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IT HAD NOT OCCURRED to Betsy that she would actually come face-to-face with François Dubeau in Trenton, but as it now appeared that that might actually be the case, she determined to stay alert and perhaps turn the unexpected encounter to good advantage. Although she strained to hear what was being said inside Colonel Rall’s office, she could make out nothing. Of a sudden, she was astonished when the unmistakable jolt of laughter . . . and not just a mild titter, but hearty guffaws . . . rang from the inner chamber. Suddenly, the group of smiling men burst forth from the office and poured into the room where Betsy sat. Amongst them was the tall, elegantly clad Frenchman.
“Mrs. Ross,” Dubeau sputtered, obviously taken aback over finding her sitting there.
That the Frenchman was acquainted with Betsy seemed also to come as a surprise to Colonel Rall.
“You are acquainted avec Quaker woman? Yah?”
François said nothing but Betsy noted the muscles of his jaws grinding together. The glare he directed her way would have felled a man had it been an arrow.
Colonel Rall turned to address Betsy, now standing. “Your visit with relative concluded, yah?”
“Yes, sir. I request your permission now to be on my way, sir.”
“M’sieur Dubeau,” Colonel Rall turned to a tight-lipped François. “You will please to escort the fräulein home. She is returning also to Philadelphia, yah?” The commanding officer looked to Betsy for confirmation.
“Indeed, sir.”
“You will escort the fräulein home,” Colonel Rall instructed firmly.
Betsy cringed when she noted the gleam that suddenly appeared in the Frenchman’s black eyes. “Certainment.”
Although the travel arrangements were not to her liking, apparently she was to have no say in the matter.
Setting out for the ferry, two Hessian grenadiers walked ahead of Betsy and François while another pair followed close behind. Neither Betsy nor François spoke. After traversing the entire length of River Road in silence, their escorts halted at the far end of it with the ferry landing in plain sight.
As Betsy and François walked the last quarter mile to the waterfront alone, she turned to boldly address her companion. “I could not help overhearing laughter coming from within Colonel Rall’s office. What did you and the Hessian soldiers find so amusing?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Must you lie about everything, François? I distinctly heard laughter coming from Colonel Rall’s chamber. The men were still laughing when they emerged.”
His lips twitched. “It amused them when I said the Patriot army was a rag-tag bunch of illiterate farmers from whom they had nothing to fear.”
“Oh.” After giving his reply only a bit of thought, Betsy realized that to paint the rebels as ill-bred and ignorant could very well be to their advantage. If the Hessians believed they had nothing to fear from the Patriot army, they’d be more apt to let down their guard, consequently when the surprise attack came, both the suddenness and the force of it could wreak even greater havoc. Unless, of course, they had been forewarned and knew the attack was coming. Had François alerted them?
“What brought you to Trenton, madame?”
“I came to deliver a Christmas gift to my sister-in-law . . . that is, my former sister-in-law,” Betsy replied, alluding to the fact that her husband John was no longer with them.
He grasped her meaning. “Madame, when I set fire to the munitions warehouse, I did not know the man guarding it was your husband. If you recall, at that juncture, we were not yet acquainted. I was merely carrying out an assignment,” he added defensively.
Betsy worked to remain calm. It would be exceedingly foolhardy of her to anger the Frenchman. The journey ahead of them was of sufficient duration that should he wish to, he could easily find a way to slay her with no one the wiser. Sarah, and her sister-in-law . . . should she ever learn of Betsy’s demise . . . would simply believe some disaster had befallen her on her way home. Biting back an angry retort, she said quietly, “I understand.”
“So, in addition to visiting your sister-in-law, were you also . . . spying?”
“I have given up spying.” Betsy’s lips pursed. “However, I take it you have not abandoned your duplicitous career.”
A snort of contempt told her that for him to abandon such a profitable venture was unlikely indeed. “Before returning to Philadelphia, I intend to pay a call upon General Washington,” François said, “and tell him . . . something.”
“So, you do not intend to escort me home as Colonel Rall instructed?”
His shoulders lifted and fell. “You may wait, if you like, while I . . . conduct my business with the general.”
“So, you have learned something of use to General Washington?” she pressed.
He snorted. “I did not say that. I have not yet decided what I shall tell the general.”
