by L. E. Waters
The captain bows his head like a scolded child. “Mistress, I’ve been ordered to bring in Lt. André.”
“Timmie Thompson!” She blows the curl of hair from her widow’s peak out of her mouth. “After all we’ve done for you, apprenticing with Robert and eating from my table like you done all those years.” She lays guilt into him as only a mother can. “Ungrateful is what it is.”
He removes his tri-corned hat, holds it respectfully at his chest and orders, “Retreat men!” Yet most of the men are already backing away from the powerful woman.
“Robert’s rolling over in that very grave.” She points to the small plot, which holds her husband and only child, protected within a short stonewall.
Captain Thompson retreats with his head tucked and only once he’s past the grave of his master does he shout back for me to hear, “You may thank my old mistress for your lives!”
Chapter 5
I write at once, to every man of position that I know, describing my dire need for prisoner exchange. Finally, the orders are delivered that all British officers are to ready to move out. Warily, we line up after giving our thanks to our heroic Mrs. Ramsay, wondering if we’re to be turned east toward British lines or west farther into darkness. We all sigh in relief as they yell for us to march east, and I know it will only be a few miserable weeks until the year of hell is over.
Midway to Philadelphia, a terrible November storm hits and the officers are forced to seek shelter again in the nearest tavern, or ordinary as they call them. I enter the horrid log cabin and the unkempt inn-keep addresses our group. “We have no occupancy, boys. I have them lined up toe to toe in every room I’ve got. You’ll have to go five miles up the road to the next ordinary.” We turn to go back out into the snow, when the man says, “You. The skinny one.” Being the leanest, I turn around and he nods. “Yeah, you. I might have room for a slender one under the blanket of a tall stranger.”
I pause a moment, not loving the description, but then glance to the whiteout outside the window. “I hope he’s warm.”
My fellow prisoners grunt that I should be so lucky, and I take the candle into the lodging room, bumping into the bodies strewn about until I see the tall stranger with one sleeping roll vacant. I blow out the light and take my coat, waistcoat and boots off, then try my best not to disturb him as I climb in.
“I think I should at least know the first name of the man sharing my backside.”
I reply quietly, “Lt. John André. Our march was halted due to the storm.”
“You and half the men sleeping on this floor. Mostly militiamen.”
I decide not to specify which side I’m fighting on, given that he might not want to share his blanket with a Brit. “Do I get to know the name of your backside?”
“Joshua Hett Smith.” He rolls over. “Goodnight.”
I can see in the darkness that Rosey emerges from my bag and hops toward me. I whisper, “Don’t be alarmed if my little weasel crawls in betwixt us.”
He jumps away, protecting his backside, then brings his balled-fists up, ready to knock the sense out of me. I point in quick defense, and he’s immensely relieved to see the little animal crawl over me and around my neck. I try to contain my laugh for fear of waking the room, but it’s hard since Smith breaks out in laughter too.
My empty stomach wakes me before my eyes agree it’s time to arise. I get out of the blanket carefully since Smith still sleeps. I dress, put Rosey back in my bag and make my way to the tavern room with all my things. There, at the wide fireplace, is an old tavern baggage stirring an iron pot. A small, unfortunate child turns a rabbit on the spit; his head hangs listlessly in his free hand as the fat drips rhythmically into the grease pan. My stomach growls in response to the savory smell. I take a ladder-backed chair off the wall peg and sit down at my own table, getting some hard looks from a few of the militiamen. I turn to the woman and ask, “Is there anything to eat?”
The plump grouch curtsies with a feigned look of sweetness and says, “Potluck, Your Highness.”
The men roll with laughter, but a year in the backwoods hardens me to such antics. I take my burl bowl and spoon out of my bag and wait until the wench comes over and splatters what looks to be layers and layers of whatever she kept adding for a week, and then throws me a thick slice of stale peasant bread.
“This is just what they serve at The Sun.” The plastered walls shake with peasant laughter.
I’m so hungry I simply give the woman a guinea and dig in, trying not to taste it. I hold up another guinea for a morning draft. By the time I finish, a tall man searches around the room. Finally reaching me, he asks, as though he’s sure he’s wrong, “André?”
I nod and wipe my mouth. “Prisoner being marched on exchange.”
To my surprise, he sits and sends for his own potluck. I tear a piece of bread and hold it down to my satchel. Smith smiles as he watches the smart little face poke out and snatch the bread.
“I bet you’re glad to be going back.”
“You may depend on it. I shall do my utmost to make myself as happy and comfortable as I can. Nothing but good can befall me for some time, having had in this year and a half a considerable dose of evil in advance.”
Smith smiles, and when the wench brings him his food he adds, “Bring me a bombard of ale to share with this unfortunate one since I’ll be doing my best to make his next year miserable as well.”
I peer around the dark-wooded room and notice the firelocks leaned up against the wall.
I point to them. “Strange to think one of these bayonets might pierce me a month from now.”
Smith looks but then squirms strangely and laughs, searching under the table. “You little hussy!” He pulls Rosey out from high up his pant leg.
