Valley Forge

June 13, 1778

CHAPTER VI

* * *

Spring had eased the bitter, killing cold of winter and the horrors of starvation. June came in hot and humid, with each day sweltering worse than the day before. The setting sun was casting long shadows eastward through the Continental Army camp at Valley Forge, strung out for ten miles along the Schuylkill River. The clang and clatter of soldiers throwing pots and pans into huge kettles of boiling wash water rolled out across the camp of the Massachusetts Regiment as they cleaned up after evening mess.

“Weems!”

The high, shrill voice of Sergeant Alvin Turlock cut piercing through the clamor as the short, wiry little man strode through the camp, searching. A sweating, sour-faced young private, trying to grow his first beard, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, clothes wet to his knees, raised his head from stirring one of the kettles with a peeled pine stick and pointed with his chin.

“Over there.”

Fifty feet west of the regimental supper cook fires, Billy Weems stood at the edge of the thick forest amid white pine chips scattered in all directions. Before him was a huge oak chopping block that served all needs for regimental firewood. He set the next pine rung on the block and swung the heavy ax to drive the broad, straight blade five inches into the dry wood. He grasped the ax behind the head, hoisted the forty-pound rung over his head, and brought it down hard. The ax head drove on through, and the severed halves fell tumbling. He was reaching for one of the chunks when Turlock strode up beside him, head thrust forward, face intense.

“Where’s Stroud?”

Billy wiped sweat and pointed. “At the river. Getting wash water. Why?”

“Go git him. Gen’l Washington wants to see both of you.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “For what?”

“Don’t know. Hamilton didn’t say. Drop that ax and git Eli and head on up to the Gen’l’s quarters!”

Billy drove the ax blade into the block and wiped a worn shirtsleeve at the sweat on his face. “Ought to clean up first.”

Turlock shook his head. “No. Hamilton said now.”

Billy shrugged and started toward the river at a trot when Turlock called after him, “You report back when you finish. You hear?”

He met Eli walking from the river, carrying a large, dripping wooden bucket of water in each hand. Eli was stripped to the waist, the white of his chest and back and shoulders in sharp contrast with the brown of his face and neck, where the sun and weather had burned him. Eli slowed, then stopped, and set the buckets on the ground as he saw the expression on Billy’s face and heard the edge in his voice.

“Turlock says General Washington wants to see us. Now.”

Eli’s forehead creased in question. “What about?”

“Hamilton didn’t say. Just said to get there.”

“Without my shirt?”

“Where is it?”

“At the hut.”

“Let’s go.”

Billy seized the rope handle of one bucket, Eli the other, and they walked quickly back to dump the water into the iron wash kettles, then drop the buckets nearby. They hurried to the small hut they and ten other men had built under orders from General Washington, issued December twentieth, the day after the ragged, starving army had marched into Valley Forge in a snowstorm. Eli wiped his sweaty face in the shirt, then pulled it on, and reached for his weapons belt.

“Don’t think you’ll need that,” Billy said.

“The rifle?”

“I’m not taking my musket.”

Wordlessly the two walked out into the golden glow of sunset, turned north, and broke into a trot up the Old Gulph Road. They passed the grounds where regiments from Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Connecticut had cleared out the thick forest and undergrowth to build their huts, fourteen by sixteen feet as ordered, and establish their woodlots and firepits. Eight minutes later they slowed as they came to the place where Valley Creek emptied into the Schuylkill River, and stopped at the square, austere stone building that quartered General Washington and his staff. Billy knocked, and the door swung open.

Colonel Alexander Hamilton—average height, slender, boyish in appearance—stood before them, uniform gleaming. Aide-de-camp to General Washington, he had arranged previous meetings between the General and these two, and they saw recognition in his eyes. It was Hamilton who had questioned the General as to whether he ever hoped to teach Eli Stroud to salute officers. Contrary to his usual rigid insistence on military protocol, the General made a vague response and let the matter go.

Eli nodded to Hamilton. Billy saluted and spoke.

“Corporal Billy Weems and Scout Eli Stroud reporting as ordered, sir.”

Hamilton eyed Eli, then returned Billy’s salute. “Enter. The General will see you momentarily.”

They followed Hamilton into a small, plain foyer and waited, listening to his boot heels thump on the plank flooring of the narrow hallway. There was a knock, a door opened, then closed, then opened again, and Hamilton returned.

“Follow me.”

He led them down the hall to a plain wooden door and rapped twice. The familiar voice from within called “Enter,” and the two men followed Alexander Hamilton into a room no larger than twenty feet by twenty-five feet. The walls were bare, save for an American flag mounted on the wall behind an unremarkable maplewood desk. A long table stood against the wall to Washington’s left, half-covered with stacks of documents and rolled-up scrolls. Four plain pinewood chairs stood against the opposite wall, with two more before the desk. Behind the desk sat General George Washington in his uniform—tall, lean, piercing blue-gray eyes, long graying hair tied behind his head. The lines in his face spoke of the tremendous weight that bore down on the man every minute of his life.

Billy came to attention and saluted. “Corporal Billy Weems and Scout Eli Stroud reporting as ordered, sir. Our apologies for our appearance.”

Washington stood, returned the salute, and ignored the apology. He gave a nod to Hamilton, who quietly left the room and closed the door.

“Be seated.” He gestured, and waited while they took the chairs facing his desk, then sat back down. He wasted no time on formalities.

“I need some information very badly, and I believe you can get it for me. Corporal, would you bring me that long scroll?” He pointed to the table.

They unrolled the large parchment on Washington’s desk, and Billy and Eli studied it for a moment, long enough to recognize the city of Philadelphia in the center, with the Delaware River winding past on the east fringe of the town. On Washington’s gesture all sat down, and Washington leaned forward on his forearms to speak.

“Critically important events are taking shape in Philadelphia, and I must know what they are. Specifically, General William Howe left Philadelphia for England about eight days ago. He was replaced as commander of the British forces by General Sir Henry Clinton. General Clinton tried to draw our army out into a major engagement on his terms, but I refused. From all appearances he is preparing for a major event, perhaps leaving. Now General Howe’s brother, Admiral Lord Richard Howe, has anchored a large number of his fleet’s ships in Philadelphia, on the Delaware. I’ve ordered my agents and informants to discover his intentions, but the reports I’ve received are in total conflict with each other.”

He paused, then tapped the parchment with a finger. “I have to know what General Clinton means to do. Is he preparing to abandon Philadelphia? If Admiral Howe intends transporting General Clinton’s army down the Delaware to the Chesapeake, where are they headed? North to New York? South to invade the southern states? If he is not there to transport the British army somewhere, then what are his ships for, and, does General Clinton intend moving his army overland?”

He paused, frustration clear on his face. “I must know so I can make preparations to move the Continental Army to best advantage to maintain contact with the main body of the British military and continue our campaign of steady harassment.”

Eli rounded his lips and softly blew air.

Washington continued. “And I need that information immediately.”

He paused, and for a moment silence held. They could hear birds chirping outside the single window.

“I believe you are capable of getting it.”

Eli spoke. “When?”

“Report back within two days.”

Billy started. “Two days? Leave when, sir?”

“Immediately. Within the hour.”

“How do we travel?”

“I leave that to you. Should you want horses I can make them available, but there is risk.”

“Risk?”

“If a mounted British patrol suspects something, men on horseback cannot disappear as quickly in the forest as men on foot.”

Eli asked, “Do we take our weapons?”

“That is for you to decide. I suggest you do, but leave them on the outskirts of the city. You must appear to be citizens.”