“I take it you know where in the woods the general has set up headquarters.” Betsy slid a sidelong look at him. She had no notion where General Washington’s headquarters were located, meaning she’d have no choice but to search out the great man on her own once she reached the opposite side of the river, which would make her return trip to Philadelphia take considerably longer than it otherwise should.
“Of course, I know where his headquarters are. The man is my employer.”
“So . . . exactly what of import did you learn from Colonel Rall today?”
He directed a contemptuous look her way. “You do not expect me to share information with you, do you?”
Betsy’s lips pressed together. To persist in this vein would be pointless, since whatever the man said would, no doubt, be devoid of truth. Had she been alone with him on this lonely stretch of road after dark, she would be saying nothing. But, as it was broad daylight and the ferry landing lay only a few steps ahead of them, she said, “As it happens, I intend to pay a call upon General Washington myself this afternoon.”
“And, what pray, have you to reveal to the Virginia farmer?”
“Nothing of import. I merely mean to wish him and Lady Washington a pleasant holiday. With the fighting in abeyance until spring, I expect he will welcome a respite from his duties.”
Upon reaching the riverbank, François very ungallantly stood aside and allowed Betsy to pay the fellow standing near the ferryboat for their return trip across the river. She hoped she was not being foolhardy embarking upon the crossing in François’s company. Perhaps the fact that a ferryman would also be along would prevent the odious creature from attempting anything sinister. She considered waiting on shore for another boat, but noting the bank of ominous-looking storm clouds that had rolled in made her abandon that notion. To wait for another ferry would mean she’d run the risk of the tiny boat capsizing due to a strong wind or a heavy downpour. Either way danger was eminent.
Casting an anxious look at François as they both climbed into the small boat, Betsy experienced additional trepidation when of a sudden, another ferryman, a small, wiry sort of fellow who looked as if he might not have sufficient strength in him to wield the oars, let alone row the entire way across the mile-wide river, also climbed in and scooped up the oars. Praying the weather did not take a nasty turn before they gained the opposite shore, she perched rigidly on the center bench, tightly grasping the edge of the vessel at her side with a gloved hand.
Unfortunately, they had scarcely reached the middle of the wide expanse of water when great gusts of wind kicked up. Alarm shot through Betsy when she noted white foam forming on the crests of the churning waves. She tightened her grip as the fierce wind pitched the tiny boat to and fro.
The choppy black water reminded her of the night, just above three years ago, when she and John had crossed the Delaware River in order to be married. With John at her side, she had felt perfectly safe. Today, with François seated next to her, she felt anything but. Especially when, of a sudden, he leaned down to whisper into her ear. “How easy it would be to shove a young lady overboard. I wonder how quickly her head would disappear beneath the waves?”
With her free hand, Betsy tugged her cloak tighter about her shoulders. “Were you to do away with me in that fashion, sir, you would also be obliged to toss the ferryman into the river, otherwise he would report your crime and . . . ”
“You are privy to far too many of my secrets, Mrs. Ross. Surely you realize that I have no choice but to kill you.”
Betsy’s breath caught in her throat. She cast a wild gaze about for some object, anything, with which she might defend herself should he decide to act upon his threat. But, she saw nothing lying about, not a length of rope, or a spare oar. She flung a furtive glance over one shoulder toward the ferryman.
François laughed; an evil, mocking sound. “To look to the captain of our little vessel will do you no good, mam’selle. To toss such a frail fellow overboard will be less trouble than to push you over the edge. He would not be expecting it.”
Betsy’s heart thrummed in her ears. Given the tumultuous weather, were François merely to stand up in the tiny rowboat would be sufficient to tip it over, and send her, and perhaps the old man, as well, tumbling into the icy waves.
François again leaned towards her. “I take it you do not swim, ma petite?”
Betsy edged away from him, but as the craft was so very narrow, she was already pressed quite close to the side. “Do leave off badgering me, François.” Her tone sounded far calmer than she felt. “If the boat were to tip over, you would surely drown along with the rest of us.”
Suddenly, reaching past her to grasp the edge of the boat on her side, his other hand clasping the opposite rail, he said, “Shall we see what happens when I . . .”
“You there!” shouted the ferryman. “Yer frightenin’ the lady!”
Over the sounds of the rushing wind and the splashing waves, Betsy expected the elderly man hadn’t heard a word François had said, but fortunately, his actions had been duly noted. She was vastly relieved when François let go of her side of the boat. With a gloved hand, she continued to cling to it.
