“Ah.” He opened the satchel and took out a small book. It was a first edition of Sir Philip Sidney’s sonnets. He put it on the table and ran his hand over the fine leather. A treasure, and in excellent condition. Worth a great deal.
“I am honored,” he said, smiling.
“If you’re wondering why I would part with such a valuable book, it’s to thank you for saving me in the storm last winter. For letting me in and taking me home.”
“Ah, that night. I was glad to be of service, but I must confess, I have never understood why you came to be out alone, dressed in old clothes.”
She shook her head. “It’s a long story, sir, and it doesn’t matter now.”
“Very well.” His sources, when approached, hadn’t produced enough evidence to blackmail the high and mighty Mrs. Sage. All the same, it appeared that she was involved in some furtive activity and had used her niece. There was another mystery. A leading loyalist, she had often entertained British officers. She had played cards with Sir William. Her niece was a favorite with the officers. By now her large properties should have been confiscated.
As Miss Champion closed the satchel, he glanced at her again, curious and concerned. The girl had inherited a fortune, but she looked as if she had been dealt a mortal blow. Why?
“Your family will be pleased to see you after so many months,” he began, feeling his way.”
“Yes. They will.” She took a deep breath and looked around the shop. “You were kind to me when I arrived from a village, Mr. Strant. Very kind. I spent many happy hours here with you and your books. Thank you again for what you did that night.” She hurried to the door.
A few moments later, several of her friends came into the shop. With barely a nod, they went to the table and started to leaf through the periodicals. Miss Shippen shook her yellow curls.
“La, such long faces on the Whig girls last night. If they had their way, we’d be tarred and feathered and run out of town. Have you heard the latest? General Arnold is going to give a ball at the City Tavern. It will be just like the old days.” Still chattering, they left without making a purchase.
A group of soldiers went swaggering by; the new lot was tight-fisted with money and seldom bought books. He picked up the sonnets, went into the back room, and sat down at the scarred table.
A good gambler knew when to leave the play, and it was time to count his assets and come to a decision. Until now the shop had served as a useful front, but yesterday he had been summoned to General Arnold’s headquarters and asked to produce his accounts. Arnold might be known as a military hero, but the man was greedy and had a history of corruption. Any evidence that the bookseller had taken sides might result in heavy fines, even a stay in the Walnut Street Prison.
Twelve years ago, he had arrived in this country alone and penniless. He was now a rich man. He had developed contacts and acted as a middleman, one who kept his ears open and his mouth shut. He knew who was vulnerable and could be blackmailed.
Slowly, he ran his hand over the book of sonnets. It wouldn’t take long to open a shop in New York, though the move would cost him. The British bought books, but the real money would continue to come from loyalists who operated underground and used code names. Men who would stop at nothing to be in power when the British tired of an unwinnable war.
Getting to his feet, he went to a cupboard, pulled out a scrap of brown paper, and began to wrap the little book. No one had given him a present since he was a small child. A surprising gift, but Miss Champion was a surprising young lady. When she first arrived, fresh from the farm, she had been torn between John Milton and her penny novels. Even after she became the leading belle, there was always a smile and a curtsy for a small tradesman.
The shop bell rang. As he went out to serve a customer, he continued to speculate about the change in Miss Champion. He had a rare liking for the girl—and something far more shattering than her aunt’s death had happened to account for that white face, the look of a person in deep shock. Was someone threatening the young heiress? Philadelphia, now in the hands of Arnold and his cronies, was seething with plots and intrigues. Perhaps it was just as well that she was going back to the safety of that small village. Back to the protection of her family.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
August 15, 1778
The day was warm, with a cloudless blue sky and sharp contrasts between color and deep shadow. At the mouth of the Connecticut River, Andrew Warren left the Post Road to Boston and turned northwest towards the village of Myles. This was his native New England, a countryside defined by stone walls and granite boulders. He should be glad to be out of New York, wearing a captain’s uniform. Instead, he wished, profoundly, that he was back in the city, wearing a disguise and developing his new network of spies.
