by Kit Sergeant
355: A Novel
The Women of Washington’s
Spy Ring
Kit Sergeant
Other books by
Kit Sergeant
THROWN FOR A CURVE
WHAT IT IS
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DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to all of the women who lived during the Revolutionary War and whose talents and sacrifices are known or unknown, but especially to the real-life women these characters are based on.
Although this book features historical figures and is based on real events, it is a work of fiction. Most of the dialogue and incidents in the story are products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as historical fact.
Copyright © 2017 Kit Sergeant
Published by Thompson Belle Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1981196730
ISBN-13: 978-1981196739
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
EPILOGUE
A note on 355 by the author
Selected Bibliography
Acknowledgments
WHAT IT IS by Kit Sergeant
Prologue
June 1939
Morton Pennypacker’s hands shook as he opened the package and retrieved the envelope sitting on top. Decades of research might be vindicated by the contents of the letter inside. Or those decades might have been all for naught, resulting in yet another dead end.
The letter, written by one of the world’s preeminent handwriting experts, was predictably neat, the writer careful not to give away any hint of emotion in the curves of his lines. As Pennypacker scanned it, a hint of a smile appeared on his wrinkled face. Phrases such as “the same weight and style of paper,” and “the same flourishes on the cursive d’s,” jumped out at him before he read the words, “These are definitely written by the same man.” Pennypacker carefully set the letter on his desk and picked up his red pencil with one hand as he flipped to a dog-eared page in his ledger with the other. In the blank space beside the words Samuel Culper Junior, he wrote the name Robert Townsend. He sat back in his chair, allowing himself a long-awaited moment of triumph before retrieving the other items from the box.
For years Pennypacker had been collecting information on the members of the Culper Spy Ring, Washington’s main source of intelligence on British troop numbers and movements during the Revolutionary War. He told others that his interest was mainly academic, but he had to admit to himself that he was out to beat the rest of the amateur enthusiasts in naming every Culper constituent. Some of the ring’s members had been much more forthcoming after the war: Benjamin Tallmadge had written about his leading role in the ring in his memoirs, and Caleb Brewster, purveyor of the secret intelligence, bragged about his adventures to anyone who would listen. It was not until Pennypacker was able to get his hands on a trunk from a widowed relative of Townsend that he was vindicated in his long-held suspicion as to the identity of the elusive Culper Junior. The trunk proved to be the mother lode: it contained ledgers, drawings, and old documents that had once belonged to the Townsend family.
Pennypacker gingerly examined the century and a half old cipher he had sent off to be compared with Townsend’s account book. The printed numbers and the names they stood for were as familiar to him as Culper Junior/Townsend’s cursive loops. Although the Culpers also used code names and, occasionally, invisible ink, they would substitute numbers for common words, names, or places in case their letters were ever intercepted. Each member—as well as General Washington himself—had a copy of the cipher written in Tallmadge’s handwriting, but at some point Townsend had made his own copy. The number 721 coded for John Bolton (Benjamin Tallmadge) while 726 was for James Rivington, the Tory printer and business acquaintance of Townsend. Samuel Culper Senior, the founder of the ring, was referred to as 722 but was known in life as Abraham Woodhull.
With the revelation of Townsend as Culper Junior, there was only one ring member whose identity remained a mystery. Pennypacker picked up the copy of a letter Woodhull had written to General Washington in August 1779 and read it aloud, enjoying the way the words echoed off the walls of his office. “I intend to visit 727 before long and think by the assistance of a 355 of my acquaintance, shall be able to outwit them all.”