He studied the map for a moment, then traced a line with his finger. “This is a wagon road. It runs from the east end of Valley Forge to come into Philadelphia from the north. Here, about one mile from the city, on the east side of the road, is a farm owned by one of my informants. There’s a pond beside the road, and he’ll have a light in his barn. He’s expecting you at four o’clock tomorrow morning. There will be wagons and carts on the road about that time, loaded with farm produce to be sold to the British military in the city. He’ll have a wagonload of oats. You will pose as his hired men to help unload in Philadelphia.”

Washington paused to order his thoughts, then proceeded.

“You will call him Isaiah. That is not his name. It’s a code name by which he will recognize you. He will call you Daniel and Richard.”

Washington straightened. “You’re soldiers. If you’re caught in civilian clothing you will be considered spies. The penalty is hanging.”

Neither Billy or Eli spoke nor moved. After a moment General Washington continued.

“He will drive the wagon through town for you to see conditions there, then turn toward the river and stop at the docks. That’s where you will unload, and Isaiah will leave. From that time, you will have to use your best judgment as to how to get the information I need and return here.”

Eli pointed at the map. “You want to know which way the British are going? North or south?”

“Yes, along with other things. I need to know if they are abandoning Philadelphia, and if they are, are they leaving by sea or by land? I need to know the number of effectives they have, their sick, wounded, cannon, horses, ships, wagons, munitions, supplies, everything you can learn about their current state of readiness.”

Billy interrupted. “Do you have any informants in the town? Anyone we should know about if we need help?”

“I have informants, but do not contact them. If you lead the British to them, there is no end to the mischief it might cause.”

“Anything else, sir?” Billy asked.

Washington shook his head. “Do you want horses? I need to know now so I can order them ready.”

Billy glanced at Eli who shook his head, and Billy answered. “No, sir. We’ll go on foot.”

Washington handed Billy a small leather purse. “British money. You’ll need it for food and lodging.”

Billy thrust it into his shirt.

Washington collected his thoughts. “When you return, report back to me, no matter the time.”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”

“No. You are dismissed.”

Billy saluted, and Washington rose and returned the salute, but said nothing. Billy turned on his heel and the two walked out the door into the hall. They passed Alexander Hamilton’s desk as they left through the small foyer. He studied them as they closed the door, then leaned back in his chair, wondering for a moment if Eli had saluted General Washington. No, he decided, he’s more Iroquois than white.

Minutes later, breathing hard, Eli and Billy trotted through the Massachusetts camp, past the evening cleanup crew that was finishing scrubbing out the great black kettles. They slowed, looking for Turlock, and found him with two men hauling firewood from the stacks to the fire. Billy waved him over and they spoke in quiet tones.

“We’re going into Philadelphia. Be back in two days.”

“Philadelphia! What for?”

“Find out all we can about what the British are doing.”

Turlock jerked. “Spies? Know what happens if you’re caught?”

Eli nodded, and a smile flickered. “We hang.”

“Without no hearing, no trial, no nothing!”

Billy said, “We’ll need some hardtack and cheese. Maybe some meat if you can find it.”

“When you leaving?”

“Now. As soon as we get our weapons.”

“Horses?”

“On foot.”

Turlock spun on his heel and was gone. Billy and Eli went to their hut where they buckled on their weapons, and Eli jammed his black tomahawk through his belt. They slung their powder horns, shot pouches, and canteens around their necks. Billy picked up his musket and Eli his rifle, and they paused for a moment to be certain the flints in the huge hammers were sharp. A moment later they were out in the early shades of twilight, walking toward the evening fire, searching again for Turlock.

The feisty little man came back at a lope, with two small packs wrapped in cheesecloth, and handed one to each man.

“There’s some hardtack and cheese and dried beef and a lump of maple sugar.”

Billy smiled. “You got sugar lumps?”

Turlock ignored it. “You two be careful, hear?” He turned to Eli. “You want me to tell Mary?”

Eli paused at the sound of the name, and for a moment he saw the dark hair, the dark eyes, the heart-shaped face, and his heart pounded. He took a deep breath. “No need to worry her. We’ll be back.”

“See to it. That girl would suffer bad if it went wrong. That village’s crawlin’ with redcoats. You get back, you come tell me first. Don’t matter when. Understand?”

Billy answered. “Take care of yourself.”

The two men followed the Gulph Road east, then turned south onto the road Washington had traced on the map and settled into the odd running walk known to the Indians, and taught to Billy by Eli. The eternal stars glittered overhead, and an hour later a half-moon rose to cast a faint silver sheen over the black woods on either side of the crooked road. A little after ten o’clock they stopped to drink from their canteens and wait for their breathing to settle before they picked up their weapons and continued south.

At midnight they judged they had covered fourteen miles, and stopped to drink and eat the cheese and beef and hardtack and thrust the lump of rich brown sugar into their mouth. For a few minutes they worked the sugar while they listened to the frogs in the marshes and bogs and along the bank of the distant river, and an owl in a tall pine asking who they were. They drank again, threw the bit of cheesecloth away, then picked up their weapons and moved on.

It was half-past three o’clock in the morning when they slowed to a steady walk, watching to their left for the pond and a barn nearby with a light. The steady, loud belching of bullfrogs grew closer, and then the pond was there, glassy in the dead air, reflecting the setting moon. They stopped, peering into the darkness. Billy pointed at the black bulk of a barn, but there was no light.

“We’re early,” Billy murmured.

“We wait,” answered Eli.

They left the road and entered the lane leading to the dooryard of the house and the barn, and sat down in the undergrowth, waiting, watching. Twenty minutes later a light emerged from the house and floated to the barn, disappeared inside, then reappeared in a window facing the road.

Billy pointed. “Let’s go.”

They came quartering in on the barn and silently stepped into the shaft of light being cast through the open door. Inside, a husky, bearded man, dressed in homespun and wearing a black, low-crowned flat felt hat was backing a Percheron draft horse on one side of a wagon tongue. He slowed and stopped and turned. His face was a mask of studied indifference.

Billy spoke. “We’re lost. Looking for a man named Isaiah.”

The man answered, “Who are you?”

“Daniel and Richard.”              

The man nodded. “I’m Isaiah.”

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Listen carefully. I will drive through the heart of Philadelphia, then turn left, north, to the river. I have three tons of oats for horse feed to be unloaded on the docks. When it’s unloaded, I will leave you and drive back here. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Half a mile this side of the city is a narrow neck of woods. When they cut the road through they blasted out tree stumps. They’re piled on the west side of the road. I’ll show you where. Hide your weapons there. Do not take them into the city. Pick them up on your way back. Are you clear?”

“Yes.”

The man bobbed his head, then gestured. “Help harness the horses.”

In the yellow light of the lantern they led a second Percheron from its stall to the wagon tongue, then a third and fourth. Settling the heavy harnesses on the horses’ broad backs, they buckled the horse collars into place, and finally hooked the chains from the tugs to the singletrees and the singletrees to the doubletrees. The man gestured, and Billy and Eli climbed on top of the one-hundred-twenty sacks of oats, fifty pounds per sack, and covered their weapons. Isaiah stepped from the cleat to the wheel hub, into the driver’s seat, threaded the ends of the long leather reins through the fingers of each hand, clucked, and smacked the reins down on the rumps of the wheel horses, and the wagon groaned as it rolled out of the barn. Three minutes later they turned from the lane onto the road.

The rumble and creaking of heavily loaded wagons and two-wheeled farm carts, moving along the winding dirt road south toward Philadelphia, was strangely loud in the quiet of the four-thirty a.m. darkness. The light from the stars and the low hanging half-moon shone dull off the Delaware, fifty yards to the east, and the sound of river frogs reached far into the trees and thick growth of the forests. A panther caught the human scent and dropped to its belly to listen, then silently slunk away from the hated sounds and the smells. A fat porcupine waddled noisily through the undergrowth, onto the road, heedless of the carts and wagons and the men driving them. A horse blew and shied at the black apparition crossing the road at its feet, the cart tipped, then slammed back onto its wheels. The driver shouted, and the porcupine walked on to disappear in the forest, oblivious to the cursing behind.

