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“I HAVE NEVER BEEN AFRAID of the force of the enemy. They, like the Frenchman, look one way and row the other.” . . . General Heath to General Washington, August 1776.
The next morning, Betsy was unprepared to receive a caller before she’d had time to dress or pour her first cup of coffee. Pulling open the door, she found François Dubeau standing on the doorstep. It galled her when upon rushing inside he did not wait for her to offer him a cup of coffee, but instead ordered her, as if she were a serving wench, to fetch him one.
Her lips pressed together, Betsy headed to the kitchen for the kettle and while climbing back upstairs, attempted to gather her wits in order to confront her early-morning caller about terminating his courtship of her younger sister Rachel. But before she had a chance to say a word, he confronted her on a topic of his choosing.
“I was informed you spent last evening with the Dearborns, madame. If you tell me you heard nothing of import, I shall refuse to believe you. British officers were present, were they not?”
Betsy’s brows drew together. Had did he know that? Mrs. Dearborn had said the presence of the British officers was a surprise. “I have not had sufficient time in which to set down what I overheard last evening, sir. It is quite early and as you can see, I have only just arisen.” She pulled her wrapper closer about her body, beneath which she wore only her nightshift.
“You may forgo writing a report and relay the information to me. The British attack is slated for the end of this month and today is the twenty-fifth. The attack could come as early as today, or tomorrow.”
Aware that timing was critical, Betsy had already decided not to supply François with this particular information, as she wasn’t entirely certain he would pass it along. For all she knew, he was working for the British. He’d just confirmed that he already knew when the attack was to take place. Perhaps he already knew what she had learned: precisely where the attack was to take place, although why he was pretending otherwise made no sense. Still, she had decided to call upon Dr. Franklin this morning. In his hands the message would surely end up where it ought. However, with the disagreeable Frenchman now scowling down upon her, she had to say something. Perhaps she’d tell both men what she knew. “I learned that the British intend to launch their surprise attack upon the rebels from the Jamaica Pass Road.”
“Rubbish!”
Stunned by his reaction, Betsy grew defensive. “I saw the map. The men were gathered around Mr. Dearborn’s desk studying it. Captain Lancaster drew an X upon that very spot. The Jamaica Pass Road,” she repeated.
François paced. “Perhaps, madame, you do not know how to correctly read a map. A far more likely spot for ambush would be the Gowanus Road to the west, or perhaps the Bedford Road to the east.”
So . . . he did not know from where the British meant to attack. She feigned exasperation. “Dear me, perhaps I did misread the map. They are quite complicated, and I own, by the time I got a glimpse of it, I had consumed one or two, perhaps three, goblets of wine. As you know, I rarely imbibe. It is quite possible . . .” She tapped her chin for effect. “Now that I think on it, I recall seeing two X’s on the map. I confess I am not certain where the X lay.”
“Which X?”
“Either of them.”
François snorted. “As a spy, madame, you have proven worthless.” He regarded her with contempt. “As are most women.”
A finely arched brow lifted. “I take it your opinion of women applies also to Rachel?”
“I have no idea of whom you speak.”
“I am referring to my sister, you boor! The one you dined with only last evening.”
He waved a hand. “An enfant. The demoiselle merely amuses me.”
That he had reverted to peppering his speech with French words did not escape Betsy’s notice. “I have told you what I overheard last evening, sir. It is your choice whether or not to believe me.” She smiled archly. “Rest assured I shall pass along your high opinion of my sister to her.” She rose to collect his nearly full cup of coffee. “Good day, sir.”
Saying nothing, the Frenchman stalked from the house. Betsy hurriedly dressed and made her way up High Street where she relayed the news regarding the Jamaica Pass Road to Dr. Franklin.
“The Jamaica Pass Road, you say?”
“Yes, sir, I saw the X drawn upon the map. I heard the men say the plan was forwarded by General Clinton, whom I understand is familiar with the terrain as I recall reading in the newspaper that he grew up in that area.”
“True.” Franklin nodded, his tone considering. “Unfortunately, I have it on good authority that for whatever reason, our troops are not guarding that particular road.”
“Which may explain why it is the very one the British have chosen to use,” Betsy pointed out.
Again, Franklin nodded. “I will dispatch the intelligence at once. You have become an excellent spy, Mrs. Ross.”
