The Incredible William Bowles. Joseph J. Millard

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СКАЧАТЬ day the law passed, Pryne hurried upstairs and spent several hours burning papers in his fireplace and crushing the ashes to powder. He was not a moment too soon.

      The next morning a squad of militia led by a red-faced captain tramped in and took possession of the shop for investigation. Although a thorough ransacking, upstairs and down, turned up no incriminating evidence, Pryne and Will were taken to headquarters for questioning. Will maintained the pose of innocent and ignorant apprentice so successfully that his examination was little more than a brief formality. Pryne, however, had to endure a grueling two hours of cross-examination before receiving a certificate of permission to carry on his occupation.

      “I’ve learned something of myself today, Will,” he said, on the walk back to the shop. “It seems I missed my calling when I took to herbs and simples. I should have become an author instead, a weaver of romances and fairy tales. I swear, Will, I invented enough of them today to fill Ben Franklin’s library.”

      They were not bothered again, and Will was enormously relieved to note that the number of Pryne’s night visitors fell abruptly to almost none. Only rarely did he hear cautious footsteps mount the stairs and come down again almost immediately.

      The effect on Pryne, however, was far different. He lost his normal good spirits and became moody and withdrawn. Once, in a rare burst of confidence, he exclaimed, “This constant watching and spying is destroying us. We’re losing touch with the scouts, the men who guided Howe’s troops on the right roads to Philadelphia and who marked the loyal farms where they would be sure of supplies. They daren’t contact us now, but we will have need for their services again, and soon. A dangerous risk will have to be taken then, I fear.”

      With spring the seesaw war resumed, and the struggle in Philadelphia intensified. In midsummer a number of prominent men, including a son of William Penn, were jailed for sedition. Some two hundred more, mainly Quakers, with their families were dragged from their homes and deported to Virginia, beyond range of possible communication with the enemy. It was a summer of gloom and tension for both Will and Pryne.

      Then, on a stifling night in late July, Will heard a visitor softly come and go on the front stairs. A moment later Pryne came bursting down the back stairway. By the light of the candle he carried, his face was a shifting mask of glee.

      “Will, wake up, boy, and hear the news I’ve waited so long for. Not a breath of this must pass your lips, of course. On the twenty-third, General Howe sailed from New York with sixteen thousand troops, the pick of our army. Washington’d give his right arm—no, both arms—to find out his destination, but he won’t learn until it’s too late. Will, he’s on his way to capture Philadelphia, and this time there’ll be no nonsense about it.”

      Two days later, from the shop window, Will saw a Continental officer of heroic size race by at breakneck speed on a huge black horse. A scarlet-lined cloak streamed behind in the wind and a sword with a gold hilt bounced at his side. An aide on a bony nag was jouncing far behind in a vain effort to keep up.

      “That must be somebody pretty high in the rebel army,” Will said. “He’s sure togged out fancy compared to most.”

      Pryne chuckled. “That, my boy, was General George Washington in person, trying to find out which way Howe is heading. By the time he finds out, he may not be quite so high in the army—or he may not have any army left to be high in.”

      “You didn’t talk that way the last time Howe started for Philadelphia.”

      “The last time,” Pryne said soberly, “Howe was misjudging Washington and still playing at war. Since then he has learned a few lessons and this time he’s coming in dead earnest.”

      For Will there were three nerve-wracking weeks of dead silence until Howe’s mighty armada swept into the Chesapeake Bay, moving toward a landing at Head of Elk, fifty-five miles southwest of Philadelphia. Pryne greeted the news by ripping out an unaccustomed oath.

      “Now, what in the name of all that’s merciful is he doing clear up there? He could have landed as easily at New Castle or Chester and been twenty miles closer on the very same road. I just hope I haven’t given that dunderhead credit for learning lessons he may not even know are in the book.”

      The next afternoon ten thousand Continental troops, with Washington at their head, marched through Philadelphia on the way to meet the invaders. For the most part, their marching order was as ragged as their uniforms, but there was nothing makeshift about the way they handled their weapons or the grim determination on the craggy, weatherworn faces. For the first time Will sensed something of the inherent strength of this ragtag force, and he found the effect disturbing.

      Once again Philadelphia boiled with rumors and teetered on the edge of panic. Congress went on meeting, but with its luggage packed for quick flight. Patriots who had been the loudest in their praise of Washington were among the first to flee the city. Loyalists once more swaggered and jeered.

      “Some fools never learn,” Pryne said disgustedly. “Tomorrow the fortunes of war may change again and they’ll pay dearly once more for their windy crowings.”

      Washington had elected to make his stand on the heights along Brandywine Creek, southwest of the city. There he waited, while Philadelphia held its collective breath and the British advance rolled ponderously and steadily toward the collision. The night before the battle Pryne had an endless stream of visitors. He came down in the morning, openly exultant.

      “We may see the end of the war today, Will. Washington’s in a trap and doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s commanding the only fords within twelve miles, but there’s an easy crossing he doesn’t know about. While a token force keeps him occupied, our scouts will lead the main army around behind to close the trap on the whole American army.”

      The news that dribbled into Philadelphia throughout the day’s heavy fighting was fragmentary and confused, but the wagonloads of wounded that began pouring in around noon were real enough. It was not until after midnight that one of the Tory scouts slipped in with accurate information. Pryne came down, scowling and driving his fist into his palm.

      “That fox! That devilish sly fox of a Washington! The man must be in league with Satan himself. Our plans went off without a hitch, but that rascal sensed the trap before it was closed. He took heavy losses, at least three times ours, but the point is he got his army away. He’s on the loose, with ample time to replenish his stores and hit us again.”

      But now the good luck that had ridden at Washington’s side for so long abruptly deserted him. He was poised for a smashing attack when a violent cloudburst struck. The poorly made American cartridge boxes disintegrated in the downpour and four hundred thousand rounds of powder were ruined. The army had to flee ignominiously without firing a shot.

      On the heels of that disaster, a Tory farmer betrayed the presence of “Mad Anthony” Wayne with two brigades in the woods near Paoli.

      The British made a surprise attack with bayonets and the Paoli Massacre, as it became known, cost Wayne some hundred and fifty casualties. Worse, the thought of being skewered on British bayonets so unnerved Washington’s green militia troops that they deserted by battalions.

      The crowning blow came with an impenetrable fog that turned the Battle of Germantown into bloody chaos. Philadelphia awoke to find the British army encamped only five miles out from their defenseless city. Congress fled to Lancaster, then on to York. The roads were once more clogged with the wagons and horses of fleeing patriots. Washington was some twenty-five miles off, trying to reorganize and re-inspire his battered army.

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