Sarah's War

by Eugenia Lovett West

  A hawk was circling the sky. The sun was moving toward the west. He must leave soon. Get back to headquarters and report that he had learned more about the scoundrel Jamieson, but nothing that could lead to finding him.

  He got to his feet and held out his hand. “I’m sorry to have added to your distress,” he said. “I hope in time you will find solace and peace. Now I should take you back to your father.”

  “Wait.” She stood up. “You haven’t told me—I still don’t know what killed Charles. Was it a musket ball? A bayonet?”

  He straightened. She must never know that her husband was murdered in cold blood and hidden in hopes he would never be found.

  “Captain Colborne died of his wounds,” he said firmly. “I made sure he was returned to his friends. He’s resting peacefully in a churchyard. Someday you may want to visit the grave.” He turned toward the path.

  “Stop.” She stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “I’m not a fool. You know more than you’re telling me about how my husband died. You tricked me at Valley Forge. You owe me the truth. Was he killed by one of his own people?”

  The ice was cracking under his feet. He squared his shoulders. “No. Not by his own people,”

  “Then how?

  “Mrs. Colborne, believe me, it would be better not to know.”

  “Anything is better than that. Anything. I demand to know.”

  “Very well.” He took a deep breath. There was no way to soften the blow, but she was right. She was owed the truth.

  “Answer me, Captain Warren.”

  “I won’t lie, I wanted to spare you, but these are the facts. Captain Colborne was killed during the battle by Jamieson’s servant. His name is Landers. Somehow he was there. Somehow he found a way to get Captain Colborne away from the generals. Maybe with a false message. When Gosse found the captain he was dead.”

  “No! Oh, no!” She doubled over as if he had struck her. The pallor on her face was frightening. Even her eyes seemed to have lost their color. She sat down on the path and began to rock back and forth. “Charles, Charles, I killed you,” she whispered. “If Jamieson hadn’t seen you in Jones’s Alley, you’d be alive today. I sent for you. I was the one who killed you.”

  He stood still, feeling helpless. He had murdered in cold blood, but he had never inflicted pain on a woman. The shock could break what little was left of her spirit. He must get her back to the house. Tell her father that she had received bad news.

  The rocking and whispering went on. Sweat poured down his neck. He struggled to find words. Finally they came. “Ma’am, I can only say this. We are going to find Jamieson. Bring him to justice. Make him pay for what he has done to you and to others.”

  No answer. He walked to the brink of the ledge. Far below, puffs of dust rose from the road as a rider passed along. Cows stood in the pasture, switching their tails, ignorant of the anguish unfolding on the rocks above.

  Moments passed. At last the whispering stopped. He turned. She was standing, clenching her fists. Crimson circles burned in the white face.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said evenly. “Now I know what to do.”

  “Do?”

  “I’m going to New York. I have to talk to Captain Andre, Lord Rawdon, and the others. They may have had some news about Jamieson.”

  He folded his arms. One moment profound grief, the next a plan that would surely end in disaster.

  “I understand your feelings,” he said, making an effort to speak calmly. “You want to see that Jamieson is found and punished, but to go to New York—what possible reason could you give?”

  “I can say I left Philadelphia because marrying a British officer turned the patriots against me. I only want to be with people who knew Charles.” She paused for breath. “Because of Charles, I’ll be accepted. I used to be a poor parson’s daughter, but Aunt left me all her money. A rich young widow is fair game. I tell you, I’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

  He hesitated. “That’s true, no doubt you would be accepted, but what then? To go around asking questions would be madness. The city is filled with spies. There may be officers who are paid informers like Jamieson. You would have to watch every word. One slip and you’d be taken to Sir Henry and questioned.”

  “He’d never dare to hurt me, not without evidence. You forget, I led a double life in Philadelphia last winter. I can do it again.”

