The Rebel's Return (10 page)

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Winter arrived soon after Nicholas departed to rejoin the army, and along with the cold weather came the Continental Army to the banks of the Delaware, in an ignominious flight from the enemy across New Jersey. During the second week of December word reached Philadelphia that Washington’s army had collected sufficient boats and crossed the river, camping north of the city. The citizens trembled and a sense of dread fell over the town, for the enemy would surely be close behind, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that Philadelphia was their quest.

“Once the British get to Philadelphia, this rebellion will be over,” Phoebe heard Edmund remark to Alice as they sat in the parlor together one evening. “And that won’t be long now. Congress has run away, and they wouldn’t do that if they didn’t believe the King’s men would be here soon. And they granted the powers of a military dictatorship to Washington! Didn’t I say Washington would end up as another Cromwell if the rebels win this war? It’s beginning already!”

Phoebe remembered their previous conversation on the subject, back in September. Edmund had said then that Washington simply wanted political power and that he would eventually become a dictator like all other military conquerors. Could Edmund be right? She knew very little about Washington, or the members of Congress, for that matter—she knew none of them personally. Maybe they really did just want money and power. Would they bully and oppress and exploit middling families like the Fullers if they were able to overthrow the British in America? Or did they really believe in the ideals they were disseminating in revolutionary writings like the Declaration of Independence and
Common Sense
? How could an average girl like Phoebe ever be sure?

Alice shuddered, stabbing her needle through the ripped breeches she was mending. “I just pray the British get here first, and not the Hessians. Surely they’ll treat us better. Don’t you believe so?”

“Of course.” Edmund smiled and pushed a stray piece of her golden hair back into place. “Don’t be afraid. I don’t think you need to worry about anything.”

“But the Hessians are right across the river in Trenton! How do we know they won’t wipe out Washington’s army and treat us the same way they’re treating all the people in New Jersey? Or maybe Washington’s men will just run away like they’ve done a dozen times before. Oh, Edmund, I’ve been so scared I can’t sleep at night! I just want this horrid conflict to be over so we can go back to life the way it was before!”

Phoebe knew Alice was far from alone in her fears. Rumors were flying rampant around the city and the population was close to panic.

One night in the middle of December Phoebe was wakened from a sound sleep by a banging on the front door. Glancing at the tiny window, she could see that it was still black outside. She and Alice sat up in bed and listened as their father’s footsteps approached the door. They heard voices tense with alarm, and then their mother’s voice rising above the others in fear. A moment later Sarah’s footsteps came running up the stairs and into their room.

“Wake up, girls!” Their mother carried a burning pine knot, her face white and distorted in the flickering light. “We have to get dressed and start packing right away. General Washington is planning to burn the city to keep the British from seizing it.”

Phoebe and Alice looked at each other in horror. “Burn the city?”

“Hurry.” Sarah’s voice was sharp. “Pack your clothes and make sure Sally packs hers as well. As soon as you are ready come downstairs and help me decide what we can take with us. Your father is hitching up the wagon. We don’t have much time.” She vanished through the door and Phoebe heard her waking the boys in the room across the hall.

Alice and Phoebe tumbled out of bed and pulled on petticoats and waistcoats. Still groggy from sleep, they gathered together their best clothes and packed them in a small trunk. When they finished, Alice hurried downstairs to help her mother while Phoebe went to her brothers’ room to oversee their packing. Even her brothers were terrified by the war so close to their home. The five children piled their belongings by the front door and joined their mother around the kitchen table.

“How do we know when they plan to do this?” Alice’s pretty face was paler than normal. “Surely they wouldn’t set fire to the city without giving us all time to leave, would they?”

“Is our house going to burn?” Sally was close to tears.

“We don’t know.” Her mother’s tone was more abrupt than normal. “That’s why we need to be prepared. Your father has gone out to try to learn what he can.”

For the next two hours they spoke in tense whispers and paced the floors and moved back and forth to the windows, awaiting their father’s return. When he appeared he had little fresh intelligence to offer. He had not been able to either confirm or disprove the rumor, but he had seen no fires. Finally, as light appeared on the eastern horizon, the family returned to bed to snatch a few hours of sleep before the new day.

In the morning Sarah sent Phoebe to the Kirbys’ house to learn what she could from her more enlightened friends. As Phoebe crossed the streets, she thought the city looked normal, but with fewer people outdoors, and a more subdued atmosphere than usual. A hush seemed to lie over the town, as if everyone were waiting for something and knew not what. But she saw no sign of fires, and could smell no smoke.

