–GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON, OFFICIAL HANDBILL
ISSUED TO NEW YORKERS, IN AUGUST 1776
The British thrashed the Patriots in a big battle in Brooklyn. Thrashed them but good. They killed or captured near a thousand rebels and sent the rest scurrying away. After the worst of the battle, the skies opened up again and we all waited—us in a house with leaking windows and a damp parlor, the soldiers in open fields and muddy ditches—for the rain to stop.
Madam wore a groove in the floor pacing back and forth awaiting news of the final British victory, her footsteps tipping and tapping in measure with the ticking of the clock. I poked at the logs in the kitchen hearth, trying to summon back the bees so they would chase out the thoughts invading my brainpan.
But the words of the bald man echoed.
Would the British truly free me? Should I flee to them? What about Ruth; would they help me find her?
The firewood was wet and green and would not catch. It smoldered and smoked and made a terrible stink.
When morning came, a thick fog smothered New York; the kind Momma called a “pea-souper.” When the fog finally lifted, the American army was not to be found. Washington’s men had spent the dark night and foggy morning rowing all of the troops back to New York Island—some nine thousand men, folks said. That Washington was a conjure man, for sure.
Madam took to her bed when Becky brought back the news. I muttered a quiet “Blast” and continued to eat my dinner, porridge with dried apple.
Becky didn’t hear me. She was going on and on about the nasty things she’d passed by at the campgrounds. “—and there was this one lad, ooh, he’d had his hand blown clean off and a grubby bandage wrapped round his wrist, and I looked at that and I said to myself, ‘That arm’s coming off next, young man, and maybe your leg for good measure’ on account of a noxious pestilence that filled the air. The stench of the place! And the groans and moans!”
She shivered with gruesome delight. “If I had a stronger stomach, I’d take a nurse job and help a bit with the washing of the wounds and the like. But with this heat and the flies, you just know the wounds will be maggoty by morning, and if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s the sight of maggots in living flesh.”
I looked in my bowl. The dried apple bits curled like fresh-hatched maggots.
I stopped eating.
Becky ladled out her own meal. “They’s all saying that this proves the Lord Himself is on the side of the Rebellion, on account of that fog He created. Did the same thing for them back in Boston; blew in a thick mist so the American army could win the day.”
It seemed to me that if God really wanted the Americans to win, He would have sent sea monsters to devour the fleet when it left Boston. As I went to empty my porridge into the scraps bucket, Becky pointed to her own bowl. I filled it with my leftovers and commanded my belly to stop flopping so at the sight of the curly apples.
Becky paused with her spoon in the air. “Makes a body wonder, though …”
“What?” I asked.
“Washington had them melt down the church bells and remake them into cannons. That will surely displease the Lord, I say. If God switches sides and allows the British to take New York, you’ll see me headed for Jersey, back pay or no back pay. I’m not sitting here waiting to get carved into pieces by them beastly redcoats.”
It took me eight days of slow trips to the market and the water pump before I finally spied Curzon working with other men to set up a filthy tent in the mud of the Battery campgrounds. It was good to see him not dead nor chopped up.
Chapter XXVIII
Sunday, September 15, 1776
THE CLOUDS GROW VERY DARK.
–DIARY OF WILLIAM SMITH, CHIEF JUSTICE
OF THE PROVINCE OF NEW YORK
The true invasion of New York started with the firing of a hundred ships’ cannons when we were at church Sunday morning. The first blast made the women shriek. The second blast made me wonder if God Himself was fixing to blow the island apart.
The third blast caused us to run for the door.
Rebel soldiers were dashing everywhich direction on the street, muskets in their hands, officers bellowing loud. The horses pulling carts and carriages whinnied nervously, bobbing their heads up and down and rolling their eyes in fear of the commotion and noise.
The cannons roared again. The sound was coming from the East River side of the island, to the north. I searched the skies for flaming comets, for that was how I pictured a cannonball would look. All I saw were startled birds and campfire smoke. The city itself seemed unharmed, though fear ran neck-deep.
