Peter sighed and nodded.
Again, long moments of silence. The road ahead curved up and to the left, following the bank of the Hudson, its surface shimmering with the red and gold reflection of autumn trees lining its banks. A company of troops was marching toward them and they edged to the side of the road. The passing infantry wore relatively new uniforms, hats adorned with sprigs of pine or hemlock, muskets polished to a sheen. No rabble, this. They were regulars, lean and hawk faced, even if some had seen only seventeen summers. Though they maintained marching discipline, nearly everyone looked up at him with a cold eye, muttering comments about “damn lobsterbacks.” These were not the type of men he recalled facing when this war had started. These men looked as tough and seasoned as any British or Hessian regular, even tougher now, in fact, because Peter was right: For two years his army had languished in near luxury in New York City, compared to this army encamped in the rain, mud, heat, and freezing cold of Morristown and now on the banks of the Hudson.
The company marched on and they resumed their ride, Peter urging his mount up to a gentle canter, Allen following suit.
“Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember Miss Elizabeth Risher?”
Just saying her name caused Peter’s throat to tighten.
Peter was silent for a moment remembering her only too well. Then he just nodded, stifling his emotion, not wishing to reveal what he had in fact carried in his heart for years, ever since meeting her long before the war.
“Her father was a merchant in Philadelphia,” Peter said, trying to act calm. “We’re distant cousins. You must remember when she used to visit us in Trenton before the war. Pretty lass. Why?”
Allen hesitated, Peter looking over at him.
“It’s just that while we occupied Philadelphia, I met her…” and his voice trailed away.
He could sense the sudden tension in Peter.
“And?” Peter finally whispered, voice tight, even trembling.
“It’s just that, well at that time…” and again he fell silent.
“Something happened?”
“No, not really,” Allen replied, though that was something of a lie. A lot had happened, and she had never left his heart after two and a half years.
Any attempt at friendliness of but a moment before seemed to have evaporated as Peter gazed at him.
Allen tried to smile.
“Peter, don’t tell me that you…” and his voice trailed off.
Peter just looked at him coldly.
“Don’t tell me,” Allen said softly. “My God, she’s nearly two years older than you and I just assumed…”
“Two years might be a big difference when I was fifteen,” Peter snapped, “but not now at twenty.”
“You do have feelings for her then?” Allen asked. He was trying to sound like an old friend, kidding a comrade about a girl both were interested in, but it came out awkwardly.
Peter, still stiff as if struggling for control, looked back at his escort, two old troopers nearly twice his age, both of them grinning over this conversation that they were obviously “eavesdropping” on.
“I don’t want to speak of it with you,” Peter finally said.
“I’ve tried to send at least a dozen letters through the lines, Peter,” Allen replied, “but never a word of reply. I worry for her. After our army evacuated Philadelphia I feared she might face reprisals as a Loyalist, especially because her father fled to New York, claiming he was going there to oversee the family business interests and leaving his daughter to oversee their home, legally signing it over to her name. Their friend Doctor Rush was supposed to keep an eye on her and vouch for her if need be.
“Peter, regardless of your personal feelings, as a gentleman may I ask a favor?”
Peter nodded, not replying, making no offer.
He took a deep breath.
“She was close friends with Peggy Shippen. I fear that association compounded by the fact that her father has fled to New York, now puts her in harm’s way.”
“That traitorous bitch Shippen!” Peter snapped. “My God, if Elizabeth is friends with her, she better lay low until Judgment Day. If Shippen wasn’t a woman, she’d be dancing at the end of a rope tomorrow morning as well.”
Allen instantly regretted telling Peter that bit of news. At this moment Peggy was the most infamous woman in North America—the wife of the arch traitor Benedict Arnold, and beyond that rumored to have been the mistress of his friend Major John Andre when they had occupied Philadelphia back in ’77. Some even saw her as the link of communication between the two.
“Could you at least make sure for me that Elizabeth is all right and inform her that I still think of her daily and,” he hesitated, “that I still love her?”
