Tom realized the truth of all this, but chafed at the delay; now that he had definite news of his father he burned with the desire to help him in some way.
“If I could only put the matter before General Washington,” he told himself again and again, “he would have him exchanged, for the general would appreciate his service.”
The friends of America in the British parliament, and they were many, were rapidly beginning to make headway at this time; Lord North was put to his wit’s end to maintain his position against them. “End the war,” was beginning to be heard night after night in both the Commons and the Lords; even the crusty old king was beginning to waver in his purpose.
Colonel Phillips and the traitor Arnold had been beaten off by Lafayette and the gallant Baron Steuben; and just as Phillips was breathing his last Cornwallis arrived in Petersburg with 7,000 picked men. Cornwallis, while a stern, relentless soldier—indeed a ruthless, in many respects, was still a gentleman; and one of his first acts upon taking command, was to pack Arnold back to New York; the traitor was more than he could tolerate.
The British at once seized all the horses for many miles around—hundreds of them—overran the James River district, and took possession of Richmond and Williamsburg.
“There is one thing I like about the war as conducted in Virginia,” Tom said to Cole one morning as they were ready to depart on a scout. “There are not nearly so many Tories; there is not that neighbor against neighbor which exists in Carolina. Up here almost every enemy wears a red coat.”
This was the day that Tom intercepted a dispatch from Sir Henry Clinton, calling Cornwallis to the seacoast. He reported in the afternoon to the commander.
“But where is the dispatch?” asked Lafayette.
“Lord Cornwallis has it by this time, I suppose,” answered the scout.
“Ah!” Lafayette looked at his horseman sharply. “Tell me about it.”