Angling off the side of the road, he urged his mount to vault over a five-rail fence into an apple orchard.
Though technically it was against his own orders, he slowed, came to a stop, reached up, and plucked an apple—green, but near ripe—and bit into it. It was tart, yet so refreshing. He relished the moment, giving his guard time to catch up, and then turned about, vaulted back over the fence, and set off at a swift trot southwestward for the Jersey hills.
They were on the road to Virginia, to a final victory or death, at last.
ALONG THE KILL VAN KULL NEAR STATEN ISLAND
AUGUST 23, 1781, DAWN
Colonel Peter Wellsley was making a great show of it and having a delightful time after so many months of boring inactivity since his return from North Carolina. The decoy troops he had planned out with General Washington had marched down from Tappan over the last four days, making the most of their diversionary efforts, finding great fun in disappearing from view, marching out into open view on the east shore of the Hudson River so observers on the other side could see them, and once out of view, taking off uniform jackets, back-tracking along a hidden path, then marching by again, looking like militia, following a quickly fashioned banner made out of a bedsheet “borrowed” from a nearby farmstead.
Peter had been directing the effort, while at the same time, taking in reports from his agents, spread out along the line of march. He knew, of course, that his cordon could never be airtight, but at least he could try. Hundreds of Loyalist families had either been placed under guard in their homes, or the more rabid of them, rounded up and detained.
Peter had passed the strictest of orders that no family was to be abused and no property destroyed. If supplies were taken they were to receive proper vouchers, payable upon acknowledgment of independence and the ending of hostilities for any cattle, pigs, chickens, or stock of grain confiscated for the army along its line of march. Someday, when this was over, if it was ever over, he did not want it to be said in his home state that he had been party to looting and pillaging, as was the habit of their enemies.
With telescope raised, he scanned the far shore of Staten Island, at this point less than three hundred yards across the swampy tidal river from the Jersey shore. A cordon of Hessian Jaegers followed his movements, pointing and gesturing, and several dozen shots had been fired by their riflemen, one of them nicking his horse’s ear, nearly dismounting him and causing gales of laughter from the other side. He had responded with a cheery and obscene salute, which had elicited even more laughter and several more shots.
He had just made a show of a group pushing along a heavy boat, mounted on wheels and pulled by half a dozen oxen to become visible to the far shore, and then mimicked wild rage, had ridden over to them, shouting that they were damn idiots and to push the boat back into hiding.
A random long range shot by the riflemen on both sides might hit someone now and again, but a major battle was not in the offing, so it was all something of a lark with only a hint of danger.
Damn them, some rascals had, indeed, managed to find a forty-gallon barrel of good rum, and were selling five seconds on the spigot for fifty dollars Continental or one shilling silver, and a fair number were now drunk. Even though he knew his business well, trying to spy out where the barrel was hidden was beyond even his skills.
If the men were too merry and carefree, rather than acting as men bent on a mission they knew would be deadly. If they tried to seize Staten Island, and then blockaded the British fleet with its hundreds of guns, then the subterfuge was falling apart.
Another puff of smoke from the far shore. A couple of seconds later he actually heard the flutter of the bullet zip past his head.
Whoever the Hessian was, he was damn good. Perhaps too good.
He raised his hat in salute, turned his horse about, and rode back from the marshy shore, insults, clear in intent, carrying from the far shore.
“I’m looking for Colonel Peter Wellsley?”
He could barely see the rider approaching through the tall swamp grass of the Jersey marshlands, but the man was riding hard. Peter stood in his stirrups and shouted for him to come over.
The courier, a militia man, reined in, and saluted.
“Sergeant Robert Arnett, 4th New Jersey out of Springfield, sir,” he said as they exchanged salutes.
“What’s your report?”
Arnett, however was looking past Peter to the Hessians on the far shore. They had brought up a light fieldpiece, unlimbered it, and now the first shot was being fired, the four-pound ball singing past them so that Arnett ducked down against the neck of his horse.
