The Tory Widow

by Christine Blevins

“C’mon, Jack!” Titus shouted up from the bottom of the stair.

  Anne looked up at Jack with sad eyes. “You’d better go . . .”

  Jack buried his nose in her hair, drew a long, deep breath. “My sweet Annie—I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

  “Only promise me you’ll be careful . . .” Anne rose up on tiptoes to press a tender, farewell kiss to his lips.

  Jack groaned, and the quiet kiss exploded like a sail unfurled in a hurricane wind. Pulling Anne tight, he bent her back in the kind of kiss she’d been dreaming about for weeks. Off balance, feet tangled on the gunnysack, they stumbled, tripped and toppled onto the bed. Anne found herself under Jack, pressed into a froth of petticoats and bed linen.

  “Jaaaaack!” Titus shouted once again. “Let’s go!”

  “Another promise—” Jack said, a merry sparkle in his brown eyes. “One day, we’ll finish this kiss properly.” Planting a quick peck on her lips, he leapt to his feet, took Anne by the hand and they raced down to meet the others at the foot of the stairs.

  “What were you two up to?” Sally teased, tucking a bundle of food into Jack ’s gunnysack.

  “Not enough,” Jack replied.

  Titus passed small flask around, each man taking a good swallow and splashing a bit around the ears. “That’s the last of your rum, Mrs. Anne.”

  “Good friend Titus, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.” Anne gave him a hug, then turned to kiss her brother on the cheek. “Take care of yourself—and don’t be a ninny—give yourself time to heal . . .”

  Sally threw her arms around David’s neck for one last kiss. “Mind what yer sister just said . . . and send us word, when ye can.” She stepped back, sniffing, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Take care, lads.”

  “Listen . . .” Jack grabbed Anne by the shoulders. “A man by the name of Mulligan keeps a tailor shop on Queen Street—call on him for help, should you need it. He’s a friend of mine.”

  Anne nodded, pulled the hanky from her bosom and pressed it to Jack ’s hand, with a quick kiss. “Till next we meet.”

  Jack put the hanky to his nose, smiled and tucked the favor inside his shirt.

  Sally peeked out the door to make certain there were no Redcoats lurking about. With the all clear, she swung the door full open and the threesome spilled out into the lane, arms about each other’s shoulders, stumbling toward the wharf.

  Anne and Sally ducked back into the shop and shut the door.

  “Well,” Anne said, putting fists to hips. “We have our work cut out for us, don’t we?”

  KI-KI-RI-KU-DOO. A five-toed rooster flew up to perch on the ladder leaning up against the shop front, and crow up the sun with great gusto.

  The front door swung open and Sally propped it with the tin of lead slugs. “Off wi’ ye, noisy creature,” she said, shooing the cockerel away with a flap of her apron.

  Anne lugged the unwieldy sign by the chains. “You climb up first—then I’ll hand it to you.” She muscled the sign up, and Sally hooked the chains onto the iron bracket jutting out at a right angle into the lane.

  Sally scrambled down, and they took a few steps back to stand with arms folded, admiring the new sign. The words ROYAL COFFEEHOUSE encircled the image of a gray goose quill curved over a golden crown.

  “Sign of the Crown and Quill . . .” Sally said with a wicked smile, “open for business.”

  “Come right in, Captain.” Anne waved a pair of grenadiers across the threshold. “Welcome to the finest cup of coffee and tea in all of New York City . . .”

  PART TWO

  Occupation

  Not gold but only men can make

  A people great and strong;

  Men who for truth and honor’s sake

  Stand fast and suffer long.

  Brave men who work while others sleep,

  Who dare while others fly . . .

  They build a nation’s pillars deep

  And lift them to the sky.

  RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  No longer a part of the United States, New York City is the home to British Headquarters, a safe haven for Loyalists, and for some brave Patriots, a fertile ground for gathering intelligence useful to the Revolutionary cause.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Resolution is our inherent character,

  and courage hath never yet forsaken us.

  THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense

  Friday, May 30, 1777

  At the Sign of the Crown and Quill

  ANNE stepped out from the sweltering kitchenhouse and drew a pail from the cistern. She splashed cool water on her face and neck, and ran wet fingers over hair swept up in loose curls at the back of her head. Removing her stained apron, Anne smoothed and admired the skirts of her new day dress—very pleased with her choice of fabric—the twining leaves and tiny forget-me-nots on a pale ivory background seemed especially lighthearted in the morning light.

  Sally followed Anne into the garden, a clean, pressed apron in hand. “Ye should wear an apron—ye dinna want to dirty yer pretty dress, do ye?” Arms raised, Anne turned around and Sally tied the apron sashes into a sprightly bow. “There ye go, madam!” she said, giving Anne a pat on the bum. “Bring out the trays and ready the teapots. I’ll go pull the drapes and open the door.”

  Dust motes danced along the gleaming shafts streaming in through the diamond-shaped windowpanes, along with customers through the open door. Bandit barked a greeting as regulars bustled in to take their usual seats, and the sleepy shop was suddenly awake with manly laughter, cheery voices and the scrape and squawk of chairs and benches being dragged across the floorboards.

  Anne placed three trays filled with the day’s baking on the compositor’s table at the back of the shop, covering each with a large napkin to protect the muffins and scones from flies. She brought out a wicker hamper filled with two dozen small pewter teapots, all rinsed and polished for the day’s use. After arranging the pear-shaped pots in rows of four on the countertop, she scooped a generous amount of black tea into each one.

  Sally set two heavy urns onto the counter—one filled with hot coffee, the other, boiled water. Hands at hips, she turned to glare once again at the half-assembled printing press and clutter of tools occupying a good amount of floor space between the compositor’s table and the front end of the shop.

  “Can it be so bloody difficult to assemble a press? The lazy-arse grubshites ye hired have accomplished less in three days than Jack and Titus did in three hours.”

  “I know . . . I know . . . I’ve already decided to give them the sack—if they bother to show up—the drunkards.”

  “Och!” Sally groaned. “An’ what are we to do with all this mess?”

  “I’m posting another notice today.” Anne pulled a folded sheet from her pocket and showed it to Sally. Written in her best hand in neat block letters:

  WANTED IMMEDIATELY

  Sober and Skilled

  JOURNEYMEN PRINTERS

  who Can and Will work

  Apply to Mrs. Merrick

  at the sign of the Crown and Quill

  Sally eyed the advert with no little scorn, whispering through clenched teeth. “It’s bad enough havin’ t’ smile and scrape t’ these Redcoat bastards always lurking about, aye—without havin’ to press ink to paper promoting their Loyalist treachery.”

  Anne slipped the notice back into her pocket. “I’d be a fool not to take Mr. Rivington up on his offer.” She began pouring hot water into each teapot. “What with publishing the Royal Gazette and printing all the Crown business, Rivington has more than he can handle, and he is kind enough to direct some work our way.”

  Sally came up behind Anne and hissed in her ear. “Rivington prints th’ most vile Tory swill, and I for one wouldna wipe a shitten arse with the Gazette for fear of offending the arsehole. I wouldna have anything to do with him or his disgustin’ rag, not for all the gold in Christendom.” Feathers in a ruff, she strutted off to slam an assortment of cups and saucers onto her tray.r />
  Anne grabbed Sally by the arm, and dragged her out into the garden. “You think I don’t know Rivington is a tool of the Crown?” she scolded, her brows meeting in a bump above her nose. “Yes—reviving the press and stationery will add to our pocketbook—but that is not our aim, as you should ken. Doing business with the likes of James Rivington lends us a great measure of protection, and will provide opportunities . . . protection and opportunities that will aid us in our important business.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie.” Sally puffed out a breath, rubbing her arm. “I sometimes canna bear the loud smell that rises from some of what we do . . .”

  “It will help if you try to remember there are others who, for the same cause, bear far worse than we.”

  Mutual feathers somewhat smoothed over, Anne and Sally went about the business of distributing tea, coffee, scones and muffins to a full house of customers.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Merrick,” Captain Blankenship called as he came trotting down the stairs with red jacket thrown over one shoulder and helmet cradled in his arm.

