The Minister's Wife

Chapter 5

Ian Blaine. a cabinetmaker loyal to liberty and those who fought to obtain it, galloped down Old Lancaster Road, destined for Trudruffrin, where the British army was supposedly camped. A leather pouch slung over his shoulder contained sketches of cabinets and wardrobes along with personal provisions. If stopped by the British he would claim he traveled to solicit customers or purchase supplies for a business started by his grandfather and passed down through generations.

It wasn’t a complete lie. He often sought sales in nearby towns. But he wasn’t dashing down Lancaster Road to visit customers. He searched for the British. When he found them, he would bring any information gathered back to Philadelphia where an unprotected Congress anxiously waited. But he knew if he was caught and couldn’t convince the enemy that he was simply selling his wares, he would hang by his neck until dead.

A tad above average height, he was a handsome man with brown hair tied in a ponytail that fell just short of his collar. Almost twenty miles from the city, his horse was bathed in sweat, his journey made in haste. When he reached the White Horse Tavern, a two-story stucco building that sat on a crossroads and did a brisk business for those traveling to and from the city, he saw carriages and horses parked before it, the patrons inside enjoying a meal. Just ahead, British pickets waited, ready to challenge any who continued down Old Lancaster Road.

The presence of sentries suggested an encampment a few hundred yards away. To avoid them, Ian took a fork in the road that led to the left, down a dirt road for a mile or more. He turned right at the next crossing and came to St. Peter’s Church, the steeple sticking above the trees, the building dark and empty. He again turned right, toward the British, and led his horse off the road and into the trees, slowing to a walk. When he got close to Old Lancaster Road, he dismounted and tethered his steed to a branch, tucked away in dense foliage but still close to the road. A sprawling oak, once hit by lightning, its largest limb split and charred, would serve as a landmark when he returned.

He crept through the woods just south of the British. Stepping softly through the foliage, he ducked behind a shrub when he saw British pickets along the forest fringe, barely fifty feet away. He then slipped behind a stout tree and peeked at the enemy encampment, a sea of white tents sprawled across a clearing, half-loaded wagons parked beside them. Orange flames from campfires licked the landscape, gray smoke spiraling upward and fading as it reached the clouds.

Tripods built from branches held boiling black kettles above the fires, and Ian could smell the aroma of simmering stew. The red coats and white breeches that the British wore contrasted sharply with the green landscape and made them easy targets if he was an army instead of a man. He stepped through the brush, tracking the number of tents, men, cannon, and wagons, assessing their strength and trying to determine if they would march on Philadelphia.

After observing the camp from several locations, he knew it wasn’t permanent. The tents were close together, many men squeezed into clearings bordered by trees, relying on pickets to warn of an approaching enemy. Few supplies were stored near those who needed them, wagons loaded with crates or produce stolen from nearby farmers. Even the stacks of firewood were slight, suggesting the men should be ready to march as soon as the command was given. Philadelphia was their objective, where its citizens and Congress assumed the colonial army under General Washington would keep the enemy at bay—just as they had in the months preceding. But Ian had found an army with an unmolested path to the city. The Patriots, it seemed, had been outflanked.

He crept forward, hiding where the foliage was thickest, daring to come closer. The same scene was continually repeated: clusters of tents, soldiers gathered around campfires. stacks of rifles and firewood. A few farm animals—cows, goats, cackling chickens—provided food to fuel the army, kept in pens or tethered to trees. Ian sneaked along the edge of the camp, staying just beyond the guards, hiding in shadows cast by a setting sun. After moving west for a half mile, the British yielded to Hessians, German mercenaries hired by the Crown, their infantry, cavalry, and cannon staged and stored and ready for battle.

“There must be ten thousand men,” he muttered, impressed by the size of the army.

He hadn’t observed the entire camp, but he had seen enough. He had to warn Congress to evacuate before the British marched, before they were trapped, and the war lost. He went back the way he came, sneaking through shrubs, surveying the camp, coming closer when he dared, but watchful for the pickets perched at its perimeter.

As he wormed his way east, close to where he would fetch his horse, he made a mistake he knew could cost him his life. He had come closer to camp than intended, crossing the picket line when he did so. He hid in a clump of maples, caught between the camp and its sentries, completely surrounded.

A crude cabin sat past the camp’s edge. He suspected it housed an officer, probably high-ranking given the soldiers who stood guard around it. He studied the sky, the light quickly fading as dusk approached, and chose to remain until darkness arrived. He knelt behind shrubs, observing the cabin, smoke drifting from its chimney, two men stepping from the porch.