by Ron Carter
“That don’t say one word about us or the British.”
“Sounds like some sort of orders for a mill to grind someone’s wheat.”
One man picked up the paper and studied it closely, then glanced at Ferguson, tied, struggling, making muffled sounds in the bunk. “He don’t print so good, but he signs his name real pretty.”
Caleb took the slip and turned it to the light and carefully studied the signature. The letters were perfectly formed—the N and the F in a distinctive English scroll.
The recognition began quietly in the back of his brain and in an instant exploded to seize him. With trembling hands he laid the paper flat on the tabletop and dropped his face to within six inches of the signature to study every detail of every line.
The writing—the N and the F—I’ve seen them before.
He raised his head, his brain paralyzed. For ten seconds he stared, dumb, speechless. Then he cleared his throat and said softly, “Untie the man. Get him over here to the table.”
While they struggled with the man, Caleb went to his bunk and unwrapped the few sheets of paper he had with his things and found his pencil. With the bleeding man sitting at the table, held in place by two men, Caleb moved the lantern directly in front of him. He laid the paper and pencil before the man, then reached for the nearest musket. He popped open the frizzen, checked the powder, snapped it shut, cocked the weapon, and pressed the muzzle against the man’s jaw, just below his left ear.
“Sign your name, exactly the way you signed that message.”
Animal sounds came from the man, indiscernible through the gag that filled his mouth. He struggled to rise, but eight hands jammed him back down on the bench.
“You have to the count of ten before I blow half your head off.”
The room went dead silent, and the man looked into Caleb’s eyes. What he saw brought his struggling to a stop. He picked up the pencil, squared the paper, and slowly formed “Nathan Furgusson.”
Caleb lowered the musket, turned the paper, and studied the signature. It was crude, partly printed, partly written, and the last name was misspelled. He turned the paper back and said, “Sign it again, exactly as it is on that message we found.” He raised the musket muzzle and pressed the cold metal just behind the man’s ear.
Again the man formed the words on the page, and again Caleb examined them. They were again, crude, scrawled, as before. He took the paper, picked up the note they had found, and went to his bunk. While he dug into his belongings he said, “Tie him back in the bunk and watch him.”
From within the folds of his belongings he drew out the letter he had received from Nancy. Hoping with all his soul that he was mistaken, he brought the lantern from the table and held the letter and the note in the yellow light. Behind him the men looked at each other in puzzlement while Caleb scrutinized every mark.
There was no doubt.
Carefully he folded his letter, then the sheet that the prisoner had signed on threat of being shot, and sat down at the table with them and the secret message in his hand.
“We wait for O’Malley.”
The men knew only that something catastrophic had seized Caleb, and they did not interfere with him as they waited. Caleb sat as though in a trance, staring at the badly wrinkled note, mindless of the chill and the smoke in the hut. Time was without meaning, and he started at the sound of O’Malley banging at the door. A man lifted the bar and swung it open, and O’Malley entered, followed by two officers and a man bundled in an oversized coat, carrying a black case. It took O’Malley a few seconds to locate the man, gagged and tied in a bunk.
He spoke to the nearest man. “Untie him.”
Caleb had not moved, and O’Malley looked at him in question. “You all right? What’s happened?”
Caleb handed him the small note. “We found this in one of his shoes.”
The two officers instantly crowded beside O’Malley to look at the tiny document, and for fifteen seconds silence held as they read and reread it. O’Malley spoke while Caleb and the others waited.
“This is Captain Wiebe and Lieutenant Thorson. Dr. Bristol come along to take a look at the wound.”
Captain Wiebe suddenly exclaimed, “It’s in code! It sounds like they’re saying this camp is ready for the harvest—it can be taken by the British at any time!”
Lieutenant Thorson, shorter, huskier, spoke to O’Malley. “How was this man dressed?”
O’Malley looked at Ellison, who answered. “Clothes are right there, on the floor.”
Quickly both officers went through them, then the shorter one turned to the prisoner, still tied to the cot. He untied the gag and cleared the struggling man’s mouth. “You were dressed as a civilian. If you’re a spy, you’ll be hanged. It’s possible you can save your life by telling us who gave this to you and where you were taking it.”
The man’s face drew into an ugly snarl. “I’m tellin’ you nothin’.”
Captain Wiebe shook his head. “It’s your life.” He tied the gag back in the man’s mouth.
Dr. Bristol interrupted. “I thought this man was shot—needed medical attention.”
O’Malley nodded. “In the hip.”
“Let’s take a look.”
They untied one arm and one ankle and rolled the man on his side. Caleb held the lantern while the doctor looked at the smeared blood and the purple hole on the back side of the left hip. He pressed, and the prisoner groaned.
“Ball’s still in there. From the angle I’d say it hit the pelvis. The hip bone. Ought to come out, if it’s not stuck in the bone.” He straightened. “Better get him dressed. We’ll have to take him to the hospital. I’ll operate as soon as he’s ready.”
Caleb spoke. “Which hospital?”
“The one near General Varnum’s quarters, on Port Kennedy Road. Why?”
“The one where Nancy Fremont works?”