  He stared out at the fields, grappling with the need to make a decision. On the one hand, he had no agent with the looks and the skills to penetrate Sir Henry’s circle. Mrs. Colborne could be a valuable asset, but the situation called for a cool, detached mind, not one filled with revenge.

  A cart with three women was coming slowly up the hill. As it reached the barnyard, a girl got out of the cart and hit the horse lightly with a switch. The family was returning. He must take Mrs. Colborne down and leave, but not before closing this Pandora’s box of troubles.

  “Captain Warren?”

  He raised his hand. The dog growled. He turned and faced her. “Mrs. Colborne, I arranged for your husband to be returned to his friends. I made sure you heard about his death. In return, I want you to stay with your family until we find Jamieson. When we do, and we will, I’ll send you a message. You have my most solemn word. But to go to New York—the risk is far too great. There is no way I could protect you.”

  “Risk?” The word came out like a bullet. “What do I care about risk? Jamieson killed the people I loved most in the world.”

  “All the same—”

  “No.” The look in her eyes made him step back. “Save your breath, Captain. I’m going to New York—and there is no way in the world you can stop me.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  October 7, 1778

  Mrs. de la Montaigne’s Inn, situated on the Common, was the most fashionable accommodation in town. Mrs. de la Montaigne was a buxom lady whose accent was more Irish than French. Last week she had been more than pleased to install a Mrs. Col-borne in her best bedroom, a rich young widow who had arrived with her own maid and a great many trunks.

  For days, the city had been suffering from unseasonable heat. In the gardens, flowers wilted and died, leaves dropped from the trees, stray dogs looked for cool spots, and people stayed indoors, moving as little as possible.

  At four o’clock on this steamy afternoon, Sarah sat in the inn’s front parlor nervously fanning herself. At any moment, Captain Andre would be here to escort her to a reception at Sir Henry’s headquarters, her first appearance in public. If welcomed by Charles’s friends, she could stay in New York. If not, she might as well leave and go home.

  The clash of wills with Captain Warren as they stood on the hill had ended in a draw. To give him credit, once convinced she couldn’t be shaken, he had acted with remarkable speed and competence. Even so, the following weeks had been stressful to the breaking point. It had taken every ounce of courage to tell her parents about the spying, the secret marriage, and the inheritance. There was shock, much praying, and in the end, forgiveness. Once back in Philadelphia, trunks were filled with furs, jewelry, silk dresses. She left the city late at night in a carriage with drivers provided by Captain Warren.

  Because they must never be seen together in New York, she had received his final instructions at a New Jersey inn. A girl named Abigail would act as her personal maid and carry messages. Nate, another of his recruits, would drive her about in her own chaise.

  “How well do you know Captain Andre?” he had asked.

  “Quite well. Why?”

  “He’s now Sir Henry’s top aide and handles all correspondence from secret agents. Cultivate him, but no matter how well you’re received, trust no one. Think twice before you speak. Remember, you’ve chosen to play a dangerous game. If you get into trouble, there may be nothing I can do for you.”

  The previous day, after a week of resting and unpacking, she had felt confident enough to send a message to Captain John Andre giving him news
of the marriage and her arrival. The answer came quickly. He would be delighted to escort her to this reception.

  By now the afternoon heat was almost unbearable, but she was too agitated to sit still. She wiped her face, folded the fan, and went to the window. Lavender was a suitable color for a widow who must walk a decorous fine line. There must be no dancing, but if asked, she could take part in a number of social activities.

  A small black chaise was coming toward the inn. It stopped. She watched as Captain Andre got out and walked up the steps, a slightly built man of many talents. Charming, clever, ambitious, and not to be trusted an inch.

  As he entered the parlor, she smiled and made a small curtsy. “Captain Andre. What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “It is my great honor to be the first to welcome you. All of us were deeply saddened by Charles’s death. We’d have sent condolences, but no one knew about the marriage.”

  “It had to be kept secret because my aunt was dying, and I couldn’t leave.”

  “Two severe losses. What a sad time for you.”

