Exhausted, begrimed with mud because of the cold spring rain that had soaked and turned the post road into a quagmire, he was now amazed to learn that somehow word had raced ahead of him of the battle.
Stopping in a tavern to given his exhausted mount an hour’s rest and himself a quick predawn breakfast, a real meal of roasted mutton and boiled corn, all the tavern was already swarming with those seeking news, all abuzz about the “defeat at Guilford.”
He wanted to scream with outrage, to announce he had been on that stricken field, and though retreating, Greene had dealt Cornwallis a crippling blow that forever ended him as an offensive force. Cornwallis would have to either fall back on to Wilmington or turn north to try to link up with Benedict Arnold in Virginia if he was to remain an effective fighting force.
To the tavern generals, whoever held the field at the end of the fight, no matter how much blood was spilled, was the only criterion to judge victory or defeat. He ate his meal in silence, feeling a bit awkward that the importance of his duty had entitled him to actual real shillings and a couple of Dutch thalers as hard currency money to wing him on his way to Washington. He paid for his meal, more than a few turning to gaze at him when the tavern echoed with the sound of real coins clinking. He went out to the stable behind the tavern after silently eating his meal, the stable boy having rubbed down his mount and fed him.
“Poor horse,” the boy said, “mister you be riding him like you fleeing the devil himself. Perhaps give him a rest.”
He patted the exhausted animal’s neck affectionately, having traded his previous mount with the hefty price of an additional two pounds for this animal yesterday evening in Baltimore. The trade had been almost honest, though the gait of the animal was discomforting and for the first few miles it had tried to throw him several times so it could flee back to its stable, but then, resigned to its fate, had given good service. It was just a few more miles into Philadelphia where he would quietly trade him at the military postal headquarters and then quickly get out of town for the ride across Jersey before being waylaid by some overbearing officer who would try and force news from him.
He gave the stable hand a few coppers as thanks for his care and mounted; the animal actually seemed to sigh with disbelief that he would be forced to push on. It was ten miles to Philadelphia and exhaustion for both horse and rider was transcended by duty.
* * *
It was well past dawn when he finally reached the outskirts of Philadelphia. A middle-aged man, dressed in a raggedy uniform, one legged and leaning on a crutch, was holding up a bundle of newspapers.
“News of the defeat at Guilford Court House in Carolina,” he shouted over and over, citizens out early gathering around to buy the paper. Peter reined in, drew out a penny, and handed it over.
“When did this come in?” Peter asked.
“Last night, some special courier for Congress and word sent down to the papers to print it up,” the one-legged man replied.
He wanted to curse. There was no possible way the official dispatches could have arrived ahead of him. It must have been someone else, perhaps even Gates with his own people in the field to undermine Greene and thus win back his position. There was no sense in arguing the point with a half-crippled veteran, and he just shook his head as he scanned the supposed dispatch, saying that Greene had fled the field of battle, leaving the victory to Cornwallis.
“Who you with?” the veteran asked.
“First Continental,” Peter lied.
“My old unit,” the veteran said, “don’t remember seeing you in the ranks.”
“Must of joined after you. Where’d you lose the leg?”
“Valley Forge,” and there was bitterness in his voice. “Foot froze, rotted, fell off, and then had to take the leg with it.”
“Sorry for that.”
“So now I sell papers and get a quarter of a penny profit for each. Take a good look at me laddie. You’ll be like this in another year or so.”
Peter hesitated, reached into his haversack, fished out one of the last two thalers and tossed it to the man, who holding the silver coin looked up at him stunned, unable to reply as Peter rode off. It would mean an empty stomach for the last part of his ride, but how could he eat and leave a man like that hungry. At least at Valley Forge, as part of Washington’s personal guard and then von Steuben’s first training company, he had a barn to sleep in and rations better than most.
