by Ron Carter
She had set a pot of potatoes boiling on the stove and the ham in the oven to warm when she heard the four officers set their teacups clattering on the silver tray, followed by the sound of their boot heels clicking on the hardwood floor as they moved down the hallway to the small library in which her husband kept his books and papers for teaching school. How her husband despised them for dispossessing him of his small room, the one place in the world where he was lord and master, where he could be alone with his beloved books to wander in the magic of faraway places or engage in mental jousting with the great philosophers from antiquity.
The library door closed, and then she heard the chairs scrape on the polished floor as the men drew them close to the large, plain, square desk, facing Dunphy, who was seated behind. The faint sounds of voices, rising and falling in close, sometimes emphatic conversation, reached her in the kitchen.
Four of them!—behind closed doors—what could be so critical?
Quietly she crept down the hall to stand outside the library door, head bowed, eyes closed, straining to catch the words, but only a few were distinguishable. She understood the words attack and Washington and troops.
Attack by whom? The British, or Washington? Whose troops?
She felt a clutch of fear in her heart at the realization that her son, Ensign Daniel Darragh, was with Washington’s Continentals, camped near Whitemarsh. If the attack were to be made by the British on the Americans, her Daniel would be in mortal danger.
She jerked erect at the sound of the front door opening and silently fled down the hall to the parlor to see her husband, William, strict, judgmental, but withal a good man, hanging his heavy coat and hat on the pegs next to the cloaks of the despised British officers.
Dared she tell him her fears? Did she have enough information to convince him their son might be in danger? And worst of all, would he countenance the fact that she had gained the information by eavesdropping? In his rigidly structured Puritan view, eavesdropping was an abomination—one of the sources of much of the mischief of life. She drew a deep breath and approached him.
“It is good to have you home.”
He glanced at her, then nodded his greeting. “I see the British are here. In the library?”
“Yes.”
She saw the flash of anger rise in his face, then fade. “It is a cold day. I presume a hot supper is being prepared.”
“It is. Ham and potatoes.”
He nodded once more, then turned to the fireplace to absorb the warmth.
At six o’clock Lydia lighted the lamps in the parlor and kitchen and set the table for William. He took his place and stiffly bowed his head to drone out his standard grace, then looked at her, still standing near her chair.
“You do intend taking your place?”
“I am under orders to serve the British in the library at half past six. I will take my supper afterwards.”
He nodded and reached for a thick slice of her freshly baked bread.
At twenty-eight minutes past six, Lydia rapped on the library door, waited for the command from within, and entered. The men opened a way for her, and she set the great silver tray on the desktop, then quickly strode from the room to return with a second tray. She set china, silverware, and goblets for four and removed the lids from steaming bowls of creamed potatoes, carrots, and yams cooked in brown sugar. To the side was a large plate of her sliced bread and a bowl of home-churned butter. There were two bottles of marionberry wine, with a dozen sweet apple tarts.
The officers swallowed in anticipation of the feast, reached for their napkins, and Lydia was forgotten as they portioned out large helpings of the steaming foods. She backed deferentially toward the door, stepped out into the hallway, and drew the door to within half an inch of being closed, then walked down the hallway, being certain her heels clicked loudly all the way.
She took her place opposite William at the dining table next to the kitchen, portioned herself small amounts of ham and creamed potatoes and watched as he finished his second apple tart. He gave her a brusque nod, rose, and walked to his favorite chair facing the hearth, where he packed his pipe and settled back with a book.
Lydia quickly ate the small portions on her plate, cleared the table, and set water to heat to wash the dishes. Minutes later she silently stole into the parlor, to find William’s head tipped forward, clay pipe clutched in one hand and his book in the other, breathing slowly and deeply as he slept.
She did not hesitate. Without a sound she crept down the hall and flattened herself against the wall next to the door, still slightly ajar. She listened intently to the sounds of voices within.
The voice was Dunphy’s. “Pass the wine.”
There was the sound of wine leaving a bottle, tumbling into a goblet, and then silence as he drank.
“Good. Wonder who made it.”
She heard the bottle thump onto the tray, and for the first time she caught the aroma of pipe smoke in the air.
They’ve finished eating. They’re having pipes and wine.
Another voice spoke. “Five thousand you said? Who’ll be in command?”
Dunphy answered. “Probably Grey and Grant. If Howe decides to send some Germans, Knyphausen will be with them.”
“How will they be armed?”
“Thirteen cannon. Baggage wagons. Eleven boats on wheels. They’ll have to cross the Schuylkill.”
“Have they been notified? Received orders?”
“Not yet. Howe intends putting all commands under orders to be ready to march tomorrow morning. Everybody will think it’s one of his standard orders to be prepared. He won’t give written orders to Grey and Grant until the next morning, one hour before they’re to leave. That way no one will suspect what he has in mind, so it can’t be leaked. No one will know Grey and Grant are going to attack, even when they march out. It has to be a total surprise if we’re to get them all.”
Lydia felt her breathing constrict.
“Do we know where Washington’s camped? He has a habit of not being where he’s reported.”
She heard soft chuckles. “Were you at Trenton?”
“No. Were you?”
