Just Jane (10 page)

I remain always your devoted friend
,

 

Jane Prentice

 

Like a teacher judging a student's work, she read over the letter with a critical eye.
Almost no information here
, she thought.
And that wish near the end sounds like the aimless prattle of a daydreamer. Besides, you shouldn't tell wishes, or they won't come true. But that's all right—no one will ever see this, anyway
.

She crossed the room and dropped the letter, and her daydream, into the fire.

 

 

 

 

If Jane could have seen all the way to Pennsylvania that November night, her gaze might have fallen on Simon Cordwyn, making his way past mud puddles along a crowded Philadelphia street. She might have seen him stop beneath a hanging sign reading
GRIMSBY'S TAVERN
and push open the heavy oak door. He threaded his way through a smoky room full of boisterous drinkers and bustling serving girls to a rear corner, where a bearded, rough-looking man sat nursing a glass of rum.

“Mr. Murphy?” Simon inquired. The man at the table nodded. “I'm Simon Cordwyn, Jack Herndon's brother-in-law.”

Murphy gestured toward the chair opposite him, and Simon sat down. A serving girl approached, but Simon waved her away. He was not there for drinking but for business. And the conversation that followed would have sent Jane reeling in disbelief.

 

After looking around to make sure he was not being observed, Simon slid a scrap of paper across the table. The man called Murphy scanned it, mumbling to himself as he read.

“Two hundred yards Irish woolen. Three hundred and fifty pair heavy cotton stockings. Good. A hundred pounds coffee. Thirty barrels potatoes. Excellent.” He glanced up at Simon. “In fairly good condition?”

“I couldn't say. Jack collected these goods and left them at his store, meaning to deliver them when he returned from his current expedition. Since he hasn't returned, my sister asked me to deliver them in his stead. Which I am doing strictly as a favor to her.”

“A fine woman, Mrs. Herndon.”

Simon ignored the attempt at flattery. “Just how picky are General Washington and his starving men, anyway? Another winter like Valley Forge, and he'll have no army left.”

Murphy smiled as he folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket. “Surely, Mr. Cordwyn, you aren't only doing your sister a favor. Surely, you are acting out of firm belief in the cause of American independence.”

“I believe in the rightness of it. But I also believe we should be working for it peaceably, not through war.”

“You're an idealist, sir. Unhappily, we must live in the real world.”

Simon grew annoyed. “And what in this real world has happened to Jack?”

“We have no news of him yet, unfortunately.”

“He's been gone too long. My sister's very worried.”

“In our trade, a man doesn't have a fixed schedule,” Murphy said coolly. “Delays are bound to occur. But he'll be along soon, I'm sure. In the meantime, I trust you'll continue to act as his capable replacement?”

Simon's head shake was scornful. “You trust incorrectly, my friend. My sister was anxious that you get these supplies as soon as possible. And I agreed to deliver them because they are meant to sustain life, not destroy it. If they were weapons of war and destruction, I'd never have touched them. In any case, I'll not do this again. I'm a schoolmaster, not a smuggler.”

“And I'm a farmer,” Murphy countered. “Ordinarily. But in these desperate times, we're all soldiers, whether we choose to be or not.”

“Speak for yourself, sir. Do not attempt to speak for me.”

“Well, at least allow me to thank you for your help on this occasion. General Washington will be pleased, I'll warrant.” “Well, you may take him some advice from me, along with the supplies. Tell him he ought to distribute what's left of his rations and send his men home, while there's still a spark of life left in them.”

“I very much doubt he'll take that advice,” Murphy said with a smile.

“In that case, I have nothing further to offer.” Simon got to his feet. “I trust you'll inform my sister the minute you have any news of Jack?”

“Tell Mrs. Herndon she may depend upon it.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night, and good luck to you.” Turning away, Simon strode out of the tavern in the same purposeful way he had come in.

