Chains

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  “Yes, sir!” came the enthusiastic response.

  As we had been talking, ordinary city folk had begun to creep out of their houses. Now there was a full crowd gathered, the Tories of New York who had been awaiting this days for months, years. Cheers were heard in the distance. The arriving soldiers were greeted by townsmen who shook their hands and patted them heartily on the back. I recognized a few faces—the reverend and his wife and a few people who had called at the Lockton home.

  Captain Campbell bent toward me. He spoke quickly and quietly. “I do not hold with slavery, but I cannot help you. We do not interfere with Loyalist property. Return to your mistress.”

  A loud “Huzzah!” from hundreds of throats came from the Battery as the American flag was pulled down. A drummer started beating time, and the Union Jack rose to the top of the flagpole, accompanied by whistles and shouts from the lobsterbacks and Loyalist New Yorkers, who took off their hats in respect. A woman in the crowd snatched the American flag out of the hands of the British soldiers and stomped it under her boots. The men laughed.

  The ratatatating of the drumsticks rattled through me, setting my teeth to shaking and waking the bees who had lately gone to sleep in my brainpan.

  He couldn’t take me. He would not.

  I was chained between two nations.

  The bees swarmed again behind my eyes, making the scene grow dim and distant. The sun was nearing the horizon, casting long shadows across the wharf. I was a ghost tied to the ground, not a living soul.

  “All ashore, sir,” called the soldier tying up the last boat.

  “All ashore, Corporal,” the captain acknowledged. “I want patrols assembled immediately to keep watch in the streets, and sentry fires built on every corner.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The gentlemen who had arrived in the boat walked toward us, talking with great excitement. One of them was painfully familiar. He called to me before I could flee.

  “Sal?” called Master Elihu Lockton, thinner from his exile, eyes bloodshot and wary. “Is that you?”

  I dropped into a curtsy and dared not say a word.

  He studied on me with suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

  Sergeant Jennings approached. “The tavern is open if the gentlemen would care to drink to victory.”

  Lockton waved to his companions. “I shall join you shortly.” As the gentlemen hurried to the tavern, his eyes traveled from my head down to my shoes and back. “What news, Sal?” he asked. “How do you come to be here?”

  I pulled Madam’s list from my pocket and prayed he would not look inside my basket. “Come to market, sir,” I whispered.

  “Ah. What is this?” He took my chin in his fingers, turning it so that the last rays of the sunset fell on my scar. “Is the I for ‘illustrious’ or perhaps ‘impertinent’?”

  My face burned both in the scar and where his lavender-smelling fingers pinched my skin. The bees flew through me and told me to grab Campbell’s sword and run it through Lockton’s belly.

  And then what? And then what?

  “I suspect it stands for Insolence,” Captain Campbell said calmly. “’Tis a common brand among the people of Boston.”

  Lockton laughed at the small joke and released me. “Now we’ll call her Insolent Sal, a very saucy gal.”

  The captain smiled and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I should have known she was attached to your household, sir. She greeted me in the name of the King and thanked me for rescuing the city from the rebels.”

  They both looked at me.

  “We prayed for liberation,” I said.

  “Even our slaves have become political,” Lockton said. “How quaint.”

  “Do you wish to accompany your servant home to greet your mistress?” the captain asked.

  Lockton shook his head. “Not at the moment. Go on home, Sal. Tell Anne I shall be along after I’ve lifted a few glasses in celebration.”

  The two men headed for the tavern as the sun finally dropped out of sight.

  I must have gone to Mason’s and bought the items on Madam’s list, tho’ I remember it not. My body moved through the streets, past sentry fires and redcoats carrying torches down suspicious alleys and into abandoned houses. Around me was the sound of the victors celebrating and the smell of meat they roasted for their supper.

  Around me, all was darkness.

  Chapter XXX

  Monday, September 16–Saturday, September 21, 1776

  OH, THE HOUSES IN NEW YORK, IF YOU COULD BUT SEE THE

  INSIDES OF THEM! OCCUPIED BY THE DIRTIEST PEOPLE ON

  A CONTINENT … IF THE OWNERS EVER GET POSSESSION

  AGAIN, I AM SURE THEY WILL BE YEARS IN CLEANING THEM.

