Just Jane (11 page)

 

After capturing Savannah with ease, the advancing British met months of fierce Patriot resistance. But by May of 1779,
they were poised at the outskirts of Charlestown. While their friends in the city eagerly awaited their arrival, the Patriot-minded prayed for another escape from disaster.

 

One hot night in late May, Robert Prentice paced the floor, unable to rest. The hour was late, the night air heavy with a drizzling rain. But all was peaceful, and peace was not what Robert wanted this night.

Jane appeared in her nightgown at the top of the stairs. “We'll know if they come, and meanwhile, you need some sleep,” she said in the uneasy calm.

“In God's name, where are they?” he growled. “The rebel defenses are ridiculously weak. The Redcoats could storm in any time—what are they waiting for?” He continued to pace, muttering to himself.

Her advice ignored, Jane went back to her room. But unable to sleep, she sat absently brushing her long dark hair and worrying.
What will happen to Arthur if the British take the city? To Cousin Hugh and his cocky stepson, Peter Quincy? Aren't they worried?
At last she heard Robert coming upstairs, giving up his vigil for the night. Then she, too, finally went to bed.

 

In the cold light of dawn, she awoke with a start. Raising herself on one elbow, she froze, listening. Riotous shouting reverberated in the distance. She knew instantly that it was not the Redcoats. Throwing on a dressing gown, she hurried into the hallway. Robert, fully dressed, and Clarissa, in her nightgown, were just leaving their bedroom as well. Nellie stood trembling at the bottom of the stairs, wide-eyed in fright.

“I'm going to investigate,” Robert announced, starting down the stairs. “Stay upstairs, and don't open the door to anyone.

The women dressed quickly, then huddled on the stairs.
Now they could hear a raucous celebration outside, full of exultant but menacing laughter.

A few minutes later, Robert was back, scarlet with fury. He slammed the door and bolted it behind him. “It's beyond belief!” he shouted. “The Redcoats have vanished like thieves in the night!”

Clarissa gasped. “But why, Robert?”

“The sentry at the powder magazine says Continental troops were coming up fast on their rear. So now we're left surrounded by rebel scum roaming the streets, attacking Loyalists. And they're coming this way!”

Indeed, they had already arrived. The house was assaulted by a mob shouting taunts at the known Loyalist inside. “Open up, Tory Prentice! Tell us what became of your yellow-bellied Redcoats! Are they too spineless to fight?” The words were hurled in contempt, along with sticks, stones, rotting vegetables—anything handy for bombarding the house.

Robert peered out the window at the attackers, then barked at the women. “Back in your rooms, all of you, till I say it's safe. Quickly now!”

Clarissa and Nellie obeyed, but Jane lingered on the landing. Again muttering to himself, Robert dug in his pocket for keys, then hurriedly fumbled with the lock on a heavy cabinet in the parlor. Pulling the door open, he reached in and took out a pistol.

Jane, watching, recoiled in alarm. “What are you doing, Uncle Robert?”

He scowled up at her. “I told you to get back to your room!”

“What are you doing?” she repeated, starting down the stairs.

“I'm defending my property!” he bellowed, heading for the front door.

But Jane got there first, blocking his path. “Are you mad?” she cried.

“What's the matter? Afraid I'll shoot one of our own traitorous kin?”

“You know very well Uncle Arthur's not out there, and neither is Hugh!”

“They're rebels, aren't they? All rebels are alike. Stand aside!”

“Uncle Robert, get hold of yourself!” Jane held on to his arm. “Those are crude, ignorant people. There are plenty of them in England, too. I've seen them. But it's not their fault. They just need education.”

“Fine!” Robert waved his pistol. “I'll educate them!” “Not like that! They don't deserve to be shot!”

“Don't lecture me, you impudent girl! Get out of my

“No!” Eyes blazing, Jane threw herself across the door. “You must not go out there!”

Robert was so astonished by this unexpected show of defiance that he could only stand and stare. Jane stared back, equally astonished, but she did not retreat. Then to her vast relief, Clarissa intervened. “I must say I agree with Jane,” she said coolly from the top of the stairs. “If nothing else, Robert, think of your own safety. You would do battle single-handedly with an angry mob? You could get yourself killed.”