Despite the old man’s interference, however, François was not ready to abandon his ominous threats. In seconds, he said, “I expect it would be more expedient simply to . . . shoot you.”
Betsy turned a horrified gaze on him and when she saw him pat a bulky object in his coat pocket, her breath again deserted her.
“I never walk into an army camp without a loaded pistol.” He grinned wickedly. “Most especially when it is the . . . enemy camp.”
Betsy fought to still her pounding pulse. Dear Lord, please help her survive the river crossing, and reach home safely.
Apparently the Lord heard her prayer for mere minutes before they reached shore, François abandoned his evil threats. After dragging the boat onto dry land, the ferryman gallantly handed Betsy out. She fervently thanked both him and God for seeing her safely ashore.
François had stepped from the boat and gained the road well ahead of Betsy, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his dark head bent against the stiff wind. Betsy held onto the hood of her cloak as she hastened to catch up to him, although not too close.
On this side of the river, the sky was darker and in the distance thunder rumbled. Betsy hoped that François did, indeed, know the way to General Washington’s headquarters and that he was not planning to lead her further into the woods where he could easily put a bullet through her heart and walk away unobserved.
Following at what she hoped was a safe distance; he walked only a short way up the road before veering off to the right. Surrounded by dense woods, Betsy purposely straggled behind, stepping over fallen tree limbs and carefully picking her way through thick brush and debris, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the Frenchman. When an armed sentry came into view and she saw François approach the man, an enormous breath of relief escaped her. When François motioned back toward her, she suspected he meant to gain the general’s ear before she did, perhaps in an attempt to discredit her before she had the opportunity to address the great man herself.
However, the sentry waited until Betsy caught up to them, then he led both of them even deeper into the woods until at last they came upon a clearing where a vast number of tattered white tents stood. Eventually, the soldier, a rifle slung over one shoulder, turned toward Betsy.
“Your name, miss?”
“Please tell General Washington that Betsy Ross wishes to speak with him, sir.”
As the guard stooped to enter one of the tents, François aimed a lethal glare at her. “Washington is a busy man, madame. You are wasting everyone’s time.”
In a few moments, the sentry reappeared. “The general will see you now.”
Both François and Betsy took a step forward, but to her surprise and no doubt, François’s, the guard laid his musket across the Frenchman’s broad chest.
“The lady first, sir.”
Betsy had spoken with His Excellency General George Washington and his pretty little wife, Lady Washington, upon many occasions at Christ
Church where they all worshipped. In addition, the general had been amongst the delegation of statesmen who had called at her shop last spring requesting she make a banner to represent the thirteen colonies. Today, however, surrounded by three of his advisors, all impeccably turned out in buff and blue coats, calfskin breeches and polished black boots, General Washington, standing over six feet tall, seemed far more regal and imposing than she remembered. Waves of uncertainty commenced to erode her confidence.
“T-thank you for seeing me, sir.” A shaky smile flickered across Betsy’s flushed face.
“Mrs. Ross.” Although the general did not smile, his tone was cordial.
“Sir, I-I have just come from Trenton and wished to impart to you some of what I learned there before I return home.”
General Washington’s expression revealed only mild curiosity. “Please be seated, madam.” He indicated a flimsy, slat-backed chair that had previously been occupied by one of his advisors, for when Betsy sat down she noted the seat still felt warm. As it was especially cold both outdoors and inside the tent, she was grateful for the slightest bit of heat.
“Thank you, sir.” Her wide-eyed gaze took in the clutter of papers and crudely drawn diagrams spread upon the makeshift table where the general and his advisors had gathered. Two other officers, to whom she was not introduced, moved toward another corner of the tent and now stood a bit apart from her and the general, the men rubbing their hands together in a futile effort to stave off the chill. A third officer moved to stand before the tent flap, perhaps to guard it from intruders, or merely to keep it from flying open due to the stiff wind rustling through the treetops.
“What did you wish to see me about, Mrs. Ross?”
“I have a great deal to tell you, sir, but first I-I wonder if you are acquainted with a man, a Frenchman, by the name of François Dubeau? He claims to be in your employ as an . . . intelligence gatherer. Some weeks ago M’sieur Dubeau traveled from Philadelphia to New York for the express purpose of seeking a position with you as an informant.”