 

It was two weeks later, in his hometown of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, that Simon again encountered the man named Murphy. Prominent on the dirt road that served as the main street of the frontier village was a barnlike building called Herndon's General Store. A short distance up the road stood a small house with a swinging shingle outside that read, simon cordwyn, schoolmaster. Just as he had done on the Ainsley estate in Charlestown some years before, the schoolmaster occupied private living quarters in the rear.

He was reading students' essays there late one pale winter afternoon when there came a knock at his door. Opening it,
he was surprised to find his sister standing there. Rebecca Herndon was two years older than Simon, a sturdy woman of plain looks but fine, intelligent eyes. Today those eyes were clouded. Behind her stood Mr. Murphy from Philadelphia.

“What is it, Becky? What's wrong?” Simon asked. But he was grimly certain of the answer.

“It's happened, Simon. Jack's been taken. Either taken, or killed.” Her low voice was strangely calm, as if she was trying hard to resist the shock that had so suddenly struck.

Murphy stepped forward. “All we know,” he said, “is that Jack was bringing a barge up Delaware Bay when he was intercepted by a British patrol vessel just off the mouth of the river. The man with him managed to slip overboard and swim ashore, and he brought me the news. There were shots exchanged, and the last our man saw, the British were boarding the barge, so we have to assume Jack was taken, at best. What his fate will be—who knows? The Redcoats are an unpredictable lot. Sometimes harsh, sometimes lenient. We can only hope.”

Simon glanced at his silently grieving sister, then fixed a scowl on the visitor. “We thank you for this pleasant news, Mr. Murphy. We also thank you for enticing a gende, home-loving man away from his family and, quite possibly, to his death.”

Murphy responded with quiet patience. “Jack Herndon never needed enticing. He was eager to do the work. Unfortunately, he always had a reckless disrespect for the enemy. Bringing a barge up Delaware Bay in broad daylight! Many a time I warned him about thumbing his nose at the British like that. He wouldn't listen.”

“You warned him, did you?” Simon snapped. “How very decent of you.”

Becky gently intervened. “Stop it, Simon. Mr. Murphy's not to blame. Jack was doing what he felt he had to do, the best way he could.”

Simon turned a scowl on her. “Did
you
ever warn him, or try to talk him out of it? You knew he wasn't suited to that kind of work, with his poor health. If the British hadn't gotten him, sickness eventually would have.”

Becky turned sharply away as Murphy spoke up again. “We are desperate, Mr. Cordwyn. Another winter like Valley Forge and Washington will have no army left—you said so yourself. When a man offers us his services, we don't turn him away, no matter what his weaknesses. Why, if an educated, well-informed, and responsible man like yourself offered to work with us, we'd get down on our knees and thank God.”

“Flattery!” Simon almost spat. “The same kind you fed Jack, no doubt.”

“He spoke about you often, you know,” Murphy went on, ignoring Simon's hostility. “‘How I wish we could get Simon in with us,' he'd say. ‘He's far more clever than I, and what's more, he knows the South.'”

“What's
that
got to do with anything?” Simon demanded impatiently.

“It's clear we're going to have to shift our operations to the South. With the British watching all our usual landing sites, the only good ones left are the wooded inlets and river mouths along the Carolina coast. The Great Wagon Road, between there and Pennsylvania, has got to become our main supply line. Trouble is, we don't have anyone to oversee operations down there. Southerners are insanely proud men, impossible to deal with. But you lived in the South for several years. You must still have valuable contacts down there. Am I right?”

Murphy paused to wait for a reply, but getting nothing but a stony glare from Simon, he went on. “Surely, Mr. Cordwyn, you can see where your duty lies. Out there, giving your countrymen the benefit of your abilities. Not here, hiding in a schoolroom while men fighting for our liberty are dying for want of supplies. Think it over. You know where to reach me. And now I must be off, so I'll bid you both good day.”

Becky put a hand on the visitor's arm. “I thank you for bringing us the news of my husband, Mr. Murphy.”

