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“I FEEL MAD, VEXED, sick and sorry. This is a most terrible event. Its’ consequences are justly to be dreaded.” . . . General Nathanael Greene in an anguished letter to fellow commander Henry Knox following the fall of Fort Washington.
A few days later, Betsy read in the Pennsylvania Packet that General Charles Lee was so furious over the loss of Fort Washington that he tore out some of his hair. The war correspondent said that not only had the British taken above one thousand rebel soldiers prisoner after the Battle at White Plains, but following the surrender of Fort Washington more than twice that number were marched into the enemy camp as prisoners. The loss of nearly four thousand men from an army already devastated by sickness and desertion was a bitter blow to the morale of both the rebel troops and their commanders. At Fort Washington, the British made off with vast quantities of arms, tools, tents, blankets and over one hundred cannon. It was a devastating loss. The Packet declared the Continental army was now crying for any man fit enough to hoist a musket to his shoulder and fire it.
Reading further Betsy’s heart sank when the newspaper reported that British commanders were astonished to discover how many of the captured rebel soldiers were boys not yet fifteen years of age, all ‘indifferently clothed, filthy, and without shoes’. Betsy prayed her younger brother George, who she remembered as being quite high-spirited, did not take it into his head to march off to war. Thinking it was bad enough that his Uncle William suffered from want of warm clothing and food reminded Betsy that the closet off her parlor was still crammed full of clean shirts, breeches, and scores of pairs of cast-off shoes. Unfortunately, neither she nor the ladies who had helped gather the clothing had any notion how to get the much-needed supplies to the rebel troops.
The following day, newspaper headlines screamed of yet another devastating loss to the already dwindling rebel forces. Under cover of darkness, the reporter said, on a cold rainy night General Howe had dispatched four thousand British and Hessian troops across the Hudson River. The enemy battalion had to make its way up a steep, almost perpendicular, footpath before they could attack the last rebel holdout, Fort Lee. The perilous climb provided General Washington sufficient time to rush from his command post to the fort and shout orders for the men to abandon the garrison at once. Unfortunately, all their supplies had been left behind—guns, tools, hundreds of tents, even their breakfast which had just been put on the fire to cook. When the British arrived, they found the fort deserted, except for a dozen soldiers who’d gotten into the rum supply the night before and were falling down drunk. Those soldiers were the only ones taken prisoner that day.
Betsy shook her head, wondering if perhaps a far more trustworthy spy than François Dubeau had been responsible for warning General Washington of the impending attack upon Fort Lee? In an ironic twist, she offered up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that François was now in Philadelphia, meaning he was safely out of reach of General Washington and unable to wreak further havoc for the rebel troops with his twisted intelligence.
The alarming outcome of the Fort Lee loss was that General Washington and his retreating troops were now presently fleeing from the British, both armies plunging deeper into New Jersey, ostensibly headed straight toward Philadelphia.
Her heart in her throat, Betsy laid aside the pages of the Packet. Clearly evident now was that despite winter weather setting in, British General Howe meant to chase the rebel soldiers . . . here.
* * *
“UNCLE ABEL SAYS THE British will soon overtake Philadelphia,” Sarah glumly announced the following afternoon as she entered Betsy’s shop, her warm woolen cloak flapping about her legs as a gust of icy cold air accompanied her indoors.
“Come warm yourself by the fire, Sarah.”
Once the girls had drawn up chairs as close to the blaze as was prudent, given their long skirts, Sarah said, “If our troops do reach Philadelphia, at least I might be able to discover if William is still alive.”
Betsy nodded. All the dreadful war news she’d read in the newspaper the past several days had so lowered her spirits that to summon even weak words of hope for her sister was more than she could manage. “I pray George will not join the fighting.”
“Our brother still clings to the Quaker point of view. He will not fight, and our parents would never allow it.”
“You would not help him, would you, Sarah? Even if he wanted above all things to go?”
“No!” Sarah looked askance. “I would not wish the worry and fear I’ve suffered these past months over my husband’s safety upon anyone, least of all our mother.”
“I am exceedingly glad to hear you say that.” Betsy considered whether or not to tell Sarah she had uncovered the truth about Toby’s death, but decided against it. She also did not reveal to Sarah anything that had happened the afternoon the Watch escorted François from her shop. Or that she had seen François with his mother and Minette yesterday morning at market. Although Betsy had longed to greet her girlfriend, who looked fetching in the blue woolen cloak Betsy had given her, she thought it fortunate that the threesome had not spotted her. She had already filled her basket and was ready to depart when they began to browse amongst the stalls. Still, the unexpected glimpse of François had caused her stomach to roil with fear and her breath to grow short. Now, she said, “I cannot help but continue to worry for Rachel’s safety. So long as she continues to see François . . .”
“Betsy, do leave off complaining about Rachel and François. I am aware that you detest the man, but I’m sick to death of hearing you speak disparagingly of him. Perhaps he will join the fighting . . .”
“For which side?” Betsy demanded. “Forgive me, I will honor your wishes and cease to speak ill of him. But, I refuse to cease thinking ill of him.”
“I am far too concerned for the safety of my own husband to fret over Rachel and her romantical intrigue.”
“Fine.” Betsy rose and taking up the poker, prodded the charred logs in the hearth until one fell apart and rewarded her with a shower of sparks.
“Perhaps I should be going,” Sarah said suddenly. Snatching up her cloak, she flung it about her shoulders.
“Please do not leave in a huff, Sarah.” Betsy followed her sister, her chin held aloft as she quitted the room. “It’s bad enough that our world is at war, I cannot bear it when you and I are at odds.”
In the dimly lit corridor, Sarah softened. “It is not my wish to bicker with thee either, Sister.”
“Then we must cease quarreling altogether.” Betsy drew Sarah into her arms and for a long moment, the frightened sisters clung to one another.
When they parted, Betsy noted moisture glistening on Sarah’s lashes. Weeks and months of worrying over whether or not her husband was dead or alive was indeed taking a toll on her. Although Betsy could not bring William safely home, she could continue her quest to eliminate one troublesome faction that continued to threaten the Griscom family. François Dubeau. Precisely how she would accomplish her goal, however, before he accomplished his continued to elude her.