Chapter 55. The ‘Intercepted’ Letter

The sandy track along the banks of the North River was weedy, but passable. Across the waters, Thomas could not fail to notice the glint of bayonets, and the ranks of men marching along the tops of the cliffs. And he was alarmed. Was it was too late to stop a clash between his people – the Yankees – and his cousins, the people among whom he’d grown up – the British?

            The road was empty of soldiers; as he drew near to British Army headquarters, there was a marked absence of the usual throngs of rowdy, skirt-chasing red-coated enlistees, and it increased his sense of unease. Were the troops gone – already engaged in battle with the Continental Army? But the cry of a hundred voices raised in cheering informed him that some men were still hereabouts – and the sound drew him towards a tavern. He tied up his horse and went in. There was a cockfight underway, and men in uniform, some clearly drunk, circled a pair of birds that had razors tied to their talons. Blood and feathers in great profusion were strewn upon floorboards so clawed and slashed they were in danger of falling apart into so many jackstraws.

Thomas retreated to the dusty track of Bloomingdale Road, and trotted on in silence, listening. Everywhere, it seemed, from within closed doors, there was the sound of great merriment. The troops were still here – indeed, it seemed that Christmas had arrived many weeks early. His heart calmed. It was not too late.

            Thomas attempted to raise the attention of an equerry at the stables, but the whole lot of men, boys, and slaves who normally tended the officers’ horses with great seriousness were drunk, or asleep and assiduously becoming drunk. He led his horse to a box stall, patted its head, and quietly stepped over a snoring guardsman. The man’s head was perched on a saddle, a blanket clutched in his hand. There was dust on the man’s white breeches, and he was unshaven. His wig lay some distance away, suggesting a precipitous descent into stupor.

~

            Things were in a state of high tension and excitement in General Henry Clinton’s head-quarters. Thomas’ brother William was surrounded by a gathering of admiring and well-attired Gentlemen. There were also several women, of whom Thomas was quite sure as to their profession: whores. Expensive whores. William and General Clinton, another uniformed officer, and a magistrate in a high, powdered wig, were waging a fierce battle of cards. It was Whist, a card game for four hands, a game where stakes were wagered – and in this game, by the looks of the pile of gold sovereigns, very high wagers.

Thomas did not play Whist – he had never played Whist – and his Methodist sympathies notwithstanding (for the Method-ists eschewed card playing, drinking, certainly whore-mongering, as well as drinking, dancing, taking His Name in vain, and all the other Deadly Sins that, apparently, made for a pleasant life among the British ranks) Thomas felt a keen sense of remorse at the waste of time and energy that card playing represented. There was a war going on! – damn them all if they were to behave in such a way at a time like this.

But then he thought better of his indignation, remembered why he was really here, and patted his breast, where The Letter – Washington’s “purloined” letter – was hidden away. He put on his most courteous smile, and sidled up to one of the younger gentlemen.

“Shhhh” admonished the young man, never taking his eyes away from the two pairs of combatants, who faced off across a green felt-covered card table. “The general has them!” the Gentleman hissed.

Thomas looked around again at the spectators: an older man in round bi-focal glasses and the bleary look of one who has imbibed his full limit of gin; another uniformed officer, with the florid nose of an inveterate drinker; three women of dubious – no affirmed! – morals: their areolas peeked from the tops of their tightly drawn bodices; a sallow serving girl holding a tray of drinks, who looked as if she were about to drop from exhaustion; a muscular black slave, wearing a waistcoat –but no shirt – who smiled at Thomas, showing a large set of gold-tipped, very white teeth; a couple of droopy dowagers, who fanned themselves and giggled.

“My high trumps take all tricks!” The general threw down his his last cards, counting them off: “Ten of Clubs. Jack of Hearts. King of Spades. Queen of Diamonds,” upon four piles spread out on the table. He emitted a satisfied grunt as he swept the gold coins aside, and looked up at the admiring eyes of the audience. Seeing Thomas, Clinton raised an eyebrow and nodded to William, who stood and practically shouted for joy.

“Thomas, you old dog, how wonderful of you to visit us!” The brothers heartily shook hands, and it was all that Thomas could muster not to break out in peals of happy laughter. But he kept a somber expression, and taking William by the shoulders walked him towards the corner where the silent colonel still hovered.

“Brother – there is a matter of some urgency I need to discuss with you,” said Thomas.

“Oh, now – what could be so urgent in the affairs of Man and God, my dear old dusty pastor of a brother?” William chuckled. “ – another heartbreaking fling with a winsome beauty? What was her name – ah, yes – that Cynthia creature, is she back again?”

Thomas scowled.

“Not a beauty, then?” William was all high spirits and whimsy. But then, he and the general had just won several hundred pounds at cards. Who would not be blissfully self-indulgent at such a moment?

“I have come directly from visiting a Yankee family – “ Thomas said quietly.  

