The Tory Widow

by Christine Blevins

  Titus and Jack exchanged quick, amused grins.

  “I am a free man, General, sir,” Titus uttered his first words since crossing the threshold of the Continental headquarters. “Jack and me are colleagues and companions.”

  “Good friends,” Jack added.

  “Good friends . . .” Washington repeated, the flash of a closed-mouth smile altering his sober countenance for an instant. “Tell me, Mr. Hampton, by this experience, if you were to put forth another effort of this sort, what would you do differently?”

  Exhausted, filthy, hungry and having spent the past two hours moving up the chain of command, retelling his story over and over, Jack scratched the three-day stubble on his chin, at a loss for words. “What would I do differently . . .”

  “We ought to have paid more mind to the weather . . .” Titus offered. “A stronger wind would have wrought the damage we were hoping for.”

  Jack nodded in agreement. “True . . . though dark enough to allow a stealthy approach, the night didn’t offer any wind to fan the flames up into the sails. With a good wind, the crew on the Phoenix would have been hard-pressed to put out a fire.”

  “An astute assessment—” Washington spoke to Jack, as if Titus didn’t even exist. “Our Continental Army could make use of a brave Patriot such as yourself. I hope you might consider joining our ranks, Mr. Hampton.”

  Irked that the man’s slave-owning fears kept good men like Titus Gilmore from bolstering the American ranks, Jack snapped, “I’m afraid me and Titus just aren’t suited to army life—both of us being dark men . . .” Glancing over his shoulder to see the pained look on Anne’s brother’s face, Jack took a breath and tried to temper his response. “Nevertheless, we’re in this thing whole heart, sir. We do what we can to fight for our cause—the belief that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights . . .”

  “Hampton!” David Peabody took a step forward. “That’s enough . . .”

  Jack paid him no heed. “. . . that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of . . .”

  “Captain Peabody, Mr. Hampton . . .” The general curtailed David’s remonstration and Jack’s recitation with a firm tone and an upraised palm. “Although I am aware of the content of the Declaration,” he said with a nod to Jack as he turned to David, “I still appreciate the honest and heartfelt viewpoint of our Patriot citizens.” Washington called, “Billy—”

  The man in the corner laid down his pen, came over and set a bulbous pair of leather pouches onto the desktop. After muttering some instruction into the general’s ear, Billy took a position immediately to his left. Astride or afoot, the general’s body servant was never far from his side. Always dressed in blue and buff livery to match his master’s well-tailored uniform, the slave Billy Lee was almost as famous as Washington himself.

  The general rose to his feet and came around his desk. Jack knew Washington for a tall man, but having only seen him on horseback, he was surprised to be bested in height by at least two inches. Washington handed one of the heavy pouches to Jack.

  “A small emolument in gratitude for your brave and most valuable service.” After passing the other pouch to Titus, the Commander in Chief shook them both by the hand, and they were dismissed.

  Running harum-scarum down the wide stairway, leaping the steps three at a time, they tore out of City Hall to skitter around the corner of the building, where they stopped to kick off wet shoes and evaluate the content of their reward.

  “Silver!” Titus exclaimed upon opening his pouch.

  Jack counted quickly. “Fifty Spanish dollars!”

  “He gave me forty!” Titus beamed, wide-eyed. “Forty dollars!”

  “That’s not right.” Jack moved five coins from his pouch into Titus’s. “Fair is fair.” He then added three more. “And there’s what I owe from darts.” Jack threw an arm around Titus’s broad shoulders. “Now let’s go celebrate.”

  “Phew!” Titus shoved Jack away. “You stink worse than the inside of my musty ol’ shoe.”

  “Well, you’re no sweet perfume yourself. Tell you what—” Jack said. “Let’s go home and wash up. I’ll meet you at the Commons in an hour, and then we can treat ourselves to the best supper offered at Montagne’s!”

  “Fried oysters.” Titus grinned. “And a thick, juicy beefsteak . . .”

  “Gravy and Irish potatoes . . .”

  “Wash it all down with a bottle of the finest Madeira!”