Even as she spoke, the noise outside began to subside. Tiring of the sport, the boisterous crowd was moving on. Robert went back to the cabinet and put his pistol away. Then he turned to Jane, his anger still hot.

“It is not your place to instruct me,” he said with simmering rage. “How dare you defend a gang of thugs who want to run me out of the city. I won't abide such insolence, from you or anyone else!”

Jane tried to respond calmly. “I wasn't excusing them,
Uncle Robert. But look at their situation. For years they've been subjects of a distant king they think doesn't care about their welfare. With no voice in their own government, they resort to—”

“Good God, what am I hearing!” Robert's rage flared anew. “Has rebel fever infected you, too? I should never have let you traipse around unsupervised. Obviously, you still can't be trusted!”

Clarissa hurried downstairs, again trying to intervene. “Now, Robert—”

“No, you both listen to me! We have survived an ugly incident this morning without serious harm. But apparently neither of you has the sense to realize the danger we're in here. Well, no more! We're going back to Rosewall, and we're going to stay there until this city is safely back under British rule, once and for all!” With that Robert stormed out through the back of the house, doors slamming behind him.

Next Clarissa turned accusingly on Jane. “Now see what you've done!” she snapped. “Your divided loyalties just got us sent back to prison, thank you very much! In future, kindly remember that handling Robert is
my
job, not yours.” She wheeled about and rushed upstairs.

Left alone, Jane stood for a long time gazing out the window. Something Clarissa had said had stuck in her mind.
Divided loyalties—is that what ails me?
she wondered.
If so, things may get a lot worse before they get better
.

Despite its grand name, the Great Philadelphia Wagon Road was little more than a rutted old Indian trail, winding south from Pennsylvania through Appalachian foothill valleys into western Virginia and the Carolinas. Years before, the king's mapmakers had surveyed the road as far as Salisbury, North Carolina, pronouncing it 453 miles from Philadelphia.

Some distance below Salisbury, at a shallow crossing on the Pee Dee River not far from the village of Badin, there was a run-down inn operated by a rough-hewn frontiersman named Josiah Hobson. Traders' wagons, farmers' carts, and packhorses with their sweating drivers often turned the Hobson Inn's bare courtyard into a tangle of dust and confusion.

Here, in June of 1779, the Continental Army's top supply agent in the Southern colonies set up headquarters. No one knew his name. He was called only The Schoolmaster.

 

Into the inn's courtyard one afternoon rode an olive-skinned man with thick black hair, a broad mustache, and an aristocratic manner. He regarded the grimy rustics around him with unconcealed distaste as he found the proprietor and, in Spanish-accented English, stated his business. A minute later he found himself in a small building across the courtyard from the inn. Simon Cordwyn sat working over a ledger book. Deeply tanned and wearing homespun, he looked as much the frontiersman as any native mountain man.

“Mr. Roca?” Simon stood and greeted the Spanish gentleman.

“Fernando Roca, at your service, señor.” He presented some papers for Simon's inspection. “Have I the honor to address The Schoolmaster?”

Simon glanced over the papers, then replied, “The same, sir. I'm glad to meet you at last. Please, be seated.”

“It was difficult to find you here,” Roca remarked, taking a chair.

“I apologize for the inconvenience. But for an operation such as ours, a remote location is essential. So, shall we get down to business?”

“First, I bring you greetings from Charlestown, from our friend the merchant and his charming wife. They are well, and much relieved that the British attack on their city last month failed.”

“Or was abandoned, some say. I'm glad to hear they are well.”

“Indeed so. Now, to business. I can inform you, señor, that my country will soon join France in its war against Britain. This does not mean that King Charles of Spain wishes to be seen as aiding revolutionary forces in America. However, it cannot be denied that Britain is our common enemy. In sum, certain interests in Spain are now ready to supply your valiant fighters. And as their agent, I am here to arrange this matter with you.”

Simon smiled. “This is welcome news, sir.”

“The first supply ship should arrive off North Carolina around July first. Another comes in the fall.” Roca brought forth a map. “Our landing site is a heavily wooded cove near Cape Fear, far from normal shipping lanes.” He pointed to the spot. “You may keep this, but guard it carefully.”

