The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “Anna?”

  He followed her in and grabbed the oars. “Anna Strong, Selah’s wife. She hangs a black petticoat on the line along with a certain number of handkerchiefs. That’s how Abraham knows which cove I’m in. There are six of them, and I dock in a different one each time. Hence why the British haven’t caught me yet. Shh!” Brewster said suddenly, as if she were the one talking and not him. “Get down!” he commanded, and Elizabeth ducked as low as she could after catching sight of another boat entering the waterway a few yards down. “Damned Oyster Bay and its exposed waters. That’s why I don’t come this way much.” He paused and Elizabeth lifted her head to see him peering down at her. “Don’t ye worry, I can outrun ‘em.”

  After several nerve-wracking minutes, Brewster told Elizabeth she could raise her head.

  “Why West Point?” she whispered after she had sat up again.

  “Dr. McKnight is there, not to mention that it’s probably the safest place to be in America right now, besides in General Washington’s own tent.”

  Elizabeth nodded. She was trying to keep her mind off the three sweet, innocent heads sleeping the night away in the Youngs’ guest bedroom. If anything happened to them because of me, I’d never forgive myself. But the British could not be that cruel, could they? Elizabeth tried to banish all of the horrible rumors she’d heard of the Hessian troops murdering women and children in their beds.

  A splash erupted in the quiet darkness. Brewster’s oars halted above the water before he motioned for her to duck down again. This time she could hear men shouting from the other boat, followed by a noise so loud it felt like Elizabeth’s teeth shook in their gums. A gunshot!

  Brewster paused to haul his rifle up onto his lap before he somehow found the strength to increase the rhythm of his rowing and the voices soon faded. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, imagining herself in the middle of a gunfight. Home, she thought, keeping her eyes closed. She pictured her apartment that, while spare of furnishings, was filled with love. Behind her eyelids, she saw an image of Robert instructing Johnny and Abby while Catherine curled up to read a book on Elizabeth’s lap, and the baby slept in the corner. Suddenly, she felt the boat slow down. She raised her head, expecting to see a boat full of Redcoats beside them, but, instead, Elizabeth saw only mud and grass. They were ashore.

  Brewster let out a wolf whistle. In a moment, a responding whistle sounded from a nearby tree.

  “Bolton?” Brewster called.

  “Here!” the voice was closer now. Elizabeth could discern a tall figure making his way through the undergrowth. As he approached their vicinity, Elizabeth recognized him. “Major Tallmadge?” she asked, the confusion obvious in her voice.

  “Bolton’s his code name,” Brewster said. “In case anyone is listening.”

  “Are we in danger?” she asked.

  “Not presently,” Tallmadge said. He held out his arm and Elizabeth clutched it and climbed out. She turned to Brewster and noticed he was still sitting in the boat. He tipped his hat at her. “This is where I leave you, Mrs. Burgin.” Brewster, having safely delivered his cargo, was back to his American accent.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brewster.”

  Tallmadge stepped toward the boat. “Any reports?”

  “No,” Brewster replied. “But Culper Junior says something big must be going on in the city. The rank and file seem restless.”

  Tallmadge nodded. “Keep us informed.”

  Brewster touched his hat once more before he set his oars back in the water.

  Elizabeth wondered who Culper was but didn’t say anything as Tallmadge led her to where two horses were tied.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Burgin,” he told her wryly. “The army doesn’t own a sidesaddle or pillion, so you will have to ride in a gentlemen’s way.”

  “It’s fine, Major Tallmadge,” she told him before she mounted. She may have grown up a city-girl, but her father had taught her to ride when she was little.

  They traveled for an hour or so before stopping at an inn. Elizabeth was doubly thankful for the soft beds they provided, although the feeling of still riding a horse and the threat of nightmares made it somewhat difficult to sleep.

