Valley Forge (10 page)

"How many of them do you have here?

"Thousands."

"That must cause a lot of problems."

"It does, Mr. Allen."

"Are any of the troops staying under your roof?"

"A few."

They were upstairs in the King George Tavern, a name that betokened loyalty and which therefore attracted regular custom from the occupying force. Henry Gilby had such an impassive face and such an expressionless voice that it was difficult to know what he felt about the British entry into the city. He was a small, thin, stooping man in his fifties with wisps of gray hair around a rapidly balding pate. Gilby had a habit of rubbing his hands together as if perpetually washing them. Ezekiel Proudfoot tried to take his measure.

"I saw plenty of redcoats downstairs."

"The King George has always been popular."

"But you would not wish to have an army of occupation here forever, surely? Do they not drive away other custom?"

"That's not for me to say, sir."

"And where are they all billeted?"

"You'll have to ask them yourself, Mr. Allen," said the landlord tactfully. "My job is to serve anyone who comes in through the door and who can afford our tariff. Damaris and I make no distinctions."

"Damaris?"

"My wife, sir. I think you'll find her cooking to your taste."

"I'm sure I shall."

"We'll look after you while you're here." Gilby lifted an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how long that may be?"

"Not at this moment."

"This room is at your disposal for as long as you need it."

"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Gilby. It's more than satisfactory."

"Then I'll let you settle in, sir." About to leave, the landlord paused at the door. "Do you have business in the city, Mr. Allen?"

"Yes," replied Proudfoot, careful not to disclose what that business might be. "But I also came to visit old friends nearby. In fact, it was they who suggested I might stay at the King George."

"Then I owe them my thanks. May I know their name?"

"Hughes—Mr. and Mrs. Hughes."

"Would that, by any chance, be Pearsall Hughes, the bookseller?"

"The very same."

"Then you are doubly welcome," said Gilby, face lighting up at once. He pulled the door shut. "Mr. Hughes has been kind enough to point a few people in our direction and we have always found them most serious gentlemen."

The phrase was carefully chosen. What the landlord meant was that the guests had all shared his belief in the cause of American independence, a view that he could never declare openly in a city overrun by British troops. The name of Pearsall Hughes had opened a door for Proudfoot. He was now trusted.

"Will you be visiting the bookshop soon?" asked Gilby.

"Very soon."

"Then you might care to pass on an interesting piece of information to our mutual friend. Until now, it has only been a rumor but I'm given to understand that it's become an established fact."

"And what is this established fact, Mr. Gilby?"

"General Howe has resigned."

Proudfoot was startled. "He intends to leave America altogether?"

"Apparently," said the other. "I heard two officers discussing the subject earlier. General Howe feels the task of subduing the colonies is beyond him, and he's aware that he does not enjoy the wholehearted support of his political masters back in England. In other words," he pointed out, "he's grown tired of the whole campaign."

"This is cheering news."

"Of course, there are some who will say that it was Mrs. Loring who tired the general out—his mistress is much younger and far more robust than he."

Proudfoot grinned. "I've heard the ribald stories about Mrs. Loring."

"They are about to come to an end."

"General Howe to go, eh?" said Proudfoot, savoring the intelligence. "That's tantamount to a confession of defeat. He knows that he will never bring us all to heel. When does he leave?"

"He'll first sit out the winter here."

"Ah. That news is not so welcome."

"The Continental Army is unable to displace them as yet."

"Yes, I know. Meanwhile, the city is occupied. Mr. Hughes tells me that the British soldiers are making the most of the situation. There are plays and dances, I hear."

"Plays, dances, dinners, and celebrations of all kinds. They are living off the fat of the land here, Mr. Allen. A Quaker city?" He gave a hollow laugh. "There's not much plain dress and self-denial here anymore. Taverns do a brisk trade and, in my position, I can hardly condemn that. But the streets are full of brawling drunkards at night, and the brothels are busier than ever. There is also a gambling fever. We wallow in corruption, sir. The British have dragged us down to their own level."

"For the time being."

"Quite so, Mr. Allen," said the other, a knowing glint in his eye. "For the time being." He washed his hands with invisible soap. "Enjoy your stay at the King George, sir. I'll see that your horse is fed and watered."

