“But what if I think it might be the man?”
“Raise your hand. I’ll be watching. Have you finished?”
“Yes.”
“Then get your cap and mittens and we’ll be off.”
The day was turning fine; the sun shone on the crust with a brilliant glitter, but it was only a short respite. Blizzards and icy rains would soon return.
The chestnut’s breath blew a cloud of white as they rode along the dirty path between the snow banks. As they passed the first group of huts, a few ragged men were walking about. One struck the air with his fists, cursed loudly, and staggered into a drift.
At another cluster of huts, men stood aimlessly in the doorways. A few had shoes; others had filthy rags wrapped around their feet. They stared at the sturdy chestnut. A live horse would mean meat for weeks.
A man appeared beside the path. He was wrapped in a torn blanket. His face was drawn, his eyes shone with fever.
“Are you bound for headquarters?” he called. “Tell them the New Jersey Third is at the breaking point. The firecake is gone. The wood is green and we’re smoked out. The men are fighting and yelling, “No bread, no soldier.” My lieutenant and I are doing do our best, but they’re in an ugly mood. Tell them.” He doubled over with coughing and stumbled away.
She tightened her grip around the captain’s waist. These soldiers had marched out of towns like Myles with flags and drums, expecting to fight a few skirmishes and go home.
“That man is sick,” she said. “Why isn’t there any food?”
The captain shifted in the saddle. “There’s food, plenty of food; the trouble is how to get it. The British pay farmers with gold, not worthless paper. We have patrols, we threaten to hang profiteers, but there are too many roads, and they travel at night. Some even drain brine from salt pork to lighten the load. Rotten meat is money in their pockets.”
The wind blew a layer of new snow from the icy crust. They passed the small creek where the two wraithlike figures had startled her last night. A few men were pulling a dead horse from the path. Then, the camp was like an army of ghosts. Today, it seemed like an army in the last throes of death.
A few moments more, and they came up to a settlement of stone houses, high and narrow, with outbuildings beyond. A blue flag with thirteen stars hung by the largest house.
Captain Warren tied the chestnut to a post, reached up, and lifted her down. “Remember, I’ll be nearby. All you have to do is make a sign. Ready?”
She nodded. Took off her cap and straightened the wig. From now on she must clear her mind of everything but faces.
The hall seemed small for the number of men who were walking in and out of what must be the front parlor. “Keep your head down and look foolish,” he said under his breath.” Then, loudly, “Colonel Tilghman, here’s another of those blasted runaways. What do I do with him?”
Others glanced in their direction. Tilghman turned, “Young fool. If he wasn’t a mouth to feed, I’d teach him a lesson and keep him. Sit up on the stairs, boy. Stay out of the way until someone can take you home.”
“Yes, sir.” She wiped her nose, went to the landing, and sat down on a step. Several officers were standing below, talking. She studied their faces. One was too old, another too fat, another had a distinctive nose.
The stream of men came in and out of the front parlor. Couriers, aides, a general who talked of moving the starving horses. She rubbed her eyes and stared with mounting panic. The faces were beginning to look alike. If her concentration wavered for a second, she could miss the one that mattered.
More faces, and the more she saw, the more they were blurring together. She was close to tears when Captain Warren appeared. “Come to the kitchen, boy” he snapped. “My orders are to take you home after you have something to eat. Enough to keep you from whining about an empty stomach.”
As they started down a passage that connected the kitchen to the house, she was close to tears. “The older men, that wasn’t hard, but there were several that might have—might have—I began to see the same face over and over again.”
“Don’t worry, only a few more. Eat and rest your eyes. I’ll speak to the cook.”
The kitchen was warm and smelled of rancid wool. A number of soldiers were eating silently at long tables. She went to a chair in the corner. After a moment, the burly cook came over with a plate of mush. He stood in front of her, hands on his hips. “Ye be a prime young fool, to leave home.”
She shuffled her feet and looked away.
