Sarah's War

by Eugenia Lovett West

  Mrs. Sage put down the bonnet. “My niece will do no such thing,” she said under her breath. “Take a girl to an army camp in the middle of winter—impossible. Besides, she only saw him for a few seconds.”

  “Difficult, but not impossible. She would ride pillion behind me with a cavalry escort, wearing a boy’s clothes and a wig to hide her hair. She would stay one night with Colonel Tilghman and return the next day.” He stopped as a thin woman with a pinched mouth came bustling up to the stall.

  “Where is Sam Groody? He was to put a shawl aside for me.”

  Warren scratched his head. “Groody’s wife is ill, ma’am. He’ll be back later.”

  “Who are you? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Nephew, ma’am. Been traveling with my wares,” and he blew his nose with a loud snort.

  “Humph.” She gave him a suspicious look and walked away.

  The man in the next stall was shouting that he had a fine selection of pans and skillets. A mother with a crying baby tucked under her arm came up and began to finger one of Groody’s aprons.

  “Tuppence is all I will pay,” Mrs. Sage said loudly. She waited until the woman left, then turned. “I have great respect for Colonel Tilghman, but he must find another way.”

  Warren bent forward and spoke behind his hand. “Ma’am, the colonel would never make this request if he had a choice. The situation is desperate and requires desperate measures. The army is starving, and no one can replace General Washington. We must find the hired assassin—and it must be soon.”

  “So it’s come to that. Well, I’ll say no more. My niece would take the risk. She must make the decision.”

  Miss Champion had been standing nearby, saying nothing. He moved closer and showed her a worn petticoat. “You heard,” he muttered. “The ride would be long. Conditions at the camp are bad, but you would be treated with every courtesy. There would be no blame, none, if you didn’t recognize a face.”

  No answer. He tugged at his wool cap. He could see that she still resented him for treating her like an empty-headed little flirt. A bad mistake in judgment. Before the war, women had liked him and he had liked women. Several had set their caps for him. His little sister Lucy’s friends made fools of themselves following him around. Now failure was looming, and he must make one more try before they were noticed.

  “Miss Champion, it took great courage to go out in that storm with a message. That’s why Colonel Tilghman is asking you to make one more effort for the cause. You heard what I said to your aunt. It would mean a long ride, a certain amount of hardship and risk, but you are being given a rare chance to help your country. A very rare chance. Without General Washington, the army will collapse and there will be no independence—”

  She raised her chin. Her eyes were sharp with anger. “Spare me your lecture. My twin brother James was killed at the battle of Long Island. He died for independence, and George Washington was his hero. I’ll go, and I’ll go because of my brother.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  December 31, 1777

  The Christmas Eve storm had left deep drifts in the countryside northwest of Philadelphia. As the riders came out of the trees, a biting wind raised the snow into a fine, stinging cloud. Sarah, riding pillion, pressed her face against Captain Warren’s back. She now knew his real name. He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder.

  “We’re coming to the plateau. Not much longer now.”

  In spite of the snow, she saw that they were reaching open ground, away from the wolves that had followed them in the woods, keeping their distance, silent and tireless. A rider jingling beside her had laughed.

  “Pay them no heed, boy. Wolves are only dangerous when you’re alone on sentry duty. They watch to see if you fall asleep,” he said, chomping his teeth together.

  The horses picked up the pace. Early this morning—it seemed long ago—she had stained her face, put on a wig and a boy’s worn clothes, and hurried to Elfreth’s Alley. The Groody peddler was waiting with a wagon filled with bed coverings and boxes of rope.

  “The pass is for Samuel Lewis, age twelve,” he said as she climbed in. “You’re off to visit your family in Metuchin Hills. If we’re stopped and questioned, be quiet and pick your nose. Sentries are not overly bright, but keep that wig on straight. Don’t let it twist around and show your hair.”

  “It’s too big,” she began and stopped. They were on a mission. As long as he didn’t treat her like a silly chit, she must hide her dislike.