There were distant shouts and laughter.
“Sergeant Arnett, never let them see that you are unnerved,” Peter announced, loud enough so that others would hear, but nevertheless he motioned for Arnett to follow him down toward a fold in the land that concealed them from the opposite shore, waving a farewell to the Hessians. Since he did know Dutch and a good sprinkling of Rhineland German, he clearly understood what they were shouting back about his courage and his legitimacy.
Arnett, a bit crestfallen, recovered as Peter leaned over and patted him on the shoulder.
“First time under fire?”
“Once before, sir, last year at Springfield,” he replied, and fell silent. Peter could sense the young man was not of the stoutest stuff, but then again, if that gunner on the far shore had shifted the muzzle of his fieldpiece but a fraction of an inch, both of them would now be dead or writhing in agony.
“Your report.”
“Sir, I was told to look for you specifically. You are, sir, Colonel Peter Wellsley?”
“That I am.”
There was hesitation, as if Arnett was about to ask for proof, but he noticed more than a few looking on with bemused glances and relented. He leaned forward.
“Sir,” he spoke with a stage whisper. “Do you know of a British officer by the name of Allen van Dorn?”
Peter felt his heart go cold. He fixed his features, struggling not to show reaction, but wondering with a fearful heart what would be said next.
“Yes, I do. Go on.”
“Sir, he was recognized this morning on the road from Springfield to Chatham, heading toward the Watchung pass. Before he could be intercepted, he disappeared but is believed to be in the area. Sir, my colonel requests your presence since it is said that you know this man personally, and if captured, can confirm who he is before we hang him.”
Arnett hesitated but then smiled, “Sir, my colonel said we’d hate like hell to hang the wrong man and rumor is that you’d want to see the show if we catch him.”
Peter could only nod, saying nothing.
“Will you come with me, sir? With luck we might have already captured the bastard, but we want to make sure before we hang him.”
He was silent, time seeming to stretch out, memories of the year before, watching Andre, hearing his neck snap. Would he now be forced to condemn Allen to the same fate and then witness it?
He realized in this same instant, as well, that if Allen was poking around behind their lines, it meant he was on to something, perhaps the entire secret of the plan, and had to be stopped.
“Lead the way, Sergeant,” was all he could say, working to control his voice and seem unemotional.
NEAR CHATHAM, NEW JERSEY
They had concealed their horses in the woodlot of a Loyalist who Allen trusted, as far as he could trust anyone in this region given the way the fortunes of war shifted back and forth. To go boldly riding into the village after a near run-in and pursuit with some militia guarding the pass through the Watchung Hills would be suicide. Word would be out now to keep a close watch for two men, most likely Tories, both of them well mounted.
The day was hot, and swarms of mosquitoes were tormenting them as they had skirted along the banks of the Passaic River, at last finding a muddy ford. He and Jamie had stripped down to cross, and wandering about in soaking wet breeches would certainly draw noti
ce. The crossing had been unpleasant, the Passaic was here a muddy creek and stunk of tanning bark from an upstream mill. The banks were muddy and there had been a startled moment when they kicked up a copperhead that had nearly bitten Jamie. The lad was still a bit shaken.
The village was just a few hundred yards ahead, and all seemed quiet, though several militiamen were lounging in front of a tavern.
“Stay here, boy,” he said softly. “If anything happens to me, just get the hell out. Get back. Your best bet would be wait until dark and set out on foot. You know which ferryman to trust once back to the Hudson. Report to General Clinton.”
He paused.
“No, find his secretary, Colonel Smith, and report to him. He’ll believe you.”
As he spoke he handed over a purse filled with a couple of pounds of silver Spanish coins to buy his way across.
Jamie grinned at him.
“You know, if I lit out with this much money now, you’d be in a fix, wouldn’t you?”
