Best Manner, and have every
Encouragement that can be expected.
GIVEN under my HAND, at Head Quarters on Long Island,
this 23rd Day of August, 1776. WILLIAM HOWE
By His Excellency’s Command.
“Are many answering this call?” David asked.
“We’ll find out. Titus and I intend to join up.”
“Join the Redcoats? You’re mad!” David pushed back from the table. “Both of you!”
Jack stroked his beard. “There’s no madness in a Loyal citizen and his slave volunteering to help restore order.”
“It is madness when the Loyal citizen is truly a most ardent rebel, and his slave is in truth a free man.”
Jack and Titus sat puffing their cigars, grinning like boys on school holiday.
David shook his head. “You’re bound to be caught and strung up as spies.”
“We’ve already been to Flatbush—fifteen thousand soldiers camped there, and not one gave us any trouble but to hand us that broadside . . .” Titus said, pointing to the page.
“Fifteen thousand?” Beetle-browed, David stubbed his cigar out on the table. “What do you mean fifteen thousand? Our scouts reported eight thousand landed.”
“Your scouts are dead wrong.” Jack threw back the last of his rye, and signaled the barman for another. “We were there at the landing, watching and counting to the very last man. They’ve fifteen thousand camped at Flatbush. Maybe more now with this proclamation. We have our tally from two days ago. Show him, Titus.”
After a few moments, Titus worked the tiny paper scrolls back out through the hole in the lining of his waistcoat. He pushed the notes across the table.
David studied the writing. “What does this mean—red, black, green, blue?”
“Redcoats,” Titus said, pointing to the first column. “Foot, grenadiers and dragoons.”
“And the black are Highlanders—” Jack added. “Dark caps and plaids.”
“Green jackets are those Jäger riflemen,” Titus said. “And blue is for the other German mercenaries—Hessians, Waldeckers and the like.”
“I need to get this information to General Putnam.” David stuffed the papers into his pocket. “With the report of eight thousand landed, General Washington is of a mind that the army here on Long Island is a feint to distract our attention from a true invasion force at King’s Bridge. He’s been holding back troops . . .” David misbuttoned his gray jacket and seated his hat crooked on his head. “Fifteen thousand! With so many of our lads fever-stricken—we’re lucky if we have six thousand fit for duty.” With that David stomped off. Halfway to the door, he halted, turned and called, “When are you leaving for Flatbush?”
“Now.” Jack tossed the butt of his cigar to the floor and crushed it underfoot. “We aim to be back by Monday—Tuesday at the latest. We’ll find you.”
With a nod and a wave, David all but ran out the tavern door.
NEAR the town hall serving as General Howe’s headquarters in the tiny village of Flatbush, Titus and Jack hooked onto the tail end of a long, slow queue of men and boys formed in front of a trestle table set up near the shade of a white oak tree. A few of these locals were interested in joining the British Army as colonial irregulars. Most waited in the hot sun to register as Loyalists, and obtain the requisite permits as per Howe’s proclamation.
When Jack and Titus were yet two dozen places away from a turn with the sergeant, a pair of farmers—father and son by the look of them—walked opposite, newly issued permits in hand, all the while staring boldly at Jack.
Titus was becoming accustomed to the stares Jack engendered by wearing a full beard, and he took to claiming that Jack might ride through the heart of New York City on the back of an African elephant, and draw less attention. Jack still insisted on the need to alter his appearance. Titus was only glad that he was able to talk him into removing the earring.
When the farmers drew parallel to Jack, the elder gawker stopped in his tracks, cocked his head to the side and asked, “Jackie, is that you?”
“Charlie!” All smiles, Jack stepped forward and embraced the man. Looking over to the younger man, Jack exclaimed, “This can’t be Billy!”
“It is.” Charles pulled his son forward. “Give your uncle Jack a kiss.”
“When last I saw you, lad, you were wearing leading strings and bouncing on my knee.” Jack wrapped his nephew in a bear hug. “Titus! Meet my brother Charles, and my nephew William.”
