The Rebel's Return (11 page)

A week before Christmas Nicholas appeared at the Fuller home to share their dinner, although he had to rejoin his commander by nightfall, he said. His news of the army was no more sanguine than what they had heard from other sources, although it seemed to Phoebe he tried to steer the conversation in other directions. The optimism and enthusiasm of the summer months, the rapture that had accompanied the Declaration of Independence, had evaporated with the bloodbath of Brooklyn Heights, the mortification of the loss of Fort Washington, and this wretched retreat to the Delaware. Phoebe overheard him telling her father in a low voice that Washington himself had said “the game is pretty near up,” and that one more defeat would spell the end of the rebel cause.

He joined Phoebe after dinner as she was washing the dishes in the kitchen and offered to wipe them for her. Phoebe tossed him the towel with a look of surprise.

“We’re used to doing all sorts of tasks in the army,” he informed her loftily. “We have to get along without women, you understand.”

“Somehow I doubt you do many dishes in the army,” Phoebe laughed.  

“We don’t usually have dishes. We’re lucky whenever we have food.”

“Which is why you use any pretext to come into the city and get a decent meal.”

“Aye,” he grinned, “And to catch a glimpse of the fair sex.”

She dipped a soapy bowl into the tepid rinse water and handed it to him. “So you still haven’t learned to get along without women?”

“We get along,” he told her, “but ’tis mighty uncomfortable.”

There was a brief pause.

“Is that Quincy fellow still coming around bothering you?” he asked.

Phoebe smiled into the dishwater and shrugged. “He was here once last week.”

“My cousin was in a situation like yours once.” He set down the bowl and picked up another. “Her parents wanted her to marry one fellow, but she preferred someone else.”

Phoebe wanted to ask why he would think she preferred someone else, but decided against it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. “What did your cousin do?”

“She got a child,” Nicholas said, “then her parents let her marry who she wanted.”

Phoebe shot him an indignant glare. “You would think of something so vulgar!”

“’Twasn’t my idea!” he returned with a grin. “You asked what my cousin did; I never suggested you should follow in her footsteps.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she told him contemptuously, adding as an afterthought, “besides, I’d more likely be left with no husband at all.”

“Phoebe!” he exclaimed, “how can you say—” He broke off, biting his lip and looking annoyed. He seemed to realize she was referring to him, although she hadn’t quite said so.

Phoebe turned away to hide a smile, secretly pleased by his response. She sometimes suspected Nicholas was not nearly as hard and cynical as he liked to pretend.

She scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the bowl she held. “What are your plans, Nicholas? Do you plan to leave the army at the end of the year?”

“Nay,” he replied simply. “I will stay with Washington until he surrenders, or until I am killed or wounded, whichever comes first.”

At the gravity of his words Phoebe turned to study his face as she handed him the bowl. “So you do not hold out hope for victory?”

He hesitated, turning the bowl over in his hands and wiping it carefully. “It does not look well,” he said finally.

Phoebe’s heart dropped, although she was not totally surprised. For Nicholas, usually so sanguine and confident, to sound so hopeless meant the army’s situation was grim indeed. And coupled with her fear for the army and their political cause was also concern for her family’s personal safety. “Do you think the British plan to cross the river and occupy Philadelphia, as people are saying?”

“From what I have observed, they intend to stay in New Jersey throughout the winter. I hope it is true.”

“What you have observed? What do you mean?”

He hesitated, glancing up and down for a moment, then around the room, as if looking for listening ears. “Do you want to know where I have been the last two weeks?” He lowered his voice. “I have been wandering through New Jersey, selling tobacco and talking Tory to the British and Hessian troops.” He grinned mischievously. “For someone with a Tory family like mine, it comes naturally.”

Phoebe dropped the bowl she was washing back into the water and turned to grasp his sleeve, her face horrified. “You mean you were
spying
? Oh, Nicholas, no! If they catch you, they’ll hang you!”