Washington’s white-wigged head shook. “I am unacquainted with any gentleman by that name, madam. To protect my informants from possible detection, true names are never used.”
“Oh.” Betsy suddenly felt like a child telling tales out of school. “Well, sir, some months ago, M’sieur Dubeau approached me with the notion of . . . of spying on those customers who come to my upholstery shop, those who profess loyalty to the crown, that is. I agreed to do as M’sieur Dubeau asked but I later learned that the information I passed along to him was altered and when passed along, presumably to you, sir, the message became quite the opposite of what I originally intended.”
Washington leaned forward. “Are you saying, Mrs. Ross, that this M’sieur Dubeau is a . . . double spy? That the man is, in fact, working for the British?”
Betsy nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir, that is exactly what I am saying, sir.”
She told him about the message her friend Captain Ashburn had recovered along with a copy of the altered one, which clearly proved that her original message had been reversed. Watching the general closely, it pleased Betsy to note that the great man appeared now to be listening quite intently.
“Sir, I attempted to get word to you in New York that the British planned to attack from the Jamaica Pass Road, but when I told M’sieur Dubeau what I had learned he scoffed at the notion. I was certain that it was correct, sir, for I clearly saw the map with an X marking the spot. The next morning, I hastened to tell Dr. Franklin but apparently the information arrived too late to be of any use to you. I’m dreadfully sorry, sir. Dr. Franklin has passed along more than one message which I have directed to you, sir.”
“I see.” Washington drew breath. “Precisely where did you see this map of the proposed enemy campaign in New York City, Mrs. Ross?”
Betsy told him about sewing Miss Olsen’s wedding finery and that she’d been invited to attend the young lady’s engagement party where British officers were present and how she came to be in the same room with the officers. “I pretended to lose my thimble and was left alone in the room to search for it and therefore was able to get quite a good look at the map, sir.”
Following that disclosure she was certain she saw the hint of a smile play about the great man’s lips. “A unique ploy, to be sure, Mrs. Ross.”
“Thank you, sir.” Betsy nodded. “On more than one occasion in the past months, sir, M’sieur Dubeau has openly confessed to me that he is a double spy. He said that you had recently entrusted him to carry a packet of important documents from New York to Philadelphia and that he had deliberately placed the packet in the hands of a British officer.” At that disclosure she was certain she heard the collective intake of breath from the other officers inside the tent. “M’sieur Dubeau grew up in England, sir, and he continues to correspond with a number of British officers who are in this country fighting against us. Only minutes ago, as we were crossing the Delaware River from Trenton, M’sieur Dubeau indicated that he has no intention of abandoning his career as a double spy.”
Washington frowned. “Am I to understand that you and this . . . M’sieur Dubeau traveled to Trenton . . . together?”
“Oh, no, sir.” Betsy shook her head. “I went to Trenton to see my sister-in-law, Joanna Holland, my . . . my late husband’s sister. Perhaps you remember Mrs. Holland from Christ Church. She and her husband, who is now serving in the rebel army, often sat in the same pew with John and me. Anyhow, whilst I was visiting with Joanna, she and her cousins told me quite a number of things that I thought might be of interest to you.”
At this juncture, Betsy knew she had the general’s full attention as well as that of the other officers in the tent. She felt them draw a bit closer as she continued in a low tone, telling the general the exact location of Colonel Rall’s headquarters, the number of Hessian soldiers that both she and her sister-in-law had observed in the village and that the soldiers very often stayed up long into the night drinking and playing cards at Trenton Tavern and that they were often still drunk the following morning. “Often too drunk to stand for inspection,” she said, adding, “it is expected that with Christmas drawing near the late night revelries will escalate to an intolerable degree.”
She went on to tell him the exact number of armed sentries she’d encountered on the River Road and did her best to describe the weapons the Hessian soldiers carried. “The men’s uniforms are very clean, but I couldn’t help noticing, sir, their muskets did not appear . . . immaculate. I saw mud caked on them. The men often stand leaning upon their rifles, which appears to not be a good idea to me, sir, as that might push dirt or debris up the nozzle or . . . whatever you call the part of the musket that protrudes. All the soldier’s rifles had bayonets on the ends. I am quite certain of that.”
“Well done, Mrs. Ross.” The general sat back. “The intelligence you have gathered is quite useful, indeed. Is there . . . anything further?”
“Umm. Yes, sir, I was told that quite a large company of British soldiers are encamped below Assunpink Creek.”
