The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (13 page)

In late October there was news of another major battle between Washington's forces and the British, this time at Germantown. That night, I told Will how terribly close the Americans had come to victory at Germantown, only to lose once more
.

I blathered on, little thinking of the effect on Will, who, though still weak, was nearly healed. It was beginning to appear that his leg would never return to normal, for it could bear little weight. Will was busily whittling a cane to help himself walk
.

Several weeks later, I was hauling baskets of apples and pears into the barn, when I saw Will standing at the door of Grampa's Folly
.

“
Geordie,” he said, “I must tell you of my decision
.”

Relief flooded over me. The strain of secrecy had taken a toll. “That we can tell Father you're here? That you're not going back?
”

Will shook his head sadly. “Don't tell Father. Let him think me still with Washington. It'll be true enough tomorrow
.”

“
But, Will, your leg! You can't march or run or . . . or anything.” I faltered, remembering the soldiers fleeing and falling near Brandywine
.

Will gave his cane a rueful glance. “Aye, but I can still do things to help. Where there's a Will
. . .”

“
. . . there's a way,” I finished for him. “So we always say. But surely there are others to do what's necessary, and you—you've already been badly hurt by this war. Why should
you
go back?” Emotion made my voice crack
.

“
'Tis said the sevens in 1777 look like gallows for Washington and the other patriot leaders,” Will said grimly. “I'll not sit back and watch them hang—not this or any year!
”

I stood mute, wanting to beg him not to go. But my silent entreaties, and my mother's spoken ones, fell on ears deafened by determination
.

The next day, Father told me to pick up a load of empty kegs and then walked off toward the orchard. This was the chance Will was waiting for. Bidding Mother farewell, he climbed up beside me on the wagon and we started off. All too soon, we came to the fork where our paths divided: me for the cooper's, him for the Continental encampment at Whitemarsh, a few miles north of occupied Philadelphia
.

Will gingerly eased himself down to the ground. Then he pulled the cockade off his hat and held it out to me. “I shan't need this now—no more marching into battle for me. Keep it to remember me, Geordie. Farewell
.”

Will's image blurred through my tear-filled eyes as he limped up the road, leaning stiffly on his cane. I put the cockade inside my tricorne where Father wouldn't see it. Then, setting the hat on my head at a jaunty angle that ill matched the sadness I felt inside, I whipped up my team
.

Several days later, I met our gossipy neighbor, Mistress Derry, whose farm bordered our own. I'd always liked her, although her fluttery ways—and her patriot views—drove my father to distraction
.

She positively squeaked with excitement. “Ah, Geordie, have you heard the brave news?” she cried
.

“
News, ma'am?
”

“
Of the great American victory at Saratoga in New York, don't you know, where I have a cousin—a third cousin, actually, whom I visited as child. What a hoyden she was, to be sure!
”

“
But the victory, ma'am?” I reminded her
.

“
Oh my, yes—of course! Whatever was I thinking of? That British general Burgoyne—the dandy they call ‘Gentleman Johnny'?” Her bright eyes peered at me eagerly from under the edge of her white mobcap. “Well, my dear, he has surrendered his entire command—nearly six thousand strong—to our General Gates. Though they do say Benedict Arnold fought like a very dragon and should share the credit. La, these men!” Then Mistress Derry performed one of those conversational leaps that baffled her listeners. “And as for the British soldiers in Philadelphia, why, their behavior is simply abominable! You'd scarcely credit the barbarity!” she spluttered. “Not only have they burned down any number of lovely houses near their picket lines, but they dump all manner of filth in the streets to show how much they hold America in contempt!
”

I agreed 'twas shocking in the extreme, and hurriedly bade her good day. As I drove away, I tried to sort out the jumble of elation and frustration I felt at the news of a Continental victory. Why couldn't we have heard about Saratoga before Will left? Maybe then he wouldn't have felt compelled to go
.

But gone Will was, and worry over his whereabouts made November lag by, despite the work that filled our days. Father and I toiled from dawn to dusk, driving the team to pull the cider mill wheel round and round its trough to crush the fruit into pomace. Then we'd rake the pomace onto straw mats and carefully press out the juice into the waiting kegs
.

One morning early in December when we sat at breakfast, Father lifted his eyes from his porridge and looked at me strangely. There was something about his stern countenance that made me fancy he had found out about Will. I exchanged an uneasy look with my mother as she ladled porridge from the copper kettle into my wooden trencher. At length, Father spoke my name
.

“
Sir?” I answered
.

“
Today I want you to take a load of fruit and cider into Philadelphia, to the City Tavern
.”

“
The City Tavern?” my mother said, a puzzled expression on her face. “But I thought they were too elegant to serve country brews. Why, they always have the finest wines from Europe—or so Mistress Derry tells me,” she added hastily when Father looked surprised at her unexpected worldly knowledge
.

“
What with the rebels lobbing cannonballs from Fort Mifflin and putting barricades across the channel, no British ships have been able to bring supplies up the Delaware River to the city, all fall. And even though Fort Mifflin fell a fortnight ago, the taverns in the city must lack sufficient drink. They'll be happy enough to buy from us.” Father scraped his trencher clean
.

“
But, Laban, Geordie is only a boy, and there might be American patrols, stopping countrymen from selling supplies to the British,” Mother protested
.

“
Geordie's been to market in Philadelphia many times. He can avoid the main road and Washington's patrols. He'll come to no harm,” Father said
.

Mother sank down onto the bench beside me and brushed her hands wearily over her eyes. “And what about our other son? Will he also come to no harm?” she murmured
.

Father's face hardened. “Geordie is my only son, Patience
.”

“
I see,” my mother whispered. “Thee will disown thy child. I pray thee does not regret it, Laban.” She marched out of the room stiffly
.