His smile vanished, replaced by a grim expression. “Well I know it. Just like they hanged that poor devil in New York, Nathan Hale. I think about that fellow every night. But the army has learned something about spying since then. We don’t carry any papers, so they aren’t likely to be able to prove anything against us. And Washington needs to know what the enemy is up to.”

His words gave scant comfort to Phoebe. She remembered Mr. Kirby saying that spying was the most dangerous job in the army, that experienced soldiers with little fear of battle shrank at the prospect of being caught up and hanged as a spy. And Nicholas was daily putting his head in a noose!

Suddenly he dropped his towel and swung her toward him, grasping her shoulders in his two hands. He searched her face intently. “Listen, Phoebe, you mustn’t tell anyone about this, do you understand? Not even your own family. Especially your family. Do you promise?”

She nodded, frightened by his tone.

“I shouldn’t have told you, I shouldn’t have told anyone, but I wanted someone to know, in case I don’t come back—” he hesitated and looked away, swallowing hard, “would you tell my mother?”

She nodded again, her throat too tight for words. Nicholas released her and picked up the towel again.

“So you are going back there again?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. If a battle is planned soon, I might be kept with the army.”

Phoebe did not know whether to be consoled by that possibility or not. She went to the back door and threw out the dirty tepid water, and then began to stack the clean bowls and replace them in the cupboard.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” Nicholas said suddenly.

Phoebe glanced at him over her shoulder. “What did I tell you?”

Nicholas was staring down at his hands, picking at his fingernails. “You said my father isn’t God, and God accepts me even if my father doesn’t.”

Phoebe remembered. It had seemed like a weak unconvincing comment at the time. “Aye, ’tis true.”

“I want to believe it,” Nicholas said in a low voice. “For so long I have seen God as the enemy, but perhaps I was wrong.”

“God isn’t your enemy, Nicholas,” Phoebe said earnestly.

He smiled crookedly. “I have read the Bible, too. Those nights across the river, all alone, I’ve read the Bible my sister gave me before I left.”

Phoebe tried to think of some profound response, and failed. “I’m pleased.”

He shrugged, and she had the feeling that he was trying to make light of a situation that affected him deeply. “I reckon that if I’m going to be hanged, I’d better prepare to meet my Maker.”

“Oh, Nicholas!” Phoebe felt tears sting her eyes, and then bit her lip to gain self- control. “Any of us could meet our Maker at any time, you know.”

He came to face her, once more laying his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “Will you pray for me?” he whispered.

She met his gaze then, his sparkling hazel gaze which was now uncharacteristically solemn. “I always do, Nicholas,” she said softly, “and I won’t stop until you are safe at home for good. In every way.”

*     *     *

“Only two more weeks till George is home to stay!” Sarah declared. The family was gathered around the table after dinner the day following Nicholas’s visit, their father glancing through his newspaper while the women cleared the table. “I will be
so
relieved to have him safe and sound and not have to worry anymore.”

Sally clapped her hands. “George is coming home?”

“His term of enlistment expires at the end of the year,” her mother explained.

“But he can’t come home then!” Phoebe swung around to face her mother. “If no one reenlists, the army will disintegrate!”

Her mother turned on her in fury. “It is already disintegrating, don’t you understand? The war is over! I just want George safely home!”

Phoebe fell silent, as she always did in the face of her mother’s wrath. A gust of wind blew down the chimney and into the kitchen, along with smoke and sparks from the fire. Phoebe coughed and fanned the air before her face, then carried a fresh log to the fireplace and laid it on top of the sputtering embers, her eyes smarting from the smoke.

Her father said, “I have something here that you might interest you, Phoebe.”

Phoebe joined him at the table and followed where his finger was pointing at the newspaper. He was reading in the
Pennsylvania Journal
an article by Thomas Paine, whose
Common Sense
had earlier in the year fanned the flames of revolution. She scanned the words.

These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country, but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.

“That’s what I mean!” Phoebe exclaimed. “I worry about George too, but I don’t want George to be a summer soldier or a sunshine patriot; I want him to stand by the cause even though it seems to be the darkest day.”