After a time, the road turned, and Isaiah spoke. “The stumps are just ahead on the right.”

Billy and Eli gathered their weapons and shifted to the edge of the load. When the piled stumps loomed in the darkness, the two men dropped to the ground, sprinted twenty feet to the tangle of roots and stumps, shoved their weapons belts and guns out of sight, along with their powder horns and shot pouches, then ran to catch the slow-moving wagon and swing back to the top of the load.

The black eastern sky finally yielded to deep purple. The north star and then the morning star faded and were gone in the blush preceding sunrise. From the top of the load, both men silently studied the road and the traffic of farmers bringing their produce to Philadelphia to be sold to British sergeants responsible for feeding the thousands of red-coated regulars and the livestock occupying the city. Fresh eggs, cheese, flour, beans, bacon, ham, chickens, ducks, beef, pork, mutton for the soldiers, oats, grain, and hay for the livestock—all to be haggled over and bought and paid for in British gold. To ease their consciences, the local farmers assured themselves only a foolish man would sell the fruits of his hard labor to the Americans for worthless Continental paper money when the British would pay in pound sterling.

The five o’clock a.m. rattle of British drums pounding out reveille broke the quiet that lay over Philadephia, the sound echoing hollow up the cobblestone streets and across the great river and out into the forests. With the coming light of day, the sounds of the river frogs quieted.

Isaiah spoke without turning his head. “We’re coming in. Watch sharp for patrols and officers.”

He swung the wagon to the right and gigged the plodding horses toward the scattered homes and barns and outbuildings on the northeast fringes of Philadelphia. Billy and Eli stiffened in stunned disbelief.

Every fence, every corral pole, every cow or pig or sheep pen had been ripped down by the British and used for winter firewood. All that remained of many barns, most milking sheds, and some homes were skeleton frames, with the walls and roofs torn away and burned in the fireplaces of the town mansions to keep the British officers warm. The putrefying carcasses of cows, horses, sheep, pigs, and chickens lay where they had frozen to death when their shelter against the ravages of winter had been wrecked.

The wagon rumbled on into the cobblestone streets of the city. In the growing heat of the day, the cloying stink of decaying animal flesh lay on the land like a pall. In some of the larger homes, British officers had stabled their horses in the kitchens and cut holes in the floors to sweep the horse droppings into the cellar below.

They moved inward toward the center of town, teeth on edge as they saw entire blocks of homes leveled to the ground for firewood. They passed the cemetery marked POTTER’S FIELD, where a great mound of dirt covered a mass grave in which the emaciated bodies of two thousand Americans had been discarded, dead of cold and starvation during their winter as prisoners of war. Other cemeteries had been used by the British to exercise their horses, leaving the ground churned into a mix of mud and manure, with gravestones knocked askew, many of them jerked up and piled to one side. Churches had been cleared of all benches and their ornate pulpits, the wood used for fires to heat barracks. Wrecked carriages, with the dead, decaying horses still in their harnesses fouled the streets and alleys. Independence Hall, the cradle of the Declaration of Independence, had been stripped to the bare walls for firewood.

Sickened by the sight and stench, they held their rising outrage in tenuous check as the wagon worked its way through the growing street traffic. They watched everything that moved, waiting for the sight of a British patrol with sunlight glinting off bayonets, and they listened for the sudden command of a British officer to halt and identify themselves.

There were no patrols, no shouted commands. Rather, the streets were bustling with a tumultuous mix of American civilians struggling to conduct their business, and British regulars with muskets, in singles and twos and threes, preoccupied as they pushed and jostled their way through the crowds from one place to another. Officers moved among them, ignoring the fact that none of the enlisted men snapped to attention or saluted at their passing.

In puzzled silence the two men sat on the top of the load, legs dangling, as Isaiah came back hard on the left reins, and the lead horses made their turn, followed by the wheel horses. The wagon leaned as it followed, then straightened as it came onto the broad cobblestoned waterfront of the Delaware River.

Both men stood on the load to peer upriver, then down. The wharves and docks were clogged with freight wagons, British regulars, civilians, sailors with long waxed pigtails, horses, oxen, sheep, oats, hay, grain, cannon, thousands of wooden crates of cartridges and supplies, and kegs of gunpowder, stacked not more than ten in any one place. Far to the south were the great shipyards where the keels and ribs and masts of schooners under construction were visible. The sounds of shouting men and nervous horses and terrified sheep filled the air, and the stench of animals and their droppings was overpowering in the rising heat.

British sailors were systematically loading soldiers into ships, the horses onto barges, and the cannon and munitions into transports, while crews on board made ready to cast off the mooring ropes to transfer their cargo across the broad expanse of the Delaware to the New Jersey side. Watercraft of every description plied the river, moving away from Philadelphia loaded, riding low, returning empty, riding high. Sailors and officers shouted profanities at each other as their vessels bumped and collided in the heavy traffic on the river and next to the docks.

Eli and Billy raised their eyes and squinted across to the New Jersey side of the river, wishing for a telescope. They strained to see the detail of a gun emplacement with the snouts of six cannon covering every ship, every soldier and sailor within one mile, where Cooper’s Creek emptied into the great river. South of the guns, thousands of red-coated soldiers moved about, leading horses into massive rope pens, tying oxen to picket lines strung along the far docks, stacking boxes and crates and kegs of gunpowder, wheeling cannon to an ordnance depot, shouting as they rolled empty wagons into a close-quarter line, side by side, to make room for more coming in. The growing stockpiles of all things necessary to maintain a marching army were growing as far as the eye could see.

Isaiah worked his way through the swarming mass to finally haul the lathered horses to a stop. On the ground, a sweating sergeant stood beside a mountain of sacked oats. He was bareheaded, with his tunic lying on a table nearby where a wide-eyed lieutenant sat with a sectioned tray of coins and printed British money and a stack of vouchers. A nervous private stood behind him, musket at the ready, watching closely everyone who came within ten feet of the money tray. The sergeant peered up at Isaiah, wiped the sweat from his eyes, and bawled, “Oats?”

“Three tons. Horse feed.”

“You got a contract?”

Isaiah handed down a paper, the sergeant read it briefly, then pointed. “You got men to unload it?”

Isaiah pointed back at Billy and Eli.

Dour, frowning, the sergeant pointed. “Add it to the stack. You break a sack, we dock your pay. We check the weight on every fifth bag. One comes up short, we reject the load. When you’re unloaded, come back here.” He pointed at the young lieutenant with the money at the table. “He’ll pay. You’ll sign for it. Move on.”

Isaiah moved the wagon to the great pile of sacked oats and climbed down. Billy dropped the tailgate, they set the chains to hold it level, Eli stepped up onto it, and reached for the first bag of oats on the top of the load. He set it on the tailgate, Billy shouldered it, carried it to the stack and settled it into its place, then returned to the tailgate for the next one.

A sweating private, still wearing his tunic and hat, wheeled an avoirdupois scale next to the tailgate and set a bucket with the numerals “50” painted on the side on one of the two arms. He gestured, and Billy set the next bag on the opposite arm. The two came to a balance, and the needle on the register showed the sack of oats slightly the heavier. The private nodded, Billy hoisted the sack, and added it to the stack while the private made a mark on a paper.

The three settled into the routine.

The sun was approaching its zenith when they stopped to drink. Eli paused for a moment to peer upward at a cloudless sky. The air was heavy—humid, hot, dead, sultry. Eli wiped at sweat and spoke to Billy. “Feels like weather coming.”