The bombard slams on the table, and I bring out my pewter cup as he takes out his. We’re sitting there, drinking and telling our war stories, when he gets up and heads over to choose a churchwarden off the public rack. Smith snaps more than an inch off the long stem and stuffs tobacco in the communally shared clay pipe.
After lighting his tobacco from an ember he plucks from the fire with tongs, he takes a few long draws and says, “I’m not sure how long I’ll do this for. I don’t feel terribly strong either way. Just want to be on the winning side you know.”
This is the strangest confession I’ve heard yet. I pass the voider to Smith after scraping off any remnants from my bowl, spoon, and cup with the coarse linen napkin. I replace the precious items in my satchel and throw the napkin in the voider also. “Well, if you ever want to desert, come look me up in Philadelphia, since we’ll capture the city soon, and I’ll put in a good word.”
His indigo eyes flash as I say this. “I’ll hold you to that, André.”
I get up, deciding I better catch up with my march since they have five miles on me.
“Nice meeting you Smith, and I feel Providence will have us meet again.”
“I hope it’ll not be at the end of your bayonet, though.” He smiles, and I take Rosey back from his lap. I store her in my bag and leave to trudge through the powdery snow.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
It’s fantastic being back in our army again. I request a meeting to speak with General Howe to show him all the maps I made while in captivity and under march. His aides meet with me and are thoroughly impressed by my attention to detail, and I’m immediately instructed to keep a journal for Howe himself. I write a letter to Mother at once with the larger sum of money I now receive.
Chapter 6
I’m not long in camp before we begin to march again. We follow the fife and drums throughout the quiet, deserted countryside, through fifteen-foot tall Indian corn. The rebels flee before us on horseback and watch us from hilltops. We expect them to pick their ground any day now and, one morning, Washington and the majority of his army wait in fields and banks on the Brandywine. I set up headquarters with the other aides in a Quaker’s stone house with barn-red trim. His famil
y is promised repayment of all we take, and we evict the shivering family to find lodgings with another local family. Immediately, Howe attacks and drives the rebels from wood to wood, and had Howe not stopped when darkness came, the whole battle could have been won right there.
However, it doesn’t end there, and I have orders to carry out. Howe tries to squash the forces that cling on his left flank. Colonial squirrel hunters, with amazing accuracy at long range, hide behind bushes and high in trees picking us off, one by one. There is only one way to get rid of them: attack at close range. I have to ride company-to-company, delivering the order to remove the flints from their muskets and leave at dark with bayonets fixed and swords raised.
That night, we kidnap all civilians we cross so that no one gives the Americans any warning. We creep up on their flank like Indians—a whisper in the woods. We catch the pickets by surprise. Our men spear them with cold steel, and our enemies don’t know what hits them. The Americans are alerted only moments before we’re upon them, and the whole flank scatters and collides into each other in panic. Their campfires are still lit, making it easy to ambush each man who can’t see us in the darkness of the surrounding wood. The camp fills with sounds of steel hitting flesh and sharp, anguished death cries. In minutes, the chaos ends and several hundred men lie dead. Our soldiers go around making sure to give the wounded one last stab. I leave the gruesome scene with a smile on my face and say out loud, “This bloody piece of work will get Washington’s attention at last.”
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
After the massacre, Howe marches all the way through to Philadelphia. We take much joy in setting up our headquarters inside the abandoned rebel mansions, and Howe takes great humor in seizing one of most hated revolutionist’s estate: Benjamin Franklin’s. His mansion is decorated with all of the finery I’ve seen in my mother’s house. Long, rich, gold brocaded curtains, gilded woodwork, and trumeau mirrors are found throughout the miniature palace. Murals of European gardens and fine art work cover the walls, and delicate French furniture graces every room.
To celebrate our occupation, Howe brings the gigantic warship, The Roebuck, up the Delaware River to anchor outside the city. The ship is illuminated by hundreds of lanterns that cast a double illusion as they reflect off the dark water. An orchestra is positioned on deck, so the notes carry out fantastically to us as we approach the ship and climb aboard. The city glows in the foreground, and the boat rolls to the symphony. Civilization has returned to me in the midst of such rural living and rebel unrest.
A servant wafts by with champagne, and I take a glass, gazing upon the fleet of small boats coming toward us, like ducklings to their mother. The light just escapes on the horizon, leaving a palate of blues and purples to fade into darkness. She catches my eye instantly as she stands on the bow of the approaching tender with an entourage of less pretty girls behind her. The Water Music Suite has begun and is most fitting to her elegant, long neck holding up her high powdered wig and her opulent pannier and skirts fluffed out like relaxed wings. The swan heads straight toward me, and I rush to be the one to help her up. Her large, honey-brown eyes connect with mine as I offer her my hand, which she takes with a beguiling smile.
Once on the ship, she asks, “What is the name of my handsome helper?”
I bow and take her hand to kiss. “Your helper for the night, Lt. John André, Madam.”
A strong wind blows across the deck and sweeps the curls on her forehead, revealing an inch-long scar. She fusses immediately to put the curls back in place, trying to conceal her only imperfection. Before she can get her next word out, another soldier sweeps her away to dance just as a minuet begins.