Three days ago he had received a message from Major Tall-madge, now General Washington’s chief of intelligence. Captain Warren was to report at once to Washington’s headquarters, now situated in Westchester.
Tallmadge wasted no time in laying out the bad news. A new cook in the officer’s mess had been arrested for suspicious behavior and interrogated. Under pressure, he finally moaned that another plot to kill the general was underway.
“He swears he’s not an assassin,” Tallmadge went on. “He says he’s only here to help a hired killer when he comes.”
“Did he give any names?”
“Just that his orders came from someone who uses the code name Agamemnon. Assassination isn’t Sir Henry’s style, so we’re looking into those underground loyalist cabals. So far, no results.”
“I’m not surprised. They know how to hide themselves.”
“Too well. Warren, you reported from Monmouth that an ex-captain named Jamieson gave Coomes his orders Christmas Eve. Reported that he’s still in the country, along with his killer servant Landers. That plot nearly succeeded at Valley Forge. Any trace of them in the city?”
“None. The prostitutes and gambling hells in New York know nothing of them, but it could be that this Agamemnon is hiding them, planning to use them again.”
“And it may be soon.” Another pause. “You must have observed Jamieson in Philadelphia. What do you know about him?”
“Heavy gambler. Managed to insert himself into a tight circle of fellow officers and young Philadelphia ladies.”
“Did Miss Champion belong to that little circle?”
“Very much so. Why?”
“Colonel Tilghman tells me you took her to Valley Forge. Not an easy undertaking for a young lady.”
“No.” He waited.
“You may not have heard, but she left Philadelphia and is living with her family in Connecticut.” A pause. “We want you to go and talk to her. Ask her what she knows about Jamieson.”
Silence, as his mind flipped back to the moment at the stables when she realized she had been tricked. “I hate you, Captain Warren. I will never, ever speak to you again.”
He cleared his throat. “Ask Miss Champion what she knows about Jamieson? I doubt if she can help.”
“An unusual request, I admit, but she might know if he was close to any loyalists last winter. Ones who could be protecting him now. We’re after names. Any leads we can follow.”
“As I say, I doubt if she could be of any use. You must have other resources.”
“One of my men is on his way to Philadelphia to question Jamie-son’s landlady. Others are combing the countryside. We’re running out of options and we have to act fast.” He stood up. “The Champions live in a village called Myles. You’ve worked with the girl. Go tomorrow and see what you can do.”
Orders were orders, and the stakes were too high to allow for personal feelings. He had borrowed a uniform and started the long ride.
The sun was hot, and his borrowed uniform was growing heavy on his back. He looked around and saw a tall-masted sloop sailing down the river, maybe off to smuggle supplies and ammunition through the British blockade. Little Connecticut under Governor
Jonathan Trumbull was producing large amounts of beef and wool as well as cannon. Connecticut had become a backbone of the colonies.
Nearby on a skidway, men were working on the hull of a new ship; he could hear the pounding of mallets and smell the tarred oakum.
“Good day. How far to Myles?” he called. Heads turned. Work stopped.
“You’re there,” a man replied. “Soldier, are ye? What news of the war?”
“Both sides are marking time. General Clinton in New York, General Washington in Westchester.”
“What about the Frenchies?”
“On the way, last I heard. Is there an ordinary nearby?”
“Straight ahead. Good luck to ye, Captain.”
His Narragansett pacer had an easy stride. He passed a few farms and dismounted in front of a white, two-story house; every New England town had a designated ordinary, a private home open to travelers. Stopping here would give the mare a rest and a chance to prepare for a meeting that would test his every skill.
A pleasant-faced woman came to the doorway. “Servant, ma’am,” he said. “I’d like a glass of cider and directions to Parson Champion’s home.”
