Elisabeth left the stalls on Market Street just before midafternoon. Prices for food had risen even further, once Superintendent Galloway ended all efforts to enforce the limits his administration had set. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve to cover her nose and mouth from the ripe stench of rotting garbage and human waste that emanated from the odoriferous piles present on every side street and made worse by the June heat. The smell was particularly horrendous around the State House. There, the British soldiers had deliberately used the building as a latrine and behind it dug a large square pit and dumped dead horses, other filth and even, it was rumored, bodies of unidentified men. Flies buzzed and swarmed everywhere, and the air was so filled with them that swatting them away was futile. /7 She felt filthy simply by being outside and hoped she would not come down with some bilious fever that was transmitted by the foul air which had sickened many others.
The wharves were teeming with people and carts piled high with household furniture and goods. Once it had been announced that Loyalists and their families would be evacuated by ship, there was a frantic rush to move all manner of possessions down to the river. The panic was compounded by General Clinton’s order to purchase or requisition horses to pull the wagons with the army’s munitions and supplies overland through New Jersey to New York City.
She had seen with her own eyes, not only servants but young men of wealthy families manually pulling goat carts or staggering over the cobblestones with wobbly wheelbarrows loaded with furniture, trunks of clothing, pots, pans and other household items, through the streets to the waiting ships. Loyalist merchants, without their own vessels, loaded their drays with the goods from their stores and brought them to the piers. If they were to be evacuated by a Navy ship, the sailors as often as not, to the dismay of the Loyalists, dumped much of their property in the river. Those fleeing fared better with private schooners and sloops whose captains demanded exorbitant fees to cram their vessels with panicked Tories and their possessions. It was rumored that some Royal Navy transports, carrying American prisoners and sick and wounded British soldiers, had already left for New York.
The market was a frenzy of activity as people purchased as much food as possible, hoarding against the day the British abandoned the city and the Pennsylvania Supreme Executive Council and the American army returned. Elisabeth and Mary Lewis had divided their shopping. Mary had headed to the piers to purchase salted fish, which would stand them in good stead if meat subsequently became scarce or so expensive as to be unattainable. Elisabeth had purchased two five pound sacks of cheap flour for a price which, a month ago, she would have paid for the highest quality. She ignored a stall selling fruit. Under the circumstances these were an unnecessary luxury. Instead, she bought early summer squash and carrots, good for soup ingredients that could be stretched into several meals. With her heavy basket under her arm, she walked up Market Street toward the Quaker Quarter thinking it was only a matter of days before the British abandoned the city.
Already, the streets were dangerous at night, the lamps unlit, alleys dark and foreboding. Deserters and unsavory rough men from the warren of cheap bars and brothels down near the river, prowled the better neighborhoods looking for newly abandoned homes to loot. The Lewises kept their front door barred and candles burning through the night. She passed the Quaker Meeting House at Fourth and Arch which, unlike the Presbyterian and Congregational Churches, had been left mostly undamaged. There were rumors that the dragoons, who had used the Old Pine Street Church as a stable, had chopped holes in the floor and shoveled their horses’ manure into the basement, and even used the openings for their latrines. Although she normally discounted rumors, the stench in the city corroborated some of the malice being inflicted by the departing British.
Elisabeth thought fondly of her final meeting with Captain Montresor. She had called him John for the first time and told him she could not accept his offer. She pretended that, while she may have some difficulties with the Rebel authorities, she did not expect them to treat her harshly because of her friendship with him. He replied he understood and if she changed her mind, to write him in New York and he would provide the means for her transport. She had let him kiss her gently on the cheek. She wondered whether her fondness for him was due to his courtly and gentlemanly behavior or that the constant attention by this worldly, experienced man appealed to her vanity.