The family resemblance was suddenly plain to Titus. Charles Hampton was a stockier, graying version of Jack. Not more than fifteen years, and not yet reached his full height, young Billy was blessed with his forbear’s dark, good looks.
It was also plain Charles Hampton did not know what to make of his younger brother or his negro companion. Glancing from Titus, then back to the group of red-coated officers hovering behind the table in the shade of the big oak tree, he muttered, “What kind of mischief are you up to now, Jack?”
Jack took his brother by the arm. “Let’s walk a bit.”
The four of them strolled down the street, away from Loyalist ears. After a brief exchange of family news, Jack told Charles of his intent to join the British Army and scout out information for Washington’s Continentals.
“You are a brave heart for the cause and I’m very proud of you, Jackie,” Charles said. “I only wish I could do something to help, but with eight mouths to feed, I have to be very careful to husband my resources. Very careful indeed.”
“Eight mouths!” Jack slapped his brother on the back.
“Aye, Bess is newly delivered—a girl, at last—so you see how I just can’t afford to mix in this mess,” Charles said, with an apologetic wave of the permit in his hand. “Between the Continentals confiscating our provender and cattle, and British foraging, there’s little left to us. I expect it will be a lean, hard winter.”
Jack dug inside his shirtfront, and handed his brother the leather sack given to him by Washington. “Here—there’s at least twenty Spanish dollars there—to help get our family through the winter.”
“No, Jack . . . you have done more than your share for the family.” Charles pushed the purse back into his brother’s hand.
“Don’t be an idiot. Take the money and my love to Bess and the new baby,” Jack insisted, slipping the pouch into his brother’s coat pocket.
Charles clasped Jack ’s hand in his two. “Just promise me you’ll be very careful, Jackie.”
Jack nodded. “Go on home now, before young Bill here catches the recruiting sergeant’s eye.”
As they watched Charles and his son disappear down the road, Jack rubbed the beard on his jaw. “Try as I might, I never could fool Charles.”
“A family man, your brother,” Titus said. “The eldest?”
“Of six boys—no more than eighteen years Charlie was, when our folks died of the bloody pox. He took care of us, and our farm—more father than brother to me, what with me being the youngest. He suffered so when I left to be bound out to Parker . . . always wanting to keep us brothers together . . .” Jack swiped at the corner of his eye. “It was good to see him.”
They rejoined the queue, which began to move along at a brisker pace, and soon they found themselves at the head of the line. The beleaguered sergeant in charge of dispensing permits sat back in his chair dabbing face and neck with a kerchief, mopping rivulets of white powder-tinged sweat. “Foh! What have we here?”
Jack paid no mind to the disdainful tone and glare. Throwing back his shoulders, he announced in a strong, clear voice, “I’ve come to volunteer my services, along with those of my slave, to help restore the Proper Order.”
Years of service in the British Army had not quite obliterated the Irish brogue from the sergeant’s speech. “Are ye some sort of foreigner?”
Titus was sure the irony of this question coming from a man who’d recently traveled three thousand miles to get to the American shore tickled Jack’s rebel he
art as much as it did his own, but they both managed to maintain a stern countenance.
“Just like yourself, I’m a good Englishman, sir,” Jack replied. “Come to do my duty for King and country.”
“Away with the likes of you. A good Englishman kens the worth of strop and razor,” the sergeant growled. “British soldiers are clean-shaven.”
“I am aware, sir.” Jack did not budge. Squaring his shoulders he loudly proclaimed, “Though I may not be fit for the serious business of soldiering, surely I can be put to some use. If not me, then perhaps my slave . . .”
One of the officers wandered from the shade to stand just beyond the sergeant’s shoulder. Titus was developing an appreciation for uniforms, and the one worn by this captain was by far the most splendid he’d ever laid eyes on.
Titus figured the captain for a cavalryman by the buckskin breeches he wore tucked into gleaming black topboots. His red coat was faced in dazzling white and fastened with silver buttons—real silver, not pewter—each embossed with the number 17, twinkling in the sunlight. Most impressive was the helmet. Fashioned of jacked leather and golden brass, it was crested with a flowing plume of madder-dyed horsehair to match his red coat. A black-lacquered plate rising up from the brow of the helmet was decorated with a white skull and crossed bones painted above the words “OR GLORY.”
