The Tory Widow

by Christine Blevins

  “Well.” Anne propped her hands akimbo and took stock of all the printing accoutrement piled upon and around the press. “I suppose we ought first get this lot stowed and out of the way, and then we can figure out how to dismantle the press.”

  Together the women slid heavy cases of type across the floor, pushing and pulling them to the pitch-black, narrow end of the space.

  “Damn that Jack Hampton—he’s a canny one, aye?” Sally said. “Leavin’ all this work for us . . .”

  Anne shook her head. “I don’t know . . . He promised to come by on Wednesday morning, and here it is Friday with no word. I confess, I’m a bit worried.”

  “Och, Annie, dinna waste a smidge o’ worry on th’ rogue. He’s the devil’s get, that one—as charming and handsome-dark as he is—the devil’s get—I’d lay a wager on it.” On the count of three, they lifted a ponderous crate filled with leading strips and quoins, and waddled it in through the door, dropping it with a thud.

  “Whew! Like to put a hole through the floor.” Sally swiped a forearm across her dripping brow and Anne sank down on the crate, taking a moment to catch a breath, when the brass bell tinkled, signaling the shop door had opened and closed.

  “Bugger it!” Sally’s hand flew to her lips. “Ye didna shoot the bolts home!”

  “I thought you had.”

  The women poked their heads from the storage room, squinting and blinking at the bright daylight, as two tall figures moved toward the back of the shop.

  “Away wi’ ye, lads,” Sally called. “Cup and Quill is closed for the day. No a drop o’ coffee to be had. Away wi’ yiz! Come back tomorrow—we’ll be offering blaeberry tarts.”

  “Sally? Mrs. Anne? We’ve come to lend you a hand . . .”

  Anne recognized Titus’s voice, and for a moment, the muscles at the back of her neck relaxed. Her eyes adjusted, and as the men drew closer, she could see the “we” in Titus’s pronouncement included a grinning and rather disheveled Jack Hampton. The women ducked back into the shadows, fingers fumbling to tug free the hems of their shifts, and at least cover bare legs.

  Jack peered inside the storeroom, calling, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” and Sally burst forth, ablaze in a redheaded ire, backing Jack up to the printing press with a remonstrating finger in his face.

  “And where have you been? It’s either honey or turd from you, Jack Hampton, na? First ye have us throw our shop topsy-turvy with all yer Patriot palaver—and then ye dinna make good on yer promise t’ clean up this mess. Out carousing wi’ yer mates, from the smell of ye, while two of us have been trippin’ over the press and one another t’ git from kitchen to customer . . .” She gave him a rough shove to his shoulder.

  Jack leaned back, his arms upraised, laughing. “Sal! I thought we were friends?!”

  Titus stood by, shaking his head, smiling. Anne stepped out of the stifling storeroom, arms folded in stern admonition. “We’ve no need for a friend who cannot keep true to his word.” Too aware she was standing there clad in her thinnest summer-weight shift, she managed to dredge up the dignity to dismiss Jack with a wave. “Be on your merry way, Jack Hampton—Sally and I can manage on our own, thank you very much.”

  “Aw, Annie.” Jack brushed past Sally. “I’m sorry. I know I’m a trifle tardy, but I’m here now, aren’t I? Ready to make good on my promise—see, I’ve brought Titus.” Though his tone mimicked that of a contrite man, his telling smile was made mischievous by the crinkling at the corners of his bloodshot eyes as he stifled a laugh. Two days’ worth of dark stubble added to the devilish cast of his features.

  Standing there in naught but her shift, Anne squirmed under his scrutiny. “You don’t seem to be very sorry . . .”

  “I am sorry”—Jack’s strangled chortle burst into a guffaw—“but the two of you—so fierce in your petticoats—”

  Titus sputtered, “It is awful funny, Mrs. Anne.”

  But Anne was not laughing. She noticed all but one button missing on the same green weskit Jack’d worn when she’d kissed him farewell at the Bowling Green, and she considered the curious crimson smudge tinting the unbuttoned collar of his shirt with a bit of animus. Hatless, most of his hair had escaped the sad, bedraggled ribbon slipping so low on his queue that it threatened to fall away at any moment. He tucked a black tangle behind his ear and she caught the glint of gold.