“We marched down to the south end of town with Cornwallis that morning—January second, I think it was—ready to annihilate the entire Continental Army, including Washington. We found about one hundred campfires still burning and not one living soul.”
Again there were muffled chuckles.
Dunphy spoke. “We know where he is. Camped at Whitemarsh. The route our forces will take runs in a fourteen-mile arc that will bring them in right on top of him. The battle should be over within two hours. Once we have Washington, the rebellion will be finished.”
The blood left Lydia’s face, and she stood rigid for a moment, mind whirling. Then she turned and silently returned to the parlor where William was stirring. His book fell to the floor, and his eyes opened, staring for a moment before he rose. He started to speak when the sounds of boot heels clicking in the hallway came loud, and he stopped. Terror leaped in Lydia’s heart at the thought the British had noticed the library door ajar and were coming to take her prisoner. Her breathing stopped as she peered into their faces.
They paid scant attention to Lydia and William as they walked to the pegs by the front door, where three of them snapped their capes about their shoulders. With their tricorns in their hands, they turned to General Dunphy.
“Good evening, sir.”
He nodded. “I shall see you in the morning.”
There was nothing else said as they opened the door, and the freezing night air flooded into the room as they walked out into the frigid, starry darkness. Dunphy closed the door behind them, shivered involuntarily, and strode past Lydia.
“You may clear the library, the sooner the better,” he said, and added as a lackluster afterthought, “The meal was acceptable.”
She waited until she heard the door to the master bedroom that she and her husband had shared for thirty years close bef
ore she walked to the library and gathered the utensils and the bowls onto the trays. She carried the heavier tray to the kitchen first, then returned for the second one, all the while struggling to maintain control of her growing fear. The British are going to attack the Continental Army—take General Washington—and my Daniel!
She had finished the dishes, taken the supper leftovers to the cold of the root cellar, banked the fire for the night, extinguished all the lamps in the house except for the one on her nightstand, knelt beside their bed in the attic while Aaron chanted the evening prayer, blown out the lamp, and slipped between the sheets in her bed in her floor-length, flannel nightshirt and cap before the plan took shape in her brain. Her eyes opened wide in the darkness, and she put one hand over her mouth, then turned her head far enough to see if she had disturbed William. There was no break in his soft snoring.
Frankford! Of course! Frankford! The British will let women through their lines to leave Philadelphia if they’re going to Frankford to get flour from the mill. Surely, surely, there will be someone—an American officer, a soldier, someone—I can give the message to take on to General Washington. Warn him, they’re coming.
She lay in the darkness a long time, pondering. Dare I tell William? He will ask how I know, and I will tell him I listened at the library door—eavesdropped—a sin—and he will be furious—might demand I remain in the house—I cannot tell him—I will not. She lay awake until the early hours of the morning, tormented with the knowledge that she was deliberately planning to commit the sin of deceiving her husband. She finally drifted into troubled sleep, silently repeating to herself that saving her son and General Washington and the Continental Army rose far above her duty of complete, subservient honesty with her husband.
She arose with the morning star fading in the east to begin her day of preparing meals, housecleaning, baking, and today, ironing. In near total silence she served Aaron his breakfast of steaming oatmeal porridge in the kitchen, and General Dunphy his breakfast of eggs and griddlecakes in the master bedroom. Afterward, both men wrapped themselves in their heavy clothing and scarves and left the house—Dunphy to go to the command headquarters of General Howe, Aaron to the school. Each would remain away until evening.
The moment they were gone, Lydia quickly finished cleaning the breakfast dishes, made the beds, finished the ironing, and set out a shoulder of mutton and turnips for the evening meal of stew. Then she walked quickly to the library, drew a small piece of paper from the desk drawer, dipped Aaron’s quill in the inkwell, and wrote. She read the message, then rolled it into a small cylinder and walked back to the parlor. From her sewing basket she selected a needlebook and inserted the rolled paper into one of the small pockets and thrust it into her purse. Two minutes later she paused at the door, pulled her scarf tightly about her neck, and walked out into the freezing, bright Philadelphia sunlight.
She nearly trotted through the cobblestone streets to the British soldiers who were guarding the road northeast out of the city and stopped before them as two faced her with muskets and the long bayonets. There was a fire by the roadside with two other soldiers standing over it, hands extended to the warmth as they watched.
The older of the two before her spoke. “Show your written permission to leave the city.”
She shook her head. “I have none. I understood women were allowed to leave to go to the mill for flour. At Frankford. It’s just down this road a few miles.”
The man shook his head. “Written permission.”
Lydia battled the panic rising within. “I was not told.” She shook her head. “General Dunphy will be angry. I have no flour left for bread.”
The soldier started. “General Dunphy? Did you say Dunphy?”
“Yes. He is quartered at my house. I prepare his meals. He’ll be badly disappointed when I have no bread.”
“General Dunphy? The adjutant general?”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “I don’t know the meaning of adjutant general. I only know he is a general, and on occasion other officers come to his quarters.”
The soldier looked uneasily at his companion, suddenly caught in a bind not to his liking. “Uh . . . are you carrying anything?”