“Sorry for yerself, are ye? That man what brought ye here. I’ve not seen him before. What’s his name?”
“Don’t know,” she mumbled.
“That be a long ride. Here’s half a loaf to stuff in your pocket, though I shouldn’t. Complaints, complaints all day. Do me best but I’m no magician. When Mrs. Washington comes she’ll know I can’t feed an army on mush and rotten apples.”
The mush was cold. She managed a few bites and closed her eyes. More faces—but the captain was being considerate, letting her rest her eyes and eat.
He was back. “If you’re finished, boy, come along. Your mother’ll be glad to see you—or maybe she won’t.”
Once again she was lifted to the pillion. First he took her to the shops where the artificers made and mended the army’s equipment. At the smithy, two young fellows were interrupted at their work and questioned about a fictitious soldier. One was enormously tall and gaunt; the other had a round face, reddened by the heat of the fires. She shook her head.
The stables were situated a short distance from the main house. Several thin horses were being led around a muddy yard. As they came closer, she recognized the young lieutenant who was standing outside the railing. She tapped the captain’s shoulder.
“He’s the one who brought us from the city.”
“Be quiet. Pay no attention,” he muttered. “Act as if you’ve never seen him before.”
She blinked. Why must she pretend she has never seen the lieutenant before?
They pulled up to the railing and stopped. The lieutenant glanced at them then went to the gate. “I’m looking for Coomes,” he called out.
The man leading a large gray to the water trough turned “That’s me. What’s wanted?”
“I’ve come from the general. He needs a horse tomorrow, and he hears Blueskin’s gone lame.”
The man shook his head. “Blueskin ain’t lame,” he said roughly. “Don’t know who got that notion.”
“All the same, I’ll have a look.” The lieutenant opened the gate, stepped over a pile of dirty straw, and began to run his hands over the horse’s legs, taking his time.
“This man Coomes,” the captain said to her in a low voice. “Take a good look at him.”
She narrowed her eyes. The man’s clothes were spattered with mud. It was hard to see the face under the dirt. She twisted on the pillion, but as she leaned forward, the wig slipped to one side. Thick strands of red hair came loose and fell over her face. She tried push them back, but even more came down.
The groom stared at her. The captain and the lieutenant followed his look. “Are you done in there, Lieutenant?” the captain said loudly. “I have to get this runaway home before dark.”
The lieutenant straightened. “Legs seem sound enough,” he said to Coomes. “I’ll let the general know.”
“Aye, he’s sound.” Coomes gave the bridle a jerk and walked away.
The lieutenant came back. “I did what was ordered, but—”
“He saw that hair. He knows he’s in trouble. He has to be caught before he runs off into the woods.” The captain kicked the chestnut with his heel. As they reached the main house, he turned in the saddle.
“That damned wig—but the harm’s done. Is he the man?”
“There was so much dirt on his face—but the head was the same shape. The head and the neck.”
“So he could be Coomes.”
She stiffened. “If I say he is, what will happen to him?”
“He’ll be questioned. If he can prove he never left camp he’ll be released. If not, he’ll hang. It’s the same for both sides. The colonel must act quickly.”
“To hang him? I only saw him for a few seconds. I’m not sure he’s the man.”
“Never mind.”
“Never mind? Never mind that I could be wrong?” She took a deep breath. “I’m not a fool. That farce of feeling the horse’s legs—I think you and the lieutenant knew all along that Coomes was the man at the door that night. You didn’t need me. Why bring me here to look at faces?”
“We were on the way. We needed more evidence, and you were the only witness.”
“Captain Warren, you used me, you tricked me. To bear false witness is a mortal sin.”
He swiveled around in the saddle. “To hell with mortal sin. I’ll ask you again. Do you think Coomes was the man, or do you not?”