Madam reached out and grabbed at the coat of an officer striding toward the Battery fort. He whirled, a curse on his lips, but caught himself when he realized he was speaking to a lady.
“Does this unholy racket mean the arrival of the war?” Madam asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said. “But you need not be afraid. The generals have the matter well in hand.” He hesitated as the cannons roared again. “Civilians should go home and lock your doors. Do not peer out of windows.”
Madam contemplated him coolly. “What are those men doing?” she asked, pointing to the campground. The soldiers were quickly assembling their guns, ammunition, and whatever they could stuff into their sacks. They moved so fast you’d have thought the ground was afire.
“We are preparing to meet the enemy,” he said.
“You are running away,” she said.
“No, ma’am,” he said as he started to move away from her. “We’re moving up to Fort Washington, to guard the King’s Bridge.” He shouted to be heard as a wagon pulled by four horses raced by. “We must follow orders!”
“Indeed,” Madam said.
Becky had the Sabbath off, so I served Madam her meal of cold pork, peas, and onions cooked with sage. She was calm about finally having war at her doorstep and thousands of riled-up menfolk marching with guns. In fact, as she ate, she kept a sheet of paper, a quill, and an ink bottle by the side of her plate and would from time to time jot down a word or two.
When her plate was empty, she spoke to me direct. “I am preparing a list of items for you to purchase. You may leave as soon as the dishes are washed.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“I need you to go down to the shops. I’ve no doubt Elihu will soon return home, and I’d like to celebrate with a suitable meal. It’s a shame that turtles are so hard to come by here. Elihu loves turtle soup.”
Had she lost her mind?
“But the cannons, ma’am,” I started. “The battle. Surely it will be a few days before—”
“Most of the items can be purchased at Mr. Mason’s.” She dipped the quill and scratched out another item. “He’s a thieving rat of a man, but he’s loyal to the King. I know he’s been hoarding his best wares.” She paused as cannon fire boomed again from the north. “I don’t know why the rebels don’t just surrender. They cannot win.”
I froze at the sideboard. The words of the bald-headed man came to me: “If the British win, we’ll all be free.”
Could it be so simple? Might the invaders liberate me from this nightmare? Was this my chance?
Madam said something, but I couldn’t make out her words. “Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, my hands doing the work of a slave, my mind racing free.
I will run and join the British.
The thought washed over me like a river, sweeping away the dead bees that had filled my brainpan with confusion. The answers tumbled one after another. They’d grant me freedom and give me work. I’d save my money and make my way to Nevis and rescue Ruth. Plain, simple, and true.
“Are you deaf?” Madam scolded me.
I had been staring at the door and not minding her words.
She shook the paper in her hand. “I said take this to Mason. If he can’t supply you with everything, he’ll direct you where to go.”
I’ll be going home, I thought. And you can fetch your own food and empty your own
chamberpot and carry your own blasted firewood from this day forward.
“Girl?” Madam squinted at me and tilted her head to one side. “Are you feverish?”
I gave thanks that she could not hear my thoughts. “No, ma’am.” I put the list in my pocket and set the last knife on the tray. “I’m strong as can be. I’ll go to Mr. Mason’s directly.”
I paused at the parlor door. “I may be delayed a wee bit, ma’am,” I said with care. “What with the commotion and all.”
A dozen or so soldiers dashed down the middle of the street, their boots thudding.
“It cannot be helped,” Madam said with a sigh.
Walking down Broadway I was a fish swimming in the wrong direction. Everyone else in New York flowed north and fought against my progress: Continental troops in ragged formation, militia units carrying packs and haversacks, small artillery pieces pulled by horses, and carts weighed down with women and children. The noise was deafening. Along with the shouts of men and women, every dog in the city was barking alarm, pigs squealed underfoot, and occasionally a musket would fire, which led to shouted oaths and yelps. Drums beat and fifes blew and beneath everything was the steady clockwork blast of the British cannons firing at the troops stationed north of us.