“Parson just went by. If you give up the cider you can overtake him.”
“Much obliged.” He re-mounted. The pacer, cheated of her rest, shook her head and slowed until a sharp dig in the ribs and the sound of a horse ahead put her out of her sulks.
As they reached the rider’s dust, Warren called out. “Parson Champion?”
The tall man turned in the saddle. Andrew could see that his graying hair had once been as red as his daughter’s.
“At your service, sir.”
Warren drew up beside him and reined in. “Captain Andrew Warren, First Massachusetts, now attached to General Washington’s headquarters.”
“You’ve had a long ride, Captain. What brings you this way?”
“I believe you have a daughter, sir.”
“Which daughter? I have three.”
“I’ve come to call on the one who spent the winter in Philadelphia with her aunt Mrs. Sage.” It was important to feel his way. The family might not know about a secret marriage—or Mrs. Sage’s politics.
The pleasant expression changed to one of concern. “Captain, only a serious matter can have brought you from headquarters. If there’s trouble, the blame is mine. When my daughter went to help her aunt, we had no idea that the British would occupy the city. She is young and impressionable. Recently a member of my congregation received a letter accusing her of being a turncoat who associated with British officers. Feelings run deep in these parts. Many people will not speak to her.”
“I can assure you, there’s no trouble of that sort.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. First Massachusetts, you say. Are you by chance related to Dr. Joseph Warren?”
“I have that honor. He was my cousin.”
“A proud name. His Suffolk Resolves were our first step towards active resistance.”
The road grew steeper. As they reached a white house set on a knoll, Parson Champion turned into a small barnyard.
“You’ll want to water and feed your horse. I’ll fetch my daughter from the fields, and then leave you to talk in the parlor.”
The parlor was small and smelled of beeswax polish. He took off his hat and faced the door, braced for a frigid reception and rejection. But when she came in, his prepared speech stuck in his throat. The woman who stood there had changed almost beyond recognition. She was wearing a plain brown gown; her hair was pulled back from a thin face. The rigid, unsmiling look reminded him of Mrs. Sage. A sunbonnet dangled from her hand.
“Captain Warren. I hoped I would never see you again. Why are you here?”
“Orders from headquarters.” A pause. “Your father tells me people here have heard you associated with the British and won’t speak to you. That won’t last. When the fighting is over, they’ll be told about your service to this country by helping to save General Washington’s life.”
“I don’t care what they say. You must leave before the rest of my family comes back.”
He hesitated. This was not going well. “Not before we talk. Is there a place where we won’t be interrupted?”
“There’s a hill behind the house.”
As they went past the barn, a large dog came limping towards them. She stopped to rub his head. The dog joined them, wagging his shaggy tail.
In silence, he followed her up a steep path that ended in a stony shelf of glacial rock. The land below spread out in a peaceful circle, bordered by slopes and a glinting river. The corn was waist high in the fields. After the winter of near starvation at Valley Forge, he noticed crops. Still in silence, he studied the plain dress and red hair pulled severely back. She had suffered, was still suffering. How to break through this indifference?
“I was sorry to hear of your aunt’s death,” he began. “A fine lady with great courage.”
“She was. Why are you here?”
“To be blunt, I’m here on the chance that you can give us certain information. The plot to kill the general in Valley Forge didn’t succeed, but now there’s a new threat.” He paused. “You knew a Captain Jamieson in Philadelphia.”
She stiffened. “Yes, and I disliked him very much. I was extremely glad when he left the regiment and went back to England.”
“That was the story, but he’s still in the country and may be connected to a powerful loyalist.” He paused. “You may be surprised to hear that Jamieson was the officer who met Coomes at your aunt’s that night. What’s more, the assassin Coomes took to Valley Forge was Jamieson’s own servant, name of Landers.”
She stared. “The man who came down the stairs was Jamieson? Are you sure?”
