Of course the place was empty. Fitzroy cursed roundly. There was evidence that the owner’s departure had been hasty as a small fire still burned in the fireplace and a pot of stew was simmering above it.
“Barn’s empty, sir,” the corporal reported. “And no one’s come out the back. There are tracks. They left on horseback. Do you want us to follow them?”
Fitzroy considered it briefly and discarded the idea. His men were not woodsmen or trackers and didn’t even know who they were looking for. Worse, even though they were cavalrymen they were riding horses that couldn’t catch a dead man. It had begun to snow again, and the tracks they saw would disappear shortly, and they couldn’t go arresting just anyone they might catch up with. Bloody Tarleton might do that, but Fitzroy felt he had to have at least have some suspicions before acting. Of course, the tavern’s owners’ flight was highly suspicious behavior, which meant their adventure had paid off at least a little bit by scaring off suspicious characters.
“Thank you, no, Corporal. Bring your men in and warm and feed yourselves. You’ve done a good day’s work.”
The soldiers grinned and began to help themselves to the abandoned food.
Danforth emerged from a back room. His expression was grim. “I think you should look at this.”
Fitzroy followed him into what was obviously an office. There was a desk made out of planking and papers were scattered all about. It was as if the owner had been thinking of discarding them, but interrupted before he could do it.
Fitzroy sat down and began to rummage through them. Some were irrelevant, the usual mundane bills and notes of a tavern keeper. He’d bought beer from one local farmer and stronger stuff from another. He’d bought meat and bread from others, and chickens from still another.
“I see nothing remotely interesting,” Fitzroy said. He was beginning to feel tired. Their day had been a long one.
“You’re looking at the wrong pile,” Danforth said, and handed another stack of papers to him.
Fitzroy sniffed, annoyed at his mistake, and began to read. Danforth was right. This was far more intriguing. First were lists of British regiments as they’d arrived, along with estimates of their strengths. Then there was information about supplies and equipment, and information about the army’s commanders and the existence of the now damaged barges. It was a detailed compilation of the British Army’s presence at Detroit.
While some of it could have been the result of simple observation, much required someone with an intimate knowledge of the British Army, and the sheer volume implied a nest of spies.
“Interesting reading, eh?” asked Danforth.
“The bloody bastards. I wonder how many spies there were and how they got the information to Fort Washington.”
“Does it matter?” Danforth said happily. “We’ve stopped it at the source, although I’m certain they’ll try to set up another spy center. At least finding this will keep Bloody Banastre Tarleton off our backs.”
That thought cheered Fitzroy as he continued to look through the papers. Now he was finding observations on the Great Fire as those who had survived it were now calling it. Of course, some of the comments on the fire could have been made by simply looking across the river, but some of them contained detail about military losses that could only have been gotten first hand.
Fitzroy recognized a name and cursed. “Damned Jews.”
“What?” asked Danforth as he looked up from some additional papers.
“It looks like Abraham Goldman, the Jewish merchant, is one of the spies. Damn. He’s getting rich on us and betraying us at the same time.”
Danforth yawned. “No surprise. The stinking Jews are capable of almost anything. We’ll arrest the Shylock when we return.”
Then a phrase on a sheet of paper caught his attention and he felt a chill go down his spine. “Dear God,” he muttered, causing Danforth to start and stare at him.
Fitzroy put down that paper and picked up another. This one referenced Braxton and his orders from Tarleton to attack the newly found settlement. He had argued with both Tarleton and Burgoyne against turning Braxton loose, but Burgoyne had been distracted and Tarleton wanted the raid to go forward. Someone had betrayed Braxton, taken over the buildings, and baited what Fitzroy later realized was a trap. Worse, the phraseology of the document he was reading was familiar. It ought to be, he realized with a sickening feeling-the words were his.
He felt staggered and his head spun. He took a closer look at the handwriting and recognized it. He felt like weeping.
Danforth grabbed his arm. “James, are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said and shook his head violently. “I mean no. I’m not all right at all. I’ve been betrayed. Damn it, I’ve been betrayed and played for a fool.”
Danforth closed the office door so the enlisted men couldn’t hear. They were busy feeding themselves, but could easily become curious.
“What is it, James?”
Fitzroy handed him a sheet of paper. “Recognize the words, the writing?”
“Can’t say as I do,” Danforth said, puzzled.
“The words are mine, they come from my journal.”
“Somebody’s been reading it?”
“Of course, and I’ve been sleeping with that somebody. The handwriting is Hannah’s. She’s been copying my notes and forwarding them to the rebels.” He shook his head. “This could not get any worse.”
There was a tap on the door and the corporal opened it tentatively. “Sir, there’s a man here from the sled pulley. He says someone cut the rope on the Detroit side and we can’t get back tonight, maybe tomorrow at the earliest. Could be even longer if the weather turns bad.”
* * *
Will and Sarah were aware that they were watching history unfold. They only hoped that they would be around years from now to tell the tale to their grandchildren. The very small gallery that the general public could use to watch Congress in action was jammed. This in itself was unusual as popular opinion said that Congress never actually did anything except talk a topic to death.
But this time it was different. The Continental Congress was actually going to do something. The distinguished members were going to vote on and, if approved, sign a draft constitution, and it contained a fundamental bill of rights. Franklin had insisted on the bill of rights. He’d argued that it was all well and good to decide the mechanics of a republican form of government, which was based on the writings of a Frenchman named Montesquieu. But what, he’d insisted, would that government stand for? It had to go beyond mere words. The words had to inspire.
Franklin had enlisted Sarah as a counterpoint for his arguments as he rehearsed them, and she was flattered that he respected her mind and her judgment.
For instance, he’d drawn himself up and asked if she wished to be forced to provide financial support for the Anglican faith, the established church of England? No, she’d answered. Did she agree that only members of an established church could hold political office as was the case in Virginia as well as England? Of course not, she’d responded.
Did she wish the newspapers censored and restricted by the government? No. How could you trust what you were reading if the press was restricted? You couldn’t, she replied.
What about quartering soldiers in her house without her permission? She’d shuddered at the thought of a squad of dirty, muddy Redcoats traipsing through her home and again answered with an emphatic no.
With these and other points that represented a counter to British tyranny, she’d found herself in complete agreement and had discussed them with Will who also agreed. “It defines what we have been fighting for,” he’d said, and she’d laughingly asked what took him so long to figure it out.
John Hancock, in his role as President of the Continental Congress read the proposed document in its entirety while the participants and spectators sat, transfixed. If and when approved, copies of it would be sent to the British-occupied colonies so they could see the difference between a corrupt, distant, and unfeeling British monarchy and a truly American form of government.