“You may be sure of that.” Simon carefully folded the map and put it into his pocket. “I can't tell you how desperately General Washington needs supplies. Food, clothing of all kinds, medicine, blankets, boots—”

“And weapons, of course.”

“I don't handle weapons, if I can avoid it.”

Roca's eyes went wide.
“¡Dios mio!
Are you Americans not at war?”

“Sir, General Washington loses more men to disease, hunger, and cold than to enemy fire. My chief aim is to keep those poor wretches alive. Hasn't Mr. Murphy, our contact in Philadelphia, made that clear to you?”

“His communications with us never mentioned any such thing.”

“Hmmm
, an unfortunate oversight. Well, Mr. Roca, when I undertook this job I said I'd handle life-sustaining supplies only, not deadly weapons.”

“And Murphy agreed to this?”

“Not exactly, but he was forced to agree that we would leave the matter open for the time being. He desperately needed a supply agent, you see.”

“No, no, no, señor, this will not do!” Roca's agitation brought him to the edge of his chair. “Our ships carry all sorts of supplies—guns and ammunition, and all the rest. The matter cannot be left open. You will accept all of our cargo, or none of it.”

Simon heaved a discouraged sigh. “Murphy said I'd run into this situation sooner or later. I was a fool to pretend otherwise.”

Roca waited. “Well, señor? Are we doing business, or are we not?”

A knock at the door spared Simon the necessity of answering. “Yes?” A fresh-faced, sandy-haired young man stuck his head in. “What is it, Billy?”

“'Scuse me, sir. Gillis is here with a load o' goods. And he's got a couple o' prisoners with him.”

“Prisoners?” Simon frowned. “What sort of prisoners?”

“British soldiers, seems like. Gillis says they're spies, and he means to stand 'em up in front of a firing squad.”

Grim-faced, Simon got to his feet. “I'm sorry, Mr. Roca, I must deal with this. Mr. Gillis is a mountain man with a very short temper.”

“Take care, señor,” Roca warned. “I hear such people can be dangerous.”

“They are dangerous, tough, and fearless. That's exactly why this rebellion didn't collapse long ago.”

 

A tall, weather-toughened man with shaggy blond hair stood with several others in the courtyard. “How do, Mr. Schoolmaster!” he called with a grin as Simon approached. “Brought you a fine load of corn, leather, molasses, and—”

“And two prisoners, I hear. Who are they, Gillis?”

Gillis's grin vanished. “Them ain't for you. They're mine.”

“I said, who are they?”

“British deserters, they say. I found 'em down near Cheraw, on the river. They're spies, plain to see, and I'll give 'em what spies deserve!”

Against the other man's bluster, Simon spoke quietly. “Sorry, Gillis, but prisoners aren't your personal property. Bring them here at once.”

Gillis glowered. “Don't you be orderin' me around, Schoolmaster.”

“Bring them here now, or you no longer work for the Continentals.”

Their brief stare down ended when Gillis sputtered, “AH right, dang it! But remember”—he shook an angry fist at Simon—“they're none o' yours!”

The two strode off in opposite directions. Word spread quickly, and when Simon returned a crowd had gathered around Gillis and his two captives. One was only a boy, the other a bit older. Their soiled and tattered shirts once had been white, and their mud-spattered pants were remnants of British army uniforms. Hands tied behind their backs, they stood glassy-eyed with fear.

While Gillis scowled disapproval, Simon inspected the prisoners. “Identify yourselves, please.”

The older of the two spoke first. “Andrew Jennings, formerly Sergeant, His Majesty's Sixtieth Regiment of Foot.”

Then the other: “Edward Bailey, sir. Private, Sixtieth Regiment of Foot. Formerly, that is.”

Simon's gaze lingered on the boy. “How old are you, Bailey?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Seventeen!” Simon shook his head. “Did you both leave your regiment voluntarily?”

Jennings gave the reply. “Yes sir, we did. We were moving north from Savannah, you see, and—”

“And you deserted. Why?”

“Well, sir, we both have kin in the colonies. My brother's in New Jersey, Bailey's uncle and cousins are in Virginia. We know they're fighting on the American side, and—how can you take aim at a rebel knowing he might be your own flesh and blood? It's no good, sir. We just wanted out of it.”