“I’m making no promises on that score,” Peter replied sharply. “As to your personal concerns, Miss Elizabeth is perfectly safe. Neither of us makes war on women and children.”
“Not what I’ve heard from along the frontier and down South,” Allen retorted.
The tension triggered by mention of Elizabeth stilled their conversation and the attempts by both, at some level, to try to show some level of friendship for a childhood friend evaporated. It was, of course, compounded by the fact that both faced each other, not just at this moment, but across the years in the game of point and counterpoint of spying in New Jersey and New York.
The road ahead dipped down into a broad open expanse, a field of several dozen acres, covered with tents, and a two-story stone farmhouse was set back a hundred yards from the road.
Alongside of it, carpenters were busy erecting a simple gallows—not the trapdoor kind, recently developed and claimed to be more humane since the victim’s neck was usually snapped, bringing instant death, but the old-fashioned kind of just vertical uprights, a crosstree, the rope already dangling from it. Next to it, shovels rose and fell rhythmically from out of the ground, the grave digging detail at work.
Allen all but came to a stop, staring at it.
“Andre is in there,” Peter said, nodding to the farmhouse. “It takes place the hour after dawn tomorrow.”
Allen, throat again tightening, could not speak for a moment.
“My orders are to proceed to General Washington’s headquarters and present a missive from General Clinton.”
“And I have told you, his Excellency the general will not receive you.”
“Major Wellsley, we are both bound by our orders, please escort me to General Washington’s headquarters. If rejected, I can at least tell my general I had made the personal appeal and that your general acted directly toward me as you claim he now will.”
Peter sighed, finally nodded, and without comment spurred his mount, Allen taking a moment to catch up. For an instant there was a childhood memory of having “borrowed” two horses from the barn of the Snyders, who lived beyond the edge of their village, and racing them bareback across the pasture. He recalled Peter falling off and cracking a rib, and how the Snyders, good people that they were, had actually rigged up their carriage to take Peter home.
They rode for a couple of miles, passing more and more troops camped in fields or out drilling, and woodcutting parties working on the stockpiles for approaching winter. It always amazed him how an army of just several thousand could devour acres of woods in but a few days. Allen took note of their appearance, and sensed their morale was high. Most were somewhat raggedy, but they were not the ill-uniformed scarecrows he had faced at Germantown and Monmouth.
The French supply ships, able to run the blockade, had brought in uniforms, new muskets, tentage, artillery, and ammunition for thousands. It showed. There was even a company of French troops, in their distinctive and somewhat absurd white uniforms, impossible to keep clean in the field, out drilling with absolute precision. He could not help but see all this, but of course, by the rules of war, while under a flag of truce he was forever forbidden on his word of honor to report on anything observed. Peter could have required him to wear a blindfold, but had not done so, at least a small concession to a memory of honorable behavior dating back to childhood.
At last, General Washington’s headquarters loomed into view, made obvious by the commander-in-chief flag flying in front and by the guard details, which had, without doubt, been doubled and doubled again since the Arnold incident started, and with it the revelation that part of the plan was to have Washington himself captured or killed.
Peter reined in, and an orderly briskly stepped forward to take his mount’s bridle, then offered the same service to Allen. It had been a long day of riding up from Manhattan, and he wished he could just walk around and stretch for a few minutes, but knew that all eyes, most of them hostile, were upon him. Peter’s two escorts and Sergeant O’Toole, still carrying the flag of truce and looking about, obviously still frightened, came up and dismounted as well.
Peter approached the door to Washington’s residence, a strongly built home, typical of this region of the Hudson Valley, influenced by Dutch designs, constructed of sturdy fieldstone with a high sloping roof. The two guards directly at the door came to attention. The door was opened and a young officer stood there, barring the way. Allen had some recollection of him. It was the Frenchman, Lafayette. Peter spoke to him for a moment. Lafayette looked past Peter to Allen and to his surprise actually bowed slightly and offered a salute; Allen instantly stiffened and returned the gesture. The door closed behind them, and Allen suddenly felt awkward, indeed. Still at attention from returning Lafayette’s salute, he just stood there for a moment, knowing nearly all eyes were upon him. O’Toole came up to his side and that at least gave him a diversion to turn and speak to him.