I kept to the fronts of buildings, ducking into doorways when necessary, until I finally took refuge in the abandoned chandler’s shop. The door was locked, but the front windows had been smashed to bits when the owner was tarred and feathered some weeks previous.
I crawled through the window, taking care not to cut myself on the glass shards jutting out of the frame. I set my basket on the floor. Ruth’s doll rested inside it under a rag. That was the one thing I could not leave behind.
The shop smelled musty and damp and the shelves stood empty. All the candles and other goods were stolen the day they ran the chandler out of town. It was a gloomy place but would serve well as a temporary shelter.
I stood by the window and watched the tide of people roll out of the city.
Hurry, I silently urged them.
Hurry, I also urged the British army. I did not want them to land right away, not until the last of the crowd had fled. But it would be nice if they arrived right quick after that, before Madam could hire someone to seek me out.
Finally the crowd thinned and cart wheels could be heard echoing up the road. I waited a little longer, just to be sure. A few Continentals dashed by, their hands holding their hats on their heads, and canteens and cartridge cases banging against their backsides. They were followed by a rough-looking militia unit that was trailed by a group of slaves carrying shovels and pickaxes. I searched for a familiar red hat but did not find it.
When the air fell still, with just a few voices calling orders in the distance. I hiked up my skirts and crawled out through the window.
Chapter XXIX
Sunday, September 15, 1776
… THE DEMONS OF FEAR AND DISORDER SEEMED TO TAKE
FULL POSSESSION OF ALL AND EVERYTHING UPON THAT DAY.
–JOURNAL OF PRIVATE JOSEPH PLUMB MARTIN,
FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD PATRIOT SOLDIER
I was the only person on the street. The army was gone and the city abandoned. I shivered, though the day was still warm. Had I made a mistake? Should I run after the rebels and join them? Should I go back to the Locktons’?
A cannon boomed to the north.
No, I chose the right course. At least, I hoped I had.
I headed for the waterfront. Several of the grand mansions of lower Broadway stood with their doors ajar. A fire burned at the edge of the street, heaped with books and scads of papers. The smoke rose up into the air, drifting toward the masts of the few ships at anchor. Cannons boomed again.
What if they didn’t arrive right away? How long did I have before Madam grew suspicious?
A gust of wind blew and carried with it the first hint of fall: canoe-shaped chestnut leaves, turned yellow round the edges. The leaves caught and piled up against the soldiers’ tents left behind at the Battery campground.
I walked over and pulled back the flap of a tent. Inside lay two bedrolls, a pipe and tobacco pouch, and a shirt dropped in the middle of mending, the needle still threaded and stuck in the fabric. I closed the flap. They left near everything—tents, blankets, extra clothing, cook pots, and food. It would be a cold night for Curzon and his companions.
Voices came from the waterfront, military voices shouting orders. I hurried away from the Barracks, dashed down Water Street, and hid behind a rain barrel at the corner of the joiner’s workshop.
A half-dozen flat-bottomed boats were being rowed to the docks. Two were already tied up, and tall soldiers wearing the red uniform of King George were striding down the street. Lobsterbacks, folks called them. They fanned out across the waterfront, their muskets primed and held at the ready position. As I watched, a third boat floated to the wharf. The soldiers on it jumped out and marched in formation to the Battery, in search of rebel soldiers.
A woman carrying a baby fled, screaming loudly. A few of the redcoats chuckled and stabbed at the air with their bayonets. My throat went dry.
As the fourth boat landed, an officer stepped off and barked a command at the laughing men. They lined up and stood at attention. The officer gave another command, and the men marched off, splitting into three groups to investigate the Battery and waterfront buildings.
The officer stood alone at the foot of the dock, surveying the deserted town as more boats splashed toward the landing spot. This was my chance. I forced myself out of my hiding place and walked toward him, my back ramrod straight.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” I said boldly.