“We heard the rumors too, but my father is inclined to disbelieve them,” Rhoda told Phoebe as she let her into the house. “He’s gone out to contact his friends among the Associators to see what he can learn.”

Phoebe waited for an hour, and was rewarded for her patience when Mr. Kirby returned home with an expression of great relief.

“General Putnam has denied there is any plan to burn the city,” he informed his family.  “It seemed like a mad notion to me in the first place. No one ever thought of burning New York, after all. It just shows how panicky everyone is, when these ridiculous rumors start from nothing at all.”

The women exchanged glances of supreme relief. “Thank heaven,” Mrs. Kirby sighed.

“Now all we have to worry about is the Hessians,” Phoebe added.

Cries for Washington’s replacement grew louder and stronger, and several days later Phoebe learned from Rhoda that some of the Philadelphia militia had been called to join the army, although her father’s company had not been chosen.

“Papa says more and more men are deserting every day,” Rhoda told her gravely, “and even worse, the ones who remain will have their terms expire at the end of the year. So on New Year’s Day Washington might suddenly be left with no army at all.”

“What a Christmas!” Phoebe sighed, comparing this cold, dismal month with its sense of dread and impending disaster to former happy, peaceful celebrations.  

Her mother agreed. “I don’t even want to celebrate Christmas this year,” she told her husband that night at supper. “It doesn’t seem right, with George in the army and this terrible war right on our doorstep.”

“No Christmas?” Sally echoed, glancing from her mother to her father in dismay.

“I don’t know,” her father said slowly. “It is still the birthday of our Lord. Should we give thanks only when things are going well for us?”

Sarah was silent for a moment, then sighed. “At least I could invite my brother’s family to share our dinner that day. ’Twould be a proper gesture, although I won’t be in a holiday spirit.”

“I have a surprise already planned for Christmas,” her husband told them with a twinkle in his eye, but he refused to give them any hints. “We will have it by Christmas Eve.”

Chapter Eight

Nicholas dug his coldest hand deep into his pocket and tried to manage the reins with his free one. He bent his head against the gust of wind which threatened to sweep away his cocked felt hat. Only December, and it already felt like February. What would February be like? Perhaps they would be lucky and spring would come early next year. But right now spring seemed very far away.

How far had he gone since the fork in the road? Had he made a wrong turn? Perhaps a mile back he had passed a farmhouse, with no sign of the inhabitants. Should he ride back and go to the door? With a little luck they might invite him inside to warm himself. But no, better to keep going. Surely he would pass another farm soon, or come to a village.

His ears perked up as the wind slackened for a minute and far off he could hear the trudge of footsteps and rattle of wheels on the road. Was it his imagination? He nudged Syllabub to a trot and was rewarded when he rounded the bend in the road and spotted a farmer coming toward him, driving a wagon filled with a load of wood. Nicholas reined in when he reached the side of his fellow traveler.

“Good day, friend.” Nicholas lifted a hand in greeting. “Cold day today, isn’t it?”

The man grunted in return.

“Perhaps you could tell me,” Nicholas persisted, “am I on the road to the British camp? Is it far from here?”

“Blasted redcoats,” the man grumbled. “All over this country like a flock of crows in harvest. Aye, you’re on the right road. Just follow it another five miles or more, and you’ll reach the camp.”

“Thank you.” Nicholas nodded farewell.

The man eyed him with suspicion or curiosity, Nicholas wasn’t sure which. “You’re a peddler, I take it?”

Nicholas laughed. “Aye, and I’ve found the redcoats have plenty of silver in their pockets. More than the rebels, for sure.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” the man mumbled. With a grunt to his mule he started his wagon.

Nicholas nudged Syllabub into motion again, relieved by this conversation. Although many residents of New Jersey had rushed to swear an oath of allegiance to the Crown, in reality they had no liking for the swarm of soldiers who had descended on their land. Both the British and Hessians had difficulty distinguishing between Whigs and Tories in their treatment of the locals, which did not endear them to either side.

Nearly an hour passed before he saw any sign of the British camp. He passed through a small village which resembled the countless small villages dotting the New Jersey countryside. A bit farther on he spotted a farmhouse surrounded by a bustle of activity, resembling a colony of red ants. The farmhouse had no doubt been commandeered by the British.