Her mother suddenly clapped a hand to her mouth and ran out of the room, nearly in tears. Phoebe watched her in astonishment, then turned to her father in helpless bewilderment.

Her father smiled his gentle, sad smile. “Be patient with your mother, Phoebe. This is all new to her, and ’tis hard for her to see one of her children in danger. It is hard for her to let go.”

Quick tears stung Phoebe’s eyes. “I don’t want George to die either!”

“Of course not.” Her father patted her shoulder. “But you are able to stay focused on the larger picture, while your mother can only see what is directly before her. Be patient with her, Phoebe. Perhaps she will understand in the end.”

Chapter Nine

Christmas Eve awoke cold and overcast, with the damp scent of snow or sleet in the air. Sarah and her daughters began working on the feast for the next day, dutifully preparing for their guests, although Phoebe could not remember such a gloomy holiday in her life. Sarah wondered aloud if George would have any celebration with the army at all, and Phoebe, recalling Nicholas’s comments about the state of the army, wondered if he would even have a real meal. Did her brother even have shoes and blankets in this bitter weather to keep the cold away? And Nicholas—however much she tried to focus on her own brother, she couldn’t help remember that he might even now be spying for the army in the British camps of New Jersey. Although perhaps warmer and better clothed, his situation would be far more dangerous.

“I hope you don’t object, Mother,” Alice said as she cut into the pumpkin that would make their pie, “but I invited Edmund to our dinner tomorrow, and he agreed to come.”

Sarah brightened at the news. Phoebe’s courtship might be sputtering, but Alice’s was blazing warmer than ever, and Phoebe knew that her mother had high hopes of a wedding in the near future. A wedding—and grandchildren. It was something for her to look forward to, and it comforted her to think Edmund had no interest in the war.

“Of course Edmund is always welcome,” Sarah replied, and then was interrupted by the opening of the front door and her husband’s and sons’ heavy footsteps and voices. “Sarah! Girls!” their father called. “Come see your Christmas surprise!”

The surprise was a new Franklin stove, named for its inventor and known to be far more efficient in heating homes than the huge, open, drafty fireplaces which were used for both warmth and cooking. Richard Fuller and the boys lugged it into the parlor in pieces, where they began to assemble it with clangs and bangs.

“If the rest of the winter is as cold as this month has been, we’ll need something to warm this house,” Richard said. “I hope to get it all ready to use before tomorrow when our guests arrive.”

So the next day the stove was set up in a corner of the parlor and consuming its first load of wood as the family gathered around the table for Christmas dinner. The aroma of roasted goose filled the room, and the table was laden with pewter and silver and bowls of turnips, succotash, cranberries, and a plum pudding. Phoebe carefully carried a large bowl of punch in from the kitchen and set it on the sideboard.

“We have much to be thankful for,” Richard Fuller said as the room fell silent, but Phoebe thought she saw his lips tremble a bit. He asked the blessing on the food, asking for God’s protection and provision for the army and especially for their own loved ones who were fighting, and for a moment silence reigned when he finished. Then the bowls and platters began to circle the table and cheerful chatter filled the room as the guests and family filled their plates.

“We received a letter just last week from our friends, the Palmers, in New York,” Phoebe’s aunt commented as she refilled her plate for the second time with goose and stuffing. She was a plump, cheerful, talkative woman, one of Phoebe’s favorite relatives, although she was only related to the Fullers by marriage. “What an experience they are having with all those British soldiers in the city, and the Tories running everything. We might have the same condition here, if Washington’s army doesn’t stop the British soon.”

“Washington’s army is in no condition to stop anyone,” her husband observed gloomily.

“Did you give Phoebe her letter, Papa?” Kit asked.

Phoebe looked up from her plate, a spoonful of turnips halfway to her mouth. “A letter? For me?”

“The letter! Gracious, I did indeed forget!” her father exclaimed. “I picked it up yesterday when we fetched the stove home, and with all the activity here, completely forgot to give it to you.” He rose and crossed to his desk, then brought a letter to Phoebe. “Merry Christmas!”