“Ah.” The general glanced at his men, then looked back toward Betsy as if expecting her to divulge even more.
“Before I left Trenton this morning, sir, I was taken again to Colonel Rall’s headquarters but upon arriving, I was obliged to wait as he was entertaining visitors. I couldn’t make out what the men within his chamber were saying, but I did hear laughter, sir. Laughter!”
“Laughter?”
She nodded. “Very loud laughter. The men were still laughing when they emerged, sir, and M’sieur Dubeau was amongst them. Since both he and I were headed for Philadelphia, Colonel Rall insisted that M’sieur Dubeau escort me home.”
“That was . . . thoughtful of him,” the general murmured.
“M’sieur Dubeau is waiting outside, sir. I do not know what he means to tell you today as only moments ago, he said he had not yet decided. But . . . some weeks back, François, his given name is François, at any rate, he confessed to me that,” her chin quivered, “that he alone was responsible for the explosion at the munitions warehouse in Philadelphia nearly a twelvemonth ago, where my late husband John Ross was standing guard. If you recall, sir, my husband perished from his wounds.”
“I do recall that unfortunate accident, Mrs. Ross. Please accept my sincere condolences for your loss, madam.”
“Thank you, sir.” Claps of thunder so loud that voices could not be heard above the clamor afforded Betsy a much-needed moment in which to regain herself. Thinking that she would surely be obliged to walk the entire way back to Philadelphia in a torrent of cold rain, she rose to depart. “That is all I have to say, sir. I will leave it to you to determine which of us, M’sieur Dubeau or myself, is being truthful.”
The general walked behind her as she edged towards the soldier standing guard at the entrance to the tent. “Oh, one other thing, sir. M’sieur Dubeau is waiting outside and . . . he is carrying a pistol, which he said is loaded.”
She heard the collective gasp of alarm from all the uniformed men inside the tent.
“I see.” Standing quite near her, General Washington again asked, “Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Mrs. Ross?”
“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot, sir.” Betsy smiled up at the dignified man. “Did you find the muskets and gunpowder? Upstream at McKonkey’s Ferry, in the stone barn behind the rock farmhouse? We thought a stone building would be more difficult to burn down.”
“We?”
Betsy’s anxious features softened. “My friend Joseph Ashburn is a privateer, sir. Those particular muskets formerly belonged to the British. On Captain Ashburn’s most recent voyage, he absconded with them. In order to protect them from M’sieur Dubeau, who intended to steal them and sell them to you, I persuaded Joseph to stash them in a safe place for our army’s use.”
“Ah.” The appearance of a genuine smile on the general’s lips vastly pleased Betsy. “We did indeed find the weapons. Please extend my gratitude to Captain Ashburn. Thank you for coming to see me today, madam.” General Washington inclined his head before turning to one of his subordinates. “Harris, please see to an escort for Mrs. Ross. The lady is
returning to Philadelphia and it would not do for her to travel alone.”
One of the officers snapped to attention. “Certainly, sir. Anything else, sir?”
Washington cocked a brow. “Disarm M’sieur Dubeau before you show him in.”
“You may depend upon it, sir.”
* * *
SOME MINUTES LATER, seated on one of two horses clip-clopping toward Philadelphia, Betsy had no idea what the outcome of her interview with General Washington would be. All she knew for certain was that she suddenly felt quite lightheaded over having been awarded the opportunity to speak with the great general and to finally unburden all that had weighed so heavily upon her mind these past weeks. Her relief was so great, in fact, that she could not halt the sob that rose in her throat or the rush of hot tears that began to trickle down her cheeks. Aware of the several sidelong glances the uniformed officer who rode beside her cast her way, she had no idea what the young man thought the trouble might be, but as he did not inquire as to the nature of her distress, Betsy did not venture to explain.
Less than a mile down the roadway, the dark clouds overhead unleashed the icy rain swelling them; therefore, whether or not Betsy was crying, or rain was dampening her cheeks became a moot point. Despite the downpour, Betsy felt safe and comfortable cantering alongside an armed soldier of the Continental Army, her long-awaited and much anticipated mission now behind her. Although she could not help wondering if General Washington had seen fit to arrest François on the spot, she hoped at the very least, he would refuse to believe a single word the Frenchman said; for whatever François conjured up, Betsy knew it would be nowhere near the truth.