  They set off early the next morning, traveling north along the Hudson River. Because of its proximity to New York City, with routes to almost all of the New England states, Elizabeth knew that West Point was important strategically to the Continental army. Tallmadge seemed well familiar with the area and knew where to stop to water their horses or rest. The countryside was quite pretty, with columbine and wild geraniums blooming, but Elizabeth was too worried over the fate of her children to notice much. They finally arrived at a fine mansion situated between two large hills.

  “The Robinson House,” Tallmadge stated before dismounting.

  Elizabeth followed suit and felt the familiar ache in her legs from a long day of riding.

  Dr. McKnight greeted her warmly and, after Elizabeth had some food, took her on a tour, filling her in on the history of the mansion. He’d been stationed there for a few months; Mercy had recently had a baby and was currently with her family in New Jersey until the time the baby was old enough to travel. The Robinson House, or “Beverly,” as Dr. McKnight called it, was a few miles south of the military stronghold and was once a summer house belonging to Beverly Robinson, now a colonel with the British army. Like many other fine Loyalist houses, the mansion had been confiscated when the Robinson family fled for the city. “Oddly enough,” McKnight told her, “Robinson is at this minute on the British-man-of-war the Vulture, stationed down the Hudson a little ways,” He inclined his head toward the north. “An early commander of West Point, General Putnam, resided in this house, and General Washington occasionally stayed here, but now it, along with the multiple outbuildings scattered around it, houses sick and wounded officers.”

  “Smallpox?” Elizabeth asked as Dr. McKnight showed her to the room in which she would be staying.

  “No,” he replied. “I have the ones suffering with the disease isolated in the lazaretto barracks at the base. I’ve turned one of the huts into an inoculation room.” He nodded at her. “I might reassign you there soon, since you are no longer in danger of catching it.”

  “I’d be happy to help.” Anything to keep her mind off of missing the children. The room was simple, with whitewashed walls, and only a desk and chair and the bed for furniture. She went to the window, espying some of the outbuildings Dr. McKnight had mentioned. “How does it that I get my own room?”

  “There aren’t that many women at West Point other than the camp followers and the ‘girls of the night’ out of Fishkill. Since you’ll be working with me, it was decided that you would get the Robinson’s maid’s room instead of housing in the barracks. Besides,” he continued with a wink, “General Robert Howe, West Point’s commander, had a soldier in his troop that was rescued from the Jersey.”

  Elizabeth had trouble getting to sleep that night. She was not used to the noises of the country—it seemed a cicada was garrisoned right outside the tiny window—and her mind kept straying to her family. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Georgie’s smile, Catherine’s dimples, the way Johnny’s eyes would light up when Robert… No. Mustn’t think these thoughts. She knew that there must be laudanum stored in the medicine closet Dr. McKnight showed her earlier but she did not want to deprive a soldier in pain. She settled with counting in her head, getting to over five hundred before she finally fell into a restless sleep.

  Nursing was difficult work, but the seemingly ceaseless tasks of purging chamber pots, administering laudanum, cleaning the airless rooms, and making sure the patients were adhering to Dr. McKnight’s prescribed diets soothed Elizabeth. She would often fall into her bed at night so exhausted she would go right to sleep. She often dreamt of the children and Robert, waking with an aching need to be with all of them. She would then throw herself into more monotonous duties, and the pattern would repeat again.

  She received only a fraction
of what Dr. McKnight made as the resident surgeon, but that and the rations she received for her duties allowed her to gain a bit of dignity. Because of her situation, she was unable to send the money to Oyster Bay, but she stockpiled it in an old shoe to one day pay back Youngs for his kindness.

  Chapter 48

  Meg

  July 1779

  Although Meg had washed her hands of military matters—the rescuing of her Elizabeth notwithstanding—it seemed like information drops were happening daily right in front of her. With General Clinton back in New York, the opulent dinners resumed at One Broadway. Clinton’s mistress, Mary Baddeley, often joined them. The other officers’ wives had gossiped to Meg that Mrs. Baddeley had been John Hancock’s maid in Philadelphia. When Clinton confiscated the Hancock house, he confiscated the maid as well. Her complacent husband had been promoted up the ranks in the British army and was now a captain in Colonel Beverly Robinson’s regiment.