“We have evidence.” Another pause. “Captain Jamieson was part of your group. We want to know where he is now and if he had loyalist friends who might be hiding him. Captain De Lancey was part of that group. He’s a loyalist, his family lives in New York. Were those two close?”
“Close? I doubt it. Jamieson was always an outsider. The other officers didn’t like him. If you’ve come all this way to ask me that, you’ve wasted your time.” She turned toward the path, and the dog followed.
For a few seconds he stood still. She must know more than she wished to tell him. Somehow he must break through this maddening indifference or go back to Tallmadge with nothing to report. He had hoped to avoid speaking of her marriage, but stopping a plot against the general outweighed every other consideration. She was giving him no choice.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the path. “Ma’am, before I leave, there’s something I should tell you.”
“What?”
“I was at the battle of Monmouth. After it ended, I met Captain Colborne’s old groom.”
She stopped and swung around. “You—you saw Gosse?”
“It was a long, hard battle. After the fighting stopped, Gosse found your husband’s body behind our lines. He was bringing him to the authorities. All he wanted was to have your husband returned to his friends and have a proper burial. He said no one knew about the captain’s marriage. Because of that, he was afraid you would never get word from Sir Henry or his friends. I gave him a pass and told him to write to you.”
“He wrote.” She swallowed. “My family—they know nothing.”
“They’ll hear nothing from me. I often saw Captain Colborne at Mr. Smith’s. He wasn’t arrogant, like the others. He always had a nod for the old waiter pouring the punch.”
“No, he wasn’t arrogant. I pray that he didn’t suffer. He hated pain. He enjoyed life too much to die.” She swallowed again. “You— you saw him?”
“I think he had a peaceful end.” At last she was talking. He must try to confirm what Gosse had told him.
“Thank God for that.” She hesitated, then looked at him. “But how did it happen? Charles was an aide. He stayed with the generals. Why was he behind the lines?”
This was thin ice, but he mu
st press on. “Ma’am, you have to understand that in the heat of fighting, there’s always confusion. The old groom was distressed. He said his captain’s heart wasn’t in fighting. He said that after he and Jamieson were involved in a scandal, and the captain wanted to go home.” A pause. “Did you know about this scandal?”
No answer. She put a hand to her head and stepped blindly toward the edge of the rock. He seized her arm. “You’d better sit down,” he said, leading her to a shady patch under the trees. She almost fell. Her whole body was shaking. He seated himself on a stump and waited, not knowing what to expect.
Finally she raised her head. “Constance Brown was my best friend,” she whispered. “Jamieson seduced her. He took her to the midwife in Jones Alley. The knife slipped. She was dying. She sent for me.” A barely audible voice.
“I remember little Miss Brown,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It must have been a terrible shock. Where was Captain Jamieson?”
“Out on a patrol. I didn’t know what to do. I sent a girl to headquarters to get Charles. He ordered me to leave. When Jamieson came back, Charles told him to resign from the regiment or he’d tell Sir William, and Jamieson would be cashiered.”
“Then?”
“God knows how, but Jamieson had that letter, the letter Aunt wrote to General Washington. He said if Charles didn’t let him sell out in the usual way, Aunt and I would be sent to Captain Cunningham. To save us, Charles let Jamieson leave. We thought he had gone back to England.” She leaned down and buried her face in the dog’s neck.
Warren stared at the little flecks of mica in the rock, letting his mind race. True, Coomes could have stolen mail from a courier’s mailbag. Before he was arrested, there could have been just enough time to pass on letters of value to his accomplice Landers, hoping they would reach Jamieson—which they had.
She was talking again, twisting the strings of her bonnet. “Charles came to my aunt’s house. He was very angry. He accused me of being a spy. I—I didn’t lie. I told him everything I did was to save General Washington’s life. He said he would have done the same. Constance—and the letter—they brought us together. He was going to sell out as soon as he could. Take me to England.” Her voice faded.
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