It was past two o’clock in the afternoon when the last sack was in place. The private initialed his tally sheet, handed it to Isaiah, and wheeled the scale away. Isaiah took the paper to the sergeant, who studied it for a moment, added his initials, and handed it back.

“Take it to the lieutenant.”

The lieutenant marked the paper and counted bills and coins from his tray. Isaiah counted them again, and the lieutenant handed him the quill. Isaiah signed to acknowledge receipt of the money, stuffed it into a leather purse, shoved it into his shirt, and walked back to his empty wagon where Billy and Eli were waiting. Without a word he mounted the driver’s seat, unwound the reins from the brake pole, set his team of horses in motion, and the empty wagon rattled away to disappear in the din and stench of the sweltering, crowded waterfront.

Billy looked at Eli, took a deep breath, and made a motion with his head, toward the sergeant. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

Billy led the way, pushing through the crowd. He stopped at the table where the sergeant was checking a paper with the lieutenant, still seated with the money. The private with the musket eyed them closely, then settled. The lieutenant raised his head, and the sergeant turned, irritated, brusque.

“We already paid for the oats.”

Billy nodded. “We got our wages. Just wanted to know if you could use some more oats. Same price.”

The sergeant eyed them. “Who are you? What are your names?”

“I’m Billy Weems. This is Eli Stroud.”

“Looks like an Indian to me.”

“Raised Iroquois. Good worker. You need more oats?”

“You from around here?”

“Here and close by. We hire out. Know a few farmers around here with oats. Good horse feed. You need more?”

The sergeant was emphatic. “No. Our orders say no more contracts this side of the river. We’re moving all the horses across. We’ll get our feed over there. Save moving it all over there.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “The New Jersey side? Which way from there?”

The sergeant stopped, suspicion evident in his face. “What’s your interest in direction?”

“We worked for some farmers over there, north in Bordentown, and further up in Allentown. Good grain country. They got oats. Just thought if you’re moving north up near there we could go ahead of you and have sacked oats waiting. Same price. Good quality. How many horses you feeding? For how long?”

Eli was to the side of and one step behind Billy, standing loose and easy, from all appearances paying little attention. He did not look directly at the lieutenant as the man laid down the paper he was holding and turned to study Billy.

The sergeant went on. “You contractors?”

“No. When we deal for oats, we get to load and unload. Good wages. And we’d rather get paid in British gold than American Continental dollars.” He shook his head ruefully. “Those American paper dollars are near worthless.”

The sergeant pondered for a moment before he spoke. “Five thousand horses. Headed north.”

“How far? Middlebrook? Amherst?”

“New York.”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. Eli did not change expression.

Billy scratched his head. “All those horses working? Pulling wagons?”

“All five thousand.”

Billy whistled. “That’s a lot of wagons. How many men will be going?”

“About fifteen thousand.”

Billy recoiled, wide-eyed. “Fifteen thousand!” He made swift calculations, then began to shake his head slowly. “Four horses to the wagon, that’s about twelve hundred wagons going ninety miles or more. It’ll take close to three weeks to move that many men and wagons that far through the hills between here and New York. I can get some horse feed, but not near enough for all five thousand working every day. I can get maybe eighty, ninety tons of oats and have them any place you want between here and New Brunswick. That help?”

The lieutenant picked up the quill, wrote something quickly, folded the paper, and handed it to the private with the musket. The private looked down at him, the lieutenant pointed, and the private pivoted on his heel and disappeared into the crowd. Eli reached to scratch under his chin, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and waited.

The sergeant was obviously dubious. “We’ll need signed contracts in advance. Can you get them?”

Billy shrugged. “We can try. If I do, you the one I deal with?”

“You’ll deal with Colonel Henry Jarvis, but you’ll do it through me. Ask just about anyone in the command for Sergeant Quincy Morton. The forage sergeant. They’ll find me.”

“Where will your army be? When do you leave to start north?”

“Orders say June eighteenth. I don’t know how they think we’ll get all this across the river by then, but we will.”

Billy nodded vigorously. “That’s four days. I’ll try to get back before you leave.”

“You have no guarantees. By that time we could have enough contracts to carry us.”

“I understand. If I get contracts, I’ll find you on the other side of the river.”

The sergeant turned back to the lieutenant, puzzled that the armed guard was no longer standing watch over the money. Billy gave Eli a head signal, and they walked off into the crowd. Eli waited until they were fifty feet away before he spoke.

“That lieutenant was paying too much attention to you and the sergeant. He sent the private somewhere with a note.”

Billy slowed. “Think we’re being followed?”

“Don’t know. Let’s find out.” In two strides Eli was beside a jumble of open, discarded shipping crates, and stepped up on one. He was head and shoulders above the crowd. In two seconds he located the sergeant, then the lieutenant, and as he watched, the private came leading six redcoated regulars at a run, muskets at the ready, bayonets gleaming in the hot sun. They stopped before the lieutenant, and he spoke to them, excited, animated, then barked orders. As he turned to point the direction Billy and Eli had taken, Eli dropped to the ground.

“Looks like there’s a six-man squad coming after us.”

Instantly Billy veered away from the docks, Eli following, pushing through the crowd in the cobblestone streets, dodging, working their way south, away from the tumult and din of the waterfront. They covered six blocks before they slowed, watching for a place to disappear. They passed a white frame church with the front doors chained shut and continued to the corner, where they circled back to come in behind the old building. They pushed through the gate in the unpainted fence, and rattled the backdoor to the quarters of the cleric. It was bolted, but the outside cellar door was open. They looked about to be certain they were unobserved, then descended the nine wooden stairs and pushed through the lower door into a dark, dank room that reeked of musty decay. They waited until their eyes adjusted, then strained to see in the darkness. The room was small, bare, dirt walled and floored, with two heavy timbers supporting the floor overhead.

Nose wrinkled against the thick, rank air, Billy said, “There’s usually an overhead door and stairs in these church cellars.”

Eli answered. “The door’s right here, but no stairs.”

Billy pondered for a moment. “The British probably tore them out for firewood. Is the door nailed shut?”

Eli stood tall to push upward with both hands, then slammed the butt of one hand against the door. It swung open on its hinges to fall banging on the floor above, sending the sound echoing through the building. Both men froze, waiting for anything that would tell them they had been heard. Three minutes of silence passed before Eli spoke again.

“I’m going up.”

He pulled himself upward into the small parlor of the quarters built for the reverend. Sunlight from a single window showed the room to be abandoned, stripped of any furnishings, bare to the walls. Moments later Billy pulled himself up, and the two men stood peering about.

The door in the entrance to the chapel was gone, and the two men silently walked into the large, high ceilinged room, lighted by dusty sunlight filtering through the accumulated grime covering six high windows on each side. The pulpit and sacrament table had been torn out, and every pew in the building was ripped out and gone. Dust covered the scarred, bare wooden floor. The temperature in the closed room was stifling. The two men felt an eerie, surreal sensation as they stood in the dull light, staring at the wrecked house of worship.

Billy broke the mood. “I doubt they’ll search here,” he said quietly. “I’ll go close the cellar doors.”

“If they find us, we’re trapped.”

Billy paused. “Might be six or eight squads out there looking for us by now. Shall we take our chances back in the streets?”

Eli shook his head. “We stay. We can leave at dark. Get some rest while we wait. From the feel of it out there, I expect weather soon. That’ll help.”

After Billy came back from the cellar, they sat down on the floor, backs against the plain wooden walls, knees drawn high to support their forearms. They could not stop the beads of perspiration that trickled down their faces, nor did they dare speak aloud. They sat in silence, sweating, each with his own thoughts, eyes closed as they tried to rest after spending forty hours without sleep.