Though the boy had been working for him for more than half a year, he did feel a slight hesitation, but then Jamie laughed softly.
“I’ll wait for you here, sir.”
With his breeches back on and nearly dry, he took a bottle of rum from his haversack and doused himself liberally with it, and for good measure took a strong tug on the bottle as well. Coming out of the woods and brush bordering the creek he struck out on to the main road, carefully checking first to make sure no one saw him emerging and then fell into one of his old routines of weaving a bit drunkenly, bottle in hand, and, nerving himself, headed straight into the village.
Chatham was not all that much—several mills along this, the upper reaches of the Passaic, and the farmland not as good as on the far side of the Watchungs down into Springfield—but it was on the main road from the coastal plain to Morristown, where the Rebel army had twice gone into winter camp. It was a main thoroughfare back and forth between Rebel territory and Loyalist-held Elizabethtown and thus patrolled by both sides.
As he weaved his way into the center of the village, the militia “guarding” the tavern barely stirred, several chuckling as he made a bit of a show of staggering about and then with a friendly gesture holding up the bottle of rum. One of them motioned him over.
“Started early today, didn’t you?” one of them said as he took the bottle without comment, took a long swig, grunted with approval, and then passed it to his friends.
He sat down on the edge of the porch in a shaded corner, took off his broad brimmed hat, and fanned himself.
“Got more of that,” he said with a slur, and patted his haversack so that the half dozen bottles inside clinked significantly, conveying the message that was his standard cover, a petty rum runner moving between the lines, smuggling bottles of blockaded rum, which flowed freely from the Carib to New York harbor.
He reached into his haversack and held a full bottle up for them to see.
“Jamaican, the best,” he announced proudly.
The four didn’t speak, just looking at the bottle and then glancing down significantly into their mugs, filled with local whiskey and most likely distilled only the week before.
“How much?” one of them asked, coming straight to the point.
“Fifty dollars Continental or a silver shilling.”
“For all of them. You got more in there—I can hear it,” announced the man who had taken the half-empty bottle from him.
He shook his head with an exaggerated gesture.
“Per bottle, friend.”
“You son of a bitch, that’s more than four months’ pay.”
“In paper, which we know ain’t worth a damn.”
“Suppose we just take what you got and the hell with you.”
Allen held up a finger and wagged it with an exaggerated manner.
“Then I won’t be back in a few days with more. Long walk it is from where I get this.”
“We most likely won’t be here in a few days anyhow, you thieving son of a bitch,” one of the others announced and there were grunts of agreement. One of them stood up threateningly.
Allen stood up, swaying.
“I’ll break ’em all before I’ll let you steal ’em.” As he spoke he fumbled in his haversack, pulling a bottle out and holding it up threateningly.
“If you do, damn it, we’ll break your skull.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, we can settle this and everyone will be happy,” he replied. “I spoke rashly. How about twenty-five a bottle?”
The four looked at each other.
“Ten,” their leader replied, but not coming any closer to Allen, obviously fearful of his threat.
He acted as if debating.
“Fifteen, that is ninety for the six I still have.”
The four huddled together, looking back at him as he held the bottle up over his head. Even as he did so, he took in the details around him. These were the only four militia about and, thank God, no officer who might be sober and question him more carefully.
The deal was struck at twelve and a half a bottle, the scrip handed over, coming out to eighty dollars for the six bottles since no one had any notes for less than ten dollars, and within minutes the four, joined by their new friend, were happily drinking and blathering away.
In another fifteen minutes he had all the information he needed, though he was feeling more than a bit lightheaded. The belligerent soldier of but minutes before, pouring a quarter of a bottle into a mug and insisting he join them in a toast to General Washington and the damn Congress and was not satisfied until Allen had drained the mug. Though, he tried to spill as much of it as possible as he downed it.
