Sarah's War Read online

  The evening was warm. Through the open window, the smell of stagnant water was pungent. This was season for yellow fever, the scourge that had killed so many in the city.

  Sarah seated herself on a carved wooden chair and folded her hands. Mrs. Sage picked up a tambour and began to put delicate stitches into a piece of embroidery. When Cato appeared with a heavy silver tray, she put down the tambour.

  “You’ll have tea, Niece?”

  “Thank you.” Sarah took the cup and saucer from Cato, sipped, and choked violently. This was no mixture of loosestrife and raspberry leaves. This was loyalist tea brought over from England. Her parents would be horrified.

  Mrs. Sage raised her eyebrows. “Are you not well?”

  “I—I’m not thirsty, ma’am.” She swallowed and put the cup down. Spiteful Mrs. Proctor knew that the Champions were patriots who had lost a son in the war. She must have known that Mrs. Sage was a loyalist. When she heard the British were coming, her sense of Christian duty had compelled her to make a few veiled warnings, but that was all.

  Slowly, Elizabeth Sage sipped her tea. She considered herself a good judge of people, and she was seldom surprised. After thinking long and hard about sending for a niece she had never seen, she had decided to take the gamble. To be of any use for what she had in mind, the girl must have looks, or the visit would be a short one.

  With the eye of a connoisseur, she made a quick assessment. Nose too short, mouth a little wide, but the large hazel eyes set far apart were appealing, the hair an unusual shade between warm brown and flaming red. The girl had a lovely figure and a charming set to her head. Not quite a classic beauty, but the gamble had worked. The girl must stay, but to sip her tea as if it were poison— these patriot views must be nipped in the bud.

  As Cato left, she picked up her tambour and selected another strand of silk. “Tell me, Niece, which side does your family follow?”

  “We are patriots. The British killed my brother at the Battle of Long Island.” It still hurt to talk about James.

  “A sad loss. And what has become of loyalist families in Myles?”

  “There were only a few, but they left and went to Canada. The law in Connecticut says that all Tory property may be confiscated.”

  “Not surprising, but you should know that here in Philadelphia, we are not of one mind about independence. Few are willing to risk their lives and fortunes for the sake of a few rabble-rousers in New England.” She put down the tambour and looked at Sarah. “It’s time to speak plainly. No doubt you are wondering why I sent for you.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Well, the answer is simple. Your mother has a number of children. I have none. I’m a childless widow, growing older, and I need to have a young person with me, a member of my family.”

  Silence. Sarah stared down at the Turkish carpet, biting back anger. Instead of graceful hands that plucked at silk threads, she could see her mother making hay in the hot fields. Sitting up late at night spinning wool to make winter coats for soldiers. What could her aunt want from a young person? A puppet to dress? A doll to accompany her around town? She too must speak plainly.

  “Ma’am, you wrote and asked for help. My mother thought you might be poor and ill. She had no idea that you’re a loyalist with slaves. It’s harvest time, and I’m needed on the farm.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Sage got to her feet and went to the window. For a moment she stood there, fingering the spectacles that hung from her neck by a ribbon. Then she turned. “Very well. There was no deception on my part, but if you wish to leave, you may go home on the next stage. I’ll pay your fare. I ask only that you open your mind and listen to my offer.”

  “Offer?”

  “Blood is thicker than water, and the offer is generous. Consider this. You can live out your life in a small, narrow-minded village. On the other hand, if you stay with me for a winter, your life will change. You will shed your country manners. There will be lessons in deportment. You will learn how to conduct yourself in the best society, able to make a place for yourself wherever life may take you. What do you say to that?”

  Sarah didn’t move, but her mind was racing. Lessons. A chance to live in a city. Dress like the girls she had seen walking in the streets. Should she accept? Once again, she thought of James. She could see the pleased look on his face as he marched away with Colonel Samuel Selden’s battalion. James had been passionate about leaving Myles to explore a bigger world. Find out how other people lived. His answer came with force.

  “Stay with the old tartar,” he would say. “Ignore her politics. Learn all you can from her. This may be your only chance to better yourself.”