The afternoon wore on with the shafts of sunlight moving slowly across the floor, and then the irregular rectangles of light faded and were gone. Deep purple clouds came rolling to cast the room in a dark blue haze, and then they heard a rising wind, rattling the shutters on the building and whipping the trees outside into a frenzied dance. Minutes passed as the wind mounted, and then from a long distance to the west came the deep rumble of thunder.

Eli raised his head. “It’s coming.”

The distant roar of the rolling storm became louder, and then it was upon them, sending sheets of wind-driven rain to slash at the windows. Lightning bolts raced through the billowing purple clouds for miles, and thunder shook the building. Rainwater ran in streams from half a dozen leaks in the roof to form huge puddles on the floor of the old church, and the sticky heat dissipated in the chill wind.

Eli stood. “I doubt the soldiers will be looking for us in this. Let’s go find a tavern. People talk in taverns.”

They made their way back through the cellar, out into the weeds inside the fence, and were soaked to the skin in thirty seconds. Turning into the vacant cobblestone streets, they moved toward the heart of town, wary, watching. After a time, Billy pointed at a sign swinging in the gusting wind, with the words “The Red Goose Tavern and Inn” carved into the wood.

They pushed through the door and slammed it closed against the wind, then stood dripping while their eyes adjusted. The room was smoky and pungent with the odor of sweet pipe tobacco and wet wool clothing. It appeared that no one took notice of their entrance, as the occupants continued their conversations—some loud and raucous, some jovial, some profane. Civilians and soldiers alike sat at small tables, nursing pewter mugs of ale and rum, waiting for their clothes to dry and the cloudburst to pass. A fire burned bright in the soot-coated fireplace, popping pine knots smoking onto the stone hearth. Along the wall to the left of the door was a rack, holding thirteen, heavy Brown Bess British muskets.

The two men scanned the faces in the room as they worked their way to a battered wooden bar. A balding, corpulent little man and a large woman with unruly hair and bad teeth nodded to them.

“Ale? Rum?” the woman asked.

Billy shook his head. “Do you have rooms for the night?”

The man answered. “Might have one. Pay in advance.”

“Don’t know yet if we’ll need it. Depends on the storm. We’ll stay and see. What do you have for supper?”

The woman answered. “Boiled vegetables and roast pork. Hot. Good.”

Billy dug in his shirt for the leather purse and laid out coins.

The woman asked, “What to drink?”

“Cider.”

She nodded, made change, then pointed to a table against a wall, not far from the fireplace.

“Two chairs there. I’ll bring the food.” She turned her bulk and disappeared into the kitchen.

Eli sat down with his back to the wall, Billy to his left, and each nodded to the two men at the table next to them. They wore the clothing and had the hard hands of laborers. Each had a tankard of ale, and their talk was loud. Two tables further over sat four red-coated regulars, uniforms soaked, working on mugs of hot buttered rum. Both Billy and Eli quietly studied them, catching bits and snatches of their talk. One was heavy, ponderous, offensive, as he led the others in loudly degrading their officers, their orders, the work of the day, and the storm.

Billy and Eli leaned forward on their elbows, rubbing their palms together, heads down as they studied their hands and waited for their food, straining to catch fragments of the talk.

“ . . . won’t finish before dark . . . bloody storm.”

“ . . . finish tomorrow . . .”

“ . . . ready to march in three days? . . . three days to load the wagons . . .”

“ . . . not three days, four . . .”

The heavy woman set two platters of steaming food and two mugs of cider on the table. Both men picked up knife and fork and began to eat, listening intently to hear the soldiers’ voices in the buzz of the crowded room and the noise of the storm outside and the draw of the chimney.

“ . . . twelve hundred wagons? . . . twenty days’ cooked food for the whole bloody army? . . . at least four days . . . maybe three nights!”

“ . . . four days food in our packs besides . . .”

As Billy and Eli worked at their food, the wind at the door gradually slackened. They drank from the mugs and continued with their forks, still listening.

“ . . . heard it from Langley . . . two of ’em on the docks . . . askin’ too many questions . . .”

“ . . . forage sergeant . . . Morton . . . told ’em too much . . .”

“ . . . lieutenant says they’re likely spies . . .”

“ . . . squad went looking . . . storm hit . . .”

Eli stopped chewing. Billy laid down his knife and fork. Without moving his head, he made a silent count. Two redcoats at the corner table—two by the front door—four officers in the right corner—four regulars talking—twelve—too many—never make the front door. He turned his head slightly, searching. A hallway just past Eli.

In the manner of fighting men who have been inside each other’s heads so many times in life or death battles, who without a spoken word know each other’s thoughts, their reactions, their instincts, their strengths and weaknesses, Billy made the slightest head-nod to Eli, who glanced to his right and saw the open archway. Both men shifted their feet beneath their table, ready, while the four regulars nursed their hot rum and talked on.

“ . . . might still be on the waterfront . . .”

“ . . . one burly . . . other one looks like an Indian . . .”

Eli laid down his knife and fork and reached for his cider mug.

The wind at the door had died, but the sound of steady rain drummed on the roof. The four soldiers raised their mugs once more, finished their rum, set the mugs thumping on the scarred tabletop, and stood to leave.

Eli and Billy each wrapped his hands around his cider mug and sat quietly, their heads tipped forward.

The four soldiers moved toward the tavern door, pushing their way past tables and men. They came abreast of the table where Billy and Eli were seated, and as they passed, the heavy one glanced down at them, and stopped. His thick face knitted down in question, and he shoved an elbow into the ribs of the soldier next to him, then pointed.

“One burly, one like an Indian.” His voice was loud, his tone insolent.

All four redcoats stopped to stare. Every head in the room turned and every voice fell silent. The eight other British soldiers stood and started for the table.

The heavy soldier commanded, “Get up slow and stand where you are!”

Billy and Eli were a blur as they came off their chairs. They brought the table and all that was on it with them to smash it into the four soldiers before them. Three of the redcoats staggered backward and went down in a tangle of men and chairs and tables, rolling on the floor, then scrambling to get to their feet. The fourth hesitated briefly, then made a lunge for Billy, who swung his pewter mug hard, to smash it into the side of the soldier’s head and the man went down in a heap. One redcoat on the floor came to a crouch and made a grab for Eli’s knees. Eli’s hand came down with his mug, and it bent as it slammed onto the crown of the soldier’s head, and he dropped.

In the bedlam that erupted, civilians scrambled toward the door, while British soldiers reached for their racked muskets and the officers shouted orders to everyone. Eli pivoted to his right and bolted through the archway and into the hallway at a run, Billy close behind. They hit the end of the hall and barged through a door into a small storage room with a barred door at the far side. In one motion Billy jerked the bar up and out and threw the door open, and the two men leaped through the door and sprinted into an alley shrouded in heavy rain, billowing black clouds, and misty steam rising from the cobblestones. They paused for a moment at the mouth of the alley to look back and saw crouched figures spilling out of the lighted doorway into the darkness.

Billy pointed. “The shipyards.” Eli nodded, and they ran on through the rain and now deserted, darkened streets, watching and listening as they worked their way south. Behind they heard the pop of a musket, then another, and they wondered who had fired, and at what.

On they went, one block south, one west, then back south. Homes gave way to warehouses and storage sheds, and then they were at the shipyards among great stacks of lumber and piles of peeled pine trees, waiting to be shaped into masts and spars. They dropped to their haunches in a cluster of barrels of pitch used to seal joints and seams and waited, listening for anything above the sound of the pelting sheets of rain.

Five minutes became ten before Eli whispered, “We ought to cross the river. We need a count of cannon and wagons and a few things over there.”