  Anne moved in to get a better look, encountering the cloud of alcohol and cheap perfume emanating from him like piss-reek from a chamberpot. “Is that an earring you’re wearing?”

  “What?!” Jack fingered his ears, the surprise clear on his face as he discovered the small gold hoop pierced through the lobe of his right ear. “So I am!”

  Titus doubled over, hooting and stamping his boots to the floorboards. “Oh, you must have had yourself a good time!”

  Jack nodded. “I must have!”

  “Och, yer as shameless as a whore at a christening! I canna believe yiv th’ bollocks to cross this good woman’s threshold stinkin’ of rum and sluts—feh!” Sally grabbed a broom, and used it to prod Jack toward the door. “Be gone—away with ye.”

  Jack snatched up a gutter stick and used it to parry Sally’s every poke and thrust, fending her off with ridiculous cries of “En garde!” and “Touchè!” They moved in a circle around the printing press.

  Titus clapped and cheered, and Anne could not contain her amusement, shouting, “You get him, Sal!”

  Jack hooked one of the discarded mobcaps expertly on the end of his “sword,” and waved it in Sally’s face with a cry of, “Quarter—I beg quarter!” and even Sally yielded to laughter.

  Titus plucked the mobcap from Jack ’s gutterstick and placed it on Sally’s head, crowning her the victor, while Jack bowed down on one knee in supplication, his weapon offered on open palms. Giggling, Sally accepted his surrender with a gracious curtsy, and thus peace was restored to the Cup and Quill.

  With her things draped over her arm, Sally headed to the kitchenhouse to prepare a midday meal for everyone. Anne collected her clothing and Jack said, “Me and Titus will have this press put away in no time.”

  Arms engulfing a poof of poplin and petticoats, Anne marched up the stairs with Jack smiling up to her and waving from below. It wasn’t until he tipped his head at an odd angle that she realized he’d positioned himself to get a good look up her shift.

  “Oh! You are such a scoundrel!”

  Anne ran the rest of the way up the stairs to her room. She tossed her clothes and threw herself onto her bed, arms and legs splayed, heart a-thumping. Closing her eyes, she focused on catching her breath and suppressing an overpowering urge to run down, take Jack Hampton by the hand and lead him into her bedchamber.

  Her eyes snapped open. Smiling, she stared at the ceiling rafters, fanning her legs with her shift. What a wicked, wicked notion . . .

  AFTER stowing the press and setting the shop to rights, Jack and Titus moved a table and a pair of benches out to the garden, and everyone gathered in the cool shade of the peach trees to enjoy a simple meal.

  Titus smeared a hunk of bread with potted cheese, topping it with a slice of cold roast pork and a dollop of Sally’s peach relish. “I heard tell General Washington has captured and questioned four of them Redcoats who are camped out on Staten Island.”

  “I heard the same at the butcher’s.” Sally set a tray with a pot of coffee, sugar bowl and creamer onto the tabletop.

  “Yep.” Titus chewed. “They say General Howe has ten thousand soldiers ready to invade.”

  “Dinna fash, Titus, General Washington has more than ten thousand men at arms ready to defend our liberty . . .”

  Jack reached to pour himself a cup of coffee. “But way too many of our boys are laid up with the fever or the flux, Sal—and General Howe’s brother is on his way with more ships, each one filled to the brim with Hessians. Parliament paid a pretty penny for those mercenaries. They plan to come down on us hard in trying to squash the life out of our rebellion. Y
ou girls really ought to get out of town while the roads are still clear.”

  “They might not invade.” With a steady hand, Anne carved uniform slices from the roast. “Admiral Howe also brings the crown authority to negotiate peace.”

  “Peace!” Jack jabbed an elbow into Titus’s side and rolled his eyes. “Any hope for peace was tossed to the wind when the Congress declared independence. Mark my words, we’re in it now—up to our necks—pitted against the most powerful army and navy in the world.”

  “Such portents of doom and gloom”—Anne forked more meat onto each man’s plate—“but I don’t see you leaving town, Jack Hampton. Nor you, Titus.”

  “Well, I can’t speak for Titus, but I’m a New Yorker, and I’ll be damned if I turn tail and leave my city to Georgie’s Germans. I’d sooner burn it to the ground.” Jack dropped a lump of sugar into his cup.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Anne said.