  “Well, Niece?”

  She raised her head. “My brother died to make this country independent. I will never change my views on that. Never.”

  “Hoity toity, no need to show temper. I don’t ask you to change your views, just not to parade them in front of my friends.”

  “What if the British occupy the city and I can’t leave?”

  “With money and influence, passes can be arranged. Your answer?”

  Sarah pressed her nails into the palms of her hands. James was right. It might be her only chance to improve and better herself, and she could learn fast. As for the British, she would pray long and hard every night that General Washington and his brave men would keep them from entering the city.

  Outside, the night watchman was making his rounds. “Ten o’clock and all’s well,” he called as he went by. “Ten o’clock on a warm summer evening, and all’s well.”

  She sat straight in the chair and folded her hands. “I’ve made up my mind, Aunt. Thank you. I will stay.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  September 12, 1777

  Sarah’s prayers were not answered. A week later, every coffeehouse in the city was filled with citizens anxious for the news of the battle at the Brandywine River. Rumors flew from house to house, street to street. General Washington had been mortally wounded. No, it was the young French aristocrat, the Marquis de Lafayette, and it was only his leg. Some said the Continental Army had been decimated on Osborne Hill. Others claimed that a large number had escaped in the dark, running pell-mell down the Chester Road. Loyalists greeted each other with smiles. Patriots went home and began to make plans to uproot their families.

  This morning Mrs. Sage and Sarah were in the upstairs withdrawing room consulting with Madame Dessart, the city’s most fashionable dressmaker. Mrs. Sage was in the process of ordering the best of everything for her niece: imported ivory fans, silk shoes with jeweled buckles, a swansdown cloak. When Sarah protested, Mrs. Sage had raised her eyebrows. “Kindly don’t tell me how to spend my money, Niece.”

  She was studying a length of silk when Cato opened the door. “Mr. Josiah here, ma’am. He say he have important business.”

  “Indeed. I didn’t expect—well, ask him to wait in the parlor.” She turned to Sarah. “Josiah Trent is the son of my late husband’s partner. Both men died years ago, and Josiah inherited his father’s shares in the business.”

  “What business is that, Aunt?”

  The thin eyebrows went up. “Sage and Trent is one of the largest trading companies in the colonies. Before the embargo stopped trade, our ships carried flour and timber to England. Slaves and molasses from the Indies.” She paused. “I’d hoped to keep you out of sight until your clothes were ready. Come down, but try to hide your hands.”

  Sarah bit her lip. Her father was the leading citizen in Myles. No one looked down on the Champions.

  A stout young man was standing in front of the fireplace, adjusting his neckpiece in the mirror. He turned and said, “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Good morning, Josiah. You must meet my niece, Miss Sarah Champion. She has come from Connecticut for a long visit.”

  Sarah put her hands behind her back and made a small curtsy. The young man looked surprised; then he bowed. “Your servant, Miss Champion.”

  “Sit down,
Josiah,” Mrs. Sage said, taking her usual chair. “Pray, what is this pressing business that takes you out so early?”

  “Captain Denning has taken the ships farther south. He wants to know if he should continue on to Charleston.”

  As they talked, Sarah studied Josiah from under her lashes. His stockings had embroidered clocks from ankle to knee. His coat was of figured silk over a vest trimmed with lace, and his clubbed hair was tied back in a silk bag. Fine feathers, she decided, but there was a sullen set to the mouth, a softness to the chin.

  “... in the future, Josiah, I will communicate with Captain Denning and give him his instructions. Is that understood?”

  Josiah shifted in his chair and nodded.

  “Good.” She folded her hands. “Now that you are here, what can you tell us about yesterday’s battle?”

  “It seems the Hessians under General von Knyphausen went to meet the rebels at the Brandywine River. When they reached Chadds Ford, they halted. Pretended they were about to cross and attack the rebels on the opposite bank. There was an early morning fog. General Cornwallis was able to trick Washington’s intelligence and make a surprise march up the Great Valley Road. The plan was to outflank the rebels, capture Washington, and send his ragtag men crawling back to their holes.”