“Thank you, sir, I confess it was . . . purely accidental.”
“Nonetheless, I insist upon paying you the same as I do my other informants.” He withdrew a gold coin from a box in a desk drawer and pressed it into her palm. “I pray this information will not arrive too late to be of use to General Washington. Be mindful as you go about your business, Mrs. Ross. You must not unwittingly place yourself in danger.”
“Thank you, sir. I will make every effort to remain alert.”
* * *
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Betsy walked to the market and found the entire square abuzz with excitement. Asking questions, she learned the British had launched a surprise attack upon the rebels in New York City in the wee hours of this very morning. Stunned, she endeavored to learn more but as no one possessed any details regarding the attack, other than the fighting was still going on, she had to wait out the long hours of the day until the evening newspapers appeared on the stand.
The news correspondent said that in the early morning hours of the previous day, His Excellency, General George Washington, uncertain when and from where the British would attack, had through his telescope, calmly watched General Howe’s men go about their daily parade. Yesterday afternoon, Washington had drafted a note to the Continental Congress here in Philadelphia saying that from ‘the general appearance of things, the enemy planned to make their attack upon Long Island from the water.’ Instead, in an unexpected move this morning, a two-mile long column of ten thousand redcoats had launched a surprise attack upon the Patriot army . . . from the Jamaica Pass Road!
Betsy gasped.
As the newspaper account gave no further details such as the number of casualties on either side, apparently the omission meant that nothing more was known.
Betsy’s thoughts whirled as she laid aside the newspaper and turned back to her sewing. She could work a few more hours this evening by candlelight. What, she wondered, had happened to Dr. Franklin’s dispatch? She had had serious doubts that François would pass along the intelligence, but why had Dr. Franklin’s missive not gotten through, or had it, perhaps, arrived too late? Perhaps the courier had been waylaid, or even overtaken, and killed. She shuddered, recalling an image of poor Toby bleeding to death in the alleyway. A sad sigh escaped her. Dr. Franklin may think she had become a creditable spy, but truth was, she’d made precious little progress in either of her investigations. She was no closer to uncovering John’s killer than she was Toby’s.
* * *
THE HOURS OF THE FOLLOWING day ticked by slowly. Betsy expected any moment to receive a frantic visit from Sarah, wringing her hands over William’s safety. Because Betsy knew firsthand how it felt to lose a beloved husband, she fully understood her sister’s fragile state of mind. Also aware that her new Loyalist lady friends were subject to the selfsame heartache, it was now difficult to view them as the enemy. Mrs. Dearborn had been as concerned for Betsy’s health that day when she had walked to her home as Betsy was now for Sarah . . . and Anne Olsen, whose beloved Captain Lancaster was also fighting this war.
She worried also for Joseph. He’d had plenty of time now to complete his mission in New York and sail back down the coast to Philadelphia. She prayed the British had not captured his ship and killed him, or any one of his men.
As the afternoon dragged on, Betsy sat alone in her parlor sewing on Miss Olsen’s wedding gown, pausing every time she glanced up at the clock to pray for the safety of the Patriot troops, and for Joseph and his men. The city seemed ominously quiet today; only a few carriages clattered by on the cobbles. The entire city was on prickles, wondering when the fighting in New York City would end, and would the British claim victory, or would the rebels manage to hold their own? At times, Betsy raised her head from her work and found herself straining to hear sounds of gunfire, or the boom of a cannon, as if the battle were taking place right here. But all was silent. Not even the birds in the treetops dared chirp. The city appeared to be holding its collective breath. Near sundown, a sharp rap at her door startled her.
Tossing aside her work, Betsy sprang to her feet and spotting Joseph on the threshold, she cried, “You are safe!” Tears of joy welled in her eyes as she flung herself into his arms.
“I’ve only just arrived.” Joseph lifted her off the floor, her feet dangling as he carried her back inside the house. When he set her down, they hurried into the parlor. “The wharf is abuzz with tales of the fighting and from what I’ve been able to make out, our boys did not fare well.”
“Oh, Joseph.” Betsy’s face fell. “I read where the British attacked during the wee hours of yesterday morning. I’ve heard nothing since. What are they saying now?”
“Evidently a high wind worked against the British fleet, which explains why all the fighting took place on land. Cornwallis attacked from the northeast, Hessians bore down from the Flatlands, and Highlanders swooped in from the west.”
