Victory at Yorktown: A Novel

by Newt Gingrich

  As she drew out her key, her other hand rested on the grip of the pistol.

  “Elizabeth?”

  Startled, she dropped the key, drew the pistol out of her clutch bag, and cocked it.

  There was a sigh from within the carriage house.

  “Am I such an enemy now?”

  “My God. Allen?”

  He stepped out of the shadows, hands held wide to either side, and she saw that smile of his, that sad, charming smile of his that was always so overwhelming to her soul.

  They stood silent, staring at each other in disbelief, her hands shaking with the shock of surprise and now, also, at his mere presence.

  “Perhaps turn the pistol to one side,” he suggested. “The trigger is rather light on some of them.”

  She lowered the weapon and then looked nervously to the windows of her neighbors on either side. No one was home in either adjoining house; nearly the entire city was down on Market Street celebrating.

  “In the name of heaven, what are you doing here?”

  “Perhaps we could talk inside?”

  She nodded, bent over to sweep up the key, opened the door, and motioned for him to dart in. Slamming the door shut behind them, she stood gazing at him. They were only inches apart and then, driven by mutual impulse, were in each other’s arms for a long embrace. Elizabeth was shaking, struggling to hold back tears.

  Their lips brushed lightly and with that she finally broke the embrace, suddenly fearful of her own reaction and what might happen next. Now the two were several feet apart, both a bit shy, nervous, hesitant.

  “You didn’t answer me,” she finally gasped. “Exactly what on earth are you doing here? Last I heard you were still a damn Loyalist stationed in New York.”

  “Damn Loyalist? I recall you at many a fete when we were stationed here.”

  She did not reply.

  “You still are a Loyalist?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes, I am in service to the Crown.”

  “As what?”

  “I think my being here now makes that obvious.”

  “A spy.”

  “Rather a nasty and dishonorable word, spy. Prefer to think it is loyal service to a just cause.”

  Her gaze swept his garb. Of all things, he was dressed as a man of the cloth, dust covered, face sweat streaked, smelling of horse, obviously having ridden long and hard this day. He did look a bit absurd in the garb of a Congregationalist minister and she had to suppress a smile, but still there was a ripple of fear.

  “If you are caught like that, you know they will hang you.”

  “The Rebels seem to take a certain pleasure in hanging,” he replied sharply.

  She knew to what he was referencing.

  “I am so sorry about your friend John. He was a true gentleman and deserved a better fate.”

  “Washington didn’t think so.”

  “Allen, he was caught behind the lines in civilian garb, as you are now.”

  “Thanks to that bitch friend of yours Peggy,” and now there was a flash of anger.

  She shared his disgust regarding Peggy Shippen and the role all suspected she had really played in turning her husband, Benedict, into a traitor. Perhaps even drawing a former lover into the scheme as well, but she did not react.

  “Why in God’s name are you here?”

  He sighed, taking off his hat to wipe his brow.

  “May I trouble you for something cool to drink first? I am parched.”

  Elizabeth hurried down to the cellar and debated for a moment as to whether to fetch one of the few remaining bottles of wine or rum, but she decided Allen needed to keep a clear head and came back up with a cool pitcher of buttermilk, pouring him a glass, which he took almost greedily and gulped down. She went into the parlor and cautiously looked out the windows. A few half-drunk revelers were out in the street. A fifer staggered by, playing a poor rendition of “Chester,” but no one noticed as she opened the windows, closed the shutters, and then pulled the windows back down. Then she called him in to sit down on the sofa, where she settled in by his side, tempted to lean in close against him, but fighting the urge down.

  “Now tell me why you were hiding in my carriage house?”

  “In hopes of seeing you,” he offered back forcing a weary smile.

  “No, seriously. Not a single word from you since your letter a year ago…”

  “I sent more than a dozen,” he said.

  “Well, only one got through,” and she said it with a bit of pique.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but, after all, there is a war going on and no longer a daily coach or postal rider between New York and Philadelphia.”

  “What happened today? Were you seen?” she snapped. “My God, if you are spotted you are dead.”

  “I was spotted.”

  “Go on,” she said nervously.

  He began his story, telling of observing the troops crossing the Hudson, reporting this to Clinton, then without orders venturing a foray as far as Chatham in Jersey and nearly being captured by Peter. Rather than wasting time crossing back to New York with what Clinton would dismiss as a dubious report at best, he had sent Jamie across with a written dispatch. He stole a minister’s clothes in the hamlet of Mill Burn, forged a pass that he was to be allowed through the lines to attend to the funeral of his father in West Chester, and had actually crossed the Delaware river on the same boat as a company of New York troops. He had then ridden on this morning straight into Philadelphia. Before even arriving in the city, all was clear to him: Washington’s still-rumored but obvious destination, and how many regiments of Continentals and French troops were in the line of march. He had even watched some of the parade, until a suspicious glance from a Philadelphia militiaman, who approached him and openly accused him of being a British officer who had occupied the city three years before and a friend of the damn traitor Peggy Shippen, had sent him fleeing. A hue and cry had gone up that there was a damn Loyalist spy right in the middle of the procession, most likely bent on murdering General Washington or some other such mayhem.