“Miss Fremont’s there, yes.”
“Will she be there tonight?”
The doctor shrugged. “She’s not a surgical assistant, but we’ll need two general nurses. She might be on call. I don’t know.”
“I’ll help move the prisoner to the hospital.”
O’Malley protested. “You got picket duty.”
Caleb shook his head. “Someone’ll have to trade with me. I’m going.”
O’Malley sensed the need and let it pass. “Let’s get him dressed. If that hip stiffens up we might have to carry him.”
Forty minutes later the doctor answered the challenge of the picket at the front door of the hospital, opened the door, and the small column of men entered. The stench of putrid flesh and carbolics swamped them as they walked between the cots and the men on blankets spread on the floor, through the building to the place where a table with leather belts attached stood in an open area.
“This is it,” the doctor said. “I’ll get a surgical assistant and some nurses. I’ll have to probe and maybe cut. This could take a while. While I’m gone, get his hip exposed and strap him down. And get some water heating on that stove over there. Light those overhead lamps.”
Fifteen minutes later the doctor returned with a man and two women. Nancy Fremont was not one of them. The doctor inspected the hip of the wounded prisoner, jerked the leather belts to be certain they were tight, and nodded to his surgical assistant. The man quickly brought steaming water from the stove and washed the pucker around the black hole where the big lead ball had punched in, then assembled the few necessary surgical tools on a pewter tray.
The doctor picked up a long steel probe and spoke to the prisoner. “This is going to hurt. Want something in your teeth?”
The man nodded, and the doctor offered a six-inch piece of leather belt. The man bit down, nodded, and the doctor heaved a weary sigh and began the uncertain task of shoving the probe into the bullet channel, hoping to strike the ball on the first try. The two officers, O’Malley, and the others who had brought the prisoner stood in the yellow light, caught in the strange fascinat
ion of the time and the place and the sight of one man pushing a steel probe into the body of another.
Caleb turned to the closest general assistant and spoke quietly. “Do you know Nancy Fremont?”
The woman looked at him. “Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“Asleep.”
“Where? In what building?”
The woman looked at the doctor, who stood with his eyes closed, intensely feeling for the first contact with the bullet. Sweat had formed on his forehead. The prisoner was groaning through clenched teeth. She dared not interrupt.
“Across the way, in the servants’ quarters,” she whispered and pointed west. “Why do you want to know?”
Caleb did not answer. He turned and silently walked away from the surgical table to the door at the rear of the building and out into the night.
O’Malley glanced at Caleb as he left. Can’t stand watching the doctor probe? This whole thing too much for him?
Outside Caleb paused while his eyes adjusted enough to make out a low, stone building thirty yards away—square, weathered, with a thin column of smoke rising straight into the black-domed heavens. The shades in the windows glowed dully. He walked to the front door and rapped. From within came a woman’s voice.
“Who’s there?”
“A soldier. The doctor sent me. He’s operating on a wounded man.”
The door opened a crack. “What does he want?”
“A nurse named Nancy Fremont. Is she here?”
“She’s in her bed.”
“He needs her.”
The door opened hesitantly, and an aging woman wrapped in a heavy woolen housecoat, with her gray hair in a long braid stepped aside. “Come inside. I’ll fetch her.”
The room was small, lighted by a single lamp on the wall. The only break in the plain walls was a row of pegs for hanging coats behind the door. Caleb stepped inside and closed the door while the woman disappeared through a small archway into the larger room inside.
Caleb drew the three pieces of paper from inside his light summer coat and waited. His brain and his heart were numb. He felt no anger, no outrage. It was as though all feeling, all emotion, were disconnected from his being.
He heard the approaching footsteps, and then she was there, standing in the archway, dressed, heavy coat pulled tight by the belt at her waist, a scarf tied over her head to protect her hair and her ears from the freezing cold outside. She saw him and stood without speaking, eyes wide, mouth partly open. For three seconds neither spoke, and then she broke the silence.
“Caleb! What are you doing here?”
He said nothing. He handed her the crumpled little note taken from the prisoner and then the letter she had written to him. In the dim yellow light she quickly scanned one, then the other, and raised her eyes back to his. He saw the sudden rush of fear and watched the blood leave her face.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
He looked steadily into her eyes and said nothing.
For a time—neither knew or cared how long—she stood silent, unable to tear her eyes from his. Quietly a sureness came into both their hearts, and each knew.
“What are you going to do?” It was nearly a whisper.
He reached and took the two papers from her hand, opened the door, and held it, waiting. For five long seconds she stared at him, then she walked steadily out the door. He closed it behind them, and they walked, shoulder to shoulder, the thirty yards back to the hospital. Caleb held the rear door for her, she entered behind the surgical suite, and he led her to the edge of the light, where the doctor was bandaging the hip of the wounded prisoner.
Startled, O’Malley broke from the circle of men and walked to him. “I was worried. Might I know who this young lady is?”
Caleb spoke steadily. “Her name is Nancy Fremont, so far as I know. The message we found on that man was written by her. She got the information on it from me. I believe she is a British spy.”
O’Malley gaped, speechless for a moment. “How . . . on what proof?”
