Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (25 page)

He tried to smile.

“Here, let me help you,” she said as she unbuttoned the heavy woolen coat, turning him about. His shirt was plastered to his body, drenched with sweat.

“Let me fetch a basin of water and a sponge. Get that shirt off, and I’ll be right back.”

She returned several minutes later, carrying a china washbasin filled with cool water from the outside well, and was a bit startled to see him standing there, knee breeches and stockings still on, but bare chested. Their gazes locked, then both lowered their eyes in embarrassment.

She soaked up a sponge full of water, wiped down his shoulders, and he actually sighed with relief, then started to turn back around to her, eyes wide. Fumbling she drained the sponge in the basin, soaked up more water and handed it to him, stepping back, hands trembling.

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“Allen…?” her voice trailed off.

There was silence for a moment as he sponged down his sweat soaked chest, then held the sponge over his head and squeezing it, letting it drain out, and sighing with relief as the cool water ran down his neck and face.

“A day hasn’t passed when I have not thought of you,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

“Nor I, you,” she whispered.

There was a long pause again, as he stood by the side of her bed.

She finally stepped forward.

“Sit down, let me help you with your boots.”

He did as ordered and she knelt down, sliding his boots off, recoiling slightly. It was far too obvious he had not been out of them in days, perhaps a week or more.

She felt a sudden wave of temptation … but no, she could not, not now. Not with so much dividing them at this moment. And yet …

She sighed and stood back up, as she did so gently taking his legs, helping him to stretch out atop the comforter of her bed.

“Sleep for now,” she told him. “We’ll talk later.”

He looked at her with a smile and with longing. He held a hand up, a gesture to sit by his side, but against her own will and desire she backed away and tried to laugh.

“Behave like a gentleman now, Allen van Dorn. Get some sleep, we’ll talk more about this later.”

In spite of his obvious desire, he did not need to be told. She had barely settled into a chair in the corner of the room to keep watch over him, when his eyes were already closed. He had collapsed into exhausted slumber, so deep that he did not even hear the knock on her front door a few minutes later.

She did not think much of it as she slipped down the stairs, and went to the door, assuming it was her neighbor, old Mrs. Tennent, who, taking pity on her since the death of her mother, would often send a servant over to invite her for tea and dinner.

When she opened the door there was a moment of such complete shock, she knew it had to show.

It was Peter Wellsley, in the uniform of a lieutenant colonel of the headquarters staff of General Washington. She had not seen him in the parade and had no idea he was in town.

“Good evening, Elizabeth. I pray I am not intruding.”

She knew her expression of shock was evident and a second later, she stepped forward, embracing him. “Peter Wellsley,” she cried.

She stepped back slightly, actually trembling, but let her hand slip into his.

“Look at you, an officer, a colonel no less if I know my rankings,” and she pointed with her free hand to his epaulette.

He smiled in return, eyes fixed on her.

“If it is not too bold, may I step in for a few minutes.”

She could not hesitate, pleading some false rule of etiquette and decorum, for in her heart, she knew why he was here.

“Oh, but of course, of course,” she said, and stepped back from the door, motioning for him to come in. Standing in the main corridor his gaze drifted past her to the parlor, to the jug of buttermilk on the table before the sofa, the empty mug.

“You must be hot and thirsty,” she said quickly, “I was just refreshing myself when you knocked; may I offer you something cool to drink?”

“Thank you, that would be most kind.”

She hurried into the kitchen and came out a moment later with an earthenware mug. Peter was already in the living room, holding the empty one, looking at it, and at the sofa, where she knew he could see the sprinkling of dust from Allen’s jacket on that sofa and floor, and perhaps could tell even that two people had been sitting there only minutes before.

She took the pitcher, filled a fresh mug, and handed it to him.

“Won’t you join me?” he asked, handing the other mug to her, the lip marks of someone having drunk from it clearly visible. She took it, half-filled it, and with a smile he raised his up in a token of salute.