Surprised, Phoebe examined the handwriting, expecting it to be Lavinia’s, for she had written to her friend several weeks before. But the writing was different, although she had, she thought, seen it once. Suddenly she broke the seal and scanned the bottom of the sheet for the signature with its large scrawling flourish.

“It is from Nicholas,” she breathed in amazement.

Her younger brothers snickered before their father stopped them with a glance, but Phoebe was oblivious.  Nicholas had written to her! Why would he write her a letter? She could scarcely bear to wait to read it, and was torn between a desire for privacy and desperation to know its contents immediately. It would be rude to leave the table while everyone was eating, and so she restrained her impatience, although she barely heard the conversation that swirled around her.

As soon as Martha began to clear the table Phoebe rose as if to help her, and with her letter in her pocket retreated to her bedroom to read in quiet. As she opened the letter she admired Nicholas’s handwriting: neat and scholarly, yet very masculine.

My dear Phoebe,  

I have an opportunity to send a letter by courier to Philadelphia this afternoon, and therefore will try to write a few hasty lines. I sense we will be going into battle soon, and I may not have the opportunity to write again; for this reason I feel the urgency to do so now, however disorganized my communication may be. I know no plans of the impending battle, and could not impart them if I did; however, I sense that Washington will not be satisfied without taking a stand before the end of the year. I believe you comprehend the desperate situation of the army.

I told you last week I had been reading the Bible that my sister gave me. I cannot well explain the new spiritual hunger I have experienced. Perhaps it is the result of facing death daily, or the influence of godly friends such as yourself. For several weeks at least, or even months, I have felt God calling me, but have scarcely known how to respond. Phrases from my reading, comments that you have made, memories of my mother—all of these have played repeatedly through my mind. I now believe God has been using them to reach me.

Two days ago I was reading the story of the lost sheep, which I had certainly heard before, but this time I knew the lost sheep was myself, and that God was leaving his ninety-nine sheep in the wilderness to find me. And then I read about the lost son whose father welcomed him home in the end, and God met me. I can offer no better explanation than that, but I felt God was speaking to me, saying “I am the Father who is welcoming you home, even if your earthly father never does.”

Phoebe, I have experienced such peace since that night, joy and comfort even in the midst of these dreadful circumstances. I do not know if I will return  from this next battle; it is very possible I will not, and for this reason I wanted  you to know that I have found peace with God before my death. Please, if I don’t return, I ask you to write to my mother. I know this news will be a great comfort to her. I hope my father will be glad to hear it as well.

Phoebe read the letter through once, so rapidly that she barely comprehended the whole meaning, but her heart flooded with joy and gratitude as she realized what Nicholas was communicating to her.
Thank you, Lord,
she breathed.
Even if I never see him again, I’m so thankful that Nicholas has found peace with you.

She was in the middle of reading a second time when Alice’s voice came from the foot of the stairs.

“Phoebe, are you up there? Mother says to hurry down and help with the dishes.”

Phoebe dropped the letter on the bed and hurried below, a singing in her heart. Alice and Sally had already cleared most of the dishes while the men sat and talked around the table. Phoebe carried the coffeepot into the parlor and refilled her uncle’s cup, then her father’s. She noticed that Edmund’s place was empty.

“Where is Edmund?” she asked her father.

Her father glanced up. “He left the table a minute ago. He didn’t say where he was going.”

Phoebe refilled his cup anyway. Perhaps Edmund had gone to the kitchen to speak to Alice. She returned to the kitchen to help serve the pumpkin and mincemeat pies.

Her aunt looked up with a smile from the table where she was cutting the pies, her eyes bright with curiosity. “There you are, Phoebe! Did you read your letter? Who is this Nicholas who is writing to you?”

“He’s—he’s an old friend of the family.” Phoebe tried to sound casual, although she knew her eyes were sparkling. “He’s serving in the army with Washington.”

Her aunt shook her head at that piece of information. “A beau of yours?”

“Nay.” Phoebe knew she was blushing, although she shook her head firmly. “He used to be our neighbor and he visits whenever he is in town. He rides courier and comes into the city rather often.”