  “A bottle for me, and a bottle for you.” Jack raised his pouch to his ear with a shake, the silver jingling a happy song. “As you well know—us being colleagues and companions—money is no object.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The blood of the slain, the weeping voice of nature cries, ’Tis TIME TO PART

  THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense

  Monday, August 19, 1776

  Over Liberty Tea at the Cup and Quill

  WAKING with the same nagging headache she’d gone to bed with, Anne began her Monday morning in the kitchenhouse, gagging down a double dose of willowbark tea. Sally pushed a plate of day-old scones her way.

  “Best eat a little somethin’, lest ye exchange a headache for a bellyache.”

  Though dry and hard to swallow, the scone did help to erase the bitterness of the headache remedy. Sally brewed a pot of lemon balm tea, and poured them each a mugful. Anne doctored her tea with a lump of sugar, leaned back against the counter and heaved a sigh.

  “I’m feeling out of sorts . . . Good thing the shop is closed today.”

  Sally offered a sympathetic smile as she stirred two lumps and a good amount of cream into her cup. “On most days I drink my liberty tea without complaint, but I’ll confess, on a day like today, I long for a cup of proper tea—strong and sweet. A good black bohea serves t’ put a body right in the morn, na?”

  Anne squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. “A good night’s sleep would serve me well. Between worrying when and where the Redcoats will attack, and being left to wonder where David and Jack have gone off to, I tossed and turned and cursed into my pillow all the long night.”

  “Aye . . .” Sally sat on the hearthstone, sipping her tea. “D’ye suppose maybe General Washington’s sent them off on some sort of mission?”

  “I was thinking the same. I suppose it’s possible, but even so, I think David would have sent us some word.” Anne sat beside Sally, her two brows knit into one. They finished their tea in a long silence, contemplating the bottoms of their empty cups.

  At last, Sally hopped to her feet, and plucked two straw hats hanging from hooks on the wall. “Gather your things. I’ll lock up the sugar.”

  “No, Sally . . . not today!”

  “On yer feet, Annie,” Sally scolded. “No use wasting the day worrying and pining—not when every willing hand can be put to good use at hospital.”

  “Hospital!” Anne made a face like a hen laying razors.

  “On wi’ yer bonnet!” Putting on her hat, Sally centered the other on her friend’s head and secured the ribbons beneath Anne’s chin. “We’re a miserable pair, sittin’ here . . . There’s a pleasure comes from doin’ good. If the lads come ’round while we’re out, they can sit and wonder where it is we went off to!”

  Anne capitulated to Sally’s good sense, and she went to find her door key and writing box. The bells tolled eight o’clock when the women set out for the hospital at King’s College.

  The morning sun beat incessant in a cloudless sky on a breezeless day. Gutters overflowing with human and animal waste percolated up through a filter of rotting garbage. The street stench coalesced with the smell of a low tide, forming the thick blanket of malodor smothering the entire city. With lavender-infused handkerchiefs pressed to their noses, Anne and Sally traversed the narrow streets on their trek across town.

  Broad Way was congested with several new regiments from Delaware and Connecticut arriving via the Bloomingdale Road. Anne and Sally had to wait for
a thinning in the ranks for a chance to cut over to Robinson Street and the college grounds.

  The consequences of impending invasion were most noticeable on a hot day as they hurried past tree stump after tree stump. To supply the timber used to build breastworks, barricades and batteries, the city had been shorn of the beautiful water beech, linden and locust trees once lining the thoroughfares and dotting the Commons and college lawn with cool shade.

  As they mounted the stair to the main entrance of the hospital, Sally pointed across Chapel Street. “Isn’t that Jack and Titus?”

  Anne followed her finger, setting her writing kit down on the landing. “It is!”

  Much like a pair of moles just emerged from subterranean depths, Jack and Titus stepped off the stoop in front of Mother Babcock’s boardinghouse, their eyes slitted to the bright light of day. Sally shouted and waved.

  “Hoy! Lads!”

  “Shhhh!” Anne grabbed Sally’s flailing hand and pulled her down the stairs to take a stand partially hidden by low-growing shrubbery.

  After a brief discussion on the brothel stoop, the men headed north. Jack paused after a few steps, and began a frantic search through his pockets. Titus stretched and yawned, all the while shaking his head. Except for Titus claiming Jack would lose his arse if it weren’t attached, Anne could not make out much of what the two were saying to one another.