  Jack shrugged. “If we can’t hold the city, it would be a mistake to leave it to the Redcoats.”

  Anne poured herself a cup of coffee. “If the Redcoats sweep across the countryside with overwhelming force and bring us to heel, I argue that it makes no difference where Sally and I go. If I am to cower and quake while war wages around me, I’d rather do so here, under the protection of my own roof, than under my father’s mean thumb in Peekskill.”

  “Aye that!” Sally clunked her mug against Anne’s in toast.

  “A well-reasoned argument, but a foolish course.” Jack tore a hunk of bread from the loaf and used it to wipe up the last of the soft cheese from the crock. “This will be a bloody summer, Annie. We showed the lobsterbacks at Breed’s Hill that we’re not so easily vanquished.”

  Titus poured a stream of cream into his coffee. “Why is it you haven’t joined the Continentals, Jack? You and that new earring would cut a fine figure in one of them fancy New Yorker jackets.”

  “Naw.” Jack shook his head, and fingered his newly pierced ear. “I know enough to know I’m not one for army life—all that drilling, discipline and taking orders—I’d be flogged on a daily basis for insubordination.” He took a sip from his mug. “I’m no Regular, but I do my part.”

  “I’d join up in a heartbeat, but General Washington don’t allow negros in his army—free or slave.”

  “Now there’s another fine example of foolishness—they won’t allow a black man to carry a gun or stop a British musket ball when it is clear they need every willing hand. More afraid of slave insurrection than they are of becoming slaves themselves.” Jack waved the bowl end of his teaspoon toward Titus. “You’re a free man with a trade and no ties that bind. How is it you’ve not moved on to seek out a friendlier clime?”

  Titus smiled and shrugged. “This town’s my home, too, and I don’t mind doing my part. We all need to pitch in where and how we can.” He swung a leg over the bench and stood, patting his midsection. “I thank you, Mrs. Anne . . . Sally . . . that was a fine supper, but speaking on pitching in, I need to get going. They’ll be needing my shovel for fortifying the batteries along the Hudson today.”

  “Hold on, Titus . . .” Jack gulped down his coffee. “I’m with you.”

  “Wait for us.” Anne hopped up and began collecting dishes. “Sally and I can walk with you—now that the press is put away, we can lend a hand at the hospital this afternoon.”

  Clearing the table in no time, Anne and Sally donned hats. Jack and Titus shouldered their shovels and followed the women as they cut a diagonal course across town, toward King’s College.

  A sleepy, hot and humid afternoon, the narrow streets were quiet and devoid of much activity. The foursome skirted the barricade surrounding the Commons to cross Broad Way, when a series of shrill whistles reverberated across the cobbles, causing the few souls braving the heat of the day to pause and wonder.

  The whistled signals were soon accompanied by erratic drumming, and three boys came racing full speed up dusty Broad Way, pounding the skins of their drums, shouting, “To arms! To arms!”

  Jack snatched one of the boys by the sleeve. “Where’ve they landed?”

  Struggling to catch a breath, the boy gasped, “All I know is battleships are headin’ up the Hudson.” And just as he blurted the information, a booming cannonade erupted from the southernmost tip of the island.

  Doors flew open and people poured forth from taverns, businesses and homes, tumbling into the street like apples spilling from an overturned bushel basket. Men began to rush about in a pandemonium of shouting, pulling on clothing and shouldering weapons. Like Anne and Sally standing on the curbstone, a few women came out to stand on doorsteps in stunned disbelief.

  Jack took off running, shouting over his shoulder to Titus, “You get the girls back home.” They watched him cross Broad Way, the handle of his shovel in a two-fisted grip, dodging around the crowd emerging from Montagne’s Tavern door to disappear around the corner of Murray Street.

  “Go on with Jack, Titus.” Anne gave him a shove. “Sal and I can manage on our own.”

  Titus didn’t argue. With a nod, he dashed away to meld in with the stream of men running toward the river.

  “C’mon.” Anne took Sally by the hand, and instead of heading back to the shop, they crossed Broad Way and joined an ever-rising sea of panic and confusion. Another barrage of cannon thumped and thundered. Everyone’s attempt to discern the distance created a momentary pause in the excitement. The noise was definitely drawing closer.

  “It sounds as if we’re winning,” Sally said.