She forced such thoughts from her mind and instead envisioned her joyous reunion with Will. She had not seen him since September when he had taught her the codes for her secret messages and they had professed their love for each other. In her imagination she saw him, with his Regiment, in his faded blue uniform, his brown hair partially hidden by a tri-corn, riding Big Red pulling a polished brass cannon, past the crowds of cheering people lining the streets. She smiled thinking of their first moments alone together, his smell of leather, horse and gunpowder, her head upon his shoulder, the relief from the long and dangerous months apart.
Elisabeth reached into her cloth sack, removed the heavy iron key and fitted it into the lock. It turned easily. She pushed open the door before realizing there was someone behind her. Before she could turn she felt two hands on her back and she was thrust so violently into the hallway, she stumbled and fell against the side table, knocking the night lantern to the floor and shattering the glass. Righting herself on the floor, she stared up at John Stoner. He glared at her, a look of triumph on his fleshy face, his small eyes as intense with hatred as when she had seen him gambling at the faro table less than a month ago.
He bent down, seized the fabric of her dress in one hand, yanked her forward and slapped her hard twice, the backhand blow hitting her on her right cheekbone. “You Rebel slut. I will beat a confession out of you.” He raised his hand again to strike her. Elisabeth felt a shard of lantern glass beneath her hand. She seized it and before he could hit her, she stabbed him in the forearm below the elbow. John stared at the triangular spike of glass protruding from the red sleeve of his uniform, now stained with the darker crimson of his own blood. With an angry shout of rage, he struck her hard on her temple with his closed fist. Elisabeth’s head snapped back from the blow and her shoulders hit the floor as Stoner released his grip on her dress to attend to his wound.
Groggily, she crawled on her knees down the hall toward the kitchen. She had just managed to pull herself up, her hands on the wooden table, when she heard him stomping after her. He came into the kitchen enraged, his jacket off, his arm bound with a handkerchief below the elbow, the white shirt stained with a dark circle of blood. She screamed as he pushed the table roughly against her, trapping her between it and the coarse stone wall. Angrily, he pulled the table away and made to grab her. Elisabeth slid toward the fireplace feeling for the iron poker. She grasped at anything and ended up holding the short ashes shovel in front of her. Stoner laughed. She had never heard a more malevolent sound as he advanced toward her. He swatted the implement away with his wounded arm and with his good hand squeezed her throat. His thumb and fingers clenched tighter around her neck, as he pushed her against the wall, his other hand fondling her breast. “Now, you bitch. Tell me how you sent messages to those Rebel scum,” he hissed in her ear. She felt his hips pressing against her, smelled his breath, saw the pockmarks on his cheeks. She knew she was losing consciousness. She must be, for behind Stoner, in the kitchen doorway, she imagined she saw Edward Lewis.
John heard a noise behind him but reluctant to release his hold on Elisabeth, only turned his head. Lewis immediately locked his arm around Stoner’s neck, tore him away from Elisabeth and forced John’s other arm up high behind his back. He was a tall, robust man and with one large hand on the back of John’s neck, the other bending his arm painfully upward, he marched him back down the hall.
“Let me go. I am a representative of the British authorities,” he sputtered. “That woman is a Rebel spy. I am arresting her.”
“You will do no such thing,” Lewis growled. He pushed Stoner out the o
pen door and down the two steps, turned and threw his jacket uniform after him and remained menacingly in the doorway, fists clenched at his side. Stoner stood and raised his wounded arm, bleeding anew from the rough handling he had received from the Quaker.
“I will be back and you will regret this,” he shouted waving his fist at Lewis.
“Come back when the Americans are here and see how you fare,” he retorted. “And I already regret using force against you,” Lewis said more softly.
When Mary arrived home shortly thereafter, she had to pound on the barred door to be let in. Her husband opened the door and she immediately saw from his face he was distraught. He led her to the kitchen where Elisabeth sat, a basin of hot water stained with blood on the table in front of her. Her face was swollen and beneath one eye which was almost closed, a large purple bruise spread down her cheek.
“Oh, you poor dear,” Mary said, hastily putting down her basket and taking the cloth compress from her husband.