  The dinner included ham, duck, and pigeon as well as potatoes, other vegetables, and fresh bread. After the requisite toasts to His Majesty and General Clinton, and an ambiguous toast from the other end of the table to “the Hudson River,” small talk commenced while their dinner companions—more than fifty by Meg’s count—indulged in the food and drink.

  “Are you all set for your trip, André?” one of the officers across from her asked.

  “Indeed,” André said after a sip of wine.

  “Trip?” Meg asked, turning to the major.

  “Ah, the lady did not know!” the man—De Lancey was his name, Meg remembered—exclaimed.

  “I’ll be vacationing in Oyster Bay with Colonel Simcoe for a few days and then I’ll be heading north after that.”

  Meg nodded. She knew that he stayed before with Simcoe at the Townsend House and found it not a tad ironic that the chief intelligence officer was billeted with an enemy spy’s family. The first time André returned from Oyster Bay, he seemed pensive for a few days, as if something bothered him. When Meg inquired as to his mood, he insisted that it was nothing and recovered soon after.

  De Lancey shot André a winning grin. “André’s got something cooking up there that could end the war in a matter of weeks.”

  “That new contact that you mentioned?” Another man in epaulettes from down the table asked. The wine, it seemed, was functioning to loosen the officers’ tongues. General Clinton, from the head of the table to André’s left, listened silently, his lips in a tight line.

  “Soon enough we will be referring to you as ‘Sir André,’” De Lancey said.

  “Is it risky, this business of yours up north?” Meg asked.

  “Risky, maybe, but well worth it,” André replied. Meg was of the mind that nothing in this pointless war was worth risking a life for, especially not the possibility of being knighted by a redundant King, but she affected a sympathetic shake of her head.

  André’s manner in the days before he left belied his nervousness. He showed up late for tea, forgetting his usual impeccable mannerisms and lifting his tea cup with shaking fingers. He and General Clinton often met behind closed doors until long into the night, candlelight showing under the door frame after everyone else had gone to sleep. Had Meg been of her former passion, she would have immediately reported such goings-on to Hercules Mulligan, but doing so, she was painfully aware, might put André in danger. Whatever his task was, she hoped that it would not result in André’s capture—or worse. Although she did not relish a British victory, she realized a swift end to the war could bring a stop to this madness.

  Chapter 49

  Sally

  August 1779

  “Colonel Simcoe has returned!” Phoebe exclaimed one day in August upon coming into the room.

  Sally clamped shut the book she had been reading and sat up. “He is here?”

  “Yes, and his first question to me was regarding your whereabouts.”

  She had been restless all summer. She had not heard from Major André—or Colonel Simcoe, for that matter—since they left Oyster Bay last spring. Even Susannah Youngs was unavailable for visits as she was taking care of a convalescent relative. At least Simcoe’s presence would liven up this dull summer. Sally sighed and went downstairs without checking her appearance in the looking glass.

  Simcoe had lost a great deal of weight, and his green uniform hung loosely on his now gaunt frame.

  “Colonel Simcoe?” Sally inquired, pausing on the middle stair.

  “Ah, Sally,” he said in a weak voice. “How I have missed seeing your beautiful face. Did you worry much over my captivity?”

  “Captivity?”

  Simcoe frowned. “I was taken hostage by the rebels after my horse was shot out from underneath me. I’ve only recently been released.”

  Sally proceeded the rest of the way down the stairs and stood in front of him. His shoulders slumped forward and he did not meet her eyes. Some of his overconfidence had given way to defeat, giving him the ego of a normal man.