“These three pieces of paper. One is a letter she wrote me. One is the message we took from that man’s shoe. The third is the signature he made back in the hut. The signature on the secret message was made by this woman, not him.”
“You can prove that man didn’t sign the message we got from him?”
“Yes. I made him sign his name twice. Look at it. He can hardly write—couldn’t even spell his own last name, or the name he claimed to be his. Then look at her signature on the letter and the one on the message. They were made by the same person. Her.”
O’Malley turned to face Nancy. He could not recall a more beautiful young face. His eyes met hers, and in hers O’Malley saw her confession. “Ma’am, until this is all straightened out, you’re under arrest. Don’t try to leave.”
He turned to the men surrounding the surgical table, where Dr. Bristol had stepped back and was washing his hands. “That’s all I can do for now.” He looked at his assistants. “Get him to a cot and then clean up, will you?”
The cluster of men backed away, and for the first time talk broke out among them. O’Malley motioned to the two officers, who came to him, clearly puzzled.
O’Malley pointed. “This young lady is accused of being a British spy. That man we just operated on is likely her courier.”
Wiebe’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “What?”
“I’ve put her under arrest. You ought to take her to a cell while proper charges are written out.”
Dr. Bristol broke in. “Preposterous! I’ve worked with this young lady long enough to know this business of her being a spy is utterly ridiculous. I demand you release her at once.”
O’Malley raised a hand. “You’ll have your chance at her hearing, Doctor. Until then she stays under arrest.” He turned back to the two officers. “She’s in your charge now.”
Lieutenant Thorson found his voice. “On what evidence are these charges brought?”
O’Malley handed him the three pieces of paper. “These. Compare ’em. She signed two of them. He signed the third.”
For twenty seconds the officers held the papers in the light and pored over them. “How did you get these?”
“From him.” He gestured to Caleb.
“He brought her in?”
“Yes. Alone.”
“He’ll testify to all of this?”
“Yes.”
“Is he implicated? Is he a spy, too?”
O’Malley shook his head. “No. We’re lucky. It just all happened in one place tonight, where he could see it. He put it all together and got her.”
The officers shook their heads in bewilderment, clearly disliking the business of bringing in a beautiful young woman to be tried as a spy. One folded the papers and carefully slipped them inside his tunic. “I’ll be responsible for these.”
One reached for Nancy, and Caleb stepped forward. “Could I see her alone for just a minute. You can watch if you like.”
The officers looked at each other. “Over there.”
Caleb led her ten feet to the edge of the lantern light and for a moment looked into her face. He memorized every line, every feature before he spoke.
“Why?”
“For England. My native country. You would do the same for America.”
“Can you tell me your real name?”
“I cannot.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Was it all an illusion?”
She looked him steadily in the eyes. “No. I loved you. I didn’t expect that to happen, but it did.”
He saw the slightest quiver in her chin, and she reached to wipe at a single tear that started in the corner of her eye.
Caleb took her arm, turned, and led her back to the waiting men. He said nothing as he watched the two officers take her between them and walk her through the hospital, out into the black, cold world.
He turned to O’Malley. “What’ll happen to
her?”
O’Malley drew a heavy breath. “First, what does she mean to you?”
“I met her months ago. We became friends. Good friends.”
“Do you love her?”
Caleb was startled that such a question could come from a grizzled, hard soldier. The thought that O’Malley had ever felt such feelings for a woman had never entered Caleb’s mind.
“I think I did. Yes.”
O’Malley shook his head, and a softness that Caleb had never heard before came into his voice. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Worse that you had to bring her in. You did a brave thing.”
Caleb spoke, and O’Malley saw the deep need in his face. “What will happen to her, O’Malley?”
“She’ll be tried as a spy. If she’s found guilty, she might hang. I don’t know the last time we hanged a woman spy, but that’s what the rules call for.”
“Isn’t there something besides hanging?”
“It’s possible they could send her to England on orders that if she ever returns she’ll be hanged.”
“Can that happen? Can someone recommend it?”
For a time O’Malley studied the pain in Caleb’s face. “Yes. Maybe me.”
“Will you?”
O’Malley’s answer came slowly. “I’ll try.”
Note
The events depicted in this chapter are fictional.
Valley Forge
Late February, early March 1778
CHAPTER XXVIII
* * *
Eli ducked to enter the low door of the hut and softly closed it against the cold, then reached to wipe at the thick, white frost that had collected in his beard from his two hours on picket duty. He leaned his long Pennsylvania rifle against the wall and silently stepped to Billy’s bunk to lay a hand his shoulder. Billy’s eyes opened in the darkness of the small hut, and Eli said softly, “Your duty.”
Billy lay still for a moment, then swung his legs out of his bunk. He still wore his trousers and shirt and socks, and he shivered as he reached for the shoes that had been given to him five months earlier by the German family who had allowed him a night’s sleep in their barn. The banked coals in the fireplace cast everything in the small, square room as dim shapes, and Eli loomed large in his wolf-skin coat and moccasins, with his parka still over his head. He added two sticks of green kindling, then spoke softly.