On May 24th, Sir William boarded the admiral’s barge and sailed downriver to Billingsport. With all his faults, Sir William had been a popular leader, commanding a certain affection Sir Henry Clinton could never hope to attain. Already there was grumbling that Clinton was over-sensitive, seeing personal slights in casual remarks. His snappish temper did not improve when, on the last day of May, the packet Duke of Cumberland arrived. She carried the news that war with France was inevitable, and that three crown commissioners had sailed from England on April 21st and would proceed to Philadelphia.
By now the transport ships had arrived, and many of Philadelphia’s fine old houses were being emptied. Wagons filled with possessions rolled endlessly down the streets to the wharves. The sick and helpless lay in carts on gangways. A regimental band played a popular song, “The World Turned Upside Down” until they were ordered to stop. The spectacle seemed to combine a Biblical exodus with the confusion of a country fair.
“We’ll stay in New York or London until it is safe to come back,” tight-lipped loyalist women told each other as they separated what must go from what must be left in the hands of strangers.
As a wagon left, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Chester stood in the Chester’s empty parlor. Mrs. Chester took off her apron.
“How are the mighty fallen! The patriot families ran off in the fall, and we stayed. Now I must leave the city my grandfather helped to found.”
Mrs. Brown shook her head. In the past few months her orderly world had crashed around her ears. First, the agonizing loss of Constance, her only child. Now her home.
“I’m glad not to know what lies ahead,” she said slowly. “Every life torn apart. I saw Elizabeth Sage yesterday. She’s nothing but skin and bones, far too ill to be moved. Sarah is with her, but they will be alone in that big house, a young girl, a dying woman, and two old slaves. We can only hope that when General Arnold comes he’ll be merciful and allow Elizabeth to die in peace.”
As Sarah folded sheets in Aunt’s bedroom, she glanced out the window. Another wagon came lumbering down the street, the horses straining under the load. Whose goods? Whose life? She should feel compassion, but her entire life now revolved around loving Charles and nursing Aunt. It was heartrending to see that strong woman shrivel up like a diseased plant. The dark hair had fallen out. She was sleeping a great deal and was far less observant, so Sarah was able to slip away for several hours in the afternoons, leaving Lorelia in charge.
Charles would be waiting at the house. His work as an aide to Commissioner William Eden, a young expert in trade, was not demanding, and Charles was learning to respect a man whose pleasant face and easy manners hid a sharp brain. Much of British foreign intelligence had been under his direction. He knew far better how to negotiate than his fellow commissioners, the volatile Lord Carlisle and the eccentric George Johnstone, who had previously served as the governor of West Florida.
As well, Eden’s wife was a charmer. Although four months pregnant, game Lady Eden had left a small child at home and boarded the Trident, a sixty-four gun man o’war that carried several hundred persons, including twenty footmen, carriages, wines, and furniture. When a wave swept into her cabin, it was said that Lady Eden laughed and called it a cold bath. When Charles confessed to her that he had just been secretly married, that warm-hearted lady persuaded her husband to let Captain Colborne have a few hours to himself in the afternoons.
Lying between the four posters of the big bed, the two explored each others’ bodies, passion meeting passion. Later they would talk. He told her about his lively sisters, his calm, beautiful mother, his opinionated grandmother, and the estate he loved and would inherit. He could hardly wait to show her Rokum, the big house, the mad monk’s tower, the old Roman excavations. She listened intently, aware that it wouldn’t be easy to fit into his world and be accepted by his family. Conversely, there was little to say about life in a small village.
Today, as she poured water into a basin, she saw that her aunt was restless, hands plucking at the coverlet.
“Sarah.” To speak now was an effort. “Come here and sit down. Before my next dose, we must talk.”
“Yes, Aunt.” She put down the basin, pulled a chair close to the bed, and waited.
Mrs. Sage raised herself slightly on the pillows. “Pay attention. When Judge Shippen came, I made a new will. The papers are signed. It cannot be changed. Josiah will have back his shares in the company. Nothing more.”
“Nothing?”