  “Oh, Tiii-tus!”

  The two men looked up to the melodious voice. A plump and pretty half-caste woman wearing a scarlet turban trimmed with a white ostrich plume called from an open second-story window at Mother Babcock ’s. Leaning out, she launched a tricorn hat into the air. It twirled down to the ground like a seedpod from a maple tree, and Titus ran back to retrieve it, shouting, “Ruby, you are truly a gem!”

  Ruby answered, “Have your friend wait—he’s left something behind as well.”

  “Libertines!” Sally sputtered, taking Anne by the hand. “T’ think you lost sleep over that whore-mongering bastard! C’mon—we’ve seen enough.”

  Anne shook Sally off. The front door of Mother Babcock ’s opened and Patsy Quinn ran out on bare feet, a black tricorn clasped in her hand.

  Sally tugged at Anne’s skirt. “Away—”

  Anne did not budge. She was fettered to the unfolding scene: Jack, so charming and cavalier—Patsy Quinn so self-assured and completely at ease with him. Anne cringed with thinking how she must compare to this lovely, carefree creature.

  Patsy’s loose black curls were tied up with a yellow ribbon that matched the silk macquerett trimming the wide sleeves and hem of her bright blue robe. Clean of powder and rouge, the girl’s skin was as fair and blush as a new peach. It was not hard for Anne to picture Patsy languid in Jack’s arms, and the notion gripped her heart in its burning fist.

  Patsy smiled as she rose up on tiptoes to fit the hat onto Jack’s head. She then pulled a heavy leather pouch from the bell sleeve of her robe and dangled it, swinging, in front of his eyes. Jack snatched the pouch from her hand and danced a little jig. Titus slapped his leg and let out a happy hoot. Before slipping the pouch into his shirtfront, Jack plucked a silver dollar from it. Taking Patsy by the hand, he pressed the coin in to her open palm, pulled her into an embrace, kissed her on the cheek and called Patsy his angel.

  Anne could not find her breath. As if choking on a bite of food, she needed a pounding between the shoulder blades. She turned her back to Jack and his whore, and forced herself to draw in some air. My angel, he called her.

  “To home with us,” Sally ordered, slipping an arm about Anne’s shoulders.

  They crossed the college grounds and headed south on Broad Way. Anne could not afford to speak. She used every ounce of effort to contain her anger and tears and manage a semblance of composure, nodding and umm-humming as Sally rambled on in a virulent anti- Jack Hampton diatribe all the long way home.

  “The rake! He was bound to tread upon yer heart, Annie. Better to ken his true nature now, afore he’s had a chance to lay his hands upon yer fortune . . .”

  Anne was stunned by the ferocious jealousy swirling like a West Indies hurricane in her head. What a fool she was to think herself the one and only woman Jack Hampton wrapped his arms about. The sight of Jack with his beautiful lover caused Anne to envisage further, more intimate scenes so painful to her mind’s eye, she ground a knuckle into her temple to eradicate the images. She felt as if she might retch.

  “. . . I had a knowance he was no’ th’ man for you. Recall how he did not hesitate to ruin yer books? And th’ night when he claimed not to have a pass? A practiced and artful deceiver is he—aye, the devil’s get . . .”

  They cut across Broad Way, past the Bowling Green, and Anne stared miserably at the iron fence, recalling Jack’s handsome smile when he had pressed the little half-crown keepsake into her hand. He shared that exact smile with Patsy Quinn today.

  His angel.

  “. . . he is a pretty man—I will give him that. A charmer. Did ye see the sack of coin the whore give him? Och, yer not the first woman to fall under his spell, Annie, and ye willna be the last; tha’s a certainty . . .”

  Anne struggled to fit the key in the lock. Once the door was opened, Sally took Anne by the hand. “Come along, my honey. We’ll put the kettle on the boil, and have a good cry over a nice cup of tea.”

  Anne nodded, her voice small. “I could use a cup of tea.”

  The two of them shuffled about in the kitchen. Sally brought the fire to life, and Anne readied a tray with cups and spoons. Sally poured boiled water over the clump of herbs she added to the china teapot. “Linden flower,” she said. “Good for the melancholy. ’Twill lift our spirits.”