  After passing through the checkpoint, they rattled down the Reading Road to a farm. A big chestnut horse was brought out. The peddler dug into his wares, gave her a heavy cloak and cap, and lifted her up onto the pillion behind his saddle.

  The roads were icy, and the going was treacherous. By now her legs were aching, and her face was burning from the cold, but James had endured the agony of a bayonet wound in the stomach. She must grit her teeth and not complain.

  Now, as the path narrowed, the horses slowed. The riders fell into a single file, climbing towards the fading light. Winter darkness was about to overtake them as relentlessly as the wolves.

  The slope grew steeper. They passed a long cannon barrel, half-buried in the snow. The ground leveled off, and a figure carrying a musket stepped out of the whiteness.

  “Lone eagle,” a cavalryman called.

  “Pass,” the sentry answered. As they went by, she saw that he was wrapped in a blanket.

  A new path led along the edge of flat terrain. They rode by a number of huts cut from logs; faint curls of smoke came from the roofs; snow was piled nearly to the ridgepoles. Suddenly a door opened and a man stumbled out, the first sign of life on this bleak, silent plain. She had expected the camp to be raucous, full of noise and movement. This was a place of ghosts, as though an army of dead men lay inside the huts.

  The leader slowed. “We’ll leave you here, Captain,” he called. “Keep straight until you come to the first farm house. That’ll be Colonel Tilghman.” Then they rode off into the growing darkness.

  A path branched to the left before dipping down to a narrow, half-frozen stream. Two wraith-like figures were coming up from the bank, carrying pails. Captain Warren slowed to let them by and then touched the chestnut with his heel.

  “Worse than I was told,” he muttered. “By God, someone should drag congressmen here by their heels. Let them feel how it is to have aching bellies and frozen feet.”

  They went on. She could feel the tension in the captain’s back, but at last the outline of a building showed in the gloom. “Just in time,” he said as they came up to the small house with barns attached. “I’ll take you in, then look after the horse.” He swung himself down, reached up and set her on the ground. Her legs buckled.

  “I can walk,” she said, took a step forward, and fell into the snow.

  “Not so fast.” He grasped the top of her wet cloak and pulled her up. “That was a hard ride. You did well, Master Lewis. Very well.” He put a hand under her shoulder and they walked to the front door.

  It opened. A tall man stood there. He motioned them into the house. “Colonel Tilghman, at your service, Miss Champion. Thank you for coming, I know your aunt. What took you so long, Captain? I was beginning to worry.”

  “We started late, and the roads were bad.”

  “You’ll want to look after your horse. There’s water and hay in the barn. Miss Champion, you must be tired and cold. Give me your satchel and that wet cloak, then come and sit close to the heat.”

  A log fire burned on the wide hearth. She sat down, took off her wet mittens, and looked around. The kitchen was small and bare; there were only a few chairs, a table, and a cupboard.

  The colonel took a simmering kettle from a trivet. “I apologize for the lack of comforts, but this house isn’t often used. My own quarters are close to the general. I’ve made a hot toddy, and here’s a bit of bread and cheese.” He handed her a pewter tankard and a plate.

  “Than
k you, sir.”

  A moment later the door opened and Captain Warren came in, stamping snow from his boots.

  “I’ve given Miss Champion food and a hot toddy,” the colonel said. “Yours is here on the table. Did you find what you needed for the horse?”

  “I did. Much obliged, sir.”

  “Sit down, Captain,” the colonel said, and joined him. “We’ve not met, but I hear about your work from Major Clark. How long have you been attached to intelligence?”

  “Since August. Before that I was with the First Massachusetts.”

  “How do you find British intelligence? Is it active?”

  “Less so, now that there’s little chance of a winter battle.”

  “And the city?”

  “The south is guarded by the Second Grenadier Battalion. There’s a major fortress on Faire Mount, garrisoned by Germans with their own European rifles. But the hardcore loyalists are the biggest threat. They would lose the most if the war goes against them. They have money and resources, and the city is filled with spies and misinformation. Few can be trusted.”