"Thank you, Mr. Gilby."

"And I'll make sure that nobody bothers you up here."

Proudfoot looked around once more. "Something tells me that I have
chosen the right place," he said contentedly. "I think it will be ideal for my purposes."

They had no idea where they were. Blown miles off course and battered unmercifully by the elements, the sloop sailed on into the unknown. Failing light combined with the driving rain to leave them, literally, in the dark. All that Cabal Mears could rely on was instinct. While the fisherman remained at the tiller, Jamie Skoyles and Tom Caffrey heaved on the oars in a vain effort to impose some control. Both were powerful men, honed in battle and used to physical challenges, but the effort of rowing the boat was slowly sapping their energy.

"We can't do this for much longer," Caffrey shouted.

"Keep at it," Skoyles urged.

"Where are these islands we were told about?"

"Cabal will get us there."

"The water is up to my ankles."

"It's the same for all of us, Tom."

"If only this rain would ease off!"

"Pull hard on the oar."

"That's what I'm trying to do, Jamie."

"It's bound to ease off in time. We have to be patient."

Caffrey gritted his teeth and tugged on his oar. Hard though it was for him, he knew that the women would be suffering even more. He was consumed with guilt at having unwittingly put Polly Bragg's life in danger. He called out to her.

"Forgive me, Polly," he said. "I should never have brought you. I didn't expect anything as terrible as this."

"Forget about me, Tom," she said. "Just row us to safety."

"I'm doing my best."

She gave a shiver. "It's so
cold
now."

"We'll freeze to death."

"Don't even think that," she scolded, rubbing her arms to keep warm. "Have faith. We'll survive somehow."

Polly Bragg was a strong-willed, resilient woman who never let circumstances beat her down. There had been many setbacks in her life, but she made
light of them. Caffrey was chastened by her steadfastness. He resolved to stop moaning. Though his hands were blistered, and his arms and shoulders aching, he put additional effort into his rowing. Polly Bragg and Elizabeth Rainham had taken the fisherman's advice and tied themselves to the mast. It made them feel less likely to be tossed overboard but it did not still their fears. Like the others, they were completely sodden, their clothing so wet that it stuck to their bodies. Salt spray filled their mouths and left a sour taste.

"How close are we to land?" Skoyles yelled.

"Not too close, I hope," Mears replied.

"Are there rocks?"

"Rocks and sandbanks along part of the coast."

"What about sharks?" said a worried Caffrey. "I think I'd prefer to drown than be eaten alive."

"We'll pull through," Mears assured him. "The storm is passing."

"It doesn't feel like it to me."

"Bear with me, Sergeant. You'll see."

The change was imperceptible at first but it was definitely there. The wind dropped a little and the rain turned to fine drizzle. The waves continued to pound them but there was no longer the same unrelenting swell. Twenty minutes later, Mears was confident that the squall had blown itself out. The boat had more stability and the tiller was easier to control. The worst was over.

"Let her drift," Mears ordered.

Caffrey was relieved. "We can stop rowing?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Thank heaven! Now I know why I never joined the navy."

"You're a born sailor, Tom," Skoyles teased him, lifting his oar clear of the water. "I've never rowed with a better man." He brought the dripping oar back into the boat. "Where are we, Cabal?"

"I can't tell you yet," Mears replied, "but the tide has turned. You can feel it. We'll be carried back toward the coast."

"What will you do?"

"Wait until we reach shallow water, then drop anchor."

"Aren't you going to put us ashore?"

"Not until I know it's safe, Captain. We've worked hard. We need a rest. We could also do with some food and drink to keep up our spirits."

"We've brought some supplies," said Skoyles.

"So have I, my friend. Food and rum."

"Rum!" Caffrey echoed. "That word warms my heart."

"I never sail without it," said Mears.

The wind had dropped even more now, and the waves had lost their fury. Elizabeth Rainham felt able to untie herself from the mast.

"Oh!" she cried, putting a hand to her face.

"What's the matter?" said Skoyles.

"I just felt something wet brush my cheek. There it is again."

