The Messenger

by Siri Mitchell

  I felt my cheeks color with guilt. “I just needed some air. And Betsy wanted to go calling. I can’t stand . . .” I indicated the front rooms with a lift of my chin. The front rooms the colonel and his staff had taken over.

  “I know it. I just don’t . . .” Mother was wringing her hands. “Sometimes I wish. . . . If he weren’t quite so . . .”

  “Abominably and unspeakably selfish.”

  “Hannah!”

  I wished I could learn to keep my thoughts to myself. It was true what I’d said to Jeremiah Jones: I meant the words I said. “That’s what he is. He’s selfish.”

  “And so are we all in our own secret ways.”

  Why did she have to be so infuriatingly . . . right? I took a generous breath of air in through my nostrils. As I pressed my lips together to keep from speaking, I realized I was doing that often of late.

  “Hannah? Hannah!” The words invaded my dreams. They sounded as if they were spoken from a great distance. “Hannah?” Sally’s words seemed to grip me, pulling me from the night’s imaginings. “Hannah!”

  “What is it?” I was used to the little ones waking me, though it never failed to vex. But Sally usually slept quietly beside me, in the bed we shared.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  I sighed. Neither could I. Not anymore. Not for the hour it would take now to find my dreams once more. “Why not?”

  “There’s too much noise.”

  My senses came to the alert. “Where? In the alley?” Our neighbors had had their andirons stolen just the other night.

  She shook her head. “Out there.” She nodded toward the door.

  “In the hall?” I slipped from bed and took up a candlestick. The weight of it would provide a deterrent to any thief. “Thee stay here in bed. Pull the covers right up over thy head. Stay warm.” And safe. I drew the blanket up over her as I spoke. “I’ll go see what it is.” I hoped I would reach Father before I ran into whoever was out there. I prayed God would see me safe.

  6

  Jeremiah

  John Lindley, a married man.

  That thought had taunted me for the better part of a week. I had once assumed I would be a married man by now. With a wife to keep me warm at night and children to look after me in my dotage. I’d never set my cap for an heiress. Not like John. I’d just wanted someone to spend my life with. And I’d never thought that dream too grand, that goal too lofty. Not until the massacre. ’Twas then I realized what great things I’d demanded of destiny. And only then I realized destiny would not bow to my demands.

  For want of an arm I’d had to give up my ambition of a commission as a regular in the British army. I’d returned to my childhood home when I ought to have been establishing my own. For want of that same arm I’d been unable to stop a careening carriage that had tipped itself over and killed my father. My mother slid into a decline soon after and died of what she called a lonesome heart.

  But how ironic was fate!

  Had my youthful wishes been granted, I would this moment be fighting with the British against the patriots. As it was, I would give nearly anything for the chance to take up arms against them.

  I turned the last drunk out of the tavern. Redistributed the chairs. Scattered the ashes in the hearth. I put the cook’s girl to work with a broom and then went back into the kitchen where her mother, Mrs. Phippen, was supervising the putting away of the pewter.

  She glanced at me. “It’s over there.” She gestured toward a pot that still hung over a mostly dead fire.

  I walked over and peered inside. The remains of the night’s offerings. Boiled mutton. I scraped the bottom of the pot with a ladle and emptied what came up onto a plate. I set it on the sideboard. Taking a few crackers from a box, I put them into my pocket, then chose several apples from a basket and put them into the other. I picked up the plate and took myself toward the back door.

  “It’s cold enough to kill a bear. Don’t know why any man would want to eat outside.”

  I had no intention of doing so, having had my supper hours earlier. But what the cook didn’t know would only vex her. I stepped out into the puddle-pocked backyard. Most of those puddles had frozen over from the cold, and twice I nearly slipped as I walked over toward the well. Once I reached it I set the plate on the well’s wooden frame along with the crackers and the apples. And then I sat down.

  It didn’t take but a moment for a lad to appear.

  Clad in a ridiculously large coat and a pair of indecently short breeches, he limped toward me on bare feet. He sent me a sullen look before he inspected the feast I’d laid out before him. Put the crackers into one of his own pockets, the apples into the other. “Fanny’ll thank you.”

  I hoped she’d do more than thank me. I hoped she’d eat them. “How’s the babe?”

  Bartholomew shrugged. “It eats and cries and sleeps.”

  “And your mother?”

  He shrugged again but he didn’t say anything.

  That couldn’t be good. Mrs. Pruitt had been lingering at death’s door for weeks. Her presence was the only thing that had allowed her children the luxury of the hovel they called home. Bartholomew took up the plate and sniffed at it. “It’s burnt. That cook of yours must be in a mood.”

  Mrs. Phippen, moral arbiter that she was, always seemed to be in a mood. I suspected she’d chased Bartholomew away from the yard more times than I wanted to know. “We’d more mouths to feed than normal. It’s cold, but there’s no weather to keep them away. I had to scrape the bottom of the pot to find anything at all.”

  If Bartholomew was grateful for the favor, he didn’t say so. He never said so. “Them redcoats is a fair-weathered lot.”

  I couldn’t disagree.