“Madam, believe me, I regret the necessity for it. But we may yet hold good hopes that he survives. Meanwhile, my admiration for you knows no bounds. God keep you, dear lady. You are a true Patriot.” And with a curt nod to Simon: “Remember, sir. Grimsby's Tavern, Philadelphia. Anytime.” Then, jamming a grimy cap on his head, he turned abruptly and walked away.

In the silence that followed, Simon studied his sister's face. It was blank, the eyes vacant. “I'll stay with you and the children tonight,” he said gently.

She shook her head. “No. No, thank you, Simon. I'm all right.”

“Well, at least I'll walk you home, then.”

It was a quarter of a mile to the Herndon house, and they walked halfway there in silence, immersed in their own dark thoughts. At last Simon spoke.

“Tell me something, Becky. And be honest. Would you really want me to leave you on your own here and rush off to replace Jack?”

Becky drew a heavy sigh. “I'm sure you're doing what you think is right, just as Jack did. But you can't blame Mr. Murphy for trying to recruit you. You'd do a far better job than my poor Jack ever did. Dear God!” Seized by some wrenching emotion, Becky stopped in her tracks. “If only I could wave a magic wand and combine my husband and my brother—what a man that would be!”

She walked on, and Simon followed, saying no more.

 

The next day the children in Simon's classroom found their normally attentive tutor surprisingly inattentive. He spent much time gazing broodingly out the window at low hills in the distance, leaving the students to do as they liked. That afternoon, he dismissed them early and went for a long walk over those hills, still brooding. And that night, after pacing for a long time in his silent rooms, he sat down at his writing desk, dipped pen in ink, and began a letter.

 

Mr. John Murphy

c/o Grimsby's Tavern

Walnut Street, Philadelphia

 

Sir
,

This is to advise you that I expect to be in Philadelphia on Saturday next, at which time I would be pleased to confer with you further concerning a matter we recently discussed . . .

Rumors were flying in Charlestown that the British, stymied in the North, were turning their eyes toward the Southern colonies. Just before New Year's Day, 1779, those rumors suddenly became reality. In striking contrast to their failed assault on Charlestown almost three years before, British forces attacked and quickly occupied Savannah, Georgia, a hundred miles to the south. No Loyalist or Patriot in South Carolina doubted there would soon be another British assault on Charlestown.

 

Thrilled the city would soon be back under British rule, Robert Prentice moved his family to their Legare Street home. He wanted to be among the first to welcome the Redcoats. And certain that those sympathetic to the rebellion would soon need places to hide, he suddenly felt a burst of compassion for his brother-in-law, Arthur Ainsley, and his cousin Hugh Prentice—both, in his view, sadly deluded. He wrote to them, urging that they renounce the insane notion of American independence before it was too late. Naturally, they would have to explain themselves when the British occupied the city. But Robert, whose loyalty was well known,
would gladly offer them shelter and help them reestablish themselves as loyal English subjects.

The note to Arthur went with Clarissa and Jane to the Ainsleys' house. Arthur's simple reply declined the generous offer with sincere thanks. “He's determined to sink or swim with this rebellion tide,” Clarissa reported.

“And I must say,” Jane dared to add, “I believe he'll prove a very strong swimmer.” This only brought an angry glare from Robert.

The note to Hugh was delivered by Clarissa's maid, Nellie, who always came over from the Ainsleys' to Legare Street when the Prentices were in town. In short order, she returned with a brief note from Hugh.

 

Thank you, Cousin, for your kind offer of protection. But I hardly think the British, if they come, would concern themselves with an obscure cabinetmaker like me. I will take my chances. However, I am glad to hear from you. Lydia and I send greetings to you and Clarissa, and to our dear cousin fane, whom we once had the pleasure of meeting
.

 

Robert threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don't know which is the bigger fool, Hugh or Arthur. The devil take them both, I say!”

He also did not know that Nellie brought a second note—for Jane. “A mutual friend, who has left here, wrote to me recently,” Hugh wrote. “He asked to be remembered to you, and he looks forward to seeing us all again soon.” It wasn't much, but it lifted Jane's heart with joy. Perhaps there was hope, after all, that one day she might see Mr. Cordwyn again.