The Rebel's Return (6 page)

“He certainly sounded like a Tory to me,” Phoebe persisted. “Saying that the King has a right to tax us and that if we win independence, we’ll be begging the King to take us back.”

“Well, those are his opinions.” Alice began to braid her hair with quick fingers. “You don’t have to label everyone Tory and Whig, as if we all have to take sides.”

Phoebe climbed into bed without speaking. It was hard for her to imagine how anyone could remain neutral in such a conflict. But she knew Alice would disagree.

“And another thing.” Alice sat on the side of the bed and looked down at Phoebe before climbing under the covers. “Don’t go telling your political friends, the Kirbys, or other people either, that Edmund is a Tory. People are so intolerant with this war going on, especially now that it’s going badly for the rebels. I don’t want Edmund to be persecuted because of some opinion he voiced in the privacy of our own family. Do you understand?”

Phoebe nodded. She didn’t want to get Edmund into trouble, even if he was completely wrong about this war. She had heard of Tories being tarred and feathered and mistreated in other ways. Perhaps that sort of violence was equally wrong. She hoped Edmund would be careful whom he voiced his opinions to. Perhaps the next time he expressed his ideas about Washington and Cromwell and the French and Indian War, he would be conversing with someone more knowledgeable and persuasive than Phoebe, someone who could win him over to the cause. She hoped so, for his sake and for Alice’s.

The conversation replayed in her mind over the next few days and troubled her. Maybe Edmund was right when he said kings had to use taxes to pay for wars. That certainly made sense—she had never thought about how wars were funded. Maybe George Washington really did want to become a dictator and would be just like Cromwell. How could she know? If only she could talk to someone about her concerns, perhaps she would feel better about them. If only George were home—if only she could talk to Nicholas! But that was a foolish thought. Nicholas was gone from her life, and it was wrong to even want him to return. She had been so cold at their parting that she felt sure he would not show his face at the Fuller house again.

A few nights later Rhoda invited her to sup with the Kirby family. When the family gathered around the table she found that Mr. Kirby’s friend Mr. Jones, another member of the Associators, was also joining them. In this company there was no ambivalence about the war, no disagreement about the justness of the cause. The only source of tension was a fear of defeat, especially after the disaster on Brooklyn Heights. Listening as the two men discussed war strategy, Phoebe longed to share Edmund’s views and seek reassurance from the more enlightened, but her promise to her sister prevented her.

“The colonial generals are so inexperienced,” she heard Mr. Kirby say. “The men are raw, of course, but the generals are worse. Washington himself has very little experience compared with the British generals. ’Tis an enormous problem. We need leadership in this war to turn the situation around. Washington can’t seem to win a battle.”

Mr. Jones nodded, frowning. “Washington lost one of his few good generals when Lord Stirling was captured, but fortunately—”

“Lord Stirling!” Phoebe exclaimed, before she could catch herself from interrupting. “When was
he
captured?”

The two men turned to her, surprised by her outburst.

“Lord Stirling and his men were caught in a very bad spot on Brooklyn Heights, trying to hold open the road for the army’s retreat,” Mr. Jones explained gravely. “They were trapped between the British and the Hessians; many of them were slaughtered, and the rest were taken prisoner.”

Phoebe blanched in horror as she recalled George’s stories of the Hessians. “Merciful heavens!”

Mrs. Kirby gave her a sympathetic look from the other end of the table. “Are you thinking of your brother, Phoebe?”

“Nay,” Phoebe managed, “we have heard from George, so we know he survived, but—” she broke off.

“Lord Stirling will be exchanged,” Mr. Jones added, “which is fortunate for Washington. He needs all the good officers he can find.”

Phoebe tried to frame the question in her mind. “Will
all
the officers be exchanged?”

The men glanced at each other, and Mr. Jones spread his hands. “It depends on the agreement with the British. They exchange officers of equal rank. Sadly, we are more desperate for men than the enemy is.”

The conversation moved on at that point, but Phoebe heard none of it, for her mind was riveted on the calamity that had befallen Lord Stirling’s men. The words continued to haunt her, playing round and round in her mind over the next days.
Many of them were slaughtered, and the rest were taken prisoner.
Maybe Nicholas was the Yankee who had been pinned to a tree with a bayonet and left to writhe in agony for hours. Nay, George had described him as a boy. Either way, he might very easily be lying dead now, or rotting on a stinking British prison ship, which was in itself nearly a death sentence. Or he might have been wounded; he might have lost an arm, or a leg, or an eye. How would Nicholas manage to live, being so horribly maimed?

Of course, Nicholas’s fate was nothing to her. He had admitted that he was only sporting with her, and it was only sensible for her to learn to match his indifference with her own. Still, they had been friends of a sort; wasn’t it natural for her to care about his ultimate fate?  To care if he were alive or dead?

If George were to die, the family would probably learn of it eventually from his commander or a fellow soldier. But if Nicholas were to die, they would likely never hear at all. They had no mutual friends, and the Fuller family had had no contact with the Teasdale family in several years. It would never occur to anyone who knew Nicholas that any of the Fullers would want to be told of his death.

For a moment Phoebe considered asking Mr. Kirby for information about him. But Mr. Kirby was not acquainted with Nicholas and might not know how to find out, and the awkwardness of such a request deterred her. On the other hand, if she were to write to Lavinia—she wouldn’t actually need to ask about Nicholas, but if he had been killed or captured, and Lavinia answered her letter, she would certainly mention it, wouldn’t she?

For several days she pondered the idea, dismissing it several times, only to have it recur an hour later. Writing to Lavinia seemed like such an innocent, natural thing to do. No one would read any ulterior motive into a letter—would they? After all, she didn’t want to actually
see
Nicholas, only to know if he was alive and well. And her friendship with Lavinia had always been a source of pleasure to them both. What could be wrong with it?