Billy nodded, and they raised up, listening, watching for the regulars who were certain to be standing picket duty in the drenching rain. They moved south past a place where the keel of a ship had been laid, and the giant ribs loomed above them in the dark, and then a ship with the twenty-inch-thick oak hull half-finished, and knew they were close to the river. They stopped, straining to see and hear in the steady drumming and the blur of the heavy rain.

The sound of a human voice quietly cursing stopped both men in their tracks, and Eli raised a hand to Billy, then pointed. Less than twenty feet away was a picket with his musket slung on his shoulder, venting his grievances into the darkness at the misery of being hungry and rain-soaked. Eli turned to Billy and raised all ten fingers six inches from his face.

Billy nodded, and Eli disappeared to his right.

Billy counted ten breaths, then walked boldly toward the sentinel. At ten feet he called quietly, “Hello, the picket.”

The redcoat jerked the musket from his shoulder and brought it level, bayonet pointed in Billy’s direction and challenged, “Halt. Who comes there? Friend or—”

Billy heard the muffled sound of wood striking a skull through a soggy felt hat, and the soldier went down, his musket clattering on the ground. Billy picked up the weapon while Eli unbuckled the soldier’s belt and draped it over his shoulder with the cartridge case and the tinderbox still connected. Silently they moved down the slight incline to the bank of the river. It took three minutes to locate a rowboat tied to a piling, and one minute later they were seated side by side, throwing their backs into the oars as they dug deep into black water with the rain pounding their heads and shoulders and making a froth of the river. They stopped rowing once to look back, and in the deluge saw four tiny flecks of blurred light moving through the shipyard toward the river.

They felt the current drawing them downriver, and they swung the nose of the boat to the left. With rain dripping from their hair and noses and chins, they pulled the heavy oars with all their strength in the darkness, while the hiss of rain drowned out every other sound. The lanterns behind faded and were gone and for a time they labored in blackness before a speck of light appeared on the New Jersey shore. They felt a slight jolt as the boat struck mud, and both men stepped into knee-deep water to grasp the gunwales and drag the craft ashore. For a moment they peered about for landmarks that would help them find the boat again, then, with the musket and belt in hand, they sloshed through the willows and muck lining the riverbank, through the tangled growth on shore, and angled north, toward the single point of light in the darkness.

They stopped every ten yards to listen, then dropped to their haunches when they could distinguish figures sitting on a log beside a small fire. Two pickets had rigged a tarp in the shape of a lean-to, to shed the rain and protect the burning wood. Billy tapped Eli’s shoulder, then made a circular motion with his right hand, and Eli nodded.

Five minutes later the two came in behind the tarp, one on each side, stepped around the edges into the light, and seconds later both pickets were on the ground, unconscious. Billy and Eli dropped the three-foot chunks of pine limbs, stripped the belts off the two inert redcoats, and dragged the unconscious men forty feet into thick bushes. They took the muskets and stuffed the cartridge boxes inside their shirts and continued north.

A little after ten o’clock the rain slackened. By eleven o’clock stars were showing through gaps in the clouds, and before midnight a half-moon and endless stars were looking down on a soggy world. Fifteen minutes later a soft south breeze drifted up the river. At one o’clock Billy and Eli dropped to their haunches behind a line of wagons. The British picket was one-hundred-fifty feet north of them.

Billy spoke in a whisper.

“We passed the cannon. We need a count on the wagons and cannon and the horses.”

Eli closed his mouth and breathed lightly, testing the southerly breeze. “The horses are still north of us. We need light, and we can’t wait. We got to be back across the river before daylight. When they change pickets they’ll find those two back there and raise the alarm. Watch for gunpowder. Ought to be covered by a tarp, or in wagons. Let’s go.”

It was half-past one when Billy stopped and pointed. Ahead were two mounds, sixty feet apart, both covered by half a dozen tarps. A picket marched back and forth in the faint moonlight at each mound, mud splashing, muskets slung over their shoulders. Eli studied the redcoats for a few moments, then pointed to Billy and to the one on the left, and to himself and the one on the right.

Three minutes later both pickets were flat on their backs in the mud, and Billy and Eli were jerking the tarps away. Beneath each tarp were ten large wooden barrels of dry gunpowder. With swift precision the two men dug the bungs out of the barrels and spilled several pounds of the black granules onto the ground. Then they dragged one barrel fifteen feet away from the heaped powder, leaving a heavy powder trail in the mud.

Each opened a tinderbox taken from the pickets, and when Eli saw Billy strike a spark in the charred linen and blow it until it flamed, he also struck a spark, and each set the flaming tinderboxes in the trail of gunpowder, and watched it catch, hissing. Then they sprinted due east, away from the river, into the thick forest. Ten seconds later flame leaped one hundred feet into the air as the first ten barrels ignited. The blast and concussion wave swept outward and struck the two running men, knocking them forward onto their knees. They sprang back to their feet and continued sprinting as a second blast erupted, hurling flaming powder and burning bits of wooden barrels outward over one hundred yards. Nearby wagons were shattered and blown sideways, burning. Tents of sleeping soldiers one hundred yards away were torn from their pegs. Wild-eyed regulars, half-dressed, came running, barefoot in the mud, trying to understand what had happened. Officers threw back the flaps of their tents to stand in shocked silence, staring at the towering fires burning in the central section of their great camp, unable to give coherent orders because they didn’t know what had gone wrong. In less than one minute, the entire British contingent on the New Jersey bank was in pandemonium.

Fifty yards east of the fringes of the camp, Billy and Eli crouched in the woods behind the trunk of a giant pine that had been toppled a century earlier by a catastrophic wind. They raised their heads just high enough to study the black silhouettes running, disorganized, frantic, shouting. The light from the spreading fires cast a dancing, eerie yellow glow for a thousand yards in all directions. Eli pointed toward the north end of the camp, and the two broke into a run, low, dodging. They passed the horse herd, held in five massive, separate rope pens, and came in from the north end in the dark. The horses were skittish—throwing their heads, stuttering their feet, snorting—ready to run, eyes glowing ruby red in the yellow light of the fires to the south.

There were no pickets, and it was impossible to count the five great gathers of the milling horses. Both men made their judgment of the number in one pen, then both raised their muskets and fired them into the air. They shouted at the top of their lungs while they leaped up and down, waving their arms. The nearest horses went berserk, bolting from the two dark hulks firing muskets and leaping like they were insane, slamming into the herd. Panic flashed through the packed horses, and in an instant their heads came up and they turned south and two seconds later were in a dead run.

They hit the rope corral like a tidal wave and it went down, and then they plowed through the ropes of the pen to the south, and within thirty seconds the ropes of all five pens were down and five thousand terrified horses were in a stampede, scattering in all directions, some toward the fires in the center of camp, some away toward the river, some toward the forest to the east. Terrified redcoats dodged and ducked and ran for their lives.

The moment the horses broke free, Billy and Eli sprinted south, following the path of destruction as the animals overran tents and every movable thing in their path. The two men slowed as they came to the rows of cannon, and at a trot they made their count. Forty rows, thirty guns to the row. Twelve hundred.

They sprinted on, with British regulars running less than twenty feet away, paying no attention to them in the bedlam that had seized the entire camp. The two men slowed at the wagons, and again made the count in the dull light of the distant fires as they trotted past. Fifty rows, fifty wagons per row. Twenty-five hundred.

Beyond the wagons were rows of wooden crates with markings on their sides, indicating they held muskets, medicine, food, or clothing. The two trotted through the rows of stores, counting, then ran on south to the fringes of the camp. At the edge of the forest were twelve stacks of barrels covered with tarps.

There were no pickets. They had all left their posts to run into the chaos of the camp. Quickly Billy and Eli jerked the tarps from two of the stacks and thrust their faces close to read the printing on the side. Gunpowder.