  “I regret to say it’s the same here. Shifting allegiances, internal squabbling, and an ongoing battle with Congress to get supplies. They don’t seem able to see disaster staring them in the face. Colonel Hamilton does his best—he has a way with words—but Hamilton is away on sick leave.”

  The talk went on. Sarah finished the toddy and put the tankard down. Instead of helping Lorelia, she was sitting in a strange and desolate place, wearing a boy’s clothes. What would happen tomorrow? Her eyes began to close, as if pulled down by a heavy hand.

  “Miss Champion.” She opened her eyes. Colonel Tilghman was standing beside her. “If you’re warm enough, I’ll take you to your room. It’s over the kitchen so you’ll get a little heat from the chimney.” He picked up a candle and lit it. Still half-asleep, she followed him up the narrow stairs.

  The room was small, with one window and a narrow bed against the wall. He put the candle down. “Miss Champion, I can only say that your willingness to serve your country is deeply appreciated. We’ll talk in the morning,” he said and left.

  It was too cold to take off her clothes. She stumbled to the bed and blew out the candle. The mattress was lumpy, the quilts smelled musty. She curled up and closed her eyes. Colonel Tilghman was understanding. Captain Warren was kinder than she expected—so far no lectures or put-downs. “You did well, Master Lewis,” he had said as he picked her up out of the snow. “Very well.”

  Warren put the tankard back on the table and yawned. He’d had little sleep for the past few nights, but it was important to stay awake until he knew what was in Tilghman’s mind.

  The colonel came back, put more logs on the fire, and sat down. “We couldn’t talk in front of Miss Champion, but something has happened. The plan for her will have to change.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “I’ll explain. Ever since Major Clark brought your message, teams have been out around the clock, looking for those two men. One is still hidden, one is in plain sight going about his work—”

  “Missing for at least two days. Someone must have covered for him.”

  “Without question, but it’s a big camp when you count all the outlying services. Last night we ran more checks in the stables. All the lads were taken aside and threatened with severe flogging or worse for anyone caught lying, perhaps to protect a friend.”

  “And?”

  “One of the lads broke. Said he covered for a man named Coomes. Said that Coomes threatened to kill him if he ever squealed.”

  “Who is Coomes?”

  “The groom who looks after the general’s favorite horse, a gray called Blueskin. Came in with Rhode Island recruits, good with horses. He knows when the general goes out, when he’s the most vulnerable. Coomes was questioned. He denied ever being away and that the boy was a known liar. We need more evidence, but it seems no one ever crosses Coomes.”

  “What about the man with the knife?”

  “God knows how Coomes has been able to hide him and feed him. We’ve turned the place upside down, and now Coomes is alert to trouble. We’re keeping a watch on him in case he bolts. If Miss Champion can make an identification, we’ll take him in and charge him with spying and treason.”

  “And if she can’t?”

  “We’ll charge him anyhow. Tell him what Miss Champion overheard in the hall that night. If he thinks we have that officer in custody, it may break him.”

  Warren put his hands on the table. “You’ll take him in no matter what she says? In that case, she needn’t have come. I should have been told.”

  “We tried to reach you, but you’d already started. Still, Miss Champion is the one person who saw him, the one witness. We’ve gone this far, we might as well go through with the plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “Take her first to headquarters. Let her look at a few faces, see if she makes wild guesses. If that doesn’t happen, take her to the stables. Lieutenant Evans, the cavalryman who brought you, will be there. He’ll ask Coomes to bring Blueskin out and walk him around. The girl will have a chance to look.”

  “What then?”

  “Report to me and leave with Evans before dark. You don’t want to risk staying around here and attracting attention.”

  “Right.” With an effort, he managed to stem a wave of justified anger. A waste of valuable time when he should have been in the city, but Tilghman and his team were under a great strain.

  The colonel stood up. “You’ll want to turn in. We use this house for times when it’s needed away from camp, but I’m situated near headquarters. I’ll be back by reveille.”