He pulled Syllabub to a halt and took a deep breath, his heart beginning to race under the rough kersey shirt he wore. Gone was the uniform which had been the envy of so many lesser men in the ranks. Instead he wore the clothes of a laborer: leather breeches, worsted stockings with gaiters, and a kerchief around his neck under his heavy coat. Surely he looked the part. Surely no one would guess. No one had so far. And he carried no papers to reveal his identity. His only real danger would be if he happened to meet with someone who recognized him. And that was not at all likely.

He told himself these things every time before he rode into a British camp, but he could not completely dispel the feeling that he was putting his head into a noose, that he only had a few seconds before the noose would tighten and he could no longer withdraw it.

God help me,
he prayed.
I’ve never been much of a Christian, I know. Maybe I don’t have the right to ask for help. But Lord, if you care about me at all, help me to get in and out of this camp safely.

He knew he should move; he knew he should approach the camp before someone spotted him and wondered what he was doing, loitering there on the road outside. Quelling the nervous dance in his stomach, he rode forward to the wagon path that led from the road to the farmhouse. A pair of sentries stopped him and one spoke.

“What is your business here?” The man spoke with an odd accent unlike any Nicholas was familiar with in the colonies.
How strange,
he reflected.
Here in America we are even beginning to talk differently from the people in England.

He dismounted, holding Syllabub by the reins. “I have tobacco for sale. The best tobacco, straight from Virginia. Excellent snuff and pipe tobacco. Do you want to see?”

Before they could object, he opened his saddlebags and pulled out a sample of his wares. One of the men leaned closer and sniffed; Nicholas could smell his rancid breath. The two sentries exchanged a glance.

“We need to search him,” one of them said.

Nicholas laughed. “I’d be happy to strip down to my breeches for you fellows, but ’tis beastly cold out here. Is there somewhere warmer we could go? I’d be grateful to get out of this wind.”

One of the sentries opened Nicholas’s coat, stuck his hands in his pockets, and patted him for weapons and the crinkling of paper. Nicholas took his knife from his pocket and displayed it for them. “This is the only weapon I carry, friends,” he smiled.

The sentries seemed to relax, disarmed by his geniality. One of them shrugged. “There are some men in the barn, and you see the ones working in the yard. Some of them might be interested in your snuff. You can warm up by the fire for a few minutes.”

“Thank you kindly.” Nicholas remounted Syllabub, saluted the two men, and started up the long path.

He headed directly for the barn, where he saw a small fire surrounded by a cluster of redcoats. Nicholas dismounted again when he reached the group around the fire. He greeted them and began unpacking his wares. The soldiers, bored and eager for any diversion, gathered around him with curiosity.

“Do ye have any rum?” asked a tall, unshaven soldier with a thin reddish beard in the same unusual accent Nicholas had noted before.

“We have plenty of rum,” another objected. “I just want me a girl.”

There was a round of laughter and coarse jesting. Nicholas grinned around at the circle.

“I have no rum nor girls either, in my bags, I’m sorry to say. But I did manage to pick up a couple of bottles of peach brandy in my travels.” He displayed them to the curious cluster.

One portly soldier took the bottle in his hands and turned it around in a caressing gesture. “How much?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Two shillings.”

“Two shillings!” The man sounded outraged, but he did not return the bottle.

Nicholas shrugged again. “’Tis fine peach brandy, made by one of the good wives of New Jersey. My grandmother used to make brandy just like this, and it was the sweetest nectar this side of heaven.”

“One shilling,” the man countered.

“Let me see.” Nicholas turned over the remaining bottle in his hands. “Twenty pence, and you have yourself a bargain.”

The soldier hesitated a second, shook the bottle, and then dug in his pocket for a coin. “I only have a shilling.”

“I’ll give you the eight pence,” someone added, “if you’ll give me half of that brandy.”

Nicholas pocketed the money and turned to another soldier who wanted to buy snuff. He smiled and joked with the men as he conducted his trade, waiting for the best moment.

“I hope you fellows intend to stay around here for a while.” He handed a third man a box of tobacco and pocketed the coins. “We’re mighty grateful to have protection from those blamed rebels who are tearing the country apart.”

“Those rebels can’t stand against the King’s army,” one of the men boasted. “A gang of yokels with sticks and stones is all they are. No discipline, and deserting right and left from what I hear.”