“Blasted minuet.” I say, and Despard overhears me.
“Setting your sights mighty high there, with that one. That there’s Peggy Shippen, only seventeen and look at her.” He hangs onto the ropes on the deck with me, watching her dance.
The minuet ends and, right away, another man takes her to spin into the next dance. Despard chuckles. “Ooh, just lost your chance again. Better think of something else.”
“I have a plan.” I remove the small journal from my pocket and begin to sketch her. Despard watches over my shoulder and when I finish, I sign it, “Your Helper,” and slip it under her napkin at the place where her tiny silk coat hangs. Then I sit with Despard at another table. I look on as she pries herself away from the line of gentlemen, and she sits with her company. She opens her napkin to place on her lap and is startled by the little drawing. A glorious smile spreads across her lips when she sees the writing and immediately scans the table to find my face. Our eyes connect again, and she nods graciously in thanks.
Despard laughs. “She didn’t even come over to thank you in person. Your sketch plan failed.”
“It needs to set. She will seek me out by the end of the night, I promise you.”
Sure enough, at the end of the long supper, she floats down into the vacant Windsor chair beside me. Despard stares rather uncomfortably at her as she turns to me. “I would like to thank you for all of your kind improvements in the likeness of me.”
“No improvements. I confess that is your every line and curl.”
Despard blurts out, far too eagerly, “She belongs in the courts of George III.”
She blushes on command.
I shake my head. “No, she belongs in Mr. Washington’s tent, reminding him of all that is civilized and beautiful.”
She laughs gaily at my strange idea. “Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my tender, Lt. André?”
I give Despard a triumphant look, to which he replies with a jealous one, as I take her small arm under the protection of my larger one. I stride with her past the orchestra and to the side where the boats are being boarded.
“Did you enjoy your supper, Madam?”
“I thoroughly enjoyed it, from soup to nuts,” she says as I help her slip on her coat in the brisk early October air.
“I hope you allow me the opportunity of your company another time.”
“Goodnight, dashing André.”
Then I lower her down to the tender and watch her sail off, with a sense that she will be of some future importance.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
The waves start to get choppier the closer we get to the shelf of the shore, and my muscles begin atrophying from stress and cold. Every movement is stiff and painful.
“Peggy?” I ask, not hearing her voice for a while.
Nothing.
“Peggy!”
I shake her, and she weakly says, “Pepe?”
“Peggy wake up! We’re almost there.”
Her head flops forward in the water, making her suck in some and start choking, bringing her to.
“John!” she screams, startled.
“Peggy, I’m still here. We’re going to make it! We’re almost there.” But I get a terrible muscle cramp up my whole right leg. I have to stop, and I scream.
Peggy cries, “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t move my leg!” I have to let go of Peggy, who flounders immediately as I only have my arms to keep me up.
“John! I can’t swim!” she sputters.
But the pain is so great in my leg that I can barely keep my mouth above water. Her head bounces under the surface and comes back up in coughs. I try to hold onto her but it brings us both under. I kick my good leg a bit and bring us back up for a breath.
“I love you, John.” Her tired honey eyes well up.
“I love you, Peggy.”
A little white dog circles us worriedly, and we both drift under the swell. I open my eyes underwater and see her wide eyes staring back at me, smiling. I panic and suck in a mouthful of briny water that burns my lungs and makes me cough, only to suck in more water. I watch as Peggy takes her last sea breath too, and everything goes black.
I awaken, gasping for air and drenched in sweat. Why do I keep having this blasted dream about drowning and that white dog
?
The repeated dream, and the fact that I have now substituted in the girl I just met, makes me seriously doubt my sanity. War is definitely having its effect on me. Even so, as I fall back asleep, I can’t help thinking about how soon I can call on Peggy.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
My opportunity comes weeks later when an early storm coats the landscape of the city with snow. I tie up Howe’s fastest horses and hitch them to his grand sleigh. I inquire where her father’s residence lies and bring the sleigh outside the red-and-black brick mansion with the classic wooden pediments over every door and window. I lunge through the deep snow to the massive, carved-oak double doors and knock. Their servant answers, and I request Mistress Peggy’s company. After a great commotion of sisters above the stairs, there she comes, gliding down the steps with her fur-lined silk cassock on. I take her arm, and she lifts the hood over her dainty face. As we’re departing, a second floor window opens, and an aged man in spectacles leans out. “Peggy! I will not have you leaving. There is still a war on!”
“Father, I will be fine. I will be safe with Lieutenant André.” She tries to remain calm, but when he chides her again she flares up quickly and stamps her foot. “Must I tantrum, Father?”
He halts. “You’re headed straight for a good drenching on the ducking stool!” However, he gives up and shuts the window. Peggy spins around in an immediate change of mood and exclaims upon seeing the sleigh and Conestoga horses, “How wonderful! Father had to sell our team and sleigh.”
I lift her up onto the leather-padded seat. “There is great benefit in being the General’s Aide.”
“And a…weasel?” she asks hesitantly as she looks down at Rosey on the seat next to her.
“Where shall we go?” I ask as I take the reins.
She beams and stuffs her little hands into her fur muff. “To the ends of the earth!”