  Just as Anne and Sally settled to have their tea at the table under the peach tree, a black tricorn hat came flying into the garden. A moment later, Jack pulled himself up to perch atop the wall.

  “Morning, ladies!”

  “Blackguard!” Sally ran over, grabbed the hat and flung it back over the wall.

  Jack looked back to where his hat landed in the alley. “Now why did you go and do that?”

  “Off with ye, spawn!” Sally threatened with clenched fist. “Back to hell from whence ye came!”

  “Though I always look forward to your welcome, Sal”—Jack jumped down, brushing the dirt from his breeches—“it’s your mistress I’ve come to see.”

  “She wants nothing to do with you.” Sally grabbed Jack by the arm and proceeded to propel him toward the front door.

  Jack dug his heels in and shook Sally off, dark brows hooding his eyes. “I have no quarrel with you, Sally, but sometimes you annoy me . . .”

  “Off wi’ ye, hear?” Sally gave Jack a shove.

  “Sally!” Anne stood up, smoothing her skirt. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and bring in the laundry?”

  Sally took a step back. “Are ye certain?”

  “I am.”

  “Awright . . . but be wary, Annie—he is a canny devil. Dinna succumb to any o’ his nicknackery.” Sally gave Jack a gimlet-eyed glare as she backed away and left the pair alone in the garden.

  “There is a mad bee in her Scots bonnet today.” Jack put on a big smile and took a few steps Anne’s way, pulling the same leather pouch Patsy had given him from his weskit pocket. “Look—an ‘emolument’—and I want you to share in my good fortune. Come out walking with me. Let’s buy a basket supper at Fraunces’s and have ourselves a picnic . . .”

  “Please, don’t come any closer.” Anne held up both hands as if to ward off an attack, stopping Jack in his tracks. Taking a breath, she lowered her hands and knotted them into a clench at her waistline. “I will not walk with you today—nor any day—not after seeing you this morning . . .”

  “This morning? Where?”

  “I was at hospital.” She gave her head a little shake to dispel the awful image that rushed to her brain. “Sally and I saw you and Titus leaving Mother Babcock ’s.”

  “Ohhh . . . well . . . I can explain that . . .
” Jack reclaimed his charming smile, and jingled the pouch in his hand. “Washington dropped a sack of silver on me and Titus—a reward for the fireboating—so of course, we celebrated . . .”

  “At a brothel?”

  “We started with dinner at Montagne’s.” He shrugged. “Mother Babcock ’s, well, that’s the result of high spirits and a bit too much to drink.”

  But for the pink patches that sprung to her cheeks, Anne’s face was as pale as porcelain paste. “There is nothing I regret more than trusting you as a friend.”

  “Now, Annie, what happened last night doesn’t have anything to do with you . . .”

  “Do you even hear yourself ?” Anne laughed, incredulous. “Imagine you chance to see me happy in the embrace of another man. How would that make you feel? Would my actions have nothing to do with you?”

  “Well . . .” Jack nodded, moving closer. “When you put it like that, I can allow how you might be angry, and I am truly sorry for making you so.” He took her by the hand. “I care for you, Anne—you know I have a great affection for you. I see now that I made a foolish mistake, and caused you some pain. I promise I’ll not repeat it. I ask you to forgive and forget this last, thoughtless transgression.”

  “Forgive and forget?!” Anne jerked her hand away. She could feel her voice going shrill, but she could not stop herself. “You are possessed of an unconstant character, Jack Hampton, and I will not keep company with a man of such low moral standards—a man with such a lewd and licentious nature. I ask that you leave here and not return.”

  “Quite a high-handed dismissal from a widow who was more than warm to my lewd and licentious nature on several occasions.” Jack smiled. He slipped one hand to the small of Anne’s back, and pulled her close. “C’mon, Annie, to be human is to make mistakes—and it is human kindness to forgive.” He leaned in and whispered, “Be kind to me, Annie . . .”

  His plea delivered soft and tender to her ear hammered a deep dent in her resolve. Reaching up, she trailed fingers along his dark, stubbly jaw.