“What is it, girl?” he asked.
Before I could answer, a soldier dashed up to him. “Captain Campbell, sir. The campground appears deserted. The rebels left behind their tents and bedrolls.”
“Secure the tent flaps open and check every one,” the captain commanded. “It could be a trap.”
“Yessir,” came the crisp reply before the man ran off.
I prayed I would not faint from fear and tried again for the captain’s attention. “I can cook, sir,” I said. “I can wash, sew, even doctor the sick a little.”
“Don’t bother me, child.”
I trailed after him as he walked toward the campground. “Please, sir,” I insisted. “I’m all kinds of useful. I can chop wood and carry water or messages.”
I was interrupted by another soldier, who approached us and saluted.
“Report,” Captain Campbell said.
“The spies were correct, sir. The rebels have retreated. The Battery is empty of men but filled with the provisions and weapons they left behind, including several cannons. They even left a tea kettle bubbling over the fire. Civilians in the first three streets north of here all attest to their haste. Putnam’s unit was the last one out. They’re on their way up the island, by way of the Greenwich Road. Do we pursue, sir?”
The captain fought the smile that played at the corner of his lips. “Our task is to occupy the city. We’ll let the Highlanders hunt them down. Tell the men to take over the barracks and prepare Washington’s headquarters for Major General Robertson.”
“Yessir.” The soldier saluted again but did not move.
“What is it now, Jennings?” asked the captain.
“Begging pardon, sir, but I’ve not been informed as to the whereabouts of Washington’s headquarters. If I was to be given that information, I could pursue my obligations with greater speed.”
“I don’t know where it is,” Captain Campbell said with irritation. “Use your noggin, man. Ask the tavern keeper.”
“You want the Kennedy mansion, sir,” I said. “Just beyond the end of Battery, facing the Bowling Green.”
“What did you say?” the captain fired at me.
My knees were shaking under my skirt. “The Kennedy mansion, sir, that was General Washington’s main headquarters. Number 1, Broadway. His wife stayed up at the Mor
tier House. But he kept headquarters straight thataway”—I pointed west—“and more army offices were in City Hall.” I pointed north, up Broad Street.
“Very good,” he said. “There you have it, Sergeant. Proceed.”
The sergeant yelled to his unit as he walked away from us. The waterfront was awash in red now as boatloads of soldiers disembarked. Shouted orders filled the air, along with nervous laughter and the sound of British boots on the cobblestones. A few more boats were on their way in, with the first boats headed back for more. The occupation was well and truly begun.
“You are correct, young miss,” Captain Campbell said to me. “You are useful. But we do not want troublemakers in camp. What is the meaning of the mark on your face?”
I touched the raised scar and decided that honesty was my only course. “This stands for Insolence, sir. When my mistress sold my little sister, I tried to run away. She is five years old, sir. My sister, not my mistress.”
He blinked and cleared his throat. “Regrettable. And understandable. I have a younger sister myself. Your mistress, am I to assume she supports the rebel cause?”
“No, sir,” I answered. “Our house is Tory. My master was driven out of town by the Patriot leaders. My mistress is much cheered by your arrival. She wants to hire a proper staff so she can entertain again. She’ll not miss my services one bit.”
The words tumbled out before I measured them. The captain’s mouth hardened, and I knew I had stepped wrong.
He tugged on his sash. “I cannot accept your service, child. We only employ slaves run away from rebel owners.”
I did not hear him right. “Pardon me?”
“Gentlemen docking, sir!” cried a soldier on the wharf.
Captain Campbell turned as the men tossed thick ropes from the dock to the occupants of the next boat. It contained only four soldiers, each manning an oar. The rest of the passengers were men dressed in expensive civilian clothes.
“When they’re ashore, escort them into the tavern for a celebration,” the captain said loudly. “Issue the tavern keeper an Office of Forage certificate. Warn him, Sergeant, he is not to ask the gentlemen for payment, unless he wants to spent this night in irons. They are our guests.”
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