She choked. She had never been so angry. “How dare you? How dare you ask me to help you send a man to his death? I hate you, Captain Warren. I hate you. I will never, ever speak to you again.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
January 1, 1778
Elizabeth Sage was not an imaginative woman, but by curfew she had worked herself into a high state of nerves. Disasters raced through her head. The peddler and the boy had been picked up. Sarah was now in the hands of Captain Cunningham being raped or tortured. She would have to write to her sister Jane and explain why she had allowed Sarah to go off into danger. It was for the cause, yes, but she should never have given her consent.
She was pacing the parlor when the front door opened. She ran out. Sarah was standing in the hall, dressed in boy’s clothes.
“Thank God. Oh, thank God.” But as she put her arms around Sarah, relief changed to concern. Her niece was shaking, barely able to stand.
“Lorelia, come quickly,” she called. Together they carried Sarah to her room. They washed away the stain used to darken her face, and she was warmed with hot bottles. But by morning she had a harsh cough and a high fever.
“You picked up a sickness at that camp,” Mrs. Sage said, a hand on Sarah’s forehead. “Dr. Twifoot must come at once.”
Within the hour, portly Dr. Twifoot was at the bedside. “She has a distemper of the throat,” he pronounced. “I prescribe a few drops of Water of Life and a thorough purge. Later I will bleed her.”
“Bleed her?” Mrs. Sage raised her eyebrows. “You and Dr. Rush believe we have an excess of blood, but I fail to see how letting blood will help the child’s throat.” The doctor left, muttering about complications.
That night Sarah was moved to a trundle bed in her aunt’s large room. The girl tossed constantly, talking wildly in her sleep: “Wolves . . . the men are starving . . . he tricked me . . . I hate him.”
Mrs. Sage got up, lit a candle, and brought the child a cool drink. After a bout of coughing, Sarah lay back on the pillows.
“I woke you again, Aunt.”
“No matter. Try to sleep.” She blew out the candle and went back to the canopied bed, wondering what could have upset the girl so profoundly.
The fever continued for three days. Dr. Twifoot was in constant attendance, still muttering about bleeding. With Lorelia’s help, Mrs. Sage carried out the nursing duties. On the fourth day, the fever finally broke and her niece was pronounced out of danger.
Now that less nursing was needed, Mrs. Sage was able to attend to her neglected accounts. She was sitting in the dining room paying bills when Cato appeared. “A boy, he bring this paper to the back door. He say take it to you quick, then he run away.”
“Thank you, Cato.” She broke the seal, read it once, then again, and put it down. Any number of times she had tried to talk to Sarah about her experiences at Valley Forge with no success. Now, without delay, she must have the truth.
Sarah was lying in bed staring at the Delft tiles around the fireplace. She was still too weak to walk. Her face was thinner and very pale.
“Niece.” Mrs. Sage pulled up a chair and sat down. “A boy has just brought a letter from Colonel Tilghman.”
The girl turned her head. “From Colonel Tilghman?”
“It was carefully written, giving no names, but it concerns our safety.”
“Our safety?”
“He writes that a certain man was tried and hanged without giving information. His partner, a killer, escaped and may have returned to the city. Do you understand what he means?”
“Yes.” A whisper.
“What’s more, the officer who was here Christmas Eve is still at large and may be coming to the house. It’s possible that your trip out of the city is known. Until this officer and the killer are found, there can be no more contact with us as the house may be watched.” She leaned forward. “Sarah. You must tell me what happened at Valley Forge.”
She waited. The girl closed her eyes and plucked at the sheet. At last the words came pouring out. The long ride. The night in a farmhouse. The camp with sick men staggering about. “In the end, it was for nothing—they already had a suspect. I needn’t have gone at all.”
“Not gone at all? What can you mean?”
“Your friend Colonel Tilghman and Captain Warren . . . they only pretended to need me . . . they had me look at dozens of faces . . . Captain Warren took me to the stables to see a groom . . . he tried to make me say the groom was the man at the door that night . . . but they were going to hang the man anyhow and now they have.” A spasm of coughing racked her body.
Mrs. Sage brought her a glass of water. She sat back until the spasm ended, then leaned forward again.