“To seeing a dear old friend, and confusion to our enemies,” he said and she repeated the toast.

He remained standing looking into her eyes.

“Your family, Peter?” she asked. “All is well?”

“I saw them briefly as we passed through Trenton, and yes, all is well.”

Without comment he stepped past her and back out into the main hallway, looking into the dining room, which was now completely bare. Last time he was here she had sold off only the grand mahogany table, but gone now as well were the side boards and the cabinet that was once filled with precious silverware and real china from the Orient.

She followed him. He was obviously looking about, and she remained silent. Could she, as a lady, protest if he decided to go upstairs? He stepped into the kitchen without showing the courtesy of asking permission and went to the fireplace, and to her horror she saw that the sheet of paper that Allen had been carrying had smoldered on the edge of the fire, but had not burned to ashes. He nudged the paper with the toe of his boot, looking down at it, the movement of it enough to finally trigger a smoky flame.

“Burning old love letters?” he asked looking back at her, his features unchanged, still smiling.

She deliberately let her features change.

“If I was, is that your business, Peter Wellsley?”

“No.” He paused. “But then again, perhaps.”

“How so, dare I ask?”

“I received a report.”

“Of what?”

“Why don’t you guess?”

She turned about, and motioned back to the parlor, not bothering to look back to see if he was following, sitting down on the exact spot that Allen had occupied only a short while before.

He sat down where she had been sitting.

“Something is going on, Peter Wellsley, now out with it.”

He sighed.

“I received a report that Allen van Dorn is in this city, even now.”

“So?” and she felt at that moment that she had put on the acting performance of a lifetime, even though he was staring straight into her eyes looking for the slightest flicker of emotion.

“He was spotted by someone little more than two hours ago,” and Peter actually chuckled, “dressed, of all things, in the garb of a Congregationalist minister.”

He fell silent, just staring at her. “I know his feelings toward you, and you admitted you returned those feelings last time I was here in the spring.” His voice trailed off. “Elizabeth, I am here doing my duty as a soldier, please understand that. This is not personal.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Peter Wellsley, regardless of what some might say about this town, I am a loyal Patriot. If you doubt that in the slightest, go find Dan Morgan and ask him about my servant Ben. Throughout the occupation, I was sending information through the lines via Ben regarding everything that transpired in this city, including the information that Clinton was preparing to abandon the city and retreat to New York. No one else knows now, except you, because I do know what your position is now. I believe some of those reports wound up in the hands of General Washington himself, and you can ask him to vouch for what I’ve just said.”

“I do not doubt that, and in fact I already know it. I spoke with him about it only yesterday.”

Again a pause.

“Elizabeth, was he, or is he, here?” he finally asked.

Feigning outrage she stood up and pointed to the door.

“I suggest Peter, that you leave here this instant. I will not be insulted this way.”

He did stand, but then did not move.

“I have reliable reports that Allen is somewhere in this city and waiting outside are some militia that have been pursuing him today. I have been trailing him for nearly four days now, clear back to just outside of Morristown. God save him, he is not in uniform, and therefore not afforded the honors of war. You know what that means.”

“So you would hang your closest friend of childhood if you catch him, is that it?” she asked, and she was furious with herself that her voice did catch with emotion.

He broke eye contact and looked away from her.

“I’ve placed a watch on every tavern in this city where he might seek lodgings. Every road out is guarded, and his horse, a rather fine gray stallion that easily outran me several days back, was found in a livery stable so that way out is barred now as well.”

He fixed her with his gaze.

“I can think of only one place in this city, today, where he would know he would find a safe hiding place.”

“And you are saying here?”

He did not reply.

She took a deep breath.

“Then go ahead and look,” she challenged him. “Tear the house apart. You might even find him in my bedroom at this very moment, waiting for me to return to his side.”