  “Come,” she told him. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  After André had left last spring, Sally pestered Simcoe with questions as to where he might be deployed for the summer. He took it as concern for his safety and would simply reply that wherever he went, he would return for her. He asked one more time for permission to speak to Papa about marriage, but Sally insisted that they should wait until the war was over.

  As he now broke apart a piece of bread, hardened from the time that had passed since breakfast, he told her that the end of the war might be in the near future.

  “How do you know that?” Sally inquired, but of course, Simcoe was enigmatic, only saying there had been recent developments that would result in Britain’s favor. His lips turned upward. “And then we could marry.”

  Sally contrived a smile as inscrutable as Simcoe’s own.

  There was no way Sally could ever marry Simcoe. She never once believed that Britain would actually win, meaning that Simcoe would be forced to return to his native country in disgrace, and, if she were his wife, her fate would be the same. She would have to leave her beloved home for an alien country she had grown to despise. But telling Simcoe she had no interest in becoming his wife would be the final blow to his ego and most likely culminate in him lashing out in hurt and anger. So she kept up the charade, keeping him at arm’s distance without ever discouraging him. She began accompanying him again to the redoubt, which had been untouched in his troop’s absence. A few days after he himself returned, Simcoe informed Sally that André was expected in Oyster Bay the next day.

  “Major André?” her heart sped up in the pleasure of speaking his name. While she looked forward to flirting with the handsome soldier, she also knew that his presence greatly complicated the tactics she employed to keep Simcoe clueless of her true feelings. “Why is he coming here?”

  “He is traveling from Gardiner’s Bay on his way north, and asked to speak with me about something.”

  “Does this something have to do with the end of the war you mentioned?”

  Again that ambiguous smirk appeared on Simcoe’s face, the one that Sally was quickly beginning to hate.

  André’s demeanor had also changed. Instead of being the mischievous rogue who had once hid Sally’s olykoeks, he too had taken on a more serious mind. As soon as André had arrived, he greeted her loftily and then he disappeared with Simcoe into Robert’s room, where they spent the entire afternoon.

  Dinner that evening was a quiet, dreary affair. Mother was warm enough to Major André, and of course, Phoebe tried her best to engage him in conversation, but after the small talk ended, silence ensued. As soon as her parents left, Sally rose from the table. “Enough!” she shouted. “Why do you two insist on ignoring me?”

  Phoebe shot her an incredulous look that quickly turned smug. She was evidently pleased that her sister’s once adoring suitors had cast her aside to continuously discuss whatever it was that brought André to Oyster Bay in the first place.

  Sally threw he
r hands up in dismay and began to stomp, most unladylike, out of the room.

  Simcoe grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend. It’s just that Major André is only here for a short time and needs my opinion on some military strategies he is thinking of employing.”

  She cast a dark look at Major André, who gave her a subtle wink before turning back to Simcoe. “What military strategies?”

  He dropped her arm. “Oh, just some troop formations. It’s all very boring and tedious.”

  She knew that whatever it was that was prompting their cryptic behavior, it was much more than discussing humdrum troop formations, but was she also aware that neither man would reveal their actual topic of discussion.

  Simcoe continued, “Major André will be leaving the day after tomorrow and then I will have more time to spend with you.”

  Phoebe, obviously cognizant of the undercurrents flowing in the room, looked at Major André to get his reaction, as did Sally. André took a long sip of wine and gave Simcoe a tight smile. “But not too much time,” he reminded his friend. “I will be requiring the presence of the Rangers on my mission as well.”

  “Will you be gone long?” Phoebe asked André.

  “Hopefully not,” he replied. “This should be a quick one,” he said, glancing at Simcoe, who nodded.

  “Well, then, we must give you a proper sendoff,” Phoebe stated. “Sally, we don’t have much time to prepare.”

  “Are you going to bestow your olykoeks upon us, then?” André looked at Sally, his eyebrows raised and a miscreant glint in his eyes.

  She returned his smile. “Only if you promise not to hide them.”