“Colonel Tilghman is a man of integrity. Are you sure he already knew?”
“I’m sure.” She choked and buried her face in the pillows.
There was nothing more to be said. As Mrs. Sage smoothed the coverlet, she felt overtaken by a rare sense of guilt. Like Colonel Tilghman, she had used Sarah for her own ends. Changed a guileless country girl into an accomplished flirt with great success. There had been trouble at the start, and she had given Sarah sharp reprimands, but now she was fond of the girl. Very fond.
“No more talking, child,” she said and stood up. “You must recover your strength, and I must think what’s best to do.”
Back in the dining room, she began to pace. She had always prided herself on cool thinking and the ability to face facts. She knew from the start that she and her niece were taking risks, but never that an officer who came to her house could be a spy. A spy who might be watching and listening and could send both aunt and niece to the dreaded jailor, Captain Cunningham. Over the years she had dealt with many concrete dangers—the runaway horse, the man with a gun—but dealing with deception required different skills. A change in her way of life.
She clasped her hands tightly and went to the window. To close her door to the officers would raise questions and create talk. On the other hand, Captain Colborne called every day for news about the invalid. When Sarah was well again, she must continue going to parties, and he must continue to be her escort. She hated the British, she always would, but this one had good manners, and he hadn’t left the music Christmas Eve. And—no danger of a heartless flirtation there. He always treated Sarah like a flighty younger sister.
Cato was at the door again. “Officers here, ma’am. They asking about Missie Sarah.”
“Well, show them in at once. Light a fire in the parlor; then bring glasses and the best Madeira.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
February 17, 1778
As winter dragged on, gloom and malaise invaded every nook and cranny of the occupied city. People died of putrid throats and dysentery. Piles of dirty snow melted into mud. Fights broke out between town boys and young British drummers.
This morning found Sarah and her aunt eating in a cold dining room, huddled in shawls and drinking ersatz coffee. Nasty stuff, but food and wood still came from Sageton, and before he died, Mr. Sage had laid down a supply of fine
wine. Many others were living on bread and cheese.
Not so with the British officers, adept at finding ways to maintain their spirits. Last night Captain Colborne had escorted Sarah to a much anticipated play, The Constant Couple, organized to benefit widows and orphans. There were strict rules: no money taken at the door and gentlemen requested not to bribe the doorkeepers. Captain Andre and Captain De Lancey had painted a backdrop, a landscape complete with rivulet, falls, and trees.
Mrs. Sage grimaced and put down her cup. “Another dreary day. Tell me more about last night.”
“Little to tell. Carriage wheels sank in the mud on Apollo Street. Ladies were carried into the building screeching like pea hens. The amateurs kept forgetting their lines, and Sir William was sitting in a box draped with the Royal arms. Mrs. Loring was with him, acting like a queen. Would you believe, two days ago she dressed herself in an officer’s uniform and reviewed the men on Bush Hill Common.”
“A vulgar upstart. I predict that Sir William will tire of her, and she’ll be sorry she ever left Massachusetts. Was Josiah there?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“At Mr. Smith’s, no doubt, drinking and gambling. Well, he knows he’ll get no more money from me.”
Sarah didn’t answer. Last week when she passed Josiah in the street, she smiled and spoke to him politely. He turned on her. “Don’t bat those eyes at me. I know your game. You’re trying to cut me out of her will,” he shouted and lurched away.
“What news of your friends?” her aunt went on. “Are they still angling for husbands? You’ve said nothing about them lately.”
“Peggy Chew says Captain Andre asked for a lock of her hair. Becky wanted to know if he’d gone to Mr. Chew with an offer, but he hasn’t.”
“Nor will he, and I blame their mammas. They should know these officers will leave without a backward look, leaving nothing but tears.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “About today. The sconces and the mirrors in the ballroom need dusting but Lorelia isn’t safe on a ladder. After you finish, ask Tommy Willing to walk you to the apothecary. The damp is very trying to the nose, and I need more snuff.”
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