  “Indeed. And then?”

  “Washington’s intelligence failed him. He should have been trapped, but when Cornwallis’s soldiers reached Sconnelltown, they had orders to fall out and eat. By the time the fighting started, it was getting dark and the rebels ran away.”

  Sarah listened, clenching her fists. Ragtag men who should crawl back to their holes—it was all she could to sit still and hold her tongue.

  “Unfortunate, but I think we’ve heard quite enough about the fighting.” Mrs. Sage adjusted her morning cap. “Next week, Josiah, I am giving a reception to present my niece to society. I expect you to be there. As well, kindly come tomorrow afternoon and instruct her in the dance. Her father is a leading citizen in Myles, but she’s had no chance to learn the latest steps.”

  “Instruct your niece—” He pulled at his neckcloth. “My military duties with the Queen’s Rangers may prevent—that is, it will be my pleasure. Servant, ladies.” He made a small bow and hurried to the door. A weakling, Sarah decided. A weakling who allowed her aunt to lead him around by the nose.

  Mrs. Sage stood up. “About this reception, Niece. It should be a large ball, but too many young men have joined Mr. Cadwallader’s Silk Stocking Company or the Queen’s Rangers. Still, it’s important to learn the steps, and Josiah will do as well as a hired dancing master. Come along. If Madame Dessart wants more of my custom, she must finish your dresses by Friday. It’s time you appeared in public, and I will not have the world laughing at you behind my back.”

  In silence, Sarah followed her aunt up the stairs. Dance while General Washington’s army struggled to survive? Be silent when he was insulted? Impossible to hide her feelings. Impossible to pack her trunk and leave. The clothes—the lessons—a reception—she had given in to temptation. Now she was caught fast in the trap that she herself had set.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  September 15, 1777

  Andrew Warren limped toward Robert Strant’s bookshop, leaning on his cane. Swearing under his breath, he tried to adjust a wide-brimmed hat over straggly white hair. Wigs were the trickiest item in his new collection of disguises—disguises that were the bane of his existence. He had joined the Continental army as a lieutenant in the First Massachusetts. The transfer to intelligence had come because his looks were well-suited to a variety of disguises: height a little above average, dark hair, gray eyes, no remarkable features.

  Last week he had been summoned to General Washington’s temporary headquarters. After the disastrous intelligence failure at the Brandywine, the general was working around the clock to expand his faulty service. Lieutenant Warren had been promoted to captain and given orders to station himself in the city and develop an underground network of spies, informers, and double agents. Men and women from all walks of life who would collect valuable information and pass it to him, risking their lives.

  With a last tug at his hat, he went up the steps and limped into the shop.

  “Good day, sir. How may I serve you?” The bookseller, Robert Strant, came forward from behind the counter. He was a small, compact man; his sandy hair was streaked with white, and his eyes were a pale, expressionless gray.

  “Good day, Mr. Strant,” Warren quavered. “By chance, do you have a book called The Sorrows of Young Werther by Goethe?”

  The bookseller gave him an assessing look. “Please step this way,” he said with a trace of a foreign accent. It was said that this once penniless immigrant from Germany provided a number of unusual services if one gave the password Werther.

  “For information, go to Strant,” Warren had been told. “It will cost you an arm and a leg, but he has the city at his fingertips. Contacts everywhere.”

  As they reached the back room, he glanced around, every sense alert, noting that a small room with a door led to an alley. The bookshop was an ideal place for agents to exchange information—and smoking out enemy agents was now his top priority.

  Strant sat down at a desk covered with papers and motioned him to a straight-backed wooden chair. “Yes, sir? If a customer comes in, I must leave you.”

  Warren laid down his cane. “I won’t waste your time, Mr. Strant,” he said in the shakiest voice he could manage. “I believe the British will occupy the city in the next few months.”

  “A reasonable assumption.”

  “That being so, I am prepared to pay for the name of a person who can gain access to General Howe’s inner circle.”