“She has a jagged cut on her hand,” he said pointing to Elisabeth’s palm. Mary cleaned it with warm water and vinegar and Elisabeth moaned slightly in response. Gently, she examined Elisabeth’s face. “There are no broken bones. These bruises will heal in time, my dear.” She noted the red marks on her throat and washed them as well, uttering comforting sounds as she did so.
“Edward, I think Elisabeth should rest now. Perhaps, after I help her upstairs and settle her in bed you could bring the little bit of claret we still have.”
Lying under the quilt, Elisabeth gazed up at Mary’s kindly face. “It was your husband who saved me,” she said quietly. “Remember that Independence Day when you questioned whether he would ever use violence to protect those he cared about.” Mary nodded, recalling the conversation. Elisabeth had phrased it felicitously. Mary had urged her husband to declare whether or not he would fight to protect her from the patriotic thugs who were then threatening their home.
“He defended me,” Elisabeth said softly. “As he would you. I believe he is tormented by having physically attacked,” she hesitated before saying “John Stoner. Edward may want to talk to you about the turmoil inside him.”
“And you? Is there anything you want to talk to me about?” She looked at Elisabeth shrewdly.
“Mary. You are more than a dear friend.” Elisabeth’s eyes welled with tears. “A confidant. Someone I can tell everything to. And have.” She reached for the glass of claret and Mary held her head up as she sipped. “Please, neither you nor Edward must say anything about this to Will. I must be the one to decide to tell him.” Mary nodded. “Do not worry. We will keep this our secret.”
Elisabeth sighed. “I believe that one brother can be good and one evil. After all, the Bible teaches us that lesson. I love Will and my love for him is not in anyway diminished by his brother’s assault on me. When I am with Will, and I pray it will be soon, but after I have healed so he will not look upon me as ugly, I see nothing but his goodness. If there are any other reservations from this today, our love will overcome them. It will have to. There is nothing else that matters.”
Mary patted Elisabeth’s hand. “Sleep now and when you awake it will be one day closer to the Americans returning to Philadelphia and your being reunited with him.”
Elisabeth nodded. “Mary. When the men who imprisoned Edward return to power in this city, please know that I will do everything possible to ensure that no further retribution is visited upon him.”
“I know that. It is something our community is concerned about. The men of the Council, however, are of a vengeful spirit.”
As Elisabeth drifted off to sleep, she no longer thought of Will riding proudly into the city on Big Red. Instead, she saw him entering her bedroom, shocked by the bruises on her face, incensed by her account of his brother’s assault, and consumed by a blind rage for revenge. She envisioned him on a battlefield, stalking John purposefully, unmindful of the trooper bearing down on him, sabre raised. She awoke with a scream before the sabre descended and lay shivering under the quilt even though it was a warm June evening, until she drifted off and slept fitfully.
Chapter 9 - Bloody Fighting in the Cauldron of Summer
The dust from the road caught in Private Christoph Weber’s throat. It coated his tongue, clogged his nostrils and scratched his already irritated eyes. By his estimate, since crossing the Delaware River below Philadelphia, they had marched less than forty miles in six days.
The progress of the entire British army was slowed by the long caravan of wagons carrying their tents, munitions, and supplies that seemed to stretch for miles in front of them. The von Knyphausen Regiment and two Regiments of Grenadiers were part of the rear guard, protecting the Army and the cumbersome baggage train from attack.
Christoph was welcomed back when he crossed the lines into the city, starved, ragged and weak from fatigue. Once he regained his strength, he was given a new uniform, musket and kit and assigned to the remnants of his old Regiment. It was much reduced from its original full strength of eight hundred men, down now to three hundred and seventy due to casualties, soldiers captured, and a few desertions. Those too ill and unfit for duty had been sent by naval transport to New York.