By the set of Father's jaw, I judged it prudent to be on my way without further discussion. Indeed, I was lighthearted at doing so, curious to glimpse life in Philadelphia under British occupation
.

'Twas midafternoon when I reached the northern limits of the city, where I quickly saw that totty-headed Mistress Derry had gotten her facts straight. Near the British defenses, blackened wrecks stood where tidy houses once were, and other buildings, though unburned, had gaping holes that gave them
the piteous look of blinded men. My lightheartedness gave way to dull anger over this wanton destruction. I could not bring myself to return the friendly banter of the pickets, who, after sampling a cupful of my perry, waved me through the lines with great cordiality
.

Houses in the main part of the city hadn't been burned. Still, as I drove through the streets I was stunned by the changes enemy occupation had wrought in the once-proud town—second in size only to London in the whole of the British Empire. The first thing I noticed was the absence of white fences around the houses. On my earliest journey into Philadelphia, so young that I still wore a padded “pudding cap” to protect my head as I toddled about, I'd thought the fences were toothy smiles. It was a standing family joke that I'd lisped, “The city is smiling at me!
”

The city was smiling no longer. The stench of decay hung over the town like a fog. Every alley was full of makeshift huts and littered with filth, and an open pit full of dead horses added to the putrid smell. Old William Penn, who'd founded Philadelphia almost a century before, would have cried to see the sorry state of his “Greene Country Towne
.”

But it wasn't only the despoiling of the city that
made me gawk like a country bumpkin. Nay, 'twas seeing what had
not
changed. For, despite the occupying army, there was much the same hustle and bustle, with people going about their business as usual. Plump matrons still gossiped on doorsteps, leather-aproned apprentices rushed about on errands, gentlemen strolled past shop windows laden with silks and satins, and fashionable young ladies flirted with admirers on street corners—admirers clad in scarlet uniforms
.

“
The only things outnumbering redcoats are black flies,” I muttered to myself as I came to the Pennsylvania State House. I peered up at the soaring tower to see the great bell that had been rung to summon folk to hear the Declaration of Independence
.

The tower was empty. Mystified, my eyes fell to the second-story windows that fronted the Long Gallery—site of elegant state dinners. But Congress had long since fled the city, and no elegant diners peered down from the Long Gallery today. Instead, I spied a crowd of gaunt, ragged men, eyes huge in their skeletal faces
.

Horrified, I reined in Daisy and Buttercup. Women in sober Quaker clothes were carrying baskets toward the State House door
.

I called out to one. “Mistress, who are those men in the Long Gallery?
”

“
The British are using it as a prison,” she answered sadly, “for wounded Continental soldiers captured at Brandywine and Germantown. The blockade made food scarce in the city, and the British expect the Americans to supply food for their own men held here. The American army can barely feed itself, let alone spare any for these poor starved creatures
.”

I bade her wait. “Here—take some apples for the prisoners,” I called to her, trying not to think how my father would thrash me should he learn what I had done. “And a barrel of perry as well
.”

“
Bless you, lad,” she said softly
.

Embarrassed, I pointed up at the empty bell tower and asked, “Where is the great bell . . . and . . . and where are all the fences?
”

“
The bell was moved to Allentown so the British couldn't melt it down for bullets. And the fences have gone for firewood. But not for those poor men imprisoned yonder. 'Tis most bitterly cold inside, and they have no fire at all
.”

Wishing I'd brought in a wagonload of firewood, I jumped down, unloaded a keg and basket and carried them to the State House door. Then I climbed back on the wagon, shivering as I thought of the men upstairs
.

The situation was quite different at the elegant City Tavern, where a great blazing fire warmed the
patrons to a nicety. Threading my way through the crowd of periwigged merchants and elegant officers to the Bar Room, I soon found the manager, Daniel Smith. Much to my relief, he jumped at my shy offer of fruit and drink
.

“
Of course, lad, I'll take everything you've got—and whatever else you can bring me. Our supplies are in a sorry state, and the British officers are like to drink my cellar dry. Here, I'll get someone to help you unload. Billy?
”

At his summons, a man poked his head out from the hallway door—a man dressed in servant's livery, who leaned on a hand-whittled cane and looked at me with eyes full of warning
.

'Twas Will. As if in a dream, I followed him outside. “Will, what in blazes are you
. . .”

Will looked about furtively. “Shhh
. Billy,
if you please,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth in a way that, under ordinary circumstances, would have made me laugh. “And don't stand about like a ninnyhammer! Help me with these barrels
.”

“
But Wi—er, Billy, how do you come to be
here?”

“
Just as I thought, I proved unfit to be a foot soldier, so I've come into the city as a sort of a spy
.”

“
A spy? Wi—Billy? You're a spy for Washington?” My heart thumped in sudden fear
.

Will clapped his hand over my mouth. “You needn't proclaim it from the rooftops, else I'll be on one of those gallows we talked of earlier.” He took his hand away. “It's not so bad, Geordie,” he said with a smile. “At least I have a snug pallet to sleep on up in the attic, and Little Smith allows me to dine on table scraps. It may be only broken meats, but that's still better than camp fare. Come on, let's get these inside
.”

He lifted a barrel to his shoulder. Then, balancing on his cane, he turned toward the tavern. There was certainly nothing wrong with his arms, I marveled, struggling under the weight of my own load. We carried the barrels into the cellar storeroom where we could talk out of earshot of any passersby
.

I felt as if I might burst with questions. “B-but what are you doing at the City Tavern?” was my first
.

“
I work here for Little Smith and listen to the idle chatter amongst the British officers. You'd be agog to know how much they reveal about military plans whilst in their cups
.”

“
But how do you get word back to Washington?
”