“They hate the bayonets.” The portly soldier with the peach brandy waved the bottle at Nicholas as he spoke. “They’ll fire their muskets at us, but as soon as we start a bayonet charge, they turn and scatter like a bunch of little scared rabbits.”

“You can’t blame them,” Nicholas pointed out. “Look at their generals. Look at their officers. Not a real gentleman in the lot. Washington is the commander-in-chief of the army, and who is he? Just a planter from Virginia. The only war experience he had was in the French and Indian War, and he didn’t even distinguish himself there.”

The portly soldier laughed. “French and Indian War! These colonists have never fought in a real war. Now they’re learning. Now they’re finding out what it’s like to face a real army.”

Nicholas nodded as if granting the truth of his words. “Once you men get to Philadelphia, the rebellion is practically over, I hope.”

“Aye.” The soldier with the snuff dipped it and smeared it on his gums. “But that won’t be till spring. I don’t suppose General Howe wants to fight during the winter.”

Nicholas nodded again, his voice very casual. “So you’ll be staying this side of the river till spring. That’s sensible, and I know the New Jersey folk will be glad of it.”

A lean, fair-haired man was eying Nicholas with an expression he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Was it suspicion? He went on, careful to keep his voice even, “Everyone around here is loyal to the King. Or rather, my family always has been. All my neighbors and friends. We just want this war over so life can get back to normal.”

“Don’t you worry, boy.” The snuff man spit at the fire. “It’ll be done with in no time. One more fight, come spring, we’ll take Philadelphia, and all will be over. You’ll see.”

The fair man was silent, watching Nicholas. Nicholas turned and began packing his wares back in his bags. In spite of the cold he was beginning to sweat. Time to move on, without being too obvious. “I think I need to get going,” he began, and then, over the back of Syllabub, he saw a man approach the group by the fire. Not a soldier; he wore no uniform. But the man looked exactly like one of his former neighbors from Philadelphia. Sam Wilcox. What was Wilcox doing here, in the middle of a British camp? What if he recognized Nicholas? He would know that Nicholas was no peddler; he might not have difficulty guessing his true mission.

Nicholas’s heart nearly stopped. He swung up onto Syllabub, turning the horse to move away from the approaching figure. He could feel the eyes of the fair-haired soldier on his face.

Beside him someone called out, “When did you arrive, Hemmings?”

Involuntarily he glanced back at the new arrival. He had been mistaken. The face resembled Sam Wilcox, but belonged to a different man.

His heart slowed its mad hammering. He waved farewell to the redcoats around the fire and started down the long path to the road.

His breathing didn’t return to normal until he was out on the road, heading away from the camp, and then he had leisure to consider what he had learned. No immediate plans to take Philadelphia. Perhaps he should have stayed longer; he might have learned more. That one soldier had panicked him by the way he was watching. And then that man with the uncanny resemblance to Sam Wilcox. Better safe than sorry, after all.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He would need to find a place to spend the night, but before it got darker he would eat. He found a dry clearing on the side of the road, dismounted, and spread his blanket on the ground. He took the cornbread and half of the meat pie left from his noon meal and laid them on the blanket. He hesitated, then pulled the Bible from his bag. It was the Bible his sister Lavinia had thrust into his hands before he left home, and he had kept it as a memento of his family. He settled on his blanket to enjoy his meal, and as he did he thought of the thousands of men in the army who had not tasted such food in weeks.

Lord, thank you for this food…and for getting me safely out of another British camp…

What was happening to him? He had never prayed so much in his life. But he had never been so lonely and frightened and desperate, either. He knew he could die any day, and he knew he was not ready to meet God. And in spite of his anger and rebellion against God, he couldn’t completely disbelieve in him.

He flipped the Bible open in the middle and his eyes slid over the page.
The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy...For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is his mercy toward them that fear him. As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.

His eyes fixed on the last sentence. Phoebe’s words came back to him: “God accepts you, he loves you, even if your father doesn’t.”

Was it true? Could Phoebe be right? In his anger at his father, had he mistakenly rejected God’s love as well? He wanted to believe, but how could he know?

For a long moment he lay on the blanket with his eyes closed, not actually praying, but thinking, remembering, trying to understand. Finally the chill winter wind roused him and he rose to remount Syllabub.

Lord Stirling had told him to return to the army before Christmas. Perhaps it was time. Perhaps he could find a way to get to Philadelphia and see Phoebe again.  He wanted to see Phoebe, to talk to her, to remind her he was still alive. He felt a strange ache inside him that he could not completely define.

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