Without a word they swung their musket butts to smash in the tops of the barrels, then tipped them over to spill powder on the forest floor. They drew dry paper cartridges from the inside their shirts, ripped off the tops with their teeth, primed the frizzens, rammed the remainder of the cartridge down the barrel with the ramrod, cocked the big hammers, shoved the musket muzzles into the heaped powder, and pulled the triggers.

With the hissing powder burning a bright yellow trail, the two ran thirty yards for their lives and dived to the ground one second before twenty barrels blew in rapid succession. The blast ignited the tarps on the other clustered barrels and ruptured half a dozen of them, and within seconds they also exploded. Billy and Eli turned to look back one time, to see three other stacks of barrels erupt, and then they turned their backs to the carnage and ran for the river, with the acrid smell of burned gunpowder reaching them and a great cloud of white gun smoke rising into the night sky to cover most of the camp.

It took them five minutes to find their beached rowboat. They threw their muskets clattering inside, then seized the gunwales and drove the craft into the black water of the Delaware. North of them, the river was jammed with watercraft of every description, filled with British soldiers coming from the Philadelphia waterfront to the New Jersey shore to help gather five thousand horses and save all the supplies and wagons they could. Eli and Billy glanced at the eastern sky where the first shades of dawn were touching the scattered low clouds. They lay down in the rainwater gathered in the bottom of the boat and let it drift south for three hundred yards before they raised their heads. The nearest British boats were four hundred yards upriver. Quietly they set the heavy oars in the oarlocks, kept low, and stroked with all their strength for the Philadelphia shore, letting the current carry the boat farther south.

They beached the boat in some willows on the Pennsylvania shore, gathered up the heavy British Brown Bess muskets, and started north at a run. The morning star was rapidly fading in a clear sky before they saw the first British regulars, patrolling the city’s edge. They stopped in the thick forest to study the movement of the mud-spattered soldiers.

“They’re guarding the waterfront.”

“We go around.”

They worked their way west through the woods, into farmland criss-crossed with split-rail fences and green fields with grain a foot high and growing, and orchards with apple nubs green and hard. Farmers stopped their work to study them as they angled north through the fields, then came around toward the east. The sun was high in a clear sky, with a low haze of black smoke hanging over both sides of the river and the city, when they came to the crooked road on which they had come into Philadelphia. They stayed hidden in the woods as they approached the road, and they waited, listening for sounds of anything moving.

There was nothing. Eli stood. “We’re about a quarter mile north of where we left our weapons.”

They started south, staying off the road, close to the woods as they passed through the narrow neck, and instantly faded into the forest at the sound of men’s voices at the stacked tree stumps and roots. Silently they crept forward to peer through the foliage at six British regulars with muskets and bayonets, and two mounted officers gathered in the clearing fifteen yards away. Before them, Eli’s long Pennsylvania rifle and Billy’s musket, with their powder horns, shot pouches, and weapons belts, were thrown together in a heap.

They heard the curt orders from one of the officers.

“Two squads of three. One go north, one south, for one hundred yards, then each circle to their right for one hundred yards until you return to the road. Look for tracks or any sign of who left these weapons here. Report back here within five minutes.”

Billy and Eli did not move as they watched three of the regulars turn on their heels and trot up the road, while the other three went south. They watched them out of sight, then turned back to study the officers. One was tall, slender, weak-chinned, the other average height, average appearance. Both of their uniforms were disheveled—wrinkled and soiled from the storm and the mud. Both men dismounted their horses and went to their haunches to study the cache of weapons.

Eli held up all ten fingers once, then again. Billy nodded, and Eli silently moved away to his right, gone from sight within twenty feet in the dense forest. For a moment Billy marveled at how a tall man could move without sound, and disappear as if by magic, in the woods. Billy counted twenty breaths, then stood and leveled his musket at the two officers. Both saw the movement and instantly rose to their feet, hands on the handles of their swords.

“Stand where you are,” Billy called, then turned his head. “You boys hold your fire.”

Both officers drew their swords and dropped into a crouch, heads swiveling, searching for other men, other muskets trained on them. Then, from their left, Eli suddenly stood and called to Billy, “Get their weapons. You boys don’t shoot unless they make a wrong move.”

Billy covered the fifteen yards at a run and seized both swords and flung them aside. “You two sit down where you are.”

The taller officer grunted, “There’s mud.”

“Sit!” Billy ordered, and both men sat down.

Eli came in from the side and seized the reins of the nervous horses. He reached for his tomahawk and knocked the frizzen from both British muskets, then threw the weapons into the undergrowth. In twenty seconds Eli and Billy both had their weapons belts buckled on, their canteens, powder horns and shot pouches slung about their necks, and their guns in their hands.

Billy turned to the infuriated officers. “Strip off your clothes.”

Both men looked up, faces red with outrage. “We’re officers! You have no right—”

Eli fingered his tomahawk. “Take ’em off and be quick. We got no time to argue.”

Spouting invective and curses the officers had stripped down to their red underwear when Billy said, “That’s far enough.”

In one minute Billy had the rumpled uniforms rolled into a ball and bound with one of the white British belts, while Eli sat the officers down back to back and bound their hands together behind them with the other belt. Satisfied, Eli and Billy caught up the horses and mounted, guns in their hands and Billy with the bundle of British uniforms slung over his shoulder. Without a word they reined the horses around and kicked them to a high run on the muddy, crooked road, northbound.

At forty yards the road turned toward the river, and the shouting, cursing officers were lost from view. At one hundred yards the narrow trail veered left to follow the river, and suddenly one of the squads of three regulars appeared, thirty yards in front of them. The red-coated soldiers recognized the two horses, but stood dumbstruck at the sight of the riders.

Neither Billy nor Eli slowed. They kicked the horses in the ribs and held them in the road, thundering down on the confused regulars. One began to raise his musket, then all three leaped to one side as the two mounted riders flashed by them and were gone. One hundred yards later there was the popping sound of one musket, and of a musketball knocking branches somewhere in the forest, and then only the sound of their horses’ hooves, and the two animals starting to labor for wind.

The two pounded past the pond and the barn where they had held their night rendezvous with Isaiah, on for a quarter mile more, then pulled the horses to a stop, blowing, prancing, throwing their heads against the pressure of the bit. They waited for the horses to quiet, then sat listening for a sound, watching for a flash of crimson on the road, or in the forest, but there was nothing. They reined around and raised the horses to a canter for a time, then slowed to a walk.

They paced the horses—walk, canter, lope, walk—to keep from killing them or wind-breaking them in the heat as they covered the twenty-six miles back to Valley Forge. Twice they stopped to water them and let them blow, then continued on. Six miles from the American camp along the bank of the Schuylkill River they began looking for American patrols in the woods. At five miles Eli raised his rifle high and pulled his horse to a stop, facing north, toward the woods and the river. It took Billy a moment longer to pick out the two men in an oak tree, rifles leveled across a branch, aimed at their chests.

Eli called to them. “Eli Stroud and Billy Weems. Coming in to report to Gen’l Washington.”

“That tack and those saddles look British.”

“They are. There’s two British officers twenty-six miles back who’d be happy to get them back.”

“What regiment you from?”

“Massachusetts.”

“Who’s your commanding officer?”

“Morgan or Dearborn or Arnold. Take your pick. We fought under all three at Saratoga.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then, “Go on in.”

The sun was slipping westward when they came onto the Gulph Road. Twenty minutes later they reined in at the Massachusetts encampment, looking for Turlock. He came trotting from the river, carrying an empty water bucket.

“You two all right?”

Billy answered. “Fine. Going on to report.”

“We saw light against the clouds in the night. Thought we heard cannon.”