“ –– a Yankee family that has been quite busy in the Rebellion, as I have been told.”

“Yes, I suppose you encounter such people with fair regularity, Thomas. God does not discriminate among His flock. So what of it, then?”

“I had just baptized a newborn girl, when a rider came to them, and the whole lot – mama, papa, the old grandmother, three boys and the baby girl thanked me – well, the baby girl did not thank me – but they bade me stay as long as I liked – and left. Followed the rider with some haste in their wagon. Did not even put away the dinner dishes.”

“But so?” William had taken the hook – yet again. Thomas now began reeling him in.

“So, indeed, I was taken aback. I thought to leave them a homily, and went to place it in the family’s Bible – ” Thomas was whispering, the closer to draw in William in “ – where I found this!” Thomas produced The Letter from within his waistcoat, and spread it upon the table.

Clinton had just returned from seeing off the visitors. “What is this, what’s going on?” he said, speaking quickly in a clipped and posh accent.

William spoke, not taking his eyes off The Letter, “Seems brother Thomas has gotten hold of some rather startling Yankee news. If I am not mistaken – and it is my role –  “ William rolled the r of that word for effect “–  to not be mistaken – what we have here is a rather spicy bit of intelligence, written by the Old Fox himself.”

Clinton took the letter. “My, my – but this is remarkable! No – it cannot be. Why did you not know about this, William?”

“My dear Sir, I did not know it because it was – until this very moment – a secret. Obviously.”

Clinton ignored William’s impertinence.

“Good God! – the French, Admiral DeGrasse himself! Twelve ships of the line – heading here. To be-Siege us!” Turning to an adjutant, Clinton commanded: “Bring Admiral Digby – at once, if you please Sir!”

~

By the time Digby arrived, the general staff had assembled. The cards had been put away, and the sun was setting over the cliffs of New Jersey. None of the officers seemed to notice the unending line of Yankee troops, quite visible through the tall windows of the room. The Yankees were still marching southward along the crest of the palisades! Thomas did not know whether to feel astonished at the tunnel vision of the British officers, or relieved. He was not about to point out the obvious – he had done his duty well enough.

Clinton and Digby questioned Thomas together, then waved him away as they debated.

“But I protest most stringently, Sir!” Digby was pacing.

“Your duty is to our troops – here – far more than to rescuing Lord Cornwallis. He has only a few Yankee companies with which to contend, whereas we shall have a formidable French fleet here within days!”

“As you wish, General. We shall remain in these waters, on highest alert, as is your command!” With that, Digby strode from the room, the plumes on his wide hat all aflutter.

Turning to Thomas, Clinton was all grim intent. “Well done, Sir. You may have saved us from sure destruction. May I ask a favor of you?”

Thomas blanched, but said nothing, merely nodding in reply.

“If you would be so kind as to lead a company of my trail scouts to this Yankee household – we must arrest these people. They are, clearly, highly-placed Rebels and must not be allowed to continue their participation in this plot!”

There was nothing Thomas could do or say but to agree. This, he thought, is going to be difficult. Where shall I say I found this letter?

“In the morning, then, Sir?” Thomas hoped he was not blushing.

“That will do, Sir. Good evening to you.” Clinton waved Thomas away, and the young pastor and his brother departed together.

William slapped Thomas on the shoulder – “Well done, old man. Well done.” – then turned, and re-entered the headquarters, leaving Thomas alone in the street. There were other plans afoot, no doubt.

Thomas stood for a long while outside the headquarters, his head spinning with the challenge. It was unfortunate – but he would have to inconvenience an innocent family – unless! – yes, there was another possibility. He set off on foot to seek out his old friend Anderson, the blacksmith.

~

Dawn had just broken the treetops and illuminated the yard outside Anderson’s house as twelve burly men in the kilted uniform of the Highland Black Watch beat down the door. Finding no one at home, they torched the house, and stood in the street, admiring their handiwork, as the flames bore away all evidence of that family’s existence.

“A known Yankee sympathizer, by all accounts,” intoned a sergeant.

Thomas only nodded.

 “The price we pay for freedom can accommodate this, Thomas. It will be a small sacrifice for such a great deed you have performed for our Patriot Cause,” Anderson had said. Thomas was sad for the little family, but glad to know that they were safely away – quietly gone in the night – far into the woods, into the care of Elizabeth and her gaggle of girls. The smithing would resume in another place, and life would return to normal – as normal as was possible for a man such as Anderson. For a Patriot, Thomas corrected himself, such as Anderson.

As for himself, Thomas had only thanks to God that the scheme had – so far – succeeded. How many lives had he saved? How many more would, however, be lost before this was all at an end?

~

Days and months passed, and in the fullness of time, Washington, Greene, Lafayette, French General Rochambeau, French Admiral DeGrasse, and French Admiral D’Estaing laid down the gauntlet, and surrounded the other British army in America ––– in Virginia.

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