His mount was all but stumbling with exhaustion, and frankly he needed at least a few hours out of the saddle before pressing on. Therefore he did not feel any sense of guilt or dereliction of duty as he turned off of Market Street and rather than immediately barter an exchange with the military postal remount officer, who typical of their kind eyed the mount they were expected to replace sharply, and usually traded in kind, he rode on a few blocks up toward what some now called the Independence Hall, then turned onto a side street.
The last half block he suddenly felt a tightening in his gut. There was part of him that chuckled inwardly with his reaction, going into battle seemed to hold less fear but he pressed on, dismounted, took a deep breath, went up to the door, and knocked. There was no immediate answer. He knocked again and saw a closed curtain in the parlor flutter, the sound of footsteps, and the door opened a crack.
“Merciful God, Peter Wellsley?”
He forced a nervous smile.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
She opened the door wide but stood blocking the way.
“Peter, pardon my rudeness for being so direct, but after two years, what in hell are you doing here?”
Elizabeth, so typical of her, and he actually chuckled.
“Well, for a weary soldier, perhaps beg for a cup of tea and toast?”
She smiled, gestured him in, closed the door and then to his amazed delight actually threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tight.
“By God, it is good to see an old friend,” she sighed.
He nervously returned the hug, not wishing to soil her white linen morning dress with a muddy embrace, and then she slipped back from his arms.
“My Lord, you stink like a dead goat, Peter Wellsley. Not to be too personal but when was the last time you bathed or had a change of clothes?”
The question shocked him, but after five years of war, so many of the old and proper customs of conversation between the sexes had, indeed, slipped by the wayside. Change of clothes? The hunting frock and breeches had been issued to him before he set out. His now tattered ragged uniform from Washington’s headquarters would only draw unwarranted notice. But he had no idea when the previous owner, a man who died in the hospital after Guilford, had cleaned them. As to bathed? When? Fording that river in January might count.
“Never mind, Peter, and yes, I think I can find some toast and tea for you,” and she gestured for him to follow her out into the kitchen. As he passed the parlor, once all so ornate, he was shocked. The rich carpet, imported all the way from the land of the Ottomans, was gone, while in the dining room to the other side, the heavy mahogany table, always properly set for the next lavish entertainment, was missing as well. As a boy he had remembered visiting here, the country bumpkin from Trenton visiting with his parents the home of a wealthy distant cousin who had made good in trade, even though some of that trade was in slaves.
She looked back over her shoulder, her green eyes and blonde hair, the way she looked back at him, striking a near-visceral blow. She said nothing, gesturing for him to take a seat in a high-backed chair near the kitchen fire.
Its warmth was luxurious after the cold rain of the day before and a sigh escaped him as he settled down. He could not help but lean forward, extending his chilled hands to the fire and rubbing them.
She stood on the far side of the fireplace, now suddenly a bit distant it seemed, hands on hips, gazing at him.
“All right, Peter. The truth. Why are you here?”
“Carrying dispatches.”
“From?”
He hesitated. Regardless of his adoration at such a distance she had, indeed, been friends with the damned Peggy Shippen and was the center of Allen’s attention now as well.
“Might I ask first what happened here?” and he nodded back toward the empty dining room.
She did not reply for a moment. First going through the formality of pouring some tea, no fancy china, instead an earthenware mug filled nearly to the brim, but taking a china cup for herself and sitting down in a chair she pulled up by the opposite side of the wide fireplace.
“The war of course.”
“I don’t understand,” Peter replied, trying to be polite but unable to hold back as he drained a quarter of the scalding mug, the warmth flooding through him.
“Well, if you haven’t heard, I am now branded a Tory. If not for our friend Doctor Rush, who vouched for me, the house would most likely have been confiscated and though they don’t ride women out of town on rails, or tar and feather them, I would have been driven out and sent to join my father in New York, abandoning our property.”
“But why?”
“Remember. I was once friends with,” she hesitated but then spat the words out, “that bitch Peggy Shippen. I was bridesmaid at her wedding to you know who.”