“It’s settled. He’s to have the company, and it may do well after the war. The rest of the estate goes to you. The furnishings, the jewelry and boxes of gold in the closet. This house and Sageton. Niece, when I die, you will be a very rich woman.”
Sarah’s hand went to her neck. Dear God, this was all wrong, this wasn’t right. She would be far away, living in England. Somehow she must refuse.
“Aunt.” She leaned forward. “Aunt, it’s too much, far too much. I’m too young. I could never manage a great place like Sageton.”
“Nonsense. Less experienced women than you have managed estates larger than mine. Is it some magic that only men possess? It is not. Judge Shippen will be your trustee, and you can turn to him for advice. I’ve told him to take the gold from the closet and put it in a safe place. He’s done the same for several of his clients.”
“But I never expected—”
“You did not, but believe me, child, it is far better to be an heiress with property than a poor parson’s daughter.”
“But Aunt, I might not—”
“Stop.” Mrs. Sage took a labored breath. “Be sensible, child. I realize that you are head over heels in love with Charles. You think your heart will be broken when he leaves. You may even have dreamed of marrying him, but take comfort in this. The English have quite different ideas about marriage. Many take mistresses. Charles would be faithful for a while, but if he strayed, you would be deserted and alone in an unsympathetic society.”
“Not all Englishmen are like that, surely.”
“Believe me, Sarah. Impetuous young love ends quickly, leaving a life of unsuitability. I have seen it time and time again—” Her thin voice wavered. Her shoulders shook with a spasm.
“Your dose.” Sarah picked up the bottle and spoon from the table. Carefully, she poured the drug into Aunt’s mouth and wiped the dribble from her chin. Mrs. Sage closed her eyes. Her hands on the sheet were still.
“One more word, Niece. You have courage and intelligence. I have given you wealth, and great wealth gives influence. Power. Use it.” Her voice grew weaker. “The war will end. My last wish is that you will take my place and play a part in forging a new country.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
June 18, 1778
The army was gone. All day long, feet had tramped down the streets. Heavy cannon rumbled toward the barges and flatboats; the units would cross to Gloucester Point on the Jersey side, ferried over with speed in case the enemy attacked. They had marched away, all the soldiers who came in with bands and flags flying, leaving the city as dirty and broken as a cast-off old crock.
When the commissioners departed for New York, Charles had stayed on with his regiment.
“No tears,” he said yesterday in the bedroom, stroking Sarah’s face as she clung to his waist. “It may not be for long. You’ll come to New York. We’ll sail off on the first available ship. Live happily ever after.” A final kiss, and he was gone.
She returned to Third Street, feeling as if she had been cut in two. Drained, as if she was bleeding from a wound, but she must not give in to anguish. The opium was no longer able to weaken Aunt’s pain. Mercifully, she was slipping into a coma. Unresponsive to touch or words.
At twilight, Dr. Twifoot paid a hurried call. “Double the dose if she becomes conscious. It makes no difference now.”
“What if she dies tonight? What should I do?”
“Nothing more. Dying is much like birth. A passage into another world. Hold her ha
nd and talk to her. We never know how much they feel, but don’t send for me. Until the Continental troops come in, there’ll be deserters in the streets, drinking and looting. Lock the house. I’ll call tomorrow unless I’m commandeered for military duty.”
A few minutes later Tommy Willing ran through the garden with a message from his father. British soldiers and Hessians had deserted and would soon be in the streets. There would be looting until the Continentals arrived. Sarah must bolt every door and window and leave lights on to show that the house was occupied.
At eight o’clock as it was growing dark, she went downstairs to re-check the locks. The big rooms seemed filled with shadows. Cato and Lorelia were cowering in their quarters, no earthly use if there was trouble.
She lit a few lamps, then pushed a heavy fruitwood chest against the front door. If anyone tried to break in, she would hear the noise. In any case, she would stay up all night, fully dressed, and by morning the new troops might be arriving.
