Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (24 page)

Most, and, he prayed silently, nearly all, would remain with their standards and the march would continue, but for this night they deserved, though cordoned off from too many temptations, a night to bask in glory, and at least some semblance of adoration.

Behind the parading troops now came the rather inglorious sight of a two-mile-long column of supply wagons, loaded down with spare rations, extra ammunition, medical supplies, and tents for field hospitals and the burdensome, but for the French, essential, “impedimenta” of their culture—choice food and drink for the officers and even some few treats for their enlisted men.

The crowd began to break up as suddenly disheartened teamsters and guards for the supply train shouted appeals for a least a kiss from the lasses or a bottle of rum, which triggered laughter and even a few friendly offers in reply, but nowhere near the showering of praise heaped upon the main troops of the line of the Continentals or especially those of France.

“General Washington, sir.”

He turned and saw Robert Morris. He gladly took the man’s proffered hand. He had doubted this man’s true patriotism before this campaign, but not now, knowing that whatever profits Morris had made in the war, he had personally ventured in support of this campaign.

“General, sir, we must talk this evening, it is urgent that we do so. Would you accept the honor of dining with me?”

“I am at your beck and call, sir,” Washington replied, feeling a bit of a chill because it was obvious by his demeanor that Morris was anxious.

“Sir, about the pay and supplies you and your men expect tomorrow,” Morris whispered without preamble, “there’s a problem…”

Ten

PHILADELPHIA

EARLY EVENING

AUGUST 29, 1781

For Elizabeth Risher it had been a most splendid afternoon. She had taken the red, white, and blue cotton and silk from several dresses, now long out of style, to create a new dress for the occasion, complete to a sash of blue with white stars. There was a time in her life when such was not necessary; when a mere charming smile to her indulgent father would have sent her packing for the latest style to the seamstress down on Market Street, the same one who allegedly had made the first national colors, but that was before the war.

Half trusted by some, despised by many, and not fully trusted by anyone, it had been a lonely life. She had sealed off most of their once-vibrant home, except for her bedroom, the parlor, and the kitchen where she made her own meals. It was existence on the edge, not a life. Like so many, she never would have believed this war would have dragged on for six long years.

Though the patriotic parade of this afternoon had created a new surge of morale—it was the first time since the summer of ’78 that thousands of troops of the Revolution had paraded through the city—she was savvy enough to know that they were all bound on a desperate bid to end this conflict before winter. The city had been teeming with rumors ever since the spring that the Czarina of Russia had offered mediation, that both the French and English governments had expressed at least some interest in a settlement, and that more than a few in Congress were eager to see an end to the war, even if it meant only limited freedom, as long as there were pardons for all leaders involved. If this campaign should end in disastrous failure, the rumormongers were always ready to speculate. There were stories already that all was dependent on some sort of movement by a French fleet, and with more than three hundred miles yet to go on a march into Virginia, that would be the end of it. By the following spring it would be over with, a negotiated peace—a negotiated defeat.

This afternoon there had been a spirit of celebration, and tonight the city would be tumultuous, filled with soldiers who had managed to slip past pickets and provost guards. There was to be a grand illumination (and even fireworks) in front of the city hall.

Walking down the alleyway to her back door, Elizabeth fumbled through her clutch bag for the entry key. The early evening was boiling hot and once inside she looked forward to just locking the door behind her, opening the upper floor windows to try to create some draft, and perhaps even taking a sponge bath to cool off. She felt the cool barrel of the small pistol she kept in her clutch bag, always ready. That, of course, would never be beyond grasp at any time, even when asleep. She was a young and lovely woman who, too many were aware, was living alone, and on this night of what would certainly be a drunken debauch for many, once darkness fell, this city was not the safest place to be.

As she drew out her key, her other hand rested on the grip of the pistol.

“Elizabeth?”

Startled, she dropped the key, drew the pistol out of her clutch bag, and cocked it.