  Anne shook her head as they cut across the lawn of King’s College. “Those must be the batteries at Paulus Hook—and that means the ships are advancing and returning fire. Look . . .” She pointed to a crowd gathered on a flat rooftop of a three-story building commanding a view of the river. “We’ll be able to see from up there.”

  Neat block letters on the small wooden sign nailed to the right of the front door read: MOTHER BABCOCK’S BOARDINGHOUSE. Anne rapped at the door, and when no one answered she tested the knob. Unlocked. Anne stepped inside and urged Sally to follow.

  The heavy drapery on every window was drawn shut, and the house seemed abandoned. They ventured into a paneled parlor filled with upholstered furnishings smelling stuffy with tobacco, calling, “Hello!” to no response.

  “They’re all on the roof,” Anne suggested, looking up the stairway.

  Another round of cannon fire caused Anne and Sally to shed their trepidation, and they ran up the stairs. The door at the top of the last flight led onto the rooftop. Anne and Sally joined the chattering crowd of onlookers clustered at a two-foot-high parapet hugging the edge of the roof, facing the Hudson.

  Sally grabbed Anne by the arm and whispered in her ear, “We’ve stumbled into a bawdy house, Annie!”

  Anne took a good look at the crowd. They were all women, at least a dozen, and all but one older woman—the procuress, Mother Babcock, no doubt—standing barefoot and in some incongruous stage of undress. A heavy coating of powder and rouge masked most of the faces, a rather garish display in the light of day.

  Though Sally tugged relentless at her sleeve, Anne’s initial instinct to beat a hasty retreat was overruled by curiosity combined with the smell of gunpowder and an extraordinary view of the drama floating up the Hudson.

  A bold naval squadron materialized from the lingering cloud of cannon smoke hovering over the river. Moving at a smart rate on a steady breeze under full canvas, a single, two-masted schooner led a pair of battleships, each frigate accompanied by a nimble ship’s tender. From her elevated vantage point, Anne could make out marines and sailors bustling about on decks piled high with sandbags to absorb shot and flying debris.

  Along the river’s edge, like beetlebugs exposed when a stone is overturned, Continental artillery crews scrambled to reposition and reload their guns. Disorganized companies of infantry wandered the river’s edge, wasting lead in firing their muskets to no effect at the passing ships.

  To add insult to
the display of Royal Naval power, one fearless jack-tar climbed the gallant mast and perched upon the top yard thumbing his nose as the convoy sailed past unscathed, just beyond the range of the ineffectual American batteries.

  “The King’s Navy is giving our boys a good drubbing, aye?”

  Anne turned to the familiar voice and recognized the pretty girl from the tarring and feathering on the Commons. Dressed in an exotic silk dressing gown tied with a sash, the prostitute’s dark hair hung loose and disheveled. Her cheek, smooth and untroubled as a bowl of clotted cream, was missing the black heart-shaped patch pointing to her pure blue eyes. Anne managed to cull up the name from more than a year before. “Patsy Quinn?”

  Patsy smiled.

  An older woman Anne presumed to be Mother Babcock stood beside Patsy watching the engagement through a spyglass. “The ship nearest us is the Rose . . . the other—the Phoenix. I can’t make out the name of the schooner . . .”

  “Look! Virginia lads and their long rifles.” Sally pointed to a handful of men in their telltale fringed hunting shirts taking up a position on a short promontory that jutted out where Barclay Street met the river.

  The guns began to pop and smoke and the riflemen’s range and accuracy caused a stir on the decks of the Rose and the Phoenix. The Rose soon replied to the rifle fire with a smart salvo from her starboard guns, sending many a soldier along the shoreline facedown into the dirt. Undeterred, the Virginians continued to pepper the passing ships, and the women on the rooftop burst out in cheer, shouting encouragement, waving bright kerchiefs and scarves.

  The Phoenix then took a turn discharging her guns. Several well-aimed shots whizzed overhead, close enough to ruffle hair, and silenced the women in an instant.

  Mother Babcock was the first to react. “Shooting at defenseless women!” she screeched, shaking a clutched fist. “Sniveling cowards! Boatloads of boy-buggerers!” Her bawds joined in, hooting and shouting a chorus of curses and invectives that would cause an old sailor to blush.