  “Tea and scones today, Captain?” Anne smiled up to him. “I saved you some clotted cream . . . and we’ve strawberry jam . . .”

  “You know me too well, Mrs. Merrick. Tea and scones it is.”

  Edward Blankenship took a seat at a table near a front window, joining lieutenants Wemyss and Stuart, the other two British officers Anne had been forced to quarter.

  Exactly three days after Jack and Titus spirited David away, Edward Blankenship showed up on her doorstep—most apologetic—in possession of a writ commandeering three rooms in her home in service to the Crown.

  “It was bound to happen—we are not alone in being forced to quarter soldiers,” Anne had said to Sally as they made the many trips up and down the narrow stairs, moving all of their things to the two garret rooms. “Blankenship has done us a favor, actually. I’d rather quarter three agreeable British officers than house a whole horde of Hessian grenadiers and their cabbage-cooking wives.”

  “Lobster scoundrels! Soddin’, thievin’, bloodyback bastards!” Sally did not hesitate to pile on the adjectives as they bumped Anne’s heavy chest up the stairs. “I’m only glad the lads took our David safe away—just in the nick, too.”

  Safe away . . . Anne mused as she arranged little covered glass pots of jam and clotted cream on the tea service she prepared for Captain Blankenship.

  Not a note, not a message passed . . . No word in the eight long months since the three drunken fishermen went lurching down the lane—nothing to indicate whether or not Jack and Titus had succeeded in getting themselves and David out of harm’s way.

  After Washington ordered the evacuation from the works at Brooklyn Heights, the Patriot army moved in an almost constant retreat. From Long Island to New York City, stretching up the entire length of Manhattan, across King’s Bridge and then across the Hudson to the southern half of New Jersey—the British gaining ground with very little effort or loss.

  Patriots were left to bemoan the sad, sorry state of Washington’s draggle-tail army. With thousands of soldiers and militiamen either captured, deserted or unfit for duty, most considered Washington’s defeat and surrender to be impending and inevitable.

  But cautious General Howe failed to deliver the felling blow before the campaign ended with the approach of winter. Washington performed a miracle and managed to somehow keep his dwindling army intact. The Continental forces slunk across the Delaware to regroup, and General Howe settled in New York City to enjoy the whirl of gaieties Loyalist society had to offer, and seemed more than happy to remain there through the spring as well.

  Using a pair of sharp nippers, Anne clipped chunks from the cone-shaped loaf of fine white sugar, telling herself for the hundredth time it must be nigh on impossible and very dangerous for Jack to get a message delivered.

  Oh, dear Lord, please, please let that be the reason for this long, awful silence. For the heinous alternatives sidling into her head, nipping and nibbling at her best hopes and wishes, were much too horrible to contemplate.

  Anne closed her eyes. Reaching into her pocket she wrapped her fingers around the cast-iron token Jack had given her at the Bowling Green, the rough, ragged edge biting into her skin a comfort.

  No.

  They are safe.

  They just have to be . . .

  Anne blinked open her eyes and studied the display of china and silver on the tray, and added an additional cup and saucer to it. Forcing a smile on her face, she carried the service over to Blankenship’s table.

  “I hope you don’t mind, gentlemen, if I join you for morning tea . . .”

  The three soldiers scrambled to their feet, and Lieutenant Wemyss offered a chair to Anne, draping his jacket over his arm. “I couldn’t think of a more delightful way to start the day, Mrs. Merrick, but I am off to find a tailor.” He showed Anne a huge rent in the seam under the right sleeve of his regimental coat.

  “I recommend Mulligan’s—at the sign of the Thimble and Shears on Queen Street.” Anne smoothed her skirts under as she sat. “An Irishman, but he does excellent work for a very fair price. Make sure you mention my name.”

  “Aye, Wemyss—” Stuart teased. “Have the tailor put a few gussets in your breeches as well. I swear you’ve gained at least two stone in the time we’ve been quartered above the Crown and Quill.”

  Good-natured Wemyss gave his growing middle a pat as he headed toward the door. “Evidence of my penchant for Miss Sally and her sumptuous shortbread.”