  If that had been his intent, it certainly would have been easy enough. For a brief moment, in all the swirling confusion and back slapping and hand shaking after the parade had passed, he had been within easy pistol-shot range of their general. Even if the opportunity had been presented to him, he would have refused it without hesitation. The general had shown him pity after the death of his brother at Trenton, and treated him with courtesy the year before, even though the appeal he carried for Andre had been refused out of hand. If Washington was fated to die in this war, let it be with the honor the man deserved, even though he was a sworn enemy leading a cause Allen opposed.

  He knew that any attempt to find refuge in a tavern or public house was far too risky, and, though he would not admit it to her, this was the one place he knew he could find safe hiding. He also wanted to see her after being so long apart.

  She listened to his story without saying a word, interrupting to fetch him another drink of buttermilk and a thick slice of ham, which he devoured with a pale attempt to conceal just how hungry he was after two days of hard riding. He had stopped only to water and let his mount graze a bit before pushing on, for every inn along the main pike was packed with boisterous militia, and the risk was always that the closer he came to his birthplace in Trenton, someone might recognize him. Besides, no true Congregationalist minister would set foot into a tavern to seek sustenance.

  “What will you do now?” she finally asked.

  He looked at her, his exhaustion evident.

  “I have all I need to know for certain. I counted the troops as they passed, the artillery, the dragoons, even the supply wagons.” He reached down to his boot, slipped his hand in, and pulled out a soiled folded up sheet of paper and unfolding it, held it up.

  She glanced at it in horror.

  “For God’s sake, Allen, give me that,” and she snatched it from his hand.

  He was startled by her gesture.r />
  “You have it memorized.”

  “Not really.”

  “Then do so now. You get caught with that in your boot and you’ll die like our friend Andre. Memorize it if you must.”

  He scanned it several times and finally nodded. She grabbed it back, crumpling it, and went into the kitchen where a low fire, in spite of the summer heat, smoldered in the oversize brick fireplace. She threw it in.

  Elizabeth came back into the parlor, and gazed at him with hands on hips.

  “When was the last time you slept?”

  He shook his head wearily.

  “I don’t know, I think two days ago. I did have a brief nap in a field this morning north of West Chester just before dawn.”

  “You must be absolutely befuddled, Allen, to do something so stupid as to write down that note. Some spy you are! Now follow me.”

  He stood up and she took his hand, leading him to the stairs.

  “Where is everybody? Your mother, your servant Ben?”

  “I’m alone. Mother died last winter as did Ben.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

  She did not reply as she led him up the stairs, opened the door to her bedroom, and guided him in.

  “At least wait until dark. By midnight most of the town will be drunk and you should be able to slip out unseen.”

  “I don’t dare go back to fetch my horse. I left him at a stable several blocks from here, but chances are the word is out about me and they’ll have someone waiting there.”

  She took that in and then actually chuckled.

  “You know, you look absolutely absurd in that minister’s cloth. It doesn’t even fit you right.”

  He tried to smile.

  “Here, let me help you,” she said as she unbuttoned the heavy woolen coat, turning him about. His shirt was plastered to his body, drenched with sweat.

  “Let me fetch a basin of water and a sponge. Get that shirt off, and I’ll be right back.”

  She returned several minutes later, carrying a china washbasin filled with cool water from the outside well, and was a bit startled to see him standing there, knee breeches and stockings still on, but bare chested. Their gazes locked, then both lowered their eyes in embarrassment.

  She soaked up a sponge full of water, wiped down his shoulders, and he actually sighed with relief, then started to turn back around to her, eyes wide. Fumbling she drained the sponge in the basin, soaked up more water and handed it to him, stepping back, hands trembling.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  “Allen…?” her voice trailed off.

  There was silence for a moment as he sponged down his sweat soaked chest, then held the sponge over his head and squeezing it, letting it drain out, and sighing with relief as the cool water ran down his neck and face.

  “A day hasn’t passed when I have not thought of you,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

  “Nor I, you,” she whispered.

  There was a long pause again, as he stood by the side of her bed.

  She finally stepped forward.

  “Sit down, let me help you with your boots.”

  He did as ordered and she knelt down, sliding his boots off, recoiling slightly. It was far too obvious he had not been out of them in days, perhaps a week or more.

  She felt a sudden wave of temptation … but no, she could not, not now. Not with so much dividing them at this moment. And yet …

  She sighed and stood back up, as she did so gently taking his legs, helping him to stretch out atop the comforter of her bed.

  “Sleep for now,” she told him. “We’ll talk later.”

  He looked at her with a smile and with longing. He held a hand up, a gesture to sit by his side, but against her own will and desire she backed away and tried to laugh.