She could see those words struck him hard, his gaze lowered, but, as if to take her up on her offer, he walked out of the parlor, out into the main corridor, and looked up the flight of stairs. She stood silent in the parlor, heart now pounding. He finally looked back at her, smile gone.

“Have you ever seen a hanging, Elizabeth?”

She nodded. Who had not, in this city, across the years? Before the war, it was the usual criminals, and since then, the spies and traitors to one side or the other, depending on who occupied the city at the time. Drawn by childish curiosity, she had always stood at a distance when young, but not in recent years, not since this damn war had descended upon them.

“Allen and I stood only feet away when his friend Major Andre was hanged,” he sighed. “You could hear his neck snap when he fell off the cart and the rope went taut. It is a fate I would wish on no man.

“But,” again he paused. “It is what war does to us and I have seen far too many men die in far worse agony from gunshot, frostbite, smallpox, and fevers. Hanging could almost be seen as a mercy at times.”

“Would you hang your old friend if you captured him?”

He fell silent, looking back at the flight of stairs, obviously debating whether to ascend them or not. He finally sighed and looked back at her.

“The secret is out by now,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Once this army is clear of this city and the Delaware River, there is nothing on earth that Clinton can do to stop us on the march. It would take two days at least to report back what transpired here today, by then the army should be below Wilmington and at the head of the Chesapeake Bay.

“No matter how tight the cordon I’ve put out, others have, without doubt, reported back by now and will continue to do so. In ten days’ time, Lord willing, we will be where we intend, and then it is up to fate. It will be for God, the winds, the strength of these men, and General Washington to decide.”

He held her with his gaze.

“The report of one more bedraggled spy will change little now.”

She said nothing.

He had turned to one side while looking up at the staircase, and as he turned back to face her, she saw he had a light pistol in his hand, cocked.

He uncocked the weapon and tucked it into his belt.

He bowed slightly.

“I wish you well, Elizabeth,” he said, and started for the open door.

She followed him, coming up to his side.

“Peter,” and her hand slipped back into his.

He gazed at her, eyes cold.

“Not a word, Elizabeth. Not a damn word. Whatever I felt for Allen, that is now dead. It is purely pragmatic now. What harm is a report long after we are gone? If anything, it will only sow panic and confusion, and knowing all I do about Clinton, yet more councils of war between generals and admirals, and yet more days will pass. In a week’s time they’ll read about it in all the Philadelphia newspapers—how this army marched through, right down to the exact number of regiments and pieces of artillery. It doesn’t matter now.”

Yet, she could see he was lying.

“God protect you, Peter Wellsley,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.

She felt a tremor of emotion from Peter and his eyes misting over. He swallowed hard, and then as if driven by impulse, he embraced her.

“Always remember what I said to you back in the spring. My feelings for you will never change.”

Choked with emotion she slipped out of his embrace, thinking of the man she loved sleeping in the room above, but at the same time her feelings for Peter were there as well, reinforced by the realization that he was betraying his own code of honor with what he was now doing.

As she looked back into his eyes she saw his features had hardened.

“I never would have believed that even you would offer aid to a damn Tory,” he whispered. “Maybe when this war is over I’ll see it differently, but not now.”

“I think you already do see it differently.”

He looked back at her crossly.

“One more word and I will go back up those stairs.”

She remained silent, her silence, she could see, all but a signal that he did, indeed, know the truth but would not act upon it.

He stepped out onto the stoop where, for the first time, she noticed that several Pennsylvania militiamen waited, muskets unslung and at the ready.

“You’re mistaken,” he announced. “He didn’t flee here. Let’s go.”

He didn’t look back even once as he stalked off, the three militiamen following, one of them looking back crossly at her. That one must have trailed Allen here, she realized.

“God protect you, Peter,” she whispered.

She closed the door and locked it shut. Going to a shuttered window, she peeked out for several minutes to ensure that no one had stopped and gone into waiting at the corner or nearby alleyway. Meanwhile the street was increasingly filled with revelers.