  Apparently he’d decided the mutton was fit enough to eat, for he finally sat down beside me and tucked into it with relish.

  “You ever go up by the new jail? The one on Walnut Street?”

  “No. The poor beggars don’t have food enough for themselves. No hope in finding any there for us.”

  If anyone could figure out a way into that jail, it was an urchin like him.

  “You passed the request I gave you to the commissary?”

  He nodded.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “What was there to say? You promised him coin, didn’t you? For the flour?”

  I had.

  He threw a shrewd glance at me. “I suppose the army’s already paid him for it.”

  I looked at him with newfound appreciation. That’s what I had supposed as well.

  “And you’re offering him coin for it just the same as they did. That’s twice he’s been paid for the same flour.”

  I didn’t mind encouraging graft where I could. Not if it placed the redcoats at a disadvantage.

  “And then them soldiers come into the tavern and pay you for what ought to be theirs by rights.”

  Aye. That was pretty much the way of it.

  “So the commissary makes his money, you make your money.”

  I reached into my pocket and took the coins from it that I’d promised him. “And here is yours.”

  It disappeared even as I placed it into his palm. But he stayed to finish the rest of the meal. Then he patted his pockets, nodded at me, and walked away into the night.

  I glanced at the sky. Stars glittered back at me.

  If I could say nothing else at all about my life, at least I could say this: I could see those stars. The prisoners sitting in the Walnut Street Jail could not. If a man was condemned to sit in the cold, if he were fated to starve to death, at least he ought to be able to see the stars.

  “While you’ve been out there gazing at the stars, some slices from my pies have gone missing. I roused the stable boy so he could tell you what I think about it.” It was quite clear the cook thought the lad had taken them.

  Like most of the city’s population, the boy had a family that needed his wages. With flour costing ten times its worth and butter all but vanished, I didn’t k
now how anyone who went about their business honestly could afford to eat. “The boy’s got to eat while he goes about his work. It’s part of his pay.”

  Her eyes raked his small form with suspicion.

  “Haven’t you been feeding him, Mrs. Phippen?”

  “I’ve been giving him what he deserves.”

  Plainly that wasn’t very much in her vaulted opinion. I looked him over myself.

  His eyes dodged mine.

  “I won’t begrudge the lad a piece of pie or two. For work well done.” I only hoped he’d be smart enough not to take a whole pie. I wouldn’t be able to dismiss that sort of theft so easily. I clapped the boy on the shoulder and walked up the back stair to my room.

  No fire brightened the hearth, but there was no need. No reason to linger in the frigid air. Once my head found my pillow I expected sleep.

  Only it did not come.

  I kept thinking about Bartholomew. And the stable boy. I could not help all the ragamuffins I wanted to—God only knew how many of them there were in the city. And I could not help but feel pity for the prisoners who were probably just as hungry. If only the Sunderland girl had agreed to my plan.

  Hannah.

  She wouldn’t have been my first choice in a ballroom filled with prospective dance partners. Back when I frequented them. Back when I had my choice of the girls. She was pretty enough, of course. There was something to be said for the fire that flashed in her eyes. If only I could convince her to throw in with my plan. But what more could I do? What more could I say? She said she was worried about souls? Maybe I should offer her mine.

  I could not keep from smiling into the darkness. What a miserable and unwelcome gift that would be.

  The very definition of selfishness.

  Aye. That was me. I suppose the Quaker in her made her say it. That was one thing a person could depend upon: that a Quaker would say exactly what was meant.

  And she meant not to like me.

  Though I couldn’t blame her for it.

  If truth be told, I didn’t much like myself.

  7

  Hannah

  I cracked the door and stood listening, and very soon I realized the origin of the noises. The sounds were coming from Robert’s old bedroom . . . the colonel’s room. It seemed as if he was entertaining. As my ears began to distinguish the sounds in the darkness, a blush swept my face.

  I made my way down the hall to Father and Mother’s room, pushing at Father’s shoulder once I reached the bed.

  He broke off snoring, and then snuffled and swallowed. But then he began snoring once more. “Father!” I shook him harder. He tried to shrug off my hand.

  “Father—it’s the colonel!”

  “What?” He struggled against the bedclothes for a moment and then succeeded in casting them aside. “What is it?”

  “The colonel. He seems to be . . . entertaining.”

  “At this late hour?”

  “He seems to be entertaining a woman.”

  Father’s brows disappeared into the hem of his nightcap. He bounded from bed, jerked the door open, and went out into the hall.

  I stooped to light a taper in the embers of their fire before I followed.

  When I joined him in the hall, Father was already pounding on the door. “Colonel Beckwith! What is the meaning of this?”

  The noises stopped for a moment, but soon there came the sound of muffled laughter.

  Father pounded on the door once more. “Come out of there at once!”

  Down the hall I heard the patter of feet against floorboards and soon saw a pair of towheads, Ezekiel and little Jonah, peeking out at us around the doorframe.

  I frowned at them and shook my head.

  They vanished behind the door, and I could hear them scuttle back to bed.

  Inside the colonel’s room, the bed creaked and there came the rustle of bedclothes. Footsteps sounded across the floorboards and the door cracked open. “I’m afraid I’m not really up to a social call at this hour.” Behind the door someone—some female—giggled.