  The bookseller frowned. “His inner circle? That would be difficult, sir. General Sir William Howe will have his own servants.”

  “No doubt, but I look for a person who will be invited to his parties and can report on what is said at dinner. Better yet, after dinner. Port loosens tongues.”

  “Indeed.” Strant sat back. “Before we continue, you should know my terms. When given the correct password, I buy and sell information. I take no sides. I have no politics, and I have a very poor memory. Each transaction is erased from my mind the moment I am paid. In gold.”

  “I understand.”

  “Now for your request.” Strant tapped his fingers on the scarred table. “I think it should be a lady.”

  “A lady?”

  “Sir William has a mistress over here, a Mrs. Loring from Massachusetts. It would take time to replace her, but it’s a possibility.”

  “I don’t aim that high. I would want a lady who will serve one side, not two. One who is motivated by patriotism, not money.”

  “A patriotic lady. Sufficiently attractive to be invited into Sir William’s circle, and clever enough to recognize valuable information and pass it on. The price would be fifty gold sovereigns for a name only. No guarantees. If I am unable to find such a lady, no charge.”

  Warren hesitated. The man was clever, playing a dangerous game. If he had seen through the disguise, he might alert an enemy agent. In moments the old man would be arrested and on his way to be interrogated. Best to leave as soon as possible.

  “Fifty sovereigns is a large sum. A very large sum,” he quavered. “I must make arrangements.” He got to his feet with an effort and started toward the door; elderly men were apt to have arthritic knees.

  “By all means, sir. One moment. You’re forgetting your cane.”

  “Ah, yes, good day.” He picked it up, annoyed at the slip, then limped through the shop and out onto the footway. Several young ladies were going into the shop, chattering and laughing.

  As he went down Cypress Street, he considered the two-faced bookseller who said he had no politics and took no sides. A barefaced lie, and no doubt his prices would go up in the next few weeks. The shop ought to be watched, but by someone else. It was too risky for him to go there again.

&nbs
p; As he reached Market Street, he looked around. Lead spouts and gutters had been removed from houses to make bullets for the Continental Army, giving their façades a shaved, unfinished look. Bells from the State House and Christ Church had been taken to a place of safety. Soldiers had collected blankets and clothing from householders. Not long ago, delegates to the Second Continental Congress had made an undignified departure in the middle of the night, rushing away pell-mell in carriages and wagons. One man was in such a fright that he rode off bareback, not even waiting to saddle up.

  He walked faster. For him, the war had started on a hot June day in 1775. He had been in his second year at Harvard College, immersing himself in Greek, Latin, logic, and ethics. He had studied late and was wakened by the sound of church bells ringing the alarm. Throwing on his cap and gown, he rushed from Cambridge to the family mansion on Boston’s Queen Street. During the night, the patriots had thrown up a battery on Breed’s Hill, and the British occupation forces had attacked. Now his family and the townspeople were crowding together on rooftops, watching the town of Charlestown burn. He joined them, blinking at the sight of Charlestown across the water ablaze, spires flaming like beacons. In the harbor, the British warships, the Lively and the Somerset, were maneuvering slowly, firing above the transport boats heading for Morton’s Point. Already masses of men in white and scarlet had landed; the lines extended far up the hillside, closing in on the mound with fixed bayonets.

  Later that evening, men with faces black with gunpowder came to the Warren home. Cousin Joseph Warren, a brilliant physician and president of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress had died fighting as the enemy captured the redoubt on Breed’s Hill. “He came as a volunteer wearing a fine embroidered vest,” they said. “He died fighting so some of us could escape after we ran out of ammunition.”

  Cousin Joseph had been young Andrew Warren’s mentor and close friend; Andrew would never forgive himself for not being at his side. The next day, to the dismay of his loyalist father, he had enlisted in the Continental Army, hoping to avenge his cousin in battle. Now it seemed he might have to spend months—maybe years—slinking about city streets in disguise. Watched by a growing number of double agents and spies. Hiding at night like an animal. A dangerous life, but the failure to spot the British on that early morning march by the Brandywine was a disaster that must be prevented from happening again.