A long cavalry cape concealing the British uniform I wore, my horse and
myself were ferried across the Schuylkill, just below the mouth of Valley
Creek, and there, amid the silence and darkness of the eastern shore, I
parted with Hamilton, who had accompanied me thus far, whispering final
words of instruction. My horse was a fresh one, chosen from the stables
of the Life Guard, but the trappings were of the British service. Within
five minutes I was out of sight of the picket fire on the river bank,
riding steadily southeast through the night, every nerve alert. An hour's
riding found me well beyond our outermost pickets, yet, in fear that I
might encounter some body of irregulars, scouting the neutral ground, I
held on to my passport until I perceived the first flush of dawn in the
east. Then, convinced of close proximity to the British guard-lines, I
tore the paper into fragments. Avoiding all roads, and seeking every bit
of concealment possible, it was already sunrise before I plunged suddenly
into a Hessian picket-post, the distant smoke of the Philadelphia
chimneys darkening the sky ahead. Unable to speak German, my uniform won
sufficient courtesy, so that I was escorted back under guard to an
outpost of the Queen's Rangers, where I explained my presence and rank to
a red-faced Captain in Tory green, so insolent in manner as to be
insulting, until I exhibited the sealed despatch, and demanded to be
escorted at once to Sir William Howe. This brought results, and I entered
the city under escort of a dozen horsemen, their green coats faced with
dingy white, cocked hats flapping as they rode.

It was thus we came to Callowhill, and the encampment of British
grenadiers, an officer of the 55th Regiment volunteering to guide me to
Howe's quarters in High Street. He was a genial fellow, and pointed out
various places of interest, as we rode more slowly through the streets
close along the river-side, questioning me often upon affairs in New
York, to which I returned such vague answers as pleased me, paying small