“But he wrote to you, not to your parents or Alice,” her aunt persisted, still with a twinkle in her eye.

Phoebe shrugged, trying not to smile. “I’m not certain why he did that, except that we have gotten to be friends.”

Her aunt still wore that knowing look, but there was nothing more Phoebe could do to convince her. If only her aunt were right! If only Phoebe could say, “Aye, Nicholas is my beau, we’ve been courting for several months now.” She felt a surge of longing at the image. But she knew the real reason Nicholas had written to her was that she was the closest link he had to his family, and the only one who understood how matters stood between him and his parents.

“Here, Phoebe, this spinning wheel is in my way.” Sarah pushed it aside as she bustled up to the table where Phoebe and her aunt were working. “Move it into the hall, will you please? That will give us more room in here.”

Phoebe opened the door to the hall and dragged the spinning wheel out of the kitchen and into the room where the other household equipment was kept.  The hall was empty, but as she started back to the kitchen, she heard footsteps on the staircase and then saw Edmund emerge at the foot of it. He gave her one brief startled glance and disappeared into the parlor where the family was eating.

Phoebe stared after him, perplexed. Edmund had gone upstairs! Why would he do that? There was nothing upstairs to interest him, only the two bedrooms where the children slept. And Alice was in the kitchen; he couldn’t have been talking to her up there. How odd!

There was probably some simple explanation. On the other hand, he had seemed startled at the sight of Phoebe, as if she had caught him in the act of something dishonest. Why would he go sneaking around their bedrooms? Was he trying to steal something that belonged to Alice? She had heard of men who took their sweethearts’ gloves and handkerchiefs and kept them as love tokens. But that seemed like a silly thing for Edmund to do. He had never seemed like the sentimental type to her. Alice would certainly be astonished and perhaps offended if she learned he had resorted to such subterfuge.

With curiosity but no clear idea of what she expected to find, Phoebe climbed the stairs to her bedroom and glanced around. The chest where the girls kept their clothes was still closed. She went to open it, to see if anything was missing, although she doubted it. But with her hand on the clasp she glanced around the room and her eyes fell on the quilt that covered their bed.

Her letter! It was gone!

She went to the bed, but nothing was there. Perhaps it had fallen on the floor. She searched the floor around the bed, pulled out Sally’s trundle bed, and got down on her hands and knees to search under the bed. She found an old hair ribbon and two buttons, but no letter.

She groped in her pocket. Perhaps she had put it in there and forgotten. Her pocket was empty.

Edmund took my letter!
The thought was incredible, but there it was.
I left the letter here, he came up, and now it is gone!

Was she mad? Was she imagining things? Why on earth would Edmund want a letter from Nicholas? Why would he care about that? It made no sense.

And then she remembered the letter Nicholas had copied that had vanished from the desk the night when Edmund was visiting. A letter from his commander, Nicholas had told her. Information about the war. Could all these disappearing letters possibly be a coincidence?

She felt cold inside, and her breath began to come fast. What had Nicholas written about the army? Something about a battle before the end of the year, that Washington intended to take a stand. Had he given any other particulars? Any details? She couldn’t remember.

She ran down the steps two at a time, almost ripping her best petticoat. The rest of the family was seated around the table in the parlor eating pie and drinking coffee, but Edmund was missing. She ran to the kitchen where she found Alice giving instructions to the servant.

“Where’s Edmund?” she demanded, grabbing her sister’s arm.

Alice looked up, surprised at her breathless agitation. “He just left. He came in here a moment ago and told me he needed to go home early. His parents are expecting guests today and wanted him to be there to meet them.”

“He just told you this now? He didn’t mention it earlier?”

“He didn’t, actually.  I was surprised he had to leave so early, because he hadn’t told me so before.”

Phoebe hesitated, but the coincidence was too great. “Edmund took my letter.” 

“Your letter? What do you mean?”

“The letter from Nicholas. I left the letter on our bed upstairs. I saw him coming down from the bedrooms, so I went up, and the letter was gone.”