Death or glory—Titus imagined that mounted, these dragoons at a full gallop must present an awesome sight.
“Shove off, ye hairy bastard!” The sergeant waved Jack away. “Come back after you’ve scraped them whiskers.”
Ignoring the sergeant, the splendid officer spoke directly to Jack. “Your name?”
“Jack Stapleton, sir.”
“You are a local man?”
Jack said, “Born and bred to this island, before being sent to the city as apprentice . . . I know my way around.”
Good boy, Titus thought. Stick to the truth as much as possible—the course they’d both agreed upon to avoid blunders and detection by suspicious minds.
The officer rattled off another question. “Apprenticed? At what trade?”
“Printer, sir. A thriving business, at least up until my press was put to ruin by them bastard Liberty Boys.”
The mention of the Sons of Liberty struck a chord, and both captain and sergeant instantly shifted into more amenable attitudes.
“Captain Blankenship, your farrier has been complaining of being shorthanded, sir . . .” the sergeant suggested. “This slave looks to be a fit fellow. He’d do as an ostler, at least.”
“Yes, send the negro to work with the horses,” Blankenship agreed. “I will escort our bearded friend to headquarters. He might serve as a guide.”
Jack shouldered his musket, and left with the captain.
“Give this to the farrier-major—” The sergeant scribbled off a note and directed Titus to the horse paddock. “An easy one to find—dressed all in black, he is, with a horseshoe insignia on his sleeve.”
TITUS looked up from the tin plate balanced on his lap. “There’s my master, sir,” he explained, pointing to Jack crossing the pasture. “He serves as a guide with the Seventeenth. Might I have permission to go to speak with him?”
“Yer master?” The farrier looked up, squinting, to where Titus pointed. “Aye—g’won, ye poor bugger.”
Titus ran out to meet Jack, and they sat together under a big tulip tree. “I hope you brought something to eat. The horses are fed better rations than what we were just given for our supper—a hunk of pickled beef so rusty with rot I wouldn’t feed it to a dying dog. And the biscuits—squirming with weevils . . .”
“From what I can tell, the regulars don’t fare any better, which is why I went foraging.” Jack unloaded his sack, laying out an oblong loaf of dark bread, four wizened sausages, a waxed cheese and half a dozen apples. “Plain fare—but fresh,” he said, handing over a sausage.
Titus broke the sausage in two. After a quick visual inspection and a good sniff, he took a bite. “Where’d you sleep last night?”
“I made a bed in a tent with three other guides—Tory farmers from hereabouts.” Jack pulled out a folding knife and sliced a chunk from the cheese. “Spent the whole evening listening to their Loyalist mouthings, and thereby, I learned less than nothing. How about you?”
“Dragoons have been coming all morning, checking their horses and gear, and the smiths have been running from horse to horse repairing shoes and tack. The farrier-major gave me orders to fill fifty feed sacks. He says the Seventeenth is moving camp to a village called Flatlands.” Titus tore off a fist-sized hunk from the loaf.
Jack leaned back against the tree trunk. “That’s odd—moving south to Flatlands, when the Continental lines are to the north . . .”
“I thought it odd as well. Do you remember Blankenship? The officer from yesterday? He was among a bunch seeing to their mounts, and I heard him tell another that ‘Clinton would turn their flank.’ ” Titus reached for another sausage. “At first I figured he was yammering horse-talk, as they are all wont to do . . . but later on, when a little fellow came around wanting General Clinton’s mount saddled, I got to thinking there might be something more to what Blankenship said.”
A sudden drum call resounded from the main encampment—three long rolls punctuated with two hard beats. With a groan, the farriers and ostlers shoveled down the last of their suppers as the rhythmic drum sequence was repeated over and over.
One of Titus’s fellow ostlers waved him in. “C’mon, Titus! They’re beating Assembly!”
