth.

  “Surely, Lieutenant Stoner,” she said gently. “You must be aware of divided loyalties among families in this cruel war.” John was taken aback. His mouth opened in shock. She could not know about his brother. That was impossible. Yet the way she stared directly at him, her ice blue eyes now devoid of any sparkle, he felt somehow she knew about William.

  She smiled at him demurely. “Why the uncle of my very good friend Miss Peggy Shippen is a surgeon for the Rebels,” she continued. 3 “Perhaps you would like to ask our host, Major Andre, if tonight, he is dancing with a Rebel spy.” This time her eyes danced with mirth.

  “Enough of this sir,” Captain Montresor said. “You have shown abysmally poor manners. Your accusation is not only baseless but an affront to Miss Van Hooten. On her behalf, I demand an immediate apology or you will have to answer to me.” John was aware more officers and their ladies had surrounded them, curious to learn why Captain Montresor had raised his voice.

  John mumbled words of apology for causing Miss Van Hooten any distress. He tried to explain himself by recounting the attack on the 16th Light Dragoons at the Rising Sun. Major Howard brusquely interrupted him.

  “We have no need to hear from you further. Miss Elisabeth has accepted your apology and that is the end of it.”

  Humiliated, John walked from the ballroom, his face red with embarrassment, hearing every murmured comment as he passed.

  “He accused Peggy Shippen of being a Rebel spy,” he heard one say.

  “That is what comes of inviting lower class people to these events,” were the words that followed him down the stone steps.

  He threw his half empty glass of claret vehemently down on the cobblestones. The shattering glass did nothing to assuage his anger. Fuming, he walked under the brick archway and out onto Market Street. That Dutch bitch will pay for this, he vowed. He will have his men watch her house, her every movement and he will find her out. Then, he thought smirking, I will decide whether or not to expose her or make her beg for my silence. She would pay dearly for that. Oh yes, he would have his way with her, whenever he wanted. The thought pleased him as he made his way to Mrs. McKoy’s on Chestnut Street. He needed to relieve his rage tonight with one of her girls.

  At three in the morning, Elisabeth lay in bed, awake and troubled, revisiting the events at Major An
dre’s dinner dance. Even though her window was closed and she was covered by a quilted comforter, she shivered at the recollection of her confrontation with John Stoner. She had acquitted herself well, she thought, making light of his accusation. Her repartee would give rise to gossip all over the city, likening her situation to that of Peggy Shippen’s, who was much in favor with the officer corps. Still she recognized she had made a dangerous enemy.

  John was so different than Will it was difficult to comprehend they were brothers of the same mother. A mean face like a ferret, avaricious looking and pock marked, on top of a torso going to fat. Shorter than Will, who carried himself modestly without airs, John exuded self-importance like a dressed up poppy-cock acting out the part of a real soldier. Well, it is said that the uniform does not make the man and that is certainly proven in his case, she thought with some satisfaction.

  She shivered again, recalling his slight malicious smile when he had introduced himself. She knew with certainty he was unaware of her relationship with Will. She would be more careful in addressing her letters in case they fell into Loyalist Militia hands. There were many such patrols guarding the roads from the city. Perhaps she could ask Captain Montresor for a pass requesting that her letters not be interfered with. Would that invite his suspicion? She would have to contemplate that further.

  She considered how to counter the threat from John Stoner. For a moment she thought of provoking him to insult her again. Montresor would challenge him to a duel to protect her honor and his. No, as much as she feared him, she would not have John Stoner’s blood upon her conscience. There were other precautions she could take. In the morning she would give Mary an account of the evening. She would warn her friend to never reveal to anyone, her relationship with Will. She could trust Mary but should she go further and inform her of her real purpose of remaining in Philadelphia. She needed to think more before taking that step.