One afternoon as all these doubts and questions revolved through her mind, she sat down at her father’s desk and, on an impulse, grabbed a sheet of paper and a quill. She prepared her materials, uncertain all the while whether she actually intended to use them, then dipped the tip into the inkwell.

My dear Lavinia,

It has been so many years since I have heard from you, and I hope you will pardon my presumption in renewing our correspondence after so much time. I do hope this letter finds you and your family in good health. I happened to meet your brother Nicholas here in town one day, and he told me he had left you all well. It was good to hear of you again after so long.

My brother George is serving with Washington’s army, and we are all greatly concerned by the news of the most recent battles. We received a letter from him after Brooklyn Heights, but nothing in nearly a month, and my mother in particular is quite anxious. I am certain your family must feel the same anxiety and I hope your brother has come through the fighting safely.

There!
she thought, rereading the two paragraphs.
That strikes the right note, just politely concerned.  The worst that could happen is Lavinia could mention the letter to Nicholas, and that might give him mischievous thoughts
. For a second she almost crumpled the note until she realized that Lavinia might not see her brother for months. With a war going on, they would surely have more important matters to discuss.

Am I doing a foolish thing, Lord?
she prayed silently.
I was foolish before, and I don’t want to be so again. Perhaps I should mention the letter to my mother, and if she approves, I will send it.

She finished the letter with trivial news. She folded it and carried it into the kitchen, where her mother was churning butter and Alice was mixing ingredients for baking bread.

“I’ve just written to Lavinia Teasdale,” she mentioned casually, fetching a cloth to wipe the table where Alice was working. “Do you have any letters to mail?”

“How lovely!” her mother exclaimed. “You two used to be such friends. Be sure to send my greetings to her mother.”

Phoebe obediently opened the paper to add a postscript, rereading the first two paragraphs again.

“They are so rich now, they probably have more important friends,” Alice remarked. “They might not care to hear from us.”

“Nonsense, Alice, Nicholas wasn’t so proud when he visited last summer. He was very friendly and obliging.”

Aye
, Phoebe thought.
Friendly and obliging indeed.

“True.” Alice carefully measured the milk into her bowl. “But for marriage, they would certainly look higher than us.”

“Perhaps so.” Her mother lifted the bread dough from the bowl and began to knead it. “But no one is thinking of marriage here. Phoebe is Lavinia’s old friend, and I think it is very fine that she has written to her.”

Alice raised her eyebrows, glancing at her sister, and Phoebe felt the color rise in her cheeks. For a moment she nearly tossed the letter into the fire. But it was already written and her mother approved, so she would send it and then try to put it out of her mind.

*     *     *

Nicholas cantered up to the house where George Washington was lodged and swung down from his mare, Syllabub. At the door he was met by the general’s aide and handed him the letter.

“Message from Lord Stirling for General Washington,” Nicholas told him. “I was told to wait for a response.”

The aide vanished within and Nicholas turned to stroll through the front garden. Heavy clouds were rolling across the sky as a damp wind picked up strength. The hills surrounding White Plains displayed their autumn splendor, crimson and gold and burnt orange, but he knew that soon the colors would fade to brown and vanish in the driving wind. And what would come of the army then? Only October, and already the enlisted men were half-starved and poorly clad and sleeping on the cold damp ground at night. Winter would only intensify their miseries—if, indeed, the army had not disintegrated by winter time.

A fresh-faced, rosy young private who worked in the stables came forward from around the house to see who was calling on the general. Walton was twenty-one and looked younger, barely old enough to shave, Nicholas reflected with amusement, but just two months ago he had obtained leave and married his sixteen-year-old sweetheart. The two men exchanged greetings.

“Have you heard the news?” Nicholas asked him. “Colonel Haslet crossed the Bronx River with a raiding party and caught Robert Rogers and his Tories by surprise. They killed a mess, captured thirty-six men and brought back a pile of muskets as well.”

“I was hoping you would say he wiped out Howe’s entire army,” Walton grinned.

“No such luck. But I’ll take any victory we can get right now. We need one badly.”

Walton nodded glumly. “We’re in for another fight soon, I reckon.”

“It looks that way,” Nicholas concurred. “Maybe you should take a minute to write to your little lady in the next few days.”

Walton’s eyes brightened. “I heard from her last week. She is with child! Do you believe it?”

“Congratulations.” Nicholas laughed silently. “You must have kept busy during your one week at home.”

Walton grinned, embarrassed and proud, then his expression darkened. “I’m mighty glad she has her parents to look out for her right now. I won’t be any use to her for a while.”

Nicholas reflected that his young friend would scarcely enjoy the pleasures of either marriage or fatherhood anytime soon, and nodded grimly. The aide returned with a response for Lord Stirling, and Nicholas swung up onto Syllabub, waved farewell, and kicked the mare into a trot.

What was it about war and carnage that made young men like Walton rush off into matrimony? He had noticed the same phenomenon repeatedly. Was it a sudden awareness of the shortness of life? The urge to leave progeny behind? A quest for security in a world turned upside down? A yearning for female companionship in an all-male society? Or simply the sudden maturity that came from sacrifice and hardship and daily facing the grim realities of life?

He had faced the same questions about himself. Just six months ago he would have laughed at the notion of settling down with one woman anytime in the foreseeable future. But that was before the newness and excitement of army life had worn down to a monotonous daily struggle for survival. That was before so many of his comrades—most of them younger than himself—had been slaughtered on Brooklyn Heights. Sheer luck that he had made his escape back to Rebel lines before the Hessians closed in. He could just as easily be lying, unrecognized and unburied, in the wood of horror with the hundreds of other corpses, and who would know or care?