  “Behave like a gentleman now, Allen van Dorn. Get some sleep, we’ll talk more about this later.”

  In spite of his obvious desire, he did not need to be told. She had barely settled into a chair in the corner of the room to keep watch over him, when his eyes were already closed. He had collapsed into exhausted slumber, so deep that he did not even hear the knock on her front door a few minutes later.

  She did not think much of it as she slipped down the stairs, and went to the door, assuming it was her neighbor, old Mrs. Tennent, who, taking pity on her since the death of her mother, would often send a servant over to invite her for tea and dinner.

  When she opened the door there was a moment of such complete shock, she knew it had to show.

  It was Peter Wellsley, in the uniform of a lieutenant colonel of the headquarters staff of General Washington. She had not seen him in the parade and had no idea he was in town.

  “Good evening, Elizabeth. I pray I am not intruding.”

  She knew her expression of shock was evident and a second later, she stepped forward, embracing him. “Peter Wellsley,” she cried.

  She stepped back slightly, actually trembling, but let her hand slip into his.

  “Look at you, an officer, a colonel no less if I know my rankings,” and she pointed with her free hand to his epaulette.

  He smiled in return, eyes fixed on her.

  “If it is not too bold, may I step in for a few minutes.”

  She could not hesitate, pleading some false rule of etiquette and decorum, for in her heart, she knew why he was here.

  “Oh, but of course, of course,” she said, and stepped back from the door, motioning for him to come in. Standing in the main corridor his gaze drifted past her to the parlor, to the jug of buttermilk on the table before the sofa, the empty mug.

  “You must be hot and thirsty,” she said quickly, “I was just refreshing myself when you knocked; may I offer you something cool to drink?”

  “Thank you, that would be most kind.”

  She hurried into the kitchen and came out a moment later with an earthenware mug. Peter was already in the living room, holding the empty one, looking at it, and at the sofa, where she knew he could see the sprinkling of dust from Allen’s jacket on that sofa and floor, and perhaps could tell even that two people had been sitting there only minutes before.

  She took the pitcher, filled a fresh mug, and handed it to him.

  “Won’t you join me?” he asked, handing the other mug to her, the lip marks of someone having drunk from it clearly visible. She took it, half-filled it, and with a smile he raised his up in a token of salute.

  “To seeing a dear old friend, and confusion to our enemies,” he said and she repeated the toast.

  He remained standing looking into her eyes.

  “Your family, Peter?” she asked. “All is well?”

  “I saw them briefly as we passed through Trenton, and yes, all is well.”

  Without comment he stepped past her and back out into the main hallway, looking into the dining room, which was now completely bare. Last time he was here she had sold off only the grand mahogany table, but gone now as well were the side boards and the cabinet that was once filled with precious silverware and real china from the Orient.

  She followed him. He was obviously looking about, and she remained silent. Could she, as a lady, protest if he decided to go upstairs? He stepped into the kitchen without showing the courtesy of asking permission and went to the fireplace, and to her horror she saw that the sheet of paper that Allen had been carrying had smoldered on the edge of the fire, but had not burned to ashes. He nudged the paper with the toe of his boot, looking down at it, the movement of it enough to finally trigger a smoky flame.

  “Burning old love letters?” he asked looking back at her, his features unchanged, still smiling.

  She deliberately let her features change.

  “If I was, is that your business, Peter Wellsley?”

  “No.” He paused. “But then again, perhaps.”

  “How so, dare I ask?”

  “I received a report.”

  “Of what?”

  “
Why don’t you guess?”

  She turned about, and motioned back to the parlor, not bothering to look back to see if he was following, sitting down on the exact spot that Allen had occupied only a short while before.

  He sat down where she had been sitting.

  “Something is going on, Peter Wellsley, now out with it.”

  He sighed.

  “I received a report that Allen van Dorn is in this city, even now.”

  “So?” and she felt at that moment that she had put on the acting performance of a lifetime, even though he was staring straight into her eyes looking for the slightest flicker of emotion.

  “He was spotted by someone little more than two hours ago,” and Peter actually chuckled, “dressed, of all things, in the garb of a Congregationalist minister.”

  He fell silent, just staring at her. “I know his feelings toward you, and you admitted you returned those feelings last time I was here in the spring.” His voice trailed off. “Elizabeth, I am here doing my duty as a soldier, please understand that. This is not personal.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Peter Wellsley, regardless of what some might say about this town, I am a loyal Patriot. If you doubt that in the slightest, go find Dan Morgan and ask him about my servant Ben. Throughout the occupation, I was sending information through the lines via Ben regarding everything that transpired in this city, including the information that Clinton was preparing to abandon the city and retreat to New York. No one else knows now, except you, because I do know what your position is now. I believe some of those reports wound up in the hands of General Washington himself, and you can ask him to vouch for what I’ve just said.”