Back in the bedroom, she dropped lavender sprigs into a basin of water, though nothing could counteract the rank smell of sickness. Bending down, she sponged the emaciated face, once so strong and imperious. By now the bones of Aunt’s spine were like sharp knobs, the legs like fleshless sticks, but she felt no revulsion. Caring for Aunt was the least she could do to assuage an overwhelming sense of guilt. Aunt had given her so much and expected her to play a part in forming a new country. Instead, she had married in secret and was leaving to spend the rest of her life in England. Judge Shippen would have to take charge of the estate.
Charles had laughed when she told him about the will.
“People will say I’m a fortune hunter like Jamieson. Never mind. We’ll come back every year with our children.” Their children— sturdy little tow-headed boys. Girls named Elizabeth and Mary.
Charles’s signet ring hung around her neck under her bodice. “When we meet in New York,” he told her, “I’ll buy you a proper ring.” After bathing Aunt, she sat down beside the big four-poster bed and pulled out the ring. By staring at it, she could relive those precious afternoons, touching each other, anticipating the other’s thoughts and words. To be with Charles was her choice, but it came with an agonizing price. She had put off writing to her family with the news that she had married an English officer and was going with him to England. They would never forgive her. She would never see her mother again—or little Mary.
The labored breathing was slower, with long pauses. Dr. Twifoot had said that even in a coma a person might feel a presence. She put the ring back in her bodice, took the limp hand and leaned back. What mattered now was getting through the night, but exhaustion was setting in. Her eyes closed.
Time passed. Suddenly a sound from the bed jerked her from light sleep. She had been with her Myles grandmother when she died years ago, but she would never forget the ominous rattle in the throat. The final effort of life to stay in the body.
“Oh God,” she said aloud and went to her knees. “Oh God, dear God, take her. Let her go. Let her be free of pain.” As if in answer, there was one last convulsive sound, then silence.
Choking back tears, Sarah let go of her aunt’s hand and stood up. Gone, a woman she had disliked intensely, then come to admire, even love—but what should she do now? When Grandmother died, there was family in the room. Her mother had taken charge. Tomorrow she would go to Mrs. Willing, but for the next few hours she would be alone.
Fighting panic, she was leaning down to pull the sheet over Aunt’s face when the front door opened with a resounding crash. Wood scraped on wood as the chest was shoved away. Someone had split the door open and was coming in. Maybe more than one. She dropped the sheet, picked up the iron poker by the fireplace, and ran to the bedroom door. With any luck, the intruders would rampage through the rooms below, take anything of value, and leave.
There was a long, pulse-stopping silence, then heavy footsteps crossed the hall and started up the stairs. She stood there, her heart beating like a kettledrum. Even pillaging soldiers could see that that the old woman in the bed was dead. Nothing could hurt Aunt now, but a young girl—she dropped the poker, raced to the secret closet, found the concealed catch, and slid into the small airless space.
The footsteps came closer. The door opened. “Gold,” a voice shouted. “Need your gold. Where is it?”
She knew that voice. She opened the door a crack and peered through. Josiah Trent was standing by the bed. A pistol wavered in his hand. He picked up the bottle of medicine. Glass shattered as he threw it on the floor.
“You were supposed to die before I left—where’s the gold? Tell me or I’ll burn down the house.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Drunk—too drunk to see that her aunt was dead, but not too drunk to pick up the lamp and set fire to the curtains. She pushed the panel that led into the hall and ran. Her feet felt weighted with lead as she flew down the stairs, through the back quarters, and out to the gate. A heavy piece of wire was twisted around the post. She struggled with it, cutting her fingers, and emerged into the alley.
For a moment it looked empty, then she saw moving shadows under the brick wall. A woman called out and was silenced. She ran as she had on Christmas Eve, knowing that any second a man could reach out and stop her, but at last she reached the Willing house on the corner. She stumbled up the steps and pounded on the door. It opened. Mr. Willing stood there, holding a pistol.
“Sarah. Why—”
“My aunt just died.” The words came out in a gasp. “Josiah Trent broke in. He has a pistol, he’s drunk, he’s going to burn the house down.”
“Good God.” He turned. “Robert and Thomas,” he called. “We’re off to the Sage house. Bring your pistols.” He opened the door wider and took her arm. “Come in. You’re safe now. Mrs. Willing will look after you.”