There was a sigh from within the carriage house.

“Am I such an enemy now?”

“My God. Allen?”

He stepped out of the shadows, hands held wide to either side, and she saw that smile of his, that sad, charming smile of his that was always so overwhelming to her soul.

They stood silent, staring at each other in disbelief, her hands shaking with the shock of surprise and now, also, at his mere presence.

“Perhaps turn the pistol to one side,” he suggested. “The trigger is rather light on some of them.”

She lowered the weapon and then looked nervously to the windows of her neighbors on either side. No one was home in either adjoining house; nearly the entire city was down on Market Street celebrating.

“In the name of heaven, what are you doing here?”

“Perhaps we could talk inside?”

She nodded, bent over to sweep up the key, opened the door, and motioned for him to dart in. Slamming the door shut behind them, she stood gazing at him. They were only inches apart and then, driven by mutual impulse, were in each other’s arms for a long embrace. Elizabeth was shaking, struggling to hold back tears.

Their lips brushed lightly and with that she finally broke the embrace, suddenly fearful of her own reaction and what might happen next. Now the two were several feet apart, both a bit shy, nervous, hesitant.

“You didn’t answer me,” she finally gasped. “Exactly what on earth are you doing here? Last I heard you were still a damn Loyalist stationed in New York.”

“Damn Loyalist? I recall you at many a fete when we were stationed here.”

She did not reply.

“You still are a Loyalist?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, I am in service to the Crown.”

“As what?”

“I think my being here now makes that obvious.”

“A spy.”

“Rather a nasty and dishonorable word, spy. Prefer to think it is loyal service to a just cause.”

Her gaze swept his garb. Of all things, he was dressed as a man of the cloth, dust covered, face sweat streaked, smelling of horse, obviously having ridden long and hard this day. He did look a bit absurd in the garb of a Congregationalist minister and she had to suppress a smile, but still there was a ripple of fear.

“If you are caught like that, you know they will hang you.”

“The Rebels seem to take a certain pleasure in hanging,” he replied sharply.

She knew to what he was referencing.

“I am so sorry about your friend John. He was a true gentleman and deserved a better fate.”

“Washington didn’t think so.”

“Allen, he was caught behind the lines in civilian garb, as you are now.”

“Thanks to that bitch friend of yours Peggy,” and now there was a flash of anger.

She shared his disgust regarding Peggy Shippen and the role all suspected she had really played in turning her husband, Benedict, into a traitor. Perhaps even drawing a former lover into the scheme as well, but she did not react.

“Why in God’s name are you here?”

He sighed, taking off his hat to wipe his brow.

“May I trouble you for something cool to drink first? I am parched.”

Elizabeth hurried down to the cellar and debated for a moment as to whether to fetch one of the few remaining bottles of wine or rum, but she decided Allen needed to keep a clear head and came back up with a cool pitcher of buttermilk, pouring him a glass, which he took almost greedily and gulped down. She went into the parlor and cautiously looked out the windows. A few half-drunk revelers were out in the street. A fifer staggered by, playing a poor rendition of “Chester,” but no one noticed as she opened the windows, closed the shutters, and then pulled the windows back down. Then she called him in to sit down on the sofa, where she settled in by his side, tempted to lean in close against him, but fighting the urge down.

“Now tell me why you were hiding in my carriage house?”

“In hopes of seeing you,” he offered back forcing a weary smile.

“No, seriously. Not a single word from you since your letter a year ago…”

“I sent more than a dozen,” he said.

“Well, only one got through,” and she said it with a bit of pique.

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but, after all, there is a war going on and no longer a daily coach or postal rider between New York and Philadelphia.”

“What happened today? Were you seen?” she snapped. “My God, if you are spotted you are dead.”

“I was spotted.”

“Go on,” she said nervously.