  “Very sad. I found I needed to be with people who knew Charles and aren’t trying to steal the properties Aunt left me, the house on Third Street and the place in the country. You wouldn’t believe how Philadelphia has been taken over by hordes of greedy profiteers wanting to line their pockets.”

  “So we hear. Well, we will do our best to make your stay here pleasant.”

  “What appalling heat,” she said as they started down the street. “I’ve never been to New York before. Tell me. How does it compare to Philadelphia?”

  “Not well. No lovely laid out squares. No soft red brick. The homes and shops and drinking places are all jumbled together, what was left after the great fire of 1776.”

  “And how do you amuse yourselves?”

  “We British do well enough, but many of your loyalist friends are reduced to living in tiny quarters, looking to Sir Henry for charity.”

  “Oh, this dreadful war. I warn you, sir, I have become quite violent on the subject. Is there any chance it can end soon?”

  “Not soon. The commissioners are still here and in a fever to go home. They feel they’ve been badly treated by your Congress. Sir Henry blames London and Lord Germain for not giving him more troops. He’s haunted by the fear that he’ll be blamed for lack of progress in the war—no, the end is not in sight.”

  The chaise rattled down a broad street, passing a number of stores and warehouses. Andre cleared his throat. “We hear the young ladies in our little circle have forgotten us and now they’re dancing merrily with the newcomers.”

  “It was a sad day when you left, very sad, so please don’t be too hard on them.” No need to tell him about Peggy Chew’s tears or the widespread resentment that Andre had gone off with a portrait of Dr. Franklin, his musical instruments, and a number of valuable books.

  They were reaching the tip of the island. Out in the harbor, several warships lay at anchor. Andre pointed to a statue of King George III, broken and lying on the ground. “Vandals. There, to your left, is the Grand Battery, part of the fort, and just ahead is Number One Broadway. It’s Sir Henry’s main residence, though he’s been loaned a place in the country.”

  The mansion was very fine, built in the Grecian style with pediments. A liveried servant arrived to hold the horse. She gathered up her skirts and stepped down.

  As Andre offered his arm and led her past the footmen standing at the entrance, she was aware that her hands were trembling. This was the moment she had willed on herself. The moment that would define success or failure. At Sir William’s first ball, she had entered the Long Room with Josiah, rigid with fright, but before long, those arrogant British officers had come forward and asked her to dance. How would they receive her now?

  She needn’t have worried. A moment later, she was surrounded by Charles’s friends. Lord Rawdon bowed low.

  “Miss Champion—that is, Mrs. Colborne. Believe me when I say we share your loss. There was no one to touch Charles for good humor. He seemed to lead a charmed life.”

  “Thank you, so kind,” she murmured.

  Oliver De Lancey came forward. “We are all at your service. My battalion is stationed outside the city, but my family is here in residence and will be happy to meet you.”

  Rawdon struck him on the shoulder. “Pay no attention, Miss— Mrs. Colborne. Now that he’s back on his native turf, De Lancey acts as if he’s the lord of the manor.” He looked around. “Front and center, chaps,” he said under his breath. “Here comes Pussy.”

  Sir Henry Clinton was approaching, a man of middle age, considered handsome though his lips were continually drawn into a thin line. Since leaving Philadelphia he had grown a little paunch.

  “I was told you had arrived in New York, Mrs. Colborne,” he said in a testy voice.

  She took a deep breath and curtsied. “It’s most kind of Your Excellency to receive me. I have heard that many newcomers are imposing on your generosity, but I promise not to be one of them.”

  It was the right thing to say. Sir Henry’s face brightened. He looked at Sarah’s figure under the light dress and pressed the tips of her fingers. “My dear ma’am, we owe a great debt to officers like your husband. Will you take some punch?” As they moved toward the table, she was aware that a number of ladies were looking at her, whispering behind their fans.

  A circle began to form. Captain Tarleton was staring at her with hot, heavy-lidded eyes; Charles had warned her never to give him the slightest encouragement.