  –A LETTER FROM NEW YORK IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE

  AND LONDON ADVERTISER NEWSPAPER

  The British army paraded up Broadway the next day, cheered by Loyalists all wearing a red ribbon or flower in their hats in support of the King. I did not see this, of course. I overheard the report that Madam gave the master as they ate supper that eve with their houseguests, the two officers who had moved into the bedchambers on the top floor.

  The highest-ranking men of the British army had taken over the empty rebel mansions. Lower-grade officers had moved in with Loyalist families who had suitable furniture and staff, such as the Locktons. Only we didn’t have a staff. Becky had vanished, her rooms at the Oliver Street boardinghouse abandoned. I was the only servant in the house.

  It mattered not. My bones were hollow sticks; my brainpan empty.

  I cooked a chicken and roasted potatoes and carrots. I left the chicken over the fire too long because Madam ordered the silver polished and the table linens ironed in honor of her guests. The bird was so dry it near splintered the tongues of the officers. Madam let loose on me in the kitchen after the gentlemen had taken Master Lockton to Ashley’s Tavern for a night of beer drinking and pipe smoking.

  It mattered not.

  When Madam finished scolding me, I set to my evening chores; cleaning out the ashes from the bedchamber fireplaces and carrying them outside, bringing in the firewood and laying the fires in case the night turned cold, turning down the beds, cleaning up from supper, and sweeping the floor.

  When I finally laid down to sleep, I set Ruth’s doll beside my head. I had stopped kissing it good night. I did not say prayers.

  My bones were hollow and my brainpan empty.

  Madam ran me like a donkey all the next day, then demanded that I stay awake all night to make rolls for breakfast because the bakers in town were rebels, and they had fled. I did as she ordered and ruined two perfectly fine batches of dough. I threw them down the privy and baked cornbread deep in the night for that was one thing my hands knew how to bake.

  The cornbread burned to charcoal when I fell asleep, head on the table.

  It mattered not.

  Three mornings after the invasion, a message was delivered to the master as I served the coffee. I set the note on a small silver tray and carried it into the drawing room.

  The officers were in the middle of excusing themselves from the table, buttoning up their coats and putting on their hats. After the master said his “good days” to them, he opened the note.

  “A social invitation?” Madam asked. “Or business?”

  “Neither,” Lockton said. “It’s a desperate plea.” He handed the note across to his wife. “Aunt Seymour is in need of our Sal. All of her Dutch girls fled, and she is without servants.”

  Madam snatched the paper from his hand. “Surely she can do for herself. We have company. Why should we go without a servant?”

  “We have only two men lodging here. Somehow Aunt has managed to take on a dozen Hessian brutes. She requires our assistance.”

  Madam gave a little shudder. “Hessians.” The hired soldiers from Germany had a fearsome reputation. She crumpled the paper. “I will not perform housework like a common wench. Tell her to hire someone.”

  “The
times demand sacrifices, Anne. Just for a week or so. Women will soon come to the city looking for work, and you and our aunt will be able to hire a full staff.”

  Madam scowled into her cup. “You favor her over me, Elihu. It’s unseemly.”

  Lockton wiped his mouth with his serviette. “The loan of the girl is the least we owe her. I hope you regret your decision to send away the sister. Even small hands would be helpful now.”

  His mention of Ruth so startled me I near dropped the tray.

  Madam bit back the hot words in her mouth, picked up her serviette, and cleaned off her chin. “You will clean the kitchen and prepare the dinner, girl, then you will take yourself to the house of Lady Seymour and do what she requires of you.”

  Lockton shook his head. “No, Sal. You will leave immediately.”

  I took a clean apron and Ruth’s doll with me to Lady Seymour’s house. In truth, I did not walk there quickly. In truth, I dawdled something fierce. Folks said that Hessian soldiers were fire-breathing monsters who walked about with swords drawn and blood on their chins. I figured that would be as bad as Madam.

  I was near correct.