She sighed bitterly and leaned back in her chair, and said, “Oh, well Arnold was still the hero, any rumors about my behavior during the British occupation forgotten it seemed. Once the table was turned yet again, those damn two-faced types, who have both American and British flags in their attics and hang them out accordingly, like the Havershams and van Dykes, were screaming I should be driven out and the house auctioned off, of course to them, at one tenth its value before the war.
“So it is live as best one can. The mahogany table fetched two pounds sterling, the Ottoman rug, which father brought back before the war and paid fifty pounds for, did fetch five and thus I get by.”
He looked down at his half empty cup of tea, feeling a twinge of guilt as she took it from his hand and refilled it, wondering if she was offering the last of her larder to him.
“You look like a drowned kitten who has been tossed in the gutter, Peter. Can I make you breakfast?”
“No thank you, Miss Elizabeth, I ate on the road; I’m fine for the day.”
“It’s Elizabeth, dear Peter,” she said with a smile, “and don’t be going telling no tales if your stomach is empty.”
“Truly. I did eat a couple of hours ago.”
“All right then, but I did offer.”
“I remember a house full of servants, Elizabeth, where are they?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“For a while there, it was being said that a real Patriot sent their manservants off to help the war. When father fled to New York, I could not abide any slave in this house and gave them their papers. Old Ben stayed on, God bless him.”
She lowered her head and, try as she might, a shudder ran through her.
“He died last month of a winter fever.”
She looked back up and there were tears in her eyes, the sight of them all but breaking his heart. Stink as she said or not, he was out of his chair, came to her side, knelt down, and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Ben filled some of my first memories,” she sighed, fighting to hold back her tears, “I was his ‘Little Missus,’ and he would carve me little playthings and take me for long walks, always protectively by my side. Now, even he is gone.”
She brushed away her tears, and then she looked straight at him.
“I’m no damn Tory,” she said. “Ben helped to prove that to Doctor Rush, who tended to him as he lay dying. Yes, I stayed around that traitorous bitch Peggy, but whatever I could find out as she flittered about with Major Andre and would blather to me, I would pass on to Ben, who risked his life again and again to slip through the lines and carry that information to General Morgan, who hovered outside the city during the Valley Forge winter.”
This was something he never knew about, or heard a word of from anyone, though without doubt General Washington knew.
“And now even he is gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.”
“So your treading into the house of a damn Tory, who when the British were here was all so accepting of their presence, it might taint your reputation, Peter Wellsley.”
“I don’t give a damn what others say, Elizabeth. You always knew I cared.”
Her features were suddenly fixed as she gazed into his eyes.
“So why are you here? To spy on me. I heard rumors to that effect that you work in Jersey as a spy.”
He could not lie to her as he could to near anyone else. Besides, the truth now was harmless and might actually help in some way.
“I was assigned to General Greene’s command for the winter, to be a liaison to General Washington. I am carrying a report of what happened at Guilford Court House and General Greene’s thoughts.”
“Good God, not in writing I hope.”
He smiled and just tapped his forehead.
“Up here.”
“I heard the news crier just after dawn saying we had been defeated again.”
“Damn liar,” and he hesitated, blushed slightly for using a profanity in her presence.
“Oh stop it, Peter, I know soldier talk.”
Now it was his turn to hesitate.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I was asked by a mutual friend, perhaps a former mutual friend to inquire after your health and safety.”
She blushed.
“You mean Allen. You actually saw him?” and there was a touch of eagerness in her voice that left him crestfallen.
“Yes.”
“Is he safe?”
“Last time I saw him, yes.”
“Thank God. When did you see him?”
He told her all, and she sadly shook her head when he asked if she had received any of his letters.
“Only one came through, right after the battle at Monmouth.”
“And?”
Even as he asked he wished he had not pressed so hard.
She lowered her head.
“He wrote that he loved me, and begged me to wait for him, and we would wed after this horrible war was over.”
“And will you?”
She looked back up, her gaze holding him.