And now, as they staggered through the sweltering late June heat and heavy blanket of humid air, Christoph struggled to put one foot in front of another. As a gesture to ease their suffering, Lieutenant Justus Brumhard ordered them to remove their brass helmets and stow them in their haversacks. It was indicative of how many officers they had lost at Trenton, to have a Lieutenant in charge of their company. Captain Seckendorf never would have allowed this, but the good Captain lay buried in a common grave behind the Anglican Church in Trenton. Christoph thought of how he, Andreas and Georg had complained about the bitter winds whipping through their winter barracks. Well, Robert Langley had taught him the meaning of being constantly cold, forcing him to labor outside in sleet and snow in his threadbare uniform and at night, huddling in the pig sty, against a slatted wall that barely kept out the bitter winds. Whether it was the thought of that terrible winter or his anger at the mistreatment by Langley, his legs felt less leaden. Nothing, however, could ease his discomfort from the constant dust that was kicked up by the horses’ hooves and wagon wheels they were forced to follow. We are protecting them from the local Rebel militias and are repaid by having to eat their dust in this choking heat, he thought angrily.
Their slow progress had been further impeded by sabotage of their route by local militias: bridges burned or dismantled over small creeks, causeways dug up or collapsed into adjacent swamps, trees felled across the road, and worst of all, wells destroyed or filled with offal. For the thirsty Hessians, this was the foulest interference to be endured. Compelled to drink from muddy puddles left from the occasional violent summer rainstorms, or from slime- filled creeks and runoffs, many succumbed to crippling stomach cramps. Soldiers curled up on the side of the road, vomiting or soiling their breeches with brown watery excretions. The entire evacuation route was marked by roadside graves and troops lying helplessly in the blistering heat. There were rumors of desertions but no one from his Regiment.
Occasionally, the rear guard came under fire, but these were generally musket volleys, rendered ineffective by the distance. The Grenadiers, marching in their high fur hats, were more frequently felled by heat than musket balls. Two Grenadiers would pass through the Hessian ranks, dragging their prostrate companion between them, toss him on to the back of a wagon, and then return to their unit. As they did so, they would point to the bare-headed Hessians and snarl something in English, which Christoph knew was an insult. He was too thirsty and tired to let it bother him and was thankful his brains were not being boiled inside his brass cap.
That night, they camped in a flat field outside some small town, whose church spires they could see in the distance. The heat did not abate with the darkness and their tents did not keep out the swarms of mosquitos that rose from the remnants of marshes and swamps at dusk to fe
ast on their bare flesh. Shortly before dawn, when the drums signalled to break camp, Christoph was covered with red welts and bloody bites he had unconsciously scratched open while he had slept fitfully. Any marching done before the rising of the blazing sun was to their benefit, Christoph thought, rousing himself from his cot.
He had not counted on the time it took for the wagoneers to hitch their teams, nor how slowly the train would form and get on the road again. While the front part of the Army, unburdened by the baggage train, made substantial progress, by noon the rearguard was merely approaching the little hamlet they had seen the night before. He expectantly waited for the order to remove their brass hats now that the sun was high above them.
Suddenly, a drum signaled them to halt and about face. Together with the Grenadiers they formed a line against a large advancing force of Rebels, attempting to strike them from the left of the road. In the shimmering heat of the late morning, Christoph thought he recognized them by their uniforms as regular troops rather than militias. Despite the heat, it felt good to quick march again, after that slow plodding pace. There was no dust in front of them now. Just the brownish, baked flat fields and the Rebels coming on. Once within musket range, the Hessians fired several volleys before being joined by dragoons and other infantry regiments who rushed back from the town. The Rebel troops began an orderly retreat in face of the reinforced British line.
On command, Christoph’s company fixed bayonets and advanced rapidly through a wheat field, across a road and over a small stream that trickled into a swampy area. The Rebels’ discipline collapsed, their ranks broke and the troops scattered, emerging from the dark black muck in small groups, forming to hold ground and then turning and sprinting across another flat open field. They always run like rabbits, Christoph thought, as his company charged forward. They flee before they feel the shock of our bayonets. Eager and now unmindful of the heat, he raced forward, a shout coming from his dry throat, whether of revenge for his captivity or because his blood was up, he did not know. 1
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