Lydia thrust her purse forward. “Only my purse.”
The man took it, tugged it open, and quickly sorted through the contents. He drew out a small change purse, opened it, counted the coins, then drew out the needlebook, opened it, glanced, tossed it back in, and drew the strings to close it before he handed it back. He studied Lydia. Aging, frail, round-shouldered, gray hair showing beneath her bonnet that was tied tightly beneath her chin.
“Your name?”
“Lydia Darragh. My husband is a schoolteacher in Philadelphia. You can ask.”
His face was stern. “All right. You may pass. But when you return, you come past this picket post. And you had better have a sack of flour.”
Lydia bobbed her head. “Thank you, sir.”
Lydia picked her way northeast, hurrying, stumbling on the frozen ruts of the dirt road, moving steadily toward Frankford, some two miles distant. She went directly to the mill, counted out her six shillings, received back her change, and the miller helped her take the twenty-five-pound sack of flour on her back. He followed her to open the door and spoke as she made her way outside.
“You intend carrying that back to Philadelphia?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head as he watched her walk away with measured strides.
She reached the woods and followed the road as it angled to the west, out of sight of the mill, before she stopped. Carefully she turned both directions to be certain no one was watching, then walked quickly ten yards into the thick woods, where she laid the sack of flour behind a large tree stump, then straightened, hands on her hips to relieve the ache. She returned to the road and walked half a mile further west, to the fork that led back north toward Whitemarsh, six miles distant. In her heart was a prayer. Merciful and Almighty Creator, may I meet someone who can carry my message to General Washington.
She had gone one-half mile when the sound of an oncoming horse stopped her, and she stepped from the roadbed to hide in the trees. She watched the horseman approaching from the direction of Whitemarsh, and at the last instant saw gold epaulets on the shoulders of his heavy woolen coat. Instantly she threw up a hand and called out to him. He reined his horse around facing her and jerked a large pistol from his saddle holster and brought it to bear on her midsection. Terrified, she stood without moving, hand still raised.
“Approach and identify yourself,” he demanded.
“Don’t hurt me! I am Lydia Darragh. I’m lost. May I ask, sir, who you are, and if you could help me find my way?”
His eyes narrowed in surprise. “Mrs. Darragh? Is that you?”
Lydia stared. “Captain Craig? John Craig? Of the Pulaski Cavalry?”
Captain John Craig dismounted and swept his hat from his head. “It’s I, Mrs. Darragh. I cannot imagine what you are doing out here in the countryside.”
Lydia’s head fell back and her eyes closed for a moment as relief flooded through her being. “Oh, John! The Almighty has answered my prayer. Can you take a message to General Washington?”
“I can. What message might you have for the general?”
“General Howe is planning a surprise attack on your army at Whitemarsh tomorrow. Five thousand soldiers with thirteen cannon, and they plan to bring eleven boats on wheels.”
Craig’s eyes widened in surprise. “How do you know this?”
“I overheard the plan in my home. A British general has his quarters there.”
“Which general?”
“General Dunphy. Albert Dunphy.”
Craig started. “Dunphy? The adjutant general?”
“Yes. I heard him called that this morning. The adjutant general.”
“Who was with him?”
“Three other officers. Generals, I think.”
“What else did you hear?”
&n
bsp; “I heard the names of an officer named Grey and one named Grant.”
Craig rounded his lips to blow air for a moment. Vapors rose from his face. “That would be Generals ”No-Flint” Grey and James Grant. You’re certain?”
“As the Almighty is my witness, John. You know my son Daniel—you grew up with him. He’s in the Philadelphia Militia. I have to do something to save him. Could you please be certain the militia knows?”
Craig was incredulous. “Yes, ma’am, I will be certain. Do you know their route? Did they talk about it?”
“Only that it will be a fourteen-mile march, and it is in a curve. And, John, I beg of you, do not use my name. If the British find out what I’ve done, my life will be worth nothing.”
Craig mounted his horse. “I’ll see to it, Mrs. Darragh. And if this all works out, you can live with the knowledge that you have likely saved the Continental Army.”
He spun his horse, rammed his blunted spurs home, and the animal hit racing stride in three jumps.
Lydia watched him ride out of sight before she turned. She had retraced her steps for one hundred yards before she stopped. What if he’s captured—has an accident—can’t deliver the message? She stood still for a time, struggling with indecision. Then she turned and started rapidly up the road where Craig had disappeared. The Rising Sun Tavern is half a mile ahead. Surely someone will be there who can help.
The road wound through the Pennsylvania forest. The Rising Sun Tavern was hidden until the last turn brought her within fifty yards of the hitching post in front, with three horses standing hip-shot, one hind leg cocked forward, heads down as they dozed. Above the door was a large, carved wooden sign of a rising sun. She studied the horses for a moment before pushing through the rough plank door into the dimly lighted room.
Half a dozen travelers were seated at a table, finishing their meal, waiting for the next coach to Whitemarsh. Two men sat at a table with pewter ale tankards before them. One man sat alone near a corner with a tankard of rum before him. He appeared relaxed, except for his eyes, which missed nothing. On the table in front of him was his tricorn, and on the face of it was gold braid.