She pulled away. “I have to go back.”
“No need for that. The boys and I will take charge.”
“I must.” She pulled harder. “I can’t leave her like that. I must go back. I must.”
He hesitated. “Very well, but calm yourself and do what I tell you.”
There was no sign of deserters as they hurried down the street; Mr. Willing was a tall, heavy-set man. The boys were almost as large.
“Trent, you say,” Mr. Willing muttered. “Armed. Drinking. The Queen’s Rangers left yesterday, so he must have deserted. What did he want?”
“Gold. He wants her gold. He didn’t realize she was dead. I hid in a closet. When he said he was going to burn down the house I ran.”
They reached the back door. No smoke poured from the house. There was no sign of fire. Looking around, they went in. Mr. Willing leading the way. As they reached the front hall, he turned. “Boys, you stay here. Watch the stairs. Remember, he’s armed. Sarah, take me to her room, but stay behind me.”
They went up the stairs. Sarah pointed to the open door and flattened herself against the wall. Mr. Willing pulled out his pistol. “Come out, Trent,” he shouted. “It’s Robert Willing. I’m here with my sons and I’m armed.”
No answer. “Trent, do you hear me? Put down that pistol and come out.”
No sound. Mr. Willing opened the door. “Good God,” he said in a low voice. “Good God.”
She pushed by him. Chairs were overturned. Drawers pulled out. Broken glass littered the floor. There was no sign of Josiah.
Mrs. Sage was lying on the floor, half-naked. The nightdress was tangled above her legs. The cap had fallen from the pink skull.
In seconds Sarah was across the room. Aunt’s eyes stared up at her. “He threw her on the floor,” Sarah gasped. She snatched a sheet and tried to cover the withered body. “He shot her. I should have stayed.”
“No shot or there’d be blood. The smell of gunpowder.” He lifted the body onto the bed. “We’ll search the house, but I suspect he’s gone. Where are Cato and Lorelia?”
“In their quarters over the stable. Terrified to come out.”
With shak
ing hands, she placed the cap on Aunt’s bald scalp and tied the ribbons. Aunt should have been laid out with care, not thrown to the floor. “You took too long to die,” Josiah had shouted. What could he have meant?”
In a few moments Mr. Willing was back. “No sign of him. Robert and Tom will stay and shoot if anyone tries to get in. I’ll take you back. Tomorrow we’ll make the proper arrangements. Mrs. Sage was a fine woman. A very fine woman.”
Robert and Tom were standing in the hall by the broken front door. Mr. Willing spoke to them, then took her arm. “A bad business, this,” he said as they reached the gate. “I’ve known Josiah Trent from a boy. Vain, spoiled, but not given to violence. Something must have affected his brain. I’ll put out an alarm.” He hesitated. “You cared for her like a daughter, my dear. No one could have done more. You must stay with us until matters are settled.”
She didn’t answer. It was taking all her strength to put one foot in front of the other. She felt fragmented, as if the pillars that held up her life had crumbled. She would always be thankful that Aunt was dead when Josiah came storming in, but he had robbed a brave woman of a dignified end.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
June 28, 1778
Farmers in New Jersey had never known such weather. It was only mid-June, yet day after day the temperature rose to intolerable heights. For Sir Henry Clinton’s army, the heat was proving far more dangerous than enemy militia snapping at his flanks, chopping down bridges, and pulling up well buckets. Trapped in their heavy winter uniforms, British soldiers dropped and died by the road; Hessians deserted and fled into the countryside.
Slowly and painfully, the twelve-mile procession straggled north through the Jersey pine barrens and the small towns of Haddonsfield, Mt. Holly, and Crosswick. At Allentown, the long columns turned east towards Sandy Hook. Once there, the Royal Navy would take them to safety in New York. If Washington was to act, he must make his move before they reached high ground at Middletown. Patrols reported that a large portion of his army, under General Charles Lee, had moved to nearby Englishtown. Accordingly, the British marching orders had changed: General von Knyphausen would go to the front with the baggage. Clinton, Cornwallis, and a picked force of grenadiers and guards would cover the rear.
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