  The room was little more than a cupboard with a pallet bed. He took off his boots and slid under the covers. They smelled of mice. Earlier, he had braced himself for a stream of complaints about the cold, the long ride. None. It seemed that the belle was able to pass as a grubby boy and ride pillion behind him for hours without a whimper.

  He pulled the covers higher, groaned, and rolled over. Bringing Miss Champion to Valley Forge had been a flawed operation from the start and was going from bad to worse. A long, difficult day loomed. He would have to go through the motions of showing her faces. Keep her from realizing that she wasn’t needed, and get her safely back to the city before dark.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  January 1, 1778

  The booming sound of a cannon firing catapulted Sarah into consciousness. The British were bombarding the forts, shaking the house and breaking the sconces—no, not a barrage. Not Third Street. She was lying under the eaves of a farmhouse at Valley Forge.

  After a moment, she pushed back the quilts and went to the window. In the early morning light, the fields were icy blue. There were no huts in sight, only a distant barn.

  The room was bitterly cold. Last night she had stumbled up the narrow stairs and crawled under the quilts, too exhausted to pray. Now she clasped her hands. “Dear God,” she said aloud. “Dear God, whatever I have to do today, let me do it well.”

  The water in the jug was covered with a skim of ice. She washed gingerly, careful not to touch the brown stain on her face. She was still wearing the boy’s clothes. The jacket was dirty, the trousers were scratchy, but there were no hampering skirts and petticoats. In fact, she was beginning to envy boys their freedom.

  The wig lay on the floor by the bed. It was far too large and kept slipping. She pushed all her hair to the top of her head to tighten it, and went down the narrow stairs.

  The kitchen was warm; a kettle steamed in the fireplace. Colonel Tilghman was sitting at the table, writing. He got to his feet. “Miss Champion—no, Samuel Lewis. You pass very well for a young lad with a dirty face. I hope you slept well,” he said and pulled out a chair.

  “Very well. It took a cannon firing to wake me.”

  “Reveille. We go through the motions of being an army.” He handed her a bowl and a mug. “Cornmeal mush and a poor excu
se for coffee.” He paused. “You must be wondering about the plan for today,”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “To start, only Captain Warren and I know why you are here. He’ll take you to headquarters, a house we lease from a Quaker ironmaster named Potts. We’re not Hessians. We pay for what we take.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll meet you in the front hall and announce that you’ve run away to be a drummer boy. You’re a damned nuisance and someone will have to take you back to the city. I’ll tell you to go and sit on the stairs. You’ll see a procession of couriers, aides, staff officers, even high-ranking generals.”

  She put the mug down. “Colonel Tilghman, please don’t expect too much of me. I barely saw a face and it was only for a few seconds.”

  “So I was told, but don’t worry. Your willingness to make the attempt is admirable, no matter what the outcome.” He stood up. “I must go, but Captain Warren will be back in a moment. He’s out saddling his horse.”

  The kitchen was quiet, except for the hissing kettle. She took a spoonful of mush; it was dry and stuck in her throat. She swallowed. Somehow she must dig deep and study each face, no matter how many. A disaster if she picked the wrong one.

  “Good morning, boy.” She turned and almost dropped the spoon. The man standing there was not a Quaker woman with flour rubbed into his face. Not a grimy peddler in dirty clothes. He was wearing a Continental army uniform. His dark hair was neatly tied back. Not handsome, but surprisingly good looking. Only the gray eyes were the same.

  He sat down and cut a slice from the bread loaf. “The Colonel found me a dead man’s uniform. Did you get a good sleep?”

  “Very good.”

  “Did he tell you we’re going first to headquarters?”

  “Yes, and I asked him not to expect too much of me.”

  “This may not be as hard as you think. Look at the shoulders. The shape of the head. Most of the faces you see can be ruled out at once. Remember, you’re a runaway boy. Snuffle and wipe your nose on your sleeve.”