“Are you all right, sergeant?”
“Well, sir, we are now in the belly of the beast, are we not?” O’Toole whispered, and he could not help but smile at this comment.
“They’ll honor the flag,” Allen said.
“Those first ones weren’t about to.”
“This is General Washington’s headquarters, these are men of honor,” he said, deliberately loud enough so that those nearby could hear, “not those militia scum who nearly murdered us back on the road.”
He said it loud enough so that Lafayette and others would hear of the incident.
“If I’m granted an audience, you just remain here, go over to those trees over there so you are in the shade, and stand at ease. Don’t talk unless spoken to. Remember we are under a flag of truce so be careful of what you say. They might try and get information from you.”
“Soul of caution it is, sir,” O’Toole replied.
“Good man,” Allen replied, patting him on the shoulder to reassure him, even though the sergeant was an enlisted man nearly twice his age.
“Major van Dorn?”
He turned. It was Lafayette. Allen stiffened again to attention and saluted, the two following proper European custom.
“I hope your journey here was without incident?”
“No problem at all once I finally met Major Wellsley. Major Wellsley is a childhood friend.”
“So I have heard. It was your brother who helped to successfully guide the attack at Trenton.”
Allen could only nod.
“On that indulgence of memory, his Excellency the general has agreed to meet with you, and to receive your letter. Your friend pleaded your case most persuasively.”
“I thank you, sir.”
Given Peter’s cool reception, this information surprised him. He followed Lafayette into the house, the main corridor filled with half a dozen officers who turned and looked at him. Lafayette went through the ritual of formal presentations, nods exchanged to each—Generals Greene, Stirling, the now legendary von Steuben, and the rotund artillery commander Knox. Except for the polite words of introduction, no comments were exchanged. He scanned each of them quickly, trying to imprint the memory of them into his mind if ever a day should come when they met on the field of battle.
Lafayette tapped politely on a dark green door facing the main corridor, then slowly opened it. Within, General George Washington was looking up from behind a desk, and Peter Wellsley was standing stiffly at attention by his side.
Lafayette led the way in, then closed the door behind Allen.
“Your Excellency, I have the honor of presenting to you Major Allen van Dorn, of the staff of General Clinton. Major van Dorn, may I present to you General George Washington.”
Allen stiffened to rigid attention, doffing his hat and bowing low. Washington rose from his chair, hatless and offering a salute.
Washington then sat down, but no chair was offered to Allen.
Allen studied the man closely. They had met once before, the day after Trenton when the general had offered him parole and exchange because of his brother’s service. The impression on him then was memorable, a towering man of muscular build, still young-looking in his early forties. The only imperfection in his features was the deep scarring of smallpox, but then again, that was true of a fair percentage of people in this world.
General Washington had aged greatly since then. With wig off, his hair had gone nearly entirely to gray, his eyes were deep sunk, features slightly gaunt, a sense of weariness about him as if he had endured a sleepless night, yet nevertheless gaze fixed unflinchingly.
“Young Major Wellsley tells me that we have met before,” the general finally said, breaking the silence.
“Yes, sir. The day after the first battle at Trenton. You offered me parole and exchange because of…”
His voice trailed off for a moment and the general finished the sentence “… because your brother died a noble Patriot in service to his country.”
Allen wondered if there was the slightest hint of rebuke in Washington’s tone, questioning how he could still serve the Crown after the sacrifice of his own brother to the Rebel cause.
“I had already informed your courier yesterday that I would refuse any appeal from your General Clinton to spare the life of Major Andre unless it was to exchange him for,” he hesitated as if there was a bad taste in just saying the name, “Benedict Arnold.”
Allen watched his features closely. Yes, the general loathed Arnold now, but only weeks before, Arnold was rumored to be among this man’s closest friends and confidantes, and that if Washington should ever fall in battle it was his wish that either General Greene or Arnold assume full command of the forces in the field.