“Oh-h,” Betsy moaned. “So many soldiers shooting at our little army.”
“Word is there were upwards of twenty-two thousand Lobster-backs attacking us from three sides. The rebels were vastly outnumbered. Even with the guns and ammunition I delivered our boys simply could not reload fast enough.”
“Does this mean our army is . . . gone? Is the war over and we have lost?” Moisture pooled in Betsy’s eyes. “Will the British now march into Philadelphia and hang us all as traitors?” Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Joseph gathered a weeping Betsy into his arms. “Mustn’t give up so easily, love. We’ve still breath in our bodies. Depend on it; we’ll find a way out.”
Over the next hour, Joseph told Betsy how he’d managed to skirt past the British fleet in New York harbor and how, under the cover of darkness and a soupy fog, he had handed over the British soldiers’ own guns and ammunition to the waiting rebel troops.
“Rebels weren’t particularly happy to accept a dozen prisoners, but they took ‘em.”
“With our army’s food so scarce, I can understand their reluctance to share what little they have with British sailors.”
“Feeding prisoners is part and parcel of war.”
“I expect it is.” Betsy glanced toward a window and noted it was now quite dark. “I know Sarah is worried to pieces over William. I don’t know how she’d cope if she learned he’d been taken prisoner. Perhaps I should go and console her. I thought she might come ‘round today. I fear she’s still vexed with me for not wanting Rachel to see François.”
“Ah. So, the Frenchie is courting your sister now, eh?”
Betsy nodded. “Yesterday, he grilled me regarding what I’d learned at Miss Olsen’s engagement party. Oh.” Her expression brightened. “I wore one of the pretty frocks you brought me, Joseph. All the ladies thought it quite lovely.”
“I’ll wager you were the most beautiful woman there.” He leaned to kiss her cheek.
“When I told François what I had learned, he scoffed. But it turned out to be true. The British did attack from the Jamaica Pass Road. François said I was useless as a spy. Oh,” Betsy paused as another thought struck, “you never told me what you had learned about him.”
“Ah, yes. Seems the Frenchie has been in the business of selling secrets for quite some time. When he lived in England, he spied on them for the French; then during the year he was in New York, he joined the Sons of Liberty there and carried Patriot secrets back to the Brit . . .”
“Are you saying François lived in New York before he came here?”
Joseph nodded. “Fellow I know named Jeffrey Sills joined the Sons of Liberty up in Massachusetts. Dubeau was also a member, but when they discovered he was the mole who gave away the location of their munitions stockpile, he disappeared. Jeffery and I were at a pub on the waterfront one night when, in strolled your Frenchman. After he left, Jeff spilled what he knew about him. Apparently Dubeau hasn’t a loyal bone in his body, although his first leanings are to his own country, France; the British next, and . . . well, he appears to be as rude and arrogant towards us colonials as any other Frog I’ve had the misfortune to meet. Most think they’re superior to anyone not fortunate enough to have been born French.”
Betsy’s head shook. “François led me to believe he had only just arrived here straight from England. Minette never said otherwise. But, then, I suppose she hasn’t a clue what her brother has been up to. I trust Minette completely. I never trusted François. I’ve suspected all along that he was working for the British.”
“He is a known spy, Betsy. If I were your father, I’d forbid your sister Rachel from seeing the turncoat.” His brow furrowed. “Isn’t Rachel still a little girl?”
“She’s fifteen and according to Sarah, quite grown up.” Betsy cast another anxious gaze toward the window. The sooner she alerted Sarah to the truth about François, the better. “I really should go see Sarah.”
“It’s late, pet. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Sarah’s distraught and now that I know the truth about François, I must tell her. He has already caused a riff to spring up between us. I do so wish to mend it.”
“Very well.” Joseph took her hand. “I know when you’ve set your mind to something there’s no deterring you. I should show my face to Aunt Ashburn. I expect she’s also worried about me.”
Betsy crossed the room to fetch her shawl. “It will soon be time to wear my new cloak.” Smiling, she wrapped the shawl about her shoulders as Joseph closed the window and latched it.
“Is the rear door barred?”
Betsy nodded and on the way through the house, she told Joseph she’d given new cloaks to each of her sisters and meant also to give Minette and Emma each one.
“Quite generous of you, love.” They stepped outdoors and Betsy locked the door. “Shall I pop in again tomorrow evening?”