  They did not breathe fire, tho’ they spat when they talked. Nor did they walk about waving their swords, tho’ some sported knives in their boots. None had blood on their chins, except when they ate rare-cooked meat. I found it hard not to stare at the enormous mustachios that sprouted under their noses, especially when the men combed and waxed them, and twirled the ends.

  Their speech sounded like they were swallowing rocks, but Lady Seymour understood them. She learned the German from her husband, she said, same way she learned the Dutch. There were all manner of secrets locked in that old skull.

  When I served them supper my first night, a couple of them said “Danke” to me. Lady Seymour explained that danke is German-talk for “thank you.” She told me not to be afeard, that they were just soldiers far away from home. A couple of them were fond of her cat, she pointed out. How could men who liked cats be bad? She tolerated them fair enough, except for the muddy boots on the furniture and when they spread butter on their bread with their thumbs. That made her gasp and go pink in the face.

  I practiced saying “danke” when alone.

  The work at the Seymour house was every bit as tiring as it had been at Madam’s, more so because there were more mouths to feed and boots to clean and basins to fill and linens to wash and coats to beat free of dust. Lady Seymour made sure I et a proper meal three times a day and let me sleep in the tiny attic bedchamber on the bed where I laid after my time in the stocks. It was hot up there, but there were no mice nor worms on the floor when it rained.

  The city swelled by the hour with Loyalist refugees who wanted to live under the protection of British cannons. Some of the folk returning from exile were surprised to find strangers had taken over their houses and were sleeping in their beds and wearing the clothes they left behind. There were many fistfights, a great deal of name-calling, and threats of duels.

  The British didn’t mix in with the arguments. They had war on the brain, drilling their soldiers from sunup to sundown. At the Middle Dutch Church they pulled out the pulpit, the pews, and the floorboards and let the horses of the Light Dragoons practice. Horses in a house of the Lord made some folks grumble, including Lady Seymour.

  Up to the Tea Water Pump, I found only unfamiliar faces, slaves who had freed themselves by joining the British. I could not bring myself to speak to them. The old man we called Grandfather had vanished. Maybe he had started his own revolution and led Curzon and the other slaves over the river Jordan to freedom.

  A fanciful notion. ’Twas useless to ponder such things.

  * * *

  Friday stretched long and longer because the Hessians had moved in five more of their countrymen. I heard Lady Seymour arguing with the fellow in charge, but he would not listen to her pleas. I spent the afternoon chopping a field’s worth of cabbage while a half pig roasted in the pit dug by the men in the flower garden. The soldiers ate their supper and drank more beer than I thought a body could hold. They lost the few manners they possessed and used the table linens for blowing their noses.

  It was a relief when they finally left for merrymaking elsewhere.

  I prepared a tray of supper and served it to Lady Seymour in her bedchamber, the one room where she could find peace. When my chores were done, I climbed to my attic room, kicked off my shoes, and laid down on the bed without even removing my skirt or bodice. Ruth’s doll lay next to my head, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. I knew I ought pray for Ruth, or for Momma, or for anything; I ought just pray, but the words would not come. I feared the Spirit had left me.

  I slept.

  When I woke, the city of New York was consumed with burning hellfire.

  Chapter XXXI

  Saturday, September 21–Sunday, September 22, 1776

  THE FIRE RAGED WITH INCONCEIVABLE VIOLENCE AND IN ITS

  DESTRUCTIVE PROGRESS SWEPT AWAY ALL THE BUILDINGS

  BETWEEN BROAD STREET AND THE NORTH RIVER …

  SEVERAL WOMEN AND CHILDREN PERISHED IN THE FIRE;

  THEIR SHRIEKS JOINED TO THE ROARING OF THE FLAMES,

  THE CRASH OF FALLING HOUSES, AND THE WIDESPREAD

  RUIN WHICH EVERYWHERE APPEARED, FORMED A SCENE

  OF HORROR GREAT BEYOND DESCRIPTION, AND WHICH WAS

  STILL HEIGHTENED BY THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT.

  –NEW YORK MERCURY NEWSPAPER

  I awoke coughing so hard I near brought up my supper. When I finally caught my breath, I smelled the smoke and saw the light, bright as day, outside my window. I jumped from the bed and peered out.