"I can feel it myself, Elizabeth."

"Not more rain, I hope."

"No," said Mears with a cackle. "That's not rain—too cold for that."

"Then what is it?" she wondered.

"Snow."

Leaving his horse in the stable at the rear of the King George Tavern, he went on foot to the bookshop. There was not much to see in the evening shadows, but Ezekiel Proudfoot heard enough to give him some notion of what Philadelphia was like. Founded by the Plain People, the city was a haven of Quaker simplicity no more. Every tavern he passed was filled with blazing light and boisterous laughter. In every street, redcoats were abroad, exchanging loud banter or telling crude stories. When he passed a hall, Proudfoot caught the sound of lively music. Clearly, those inside were not quaking at the word of God. They were dancing a reel.

The bookshop was closed when he got there, but one pull on the doorbell brought the maid. Proudfoot was invited in and joined Pearsall and Miranda Hughes in their parlor. The three of them were soon sharing a small bottle of wine together. The visitor passed on the tidings he had gleaned at the King George Tavern.

"Excellent!" said Hughes, patting his knee. "We've put one British commander to flight and we'll do the same with his successor."

"And who will that be?"

"The obvious choice is General Clinton."

"Yes," said Proudfoot. "I suppose that it is. After his defeat at Saratoga, the much-vaunted General Burgoyne has ruled himself out. That will really disappoint him. He nursed ambitions of becoming commander in chief."

"How do you know that?" asked Miranda.

"I was told it by an officer who sat at Gentleman Johnny's table."

"A spy?"

"A friend," said Proudfoot wistfully. "A captain in the 24th Foot. Destiny has put us on opposite sides in this war but it has not dimmed our respect for each other."

"Pah!" Hughes exclaimed. "I could never bring myself to respect a British officer. They are here to enforce royal tyranny. How can you call such a man a friend?"

"We've known each other for a long time, Mr. Hughes."

"I've known colonial oppression for a long time, sir. That doesn't mean I have to like it. An enemy is an enemy."

"And a friend is a friend," Proudfoot returned with emphasis. "Nothing can change that. Besides," he went on, "Jamie is foresighted. He knows that the war will end one day and he means to settle in America."

Hughes snorted. "If he lives to do so."

"That's rather harsh, Pearsall," said his wife.

"It was meant to be."

"There are good people on both sides in this war."

"Not if they wear a red coat, Miranda."

A bellicose note had come into Hughes's voice and his jowls were wobbling. Proudfoot elected to change the subject. He glanced in the direction of the bookshop.

"Have you been busy today, Mr. Hughes?"

"No more than usual."

"What sort of books do people buy?"

"I know what they
ought
to buy," said Hughes censoriously, "but my customers do not always take my advice. What I sell most are copies of Samuel Richardson's novels.
Pamela
is still very popular, and so is
Clarissa
. They pander to the wrong kind of taste."

"Yet they are cleverly written," said his wife. "You must own that."

"We have American authors who are equally clever, my dear, and who do not find it necessary to titillate their readers by dwelling on sexual improprieties. I am not puritanical," he said, addressing himself to Proudfoot, "but I do like to observe the laws of decency."

Miranda was practical. "We can only sell the books people want."

"It's our duty to foster their reading habits, my dear."

"Unlike you, they can't all read Plato in the original Greek."

"More's the pity, Miranda."

"My husband is a classical scholar, Mr. Allen," she said. "Left to him, all our intelligence reports would be sent in coded Latin." She sipped her wine. "How do you find the King George?"

"Well suited to me, Mrs. Hughes," answered Proudfoot, "though its name was puzzling at first. Why preserve the name of a hated monarch in the rebel capital? I put it to Mr. Gilby and he explained that, in fact, he changed the tavern to the Black Horse and had a new sign painted."

"True," said Hughes. "Pontius is a shrewd businessman."

"Who?"

"Pontius. That's what we call him. Pontius Pilate."

"Why?"

"Haven't you noticed how he likes to wash his hands as he talks? He never stops. Pontius—Henry Gilby to you—is a pragmatist, so he kept the old signboard. When the British entered the city, down came the Black Horse and up went King George again."