Jack and Titus rose to their feet, sausages in hand.
“Repair to your colors!” the farrier-major shouted at Jack.
Titus shoved the sausage, the rest of the cheese and a few apples into his shirtfront. “Looks like we’re on the march. You better go and join your company. I’ll find you in Flatlands!”
CHAPTER TEN
Of more worth is one honest man to society and in the sight of God, than all the crowned ruffians that ever lived.
THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense
Monday, August 26, 1776
On the Way to Fetch Water for the Cup and Quill
ANNE clattered from the kitchenhouse, carrying four empty wooden buckets by the handles—two in each fist, fitting the buckets onto the pushcart parked near the back door of the shop. Originally designed for delivering printed materials and paper supplies, the square barrow with its two wide wheels and high wooden sides was the perfect cart for conveying water from the pump in Chatham Square.
Anne pulled down the skirt hems tucked into her apron strings and secured her mobcap with a T-shaped silver pin. “I’m off !”
Sally popped out the kitchenhouse door, her head turbaned in a linen towel, a smudge of flour dimming the freckles on her cheek. With a wave she said, “Hurry back!”
Anne steered the barrow through the shop, down Dock Street and onto the bumpetty cobbles of Queen Street. The city was busier than usual for a Sunday afternoon, and the unexpected traffic hampered her plan for a quick forth-and-back to the pump. Anne gauged the time of day by the length of the shadows her cart rolled over as she headed uptown to the tea-water pump, sorely missing the hourly music of the city bells. General Washington had ordered all of the bells stripped from the church towers, and the plundered metal was recast into artillery.
Still a few hours till nightfall . . . Anne sighed, and slowed her pace, calming her inclination to crash along at full speed with long strides.
After spending her day roiling over Cup and Quill concerns, wondering for the well-being of her brother, and anxious over how and where the British might strike an invasion, Anne found she craved the solace of her pillow more than ever. But try as she might to encourage a good night’s rest by working hard, drinking cups of chamomile tea and stuffing sprigs of lavender into her pillowslip, deep sleep proved elusive. Most of her bedtime hours were wasted in rigorous tossing and turning, accompanied by vigorous pillow thumping.
Though she pointed to
hot weather and worries as reasons for her restlessness, she knew the true cause. Anne was bedeviled by shameful, uncontrollable yearnings and fevered imaginings. Night after night, she lay in the tangle of her bed linen, reliving over and over the few moments spent enveloped in Jack Hampton’s embrace . . . against the wall, lips crushed to his . . . one of his work-rough hands on her breast, the other reaching up under skirts . . .
The sudden trill of fife and the rattle of drum disturbed her reverie. Anne tightened her grip on the crossbar handle and leaned in to push the cart across a rough patch in the cobbles. Up ahead she could see the source of the military music—the intersection at Maiden Lane was blocked by a soldier’s parade. She pushed her cart to the side and continued unencumbered to watch the regiment march by.
Delaware Blues . . .
These soldiers in their short blue jackets and neat leather hats had been crowding into the Cup and Quill of late. Hailing from one of the smallest colonies, they were the largest and—by most estimation— the best equipped of all the Continental regiments. Carrying full packs and shouldering new, polished muskets, the Delaware Blues presented a fine military display, marching three abreast.
She tapped an elderly pipe smoker observing the parade. “What’s going on?”
“Reinforcements shipping out,” he said. “Howe’s landed his entire force on Long Island—twenty thousand Redcoats! There will be a mighty push on Brooklyn for certain.”
“Brooklyn! Not the city?”
“Never you fear, miss, our shores are safe.” A thin man in rolled sleeves and leather apron joined the conversation. “Our lads will push those Redcoats off of Long Island and into the ocean. Right makes might.”
Twenty thousand . . . The news fanned her constant glowing ember of worry and it burst into flames. Anne rose up on tiptoes, scanning the even files stretching down and forming ranks two blocks away at the Fly Market Square, and she caught a glimpse of a familiar green weskit moving through the gathering crowd of observers.
The Tory Widow Page 16