Betsy smiled. “I hoped you would.”
“How about if I walk with you now to Sarah’s? I worry about you being out alone at night.”
“It’s only a short distance. Tell your aunt I said hello and I shall call soon.”
“Now that I’m home, I expect she’ll insist we join her for dinner one night, or perhaps several.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “Good night, love.”
* * *
ONCE BETSY REACHED Sarah’s home, she found Sarah’s pale blue eyes red-rimmed from hours spent weeping.
“Oh, Sarah.” Betsy hugged her sister. “For all we know, William is snug in his tent tonight.”
Sarah’s voice shook. “For all I know, my husband is lying wounded or . . . dead. They say our entire army was decimated.”
“We don’t know that for certain. We must wait to see what the morning newspapers say.”
Due to her sister’s overwrought state, Betsy decided against upsetting her further by revealing what she’d learned about François. Instead, she extracted a promise from Sarah to come to her shop the following day and sit with her while she sewed. In Sarah’s kitchen, Betsy heated up the kettle of mutton and potatoes hanging on the spit and after both girls had eaten, she warmed milk for Sarah and insisted she retire for the night. After seeing her sister settled in bed, Betsy quietly took her leave.
Outdoors, the night sky was black as pitch, the city streets ominously silent. Although she felt some trepidation over being abroad at such a late hour, Betsy pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and bravely set out. She’d gone only a short distance when strong fingers grasped her elbow and a deep voice said, “Continue walking. Do not turn around.”
Betsy instinctively turned toward the tall man who was propelling her forward. “Uncle Abel! You gave me a fright!”
“To walk the streets alone at night is foolhardy, girl. You’re being followed.”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “C-can you see who is following me?”
“A large man wearing a cap pulled low over his brow. I happened to be approaching from the opposite direction and saw him fall into step behind you when you left Sarah’s home. I circled around to catch up to you. I’ve been to see your parents.”
“How are they faring? How is Rachel?”
“Everyone is well. I had hoped to put their minds at ease regarding the war.”
“Do you have fresh news about what is happening in New York?”
“Our troops were chased deeper into Brook Land Heights. Fortunately, that area is heavily fortified. To dislodge our troops will prove difficult. For now, they say all is quiet.”
“That’s a relief. Sarah and I both feared our entire army had been decimated.”
“Our entire army was not under siege.”
“How do you know this, Uncle Abel?” Betsy aimed an anxious gaze up at the elderly Quaker. His black felt hat was also pulled low over his brow.
“I pay informants to keep me abreast of what is happening along the seaboard.” He flung a look over one shoulder. “I believe your stalker has fled.”
Betsy exhaled a relieved breath. “I am so grateful you were on hand, Uncle Abel.”
In minutes, they reached Betsy’s doorstep.
“I’ll see you in and make certain your windows and doors are secure.”
Inside, Betsy lit a candle and held it aloft while her uncle inspected window latches and the rear door. “Everything appears tight. Do you have any idea who might have been following you?”
“No.” Betsy shook her head.
“I understand you’ve been seen with a Frenchman, a man named Dubeau.”
“I-well, it . . . it might have been . . .”
“Word is a Frenchman here runs agents. They say he plays both sides. Come to think on it, a double spy could have been responsible for young Toby’s death. Toby approached me once.”
“Approached you? About what?”
“Asked if I needed help. I knew what he meant.”
“But, why would Toby ask you about . . . spying?”
“I just told you I pay informants. It’s important I know which waters are safe and which are not. I’m perceived to be Loyalist, but I make no distinction from whom I purchase goods.”
“Are you . . . also a spymaster?”
“No; not to the degree Franklin is, or the Frenchman, whose true identity remains unknown. There are scores of Frenchmen in Philadelphia. Perhaps the double agent is Dubeau, perhaps not.” Long strides carried him to the door. “The man is said to be ruthless. Extremely cunning and extremely dangerous.” At the door, he paused. “Do not go out alone at night again, girl.”
Betsy thanked her uncle for rescuing her and locked the door behind him. Heading back through the darkened house, she realized she’d learned more about François tonight than she had in the six months she’d known him. And, not a bit of it good.
The question now was . . . would she be able to convince Sarah of the truth about the man?
And would the truth make any difference to Rachel?
Furthermore, who was stalking Betsy? And, why?