There was, indeed, a new bakery for hardtack built down by the river, with a call out for farmers to bring in their grain for a fair price, which was actually being paid. The miller and several bakers were now hard at work. As fast as the unleavened bread was coming out of the ovens, it was not going into storage but being shipped west.
Then one of them spilled it.
“Poor bastards, marching in this heat, gotta pity them, you do.”
“How’s that?” Allen asked, feigning disinterest as if more intent on getting another drink out of the bottles he had just sold.
“They’re pushing fifteen, twenty miles a day, just ten miles up that road,” one of them announced pointing to the west and shook his head. “I said to myself, Vincent lad, they only march like that when there’s a fight coming on. I had my fill of it, did my part years ago at Monmouth where I took a bullet,” he said, making a dramatic show of pulling his shirt up to show the scar, where a ball had, indeed, hit him in the lower chest.
“Still in there, it is,” and the others nodded sagely as he showed off his wound.
“So I convinced Captain Butler that the old wound had me down again.” As he spoke he hunched over and put on a good imitation of wheezing, which set the others to laughing, even though Allen could tell it was not entirely an act. “So he ordered me to fall out and guard this place.”
Allen looked off to the road that led toward Morristown. He was half tempted to push his luck, get back with Jamie, fetch some more bottles from their saddlebags, and perhaps try to ride farther up after dark by keeping to the fields and back lanes, though it would be very be risky.
“Anyhow, I’ll be damned if I’m going to march all the way to Virginia, like some are saying,” and he was silent now, just looking into his mug, not urging the loquacious veteran to say anything more that might arouse suspicion.
The others muttered approval.
“Joined to fight here in my home state, not go wandering off. There’s nothing but ague, snakes, and swamps down where they’re heading, and besides, I don’t like them damn Virginians. All haughty, just ’cause the general is one of them. Still, we heard the Continentals got their pay in good silver last week to bribe them to march, while all we got was some damn paper scrip, as usual.”
“Folks in Elizabethtown are all astir,” Allen finally ve
ntured. “Word down there is the army is gonna swing around, cross over to Staten Island, and trap the damn navy in the harbor.”
“Oh yeah, with what? The pop guns we’re dragging along? Besides, the damn Frenchies got all the heavy guns and they took them off to Newport to put on their ships is what I heard. Bet they’re skipping out on us anyhow, even though word is they got thousands of them coming up behind our men on the road toward Princeton.”
“I’ll place a bet on Yorktown,” one of the group muttered. “Join up with Lafayette and ole Dan Morgan down there to take care of that bastard Cornwallis good and proper. I say let them; those that want to go. We’ve done enough fighting up here. Don’t see why we have to go all the way down there anyhow.”
“So that’s where all that hardtack is going,” Allen ventured, motioning to where he could catch a glimpse of wood smoke down toward the river.
No one spoke for a moment and the soldier who was so open-mouthed looked over at him.
“Why do you want to know?”
He could see that though rather drunk, the man was now giving him appraisingly glance.
He stood up, putting on his own drunk act.
“Gotta figure out how far I gotta hike with my next load of rum. Will you be guarding the bakery and this flea-bitten town or be ordered to join the march to Yorktown like you say, or is it Staten Island? I gotta know where my market is going.”
“How the hell did you get your hands on good rum like this anyhow?”
“I stole it, a whole case, being off-loaded.”
“Where?”
Now the other man was standing up, drunk but fixing him with a steady gaze.
“Down by the wharf in New York, got it yesterday.”
“That’s a long walk in a day, and why only six bottles with you? You could of sold it for damn near the same, at half the walking you did to get here.”
The somewhat drunk soldier was now turning interrogator as he looked down at Allen’s feet.
“Nice riding boots for a man who claims he walked all the way.”
The boots, damn it! He should have put on some old walking clogs or even gone barefoot. His boots were of the finest leather and craftsmanship, Andre insisting that a friend of his should always be turned out proper. It was a stupid mistake.
Victory at Yorktown: A Novel Page 16