  “I insist thee come out.” Father’s nightcap trembled from the vigorous pronouncement of those words.

  “Fire and damnation!” The door jerked open and the colonel appeared. He was dressed in nothing but his nightshirt and a wig, though the wig was riding his head at an odd angle. From behind him came a snigger.

  “Thee have broken our terms of agreement. Thee are entertaining guests in thy room and thee’ve woken the household. I must insist that thee explain thyself!”

  The door swung wider, revealing a rather pretty though scantily clad woman. The colonel slipped an arm about her waist. “This, my dear Mr. Sunderland, is Mrs. Beckwith.”

  “Really, Colonel!” Father believed him not at all. And neither did I.

  “Oh, dash it all! Her name is Maryann.” He slapped her on the bottom as he spoke. Her giggle ended in a hiccup as she wound a sinuous arm about his neck.

  “In the name of all that is right and holy, I demand that woman leave. Immediately!”

  The colonel belched, not bothering to cover his mouth with his hand. “Sorry, old man, but you can see that I’m not quite right.” He grinned and swooped down to plant a kiss on the woman’s neck. “And I’m far from holy.”

  “Thee cannot—”

  The colonel shut the door in Father’s face.

  Father stood in front of that door for several long moments before turning to me. “Go back to bed, Hannah. I shall speak to the colonel in the morning.”

  I woke near dawn with a fearsome ache in the pit of my stomach, a gnawing pain that threatened to eat right through my belly into my soul. It was all I could do not to bolt down my porridge. And even after I had finished I wanted to plead for more. But that’s when I knew for certain: Robert did need me. And he needed me now. If I waited any longer to try and help him, it would be at his peril. As I left the dining room, I grabbed my cloak from its peg.

  Intending to go directly to the jail, I was stopped by the vehemence in the voices coming from the front room.

  “I must insist that thee begin to comport thyself as a gentleman.” If the colonel had known Father, he would have known that this command was no suggestion. “And I require that thee stop using my house as a den of fornication.”

  I peered around the corner and saw the colonel pass a finger around the scalloped edge of the tea table. Since he had taken it as his own, he had commanded all meals be served to him at that table. And he conducted all of his business there as well. He sighed. “And here I was thinking that the winter season might not be so bad after all.” He tossed his napkin onto his plate and then pushed back his chair and rose. “In any case, I am a colonel in the King’s army and I’ve requisitioned your house as my quarters. What I do—or fail to do—in my private room can be no concern of yours.”

  “I will not condone the presence of such vice in my own home!”

  He yawned. “Suit yourself. I won’t require you to stay.”

  Father stalked from the room, nearly running into me on his way out. “And where are thee going?”

  “I was just—”

  “Thee are not to leave this house.”

  I felt my brow lift. He had insisted the colonel leave, but the man had vowed to stay. He commanded that I stay, though I wanted quite desperately to leave. “I only—”

  “Stay.”

  “It’s been decided.” Mother had kept all the children home from school and now she was tossing things into her trunk.

  “We can’t just leave. And we can’t just leave the house to him!”

  “He’s made staying here untenable, and it’s required that we keep peace.”

  By whom? Another thought that I dared not speak. “I thought they were here to keep the peace.”

  “Hush now. And do be quick about helping the children pack their things.”

  It didn’t take much time to press their clothes into the trunk and place their things atop them. Little Jonah’s top for spinni
ng and Sally’s doll. Eight-year-old Ezekiel’s slingshot and ninepins. The hired man carried it down the stair when I was done. I followed along behind him, waiting in the front hall along with the others. I could hear the colonel in the front parlor.

  We all could.

  “What do you think, Private?”

  “I’m sure it’s much fancier now, sir.”

  “Aye. I would have to agree. I find I like it much better.”

  Mother lifted Jonah and grabbed Ezekiel by the hand, taking them out to the waiting carriage. Sally followed behind, dragging her heels across the stoop and lingering on the steps. I was as reluctant to leave our house as she. As I walked toward the door, I paused and looked into the parlor. My gasp must have been louder than I knew, for the colonel spun in my direction.

  “Ah! Miss Sunderland. What do you think of my handiwork?”

  He was standing in front of Father’s highboy, knife in hand. He’d clearly been carving at the wood for a crude Union flag had begun to take form in relief.

  “That is not thine!”

  “True. It’s not. But I’m the one who has to look at it day after day and I find it rather plain.”

  The best, but plain. That’s what Friends always bought. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” It had come from Gostelowe’s workshop and was a masterpiece of craftsmanship.

  “There is when I’ve a taste for all things fancy. But have no fear; I’ll take great care with your things while you’re gone.” As I watched, he gouged a furrow across the smooth varnished surface of its side. “Oh, dear.” He looked not at all apologetic. Giving me a salute with the knife, he went back to his work of defiling our furnishings.

  I ran from the house, passing Sally on the walk. Tears of rage pricked at my eyes.

  Mother stretched out a hand to help me into the carriage and then she extended it to Sally. “We nearly left thee behind! Is anything wrong?”