  Once Wemyss disappeared out the door, Stuart excused himself. Mumbling something about lending Sally “a helping hand,” he made a beeline for the back of the shop.

  “My men are both smitten with your maid.” Blankenship dropped a lump of sugar into the tea Anne poured for him. “In this contest, I predict Stuart will prevail—he is the more cunning of the two.”

  “I would not wager on it.” Anne watched Sally going about her business clearing tables and collecting coins, offering Stuart nothing other than the coldest of cold shoulders.

  “I’m glad to have a moment alone with you, Anne, there is something I want to ask.” Edward Blankenship had taken to falling into the familiar when they spoke privately. “I was wondering if you would be willing to accompany me to the ball being held for the King’s birthday, a little more than a week from today? There will be music and merrymaking . . .”

  “I would be most happy to attend, Edward. Thank you for inviting me.” Anne beamed.

  “Wonderful! It is predicted by some to be the last grand event for the summer . . .”

  “The last . . . but why? Is the army leaving?” Eyes wide, Anne touched a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell me the city’s to be abandoned to the rebels once again!”

  “Poor Anne.” Blankenship leaned forward. Reaching across the table, he took hold of her hand. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so. What can I do to assure you there are no plans to abandon the city?”

  “You are a great comfort to me, Edward.” Anne shifted forward in her chair. “It is so wearisome—the uncertainty—I only wish General Howe would put an end to this war.”

  “The end is in sight.” Edward’s voice dropped. “To your ears alone I can tell this—General Clinton is on his way from London after being knighted by the King, and he has been assigned to a post here in New York City. I’m certain he will present plans to Howe and we will soon move against the rebels—at last.”

  Anne put on a pout and gave his hand a squeeze. “Are you so anxious to leave us, Captain?”

  “It’s just I’m afraid our army is becoming a bit too fat and happy in New York. And though I am most anxious to crush this rebellion once and for all, I always regret having to leave you, dearest Anne, as I must now.” Blankenship brought Anne’s hand up and brushed her fingers to his lips. “Off to headquarters with me.” He rose to don his jacket and headgear, the glaring death’s-head on his helmet’s crown lending his boyish good looks a level of fierceness. “Go
od day to you, Mrs. Merrick.”

  “Good day, Captain.”

  Anne gathered all the dirty cups and teaspoons onto the tray and carried it back to the kitchenhouse. “Do you have any laundry ready for the line, Sal?”

  “Aye.” Sally smiled. “There’s a full basket ready near the cistern.”

  Anne hitched the laundry basket onto one hip, and carried it up the two long flights of stairs to the garret. Sitting on the windowsill in Sally’s room, facing the street, Anne pinned the wet laundry to the clothesline strung across the lane between the two buildings—two white petticoats, one red petticoat, followed by three more white petticoats. The wooden pulleys squeaked a merry tune as she tugged on the line, centering the petticoat array over the lane—the signal to her unknown accomplice, indicating she had intelligence to deliver.

  TRAVELING with the current, Jack and Titus moved fast, sculling tight to the Manhattan shore, careful to keep cover within the deepening shadows cast by the setting sun. A lone night heron barked a call as they streamed past, adding a noisy voice to the rhythmic ching-chinging crickets and katydid buzz.

  No matter the type of craft, or time of day, Jack was never at ease when riding on water, and manning the oars of a broad-beamed pettiauger conveying fifty barrels of contraband along a waterway patrolled by the Royal Navy put a definite edge on a pleasant spring evening.

  Jack paused in his rowing, and pointed. “Just ahead there . . .”

  Titus drew in his oars and took up the tiller. With a keen eye and a deft touch, he knifed the sharp end of the boat through a barely discernable and very narrow defile in a barrier of tumbled mica-flecked stones. The natural divide sheltered a rocky river edging, where two dark figures hovered near a laden flatboat beached in the shadow of steep, craggy cliffs.

  “Watch and ward now . . .” Jack muttered over his shoulder, tugging an oar from the lock.

  Titus let loose the tiller, and pulled a pair of pistols free from the red sash tied around his waist, his face settling into a fearsome scowl.