  Another officer joined them. Lord Cathcart made the introduction.

  “May I present Captain Graham? He joined us recently and has the misfortune to be on Andre’s staff.”

  Captain Graham bowed. “Servant, ma’am. My condolences on the loss of your husband. It would have been an honor to have known him.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. It was important to connect new faces to names. Make assessments. Captain Graham was a pleasant looking young man with a good figure. Nothing distinctive about him except that his eyes were set too close together.

  Andre was back at her side. “I see you’ve met my right-hand man. A newcomer to our midst, but a quick learner. I’m told that we are about to hear a small recital. Sir Henry would like you to join him.”

  A number of guests had gathered in the big adjoining room. Sir Henry motioned to the empty place beside him.

  “I hope you enjoy music, Mrs. Colborne,” he said, eyeing her low-cut dress. A widower, she had heard, and partial to pretty women. Again, he looked pleased.

  An elderly lady in a high powdered wig seated herself at the harpsichord. Major Risdale raised his bow, and the musicians launched into Bach.

  She folded her fan, and sat back, thankful for a short respite, a chance to let down her guard. The old magic was working. She had made a good start, far better than she had hoped for, but it was only a start. Disastrous to become overconfident. No matter how frustrating, she must be patient. Wait for the right time to ask questions. One thing was becoming clear: these men could be used—but not pushed too far or too fast.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  October 21, 1778

  The northern end of Manhattan Island was sparsely populated with small farms and a few large estates. One of the largest belonged to the Dunn family, dedicated loyalists who had packed up and gone to England two years ago.

  The previous spring, the neighborhood was agog to hear that a Dunn relative had arrived and taken up residence; however, hopes for acquaintance were dashed when the sullen manservant who went to the village for supplies told the innkeeper that his master was a recluse. Mr. Dunn would not make or receive calls. He had a melancholy disposition, read books in the Greek language, and found the place well-suited to his solitary ways.

  Even so, a neighbor, Mrs. Jane de Peyster, felt it was her duty to call. Until they left, the much respected Dunns had been close friends. Their children were schooled together.

&n
bsp; One fine morning she set out in her chaise, bringing a jar of her best wine jelly. Every bend of the lane winding down to the river was familiar, but as she drew up in front of the big white house, two large dogs came flying out, snarling and baring their teeth.

  “The horse reared up,” she told her husband later. “I was afraid for my life. Finally a man came running and collared the brutes. Watchdogs, he said, trained to keep trespassers away. I tell you, I trembled all the way home.”

  The story spread quickly. Soon there were six dogs the size of wolves. From then on, Mr. Dunn was left to himself.

  Two weeks after Sir Henry’s reception, a hay wagon and horse drove out from the city to the Dunn’s. The driver, disguised in shabby farmer’s clothes, was invited to drink Madeira in the east parlor, a sight that would have given old Nicholas Dunn an apoplectic fit.

  “A message came yesterday from Agamemnon,” the driver said, tilting back his glass. “He’s managed to infiltrate several recruits into Washington’s headquarters. Be ready to part with your servant Landers. You’ll be paid for the use of him as agreed.”

  “When?”

  “Hard to say. When I get the signal, my men and I will ride out with a spare horse for Landers. There’s a safe house in the area near Washington’s headquarters. We’re to go there and wait for instructions.”

  “What do you know about this Agamemnon?”

  “Nothing, except that he has deep pockets and is determined to do away with Washington.”

  “It had better happen soon. I’ve been kept in hiding long enough.”

  “See here, you’re well paid and you’re living in a fine house. It’s a damn sight harder for me to put on these clothes and get out of the city. Risk being followed.”

  “What about Sir Henry? Any developments there?”

  “He still worries about troops being sent to the West Indies, but he’s going around like a stallion with a fresh mare in the pasture. The new favorite is a Mrs. Colborne who came from Philadelphia.”