He began his story, telling of observing the troops crossing the Hudson, reporting this to Clinton, then without orders venturing a foray as far as Chatham in Jersey and nearly being captured by Peter. Rather than wasting time crossing back to New York with what Clinton would dismiss as a dubious report at best, he had sent Jamie across with a written dispatch. He stole a minister’s clothes in the hamlet of Mill Burn, forged a pass that he was to be allowed through the lines to attend to the funeral of his father in West Chester, and had actually crossed the Delaware river on the same boat as a company of New York troops. He had then ridden on this morning straight into Philadelphia. Before even arriving in the city, all was clear to him: Washington’s still-rumored but obvious destination, and how many regiments of Continentals and French troops were in the line of march. He had even watched some of the parade, until a suspicious glance from a Philadelphia militiaman, who approached him and openly accused him of being a British officer who had occupied the city three years before and a friend of the damn traitor Peggy Shippen, had sent him fleeing. A hue and cry had gone up that there was a damn Loyalist spy right in the middle of the procession, most likely bent on murdering General Washington or some other such mayhem.

If that had been his intent, it certainly would have been easy enough. For a brief moment, in all the swirling confusion and back slapping and hand shaking after the parade had passed, he had been within easy pistol-shot range of their general. Even if the opportunity had been presented to him, he would have refused it without hesitation. The general had shown him pity after the death of his brother at Trenton, and treated him with courtesy the year before, even though the appeal he carried for Andre had been refused out of hand. If Washington was fated to die in this war, let it be with the honor the man deserved, even though he was a sworn enemy leading a cause Allen opposed.

He knew that any attempt to find refuge in a tavern or public house was far too risky, and, though he would not admit it to her, this was the one place he knew he could find safe hiding. He also wanted to see her after being so long apart.

She listened to his story without saying a word, interrupting to fetch him another drink of buttermilk and a thick slice of ham, which he devoured with a pale attempt to conceal just how hungry he was after two days of hard riding. He had stopped only to water and let his mount graze a bit before pushing on, for every inn along the main pike was packed with boisterous militia, and the risk was always that the closer he came to his birthplace in Trenton, someone might recognize him. Besides, no true Congregationalist minister would set foot into a tavern to seek sustenance.

“What will you do now?” she finally asked.

He looked at her, his exhaustion evident.

“I have all I need to know for certain. I counted the troops as they passed, the artillery, the dragoons, even the supply wagons.” He reached down to his boot, slipped his hand in, and pulled out a soiled folded up sheet of paper and unfolding it, held it up.

She glanced at it in horror.

“For God’s sake, Allen, give me that,” and she snatched it from his hand.

He was startled by her gesture.

“You have it memorized.”

“Not really.”

“Then do so now. You get caught with that in your boot and you’ll die like our friend Andre. Memorize it if you must.”

He scanned it several times and finally nodded. She grabbed it back, crumpling it, and went into the kitchen where a low fire, in spite of the summer heat, smoldered in the oversize brick fireplace. She threw it in.

Elizabeth came back into the parlor, and gazed at him with hands on hips.

“When was the last time you slept?”

He shook his head wearily.

“I don’t know, I think two days ago. I did have a brief nap in a field this morning north of West Chester just before dawn.”

“You must be absolutely befuddled, Allen, to do something so stupid as to write down that note. Some spy you are! Now follow me.”

He stood up and she took his hand, leading him to the stairs.

“Where is everybody? Your mother, your servant Ben?”

“I’m alone. Mother died last winter as did Ben.”

He looked into her eyes. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

She did not reply as she led him up the stairs, opened the door to her bedroom, and guided him in.

“At least wait until dark. By midnight most of the town will be drunk and you should be able to slip out unseen.”

“I don’t dare go back to fetch my horse. I left him at a stable several blocks from here, but chances are the word is out about me and they’ll have someone waiting there.”

She took that in and then actually chuckled.

“You know, you look absolutely absurd in that minister’s cloth. It doesn’t even fit you right.”