“Exploding gunpowder. Tell you about it later.”

Turlock raised a pointing finger. “Stroud, you stop at the hospital and see Mary on the way back. You hear?”

Eli nodded. “I hear.”

“You two hungry?”

Billy bobbed his head. “We could eat.”

“Make your report and git back.”

Ten minutes later they stopped the horses before the square, stone building where the commander of the Continental Army kept his headquarters and knocked on the door. It swung open with Colonel Alexander Hamilton facing them.

Billy saluted. “Corporal Weems and Scout Eli Stroud to report to the general.”

Hamilton stepped back to let them pass. Billy was still carrying the bundle of British officer’s uniforms.

Before he closed the door, Hamilton looked at the horses. “Are those British saddles?”

Eli answered. “British horses. British saddles.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed as he speculated on the story behind the stolen horses. “Leave your weapons and that bundle of clothing here. I’ll inform General Washington you’re back. I presume you are both unharmed.”

“Unharmed, sir.”

Two minutes later Hamilton ushered them into the sparsely furnished room where General Washington stood waiting behind his desk. On Washington’s gesture, Hamilton closed the door and remained in the room.

Billy saluted. “Corporal Weems and Scout Stroud reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Colonel Hamilton said you are both unharmed.”

“We’re fine, sir.”

“Be seated.”

They all took their places—Billy and Eli facing the desk, Hamilton beside the desk, General Washington behind it. There was an expression of controlled urgency on his face as he began the interrogation.

“Did you get a reliable estimate of the number of men in General Clinton’s command?”

Eli remained quiet while Billy made the answers. “About fifteen thousand, sir.”

“Cannon?”

“About twelve hundred.”

“Wagons?”

“About twenty-five hundred.”

“Food, medicine, blankets, supplies?”

“Thousands of packed crates, sir. We had no time to get an accurate count.”

“Horses?”

“At least five thousand, and enough oxen to pull the cannon.”

“How did you get the count on cannon and wagons and horses?”

“Counted the rows of cannon and wagons, and estimated the horses.”

“You were in the British camp?”

“We were, sir. And we also talked with a British forage sergeant. What he told us was almost exactly what we counted. I believe the numbers are accurate, sir.”

Washington leaned forward on his forearms, intense, eyes points of icy gray-blue light.

“Do you know which way they intend moving?”

Billy turned to Eli, who made the answer. “They’re headed for New York, and they’re going overland. The ships are there to move them across the Delaware. Been at it for days. We were on both sides of the river, but most of what we saw was on the New Jersey side. They’re abandoning Philadelphia.”

Washington’s voice was low. “You’re certain?”

Eli nodded. “Dead sure.”

Billy interjected, “He’s right, sir. They’re preparing cooked food for twenty days for each man, and they’re carrying another four pounds of food in their packs. They’ll be able to cover about five miles a day in those woods and hills, which means they’ll be about twenty days getting to New York. If they were leaving by sea, there’d be no need for cooked rations.”

Washington leaned forward before he put the heaviest question to them.

“When?”

Eli answered. “June eighteenth.”

“On what authority do you know about the cooked food, and the day they intend to leave?”

“The forage sergeant responsible for the horses and oxen that will move them, he told us, sir.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do. A lieutenant heard him tell us and sent a patrol to catch us.”

Washington straightened in his chair. “They were searching for you?”

A faint smile flickered on Eli’s face. “Both sides of the river.”

Washington leaned back, and for three seconds he studied the two with narrowed eyes. “My patrols reported light in the night, in the direction of Philadelphia. Several explosions. A haze of smoke on the horizon to the south, in a clear sky. They thought the sound might have been cannon, but twenty-five miles is too far for the sound to carry. Would you know about that?”

Eli nodded. “The British were short about one hundred barrels of gunpowder this morning. Maybe fifty wagons in bad shape. A lot of supplies burned. I expect they’ll have most of those four or five thousand horses gathered by June eighteenth.”

A rare smile flickered for a moment on Washington’s face, and was gone. Colonel Hamilton leaned back, grinning broadly.

Washington continued. “Colonel Hamilton said you rode in on British horses, and that you left a bundle of British uniforms beside his desk.”

Billy said, “Yes, sir. We took the horses to get back here. We brought the uniforms of the officers who were riding them because there might be papers in them that could be useful.”

Hamilton interrupted. “Where are the officers?”

Eli turned to him and shrugged. “Don’t know. Last we saw they were in the middle of the road north, dressed in their underwear.”

Hamilton threw back his head and guffawed. Washington smiled immensely. Billy grinned. Eli looked satisfied.

Washington sobered. “Can I depend on the date of June eighteenth for General Clinton to march his command north?”

Eli answered. “Yes.”

Billy nodded. “You can, sir.”

Washington drew and released a great breath, then stood. “Do you men need anything? Food? Rest?”

Billy said, “We’ll be all right when we get back to our camp, sir.”

Washington concluded. “You have done well. Make yourselves available for the next few days. I may have further questions. You are dismissed. Colonel Hamilton, show them out, then return to this office.”

As the general stood, so did the others. Billy saluted, Washington returned it, Hamilton opened the door, and the two walked out of the room, Hamilton following.

Outside the headquarters building, they paused to buckle on their weapons belts and sling their powder horns and shot pouches about their necks, then set off with their guns in hand at a swinging gait south, toward the Massachusetts camp.

Billy spoke without turning. “You better stop at the hospital to see Mary.”

“I will. You go on. Tell Turlock I’ll be along soon, and I’ll be hungry.”

Inside Washington’s office, Alexander Hamilton faced the general.

“I’d like to hear the full story from those two. One hundred barrels of gunpowder? Four or five thousand horses running loose?” He shook his head in wonder. “And, sir, would it be appropriate for me to suggest to Scout Stroud that it would be proper for him to salute?”

For one split second a look of humor flickered in Washington’s eyes. “You can suggest it, Colonel, but I doubt it will be worth your time to dwell on it.”

Washington sat down behind his desk and pushed parchment and quill and ink toward Hamilton. “Have a seat, Colonel, and write as I speak.”

Hamilton sat, dipped the quill, and waited.

“Today’s date—June fifteenth. To General Benedict Arnold. Usual salutation. You are hereby authorized and ordered to enter the City of Philadelphia, State of Pennsylvania, on the nineteenth day of June, 1778, where you will assume the position of military governor of that city, such authority to continue until further orders. Recommend you select aides appropriate to said position. Your means of entering the city, including number and arming of your escort is according to your desire. You are vested with full command of all American forces in said city, as well as all civilians therein. You will timely report to this office all events of unusual significance.”

Washington stopped. “Add to that such as you think proper, then submit it back to me for final approval.”

“Yes, sir.” Hamilton stood, then hesitated. “Four days. Is General Arnold going to be able to take command of Philadelphia in four days, considering that injured leg?”

Washington reflected for a moment. “Yes, he will. He needs activity. A command. He’ll find a way.”

Notes

Upon the resignation of General William Howe and his departure on May 25, 1778, General Sir Henry Clinton was appointed commander of British forces in America. General Clinton ordered the evacuation of Philadelphia immediately, by marching overland to New York. To do so he had to move his entire army with supplies across the Delaware. There were 5,000 horses, wagons, cannon, munitions, and close to 20,000 men to be moved across the river, and it took days to complete it. The crossing was finished, and they began their march north on June 18, 1778. Two days earlier the British set fire to the shipyards where several ships were under construction. The terrible condition of the city, with fences, sheds, barns, and some homes totally destroyed or stripped for firewood, together with the dead carcasses of animals left in the streets, as described herein is accurate. Billy Weems and Eli Stroud are fictional characters (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 468–69; 543–45).