  It was not morning; it was an inferno.

  Flames curled out of all the windows next door. The rooftop beyond that was a lake of fire. Every building in sight was burning. The air was filled with crackling and popping sounds, with shrieks and screams coming from the street below.

  A hot gust of wind blew the curtains back and sent the fire straight at me. Fiery shingles floated from the roof and caught in the branches of the tree outside my window, setting the bark ablaze. A burning leaf drifted to the sill. I quickly brushed it off, my hands quivering.

  Get out!

  Seized again by coughing, I fell to the ground where the smoke was not so heavy. I pulled my shoes toward me and quickly buckled them on, then took a deep breath, rose to my feet, grabbed Ruth’s doll off my bed, and opened the door.

  Smoke filled the hall, curling down from the ceiling along with fingers of fire.

  Get out now!

  I clattered down the stairs, screaming, “Fire! Fire!”

  The door to Lady Seymour’s bedchamber was just opening. As I went to pass by, she grabbed my arm.

  “Quick, child,” she cried. “Help me!”

  Her chamber was even brighter than the attic, but the windows were closed and the smoke thinner. She bent over an enormous trunk by the wall. “It contains my valuables.” She pulled at a handle. “Please, Isabel!”

  I reached for the handle and tugged. The trunk did not move. “It’s too heavy, ma’am. Leave it. The roof is afire.”

  “No, wait.” She flung open the top. The trunk was filled with a silver tea set, a small portrait of a yellow-haired man, something wrapped in velvet cloth, dusty sacks, small wooden boxes, and packets of letters tied in a ribbon.

  There was another crash outside and screams. I grabbed her arm. “We’ll die if we stay!”

  She pulled out the letters and two small boxes and thrust them at me along with the portrait. “Take these!”

  I stuck the portrait and letters in my pocket, and balanced Ruth’s doll on top of the boxes in my arms. The room was so hot I thought the cornhusks might explode into flames.

  Lady Seymour grabbed two of the sacks; the coins within clinked together as she rose to her feet, coughing. “Hurry!” she gasped.

  The smoke in the hall was thicker than it had been moments before. We felt our way, one step at a time,
to the staircase. I went down first, with the Lady behind me, her frail hand on my shoulder. My eyes watered. My lungs felt like they were pulling in the flames. I thought for a moment we were trapped; the thick haze tricked my mind and I knew not if we should proceed down or up. My ears filled with the crackle of burning wood.

  “Help me!” Lady Seymour cried. Her hand vanished.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am?” The smoke stopped up my throat. There was a thunderous crash overhead, a ceiling giving way or a piece of the roof collapsing.

  The old woman had crumpled to the stairs. Is she dead? I put my hand on her chest. Her heartbeat was light and fast as bird’s wings beating against a cage. I put my face close to hers and screamed, “Get up!”

  She moaned once and tried to move her hand.

  I pulled her arm. She moaned again, but I could not be gentle. I dropped the boxes and doll, draped her arm around me, and half fell down the rest of the stairs. Once on the ground floor, she tried to walk, but one of her legs was failing her. I opened the front door and dragged the two of us out to the street.

  The air was aswirl with flame, soot, and burning shingles, each caught in a devilish whirlwind. The cries and screams of men and women mixed with the terror of the horses burning alive in locked stables. Windows exploded, beams crashed, and trees split, their crowns ablaze like torches in the hand of a cruel giant. I felt the clothes on my back ready to ignite. The brand on my cheek scorched, as if the fire within me called to the fire in the air.

  Move or die, whispered the flames.

  I dragged Lady Seymour north, then east, away from the course of the wind, which blew like a bellows and fanned the flames. British soldiers looted a burning house, running out with arms full of silver, and forks and spoons sticking out of their pockets. A dog ran by howling, its tail on fire. We passed a family, all in their nightclothes, throwing buckets of water against the wall of their house, as the fire chewed through the wood. A group of men had harnessed themselves to a fire wagon that held a large tank of water, but one of the wheels broke and it proved too heavy to drag.