727 was code for New York City. Woodhull was from Setauket, but he often traveled to Manhattan under the guise that he was garnering supplies for his farm, picking up intelligence and passing it on to Tallmadge by way of Brewster and his whaleboat. Pennypacker exchanged Woodhull’s letter for the Culper cipher, and, for perhaps the hundredth time, ran his fingers down the sheet until he reached 355 and the word adjacent: lady. Who was this lady of Woodhull’s acquaintance that he was so confident could outwit his enemies? The reticent and paranoid Woodhull did not have many contacts outside of the ring, and Pennypacker concluded that it was more than likely she had been recruited and cultivated by one of the other members. Now that he had confirmed Robert Townsend’s participation, perhaps he could coax 355’s identity into light. Maybe Townsend had even made the copy of the cipher for 355 in order to decode his messages. Based on his research thus far, Pennypacker had narrowed the enigmatic 355 to three possible women—Margaret Moncrieffe, Elizabeth Burgin, and Sally Townsend—but from there, he’d reached another impasse. With a sigh, Pennypacker turned backed to Townsend’s trunk and the documents it contained.
Chapter I
Meg
June 1776
Meg stared at the bayonet blade, now only inches from her breast, and felt beads of sweat form under her bonnet. She met the eyes of the bayonet wielder, the shorter of the two men—one could hardly call them “gentlemen,” though they were wearing the red regimentals of the King’s army—before taking a step backward. She forced her voice to take on a demanding tone. “Sir?”
The short man narrowed his eyes. “Stealing apples, eh?”
Meg hid the hand holding the offending fruit behind her voluminous skirts. �
��I was going to give them to my horse.”
“Those apples belong to the British Army.” The short man stepped forward, narrowing the gap Meg tried to put between them.
“Sir, my father serves the King as well. Captain Moncrieffe.” She glanced across the channel to Staten Island. Her father was on that island now, too far away and too occupied with fighting the Patriots to come to her rescue.
“Haven’t heard of him.” The short man straightened his arm, aligning the bayonet with Meg’s eyes.
Her heartbeat, already at a canter, quickened even more. The other soldier stepped closer to peer into her face. He flicked his hand out, forcing her bonnet back before he pushed his partner’s musket away. “Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s a child?”
Her hand tightened on the apple as she refrained from stating her customary reply: that she was no longer a child.
The bayonet wielder seemed inclined to agree with her. “She’s old enough to provide me some relief.”
Panic rose again in her chest. She had heard of women being raped during this infernal war, but usually by the rebel army, not her own countrymen. Thankfully the other man replied, “Save yourself for the whores in New York. If her father is indeed a captain and gets word that one of his own spilled his seed in his daughter, you’d hang from that same apple tree.”
Meg took the deepest breath her stomacher would allow as the men left the orchard. Mrs. De Hart was right: this was no place for a woman, especially not one without a chaperone. She went into the house to fetch a sheet of paper and quill.
No man in the world had more of an attachment to King George than her father, but that created a difficult living situation for her in the midst of the revolution. Since Meg had returned from Europe, it seemed she found herself thrust upon Whig host after Whig host, all extolling the evilness of His Royal Highness.
She’d been with the Bankers in Elizabethtown and accompanied them when they departed for the countryside after the British Navy arrived in the Lower Bay. But Meg had soon grown tired of hearing Mrs. Banker’s list of complaints against the Crown and the army that served it, including Meg’s father himself. She’d fled the company of the Bankers while they were at church and rode out to the De Hart’s farm on the coast. The De Harts, like the Bankers, were patriot sympathizers, or Whigs, while Meg and her father were opposed to independence and known as Loyalists or Tories. Nonetheless, the De Harts had been friends with her late stepmother.
Mr. De Hart was reluctant to take her in at first, stating that, since her husband had been called away to help draft the state constitution and her youngest son had joined the Continental Army, she could offer Meg little protection. Mrs. De Hart eventually relented, herself frightened by the presence of the warships stationed across the bay, and the two of them had fallen into a peaceful routine, at least up until the scene earlier that morning.
Meg comprised a hasty message to her father, imploring him to find a safer place for her to reside, preferably with a family affiliated with their own cause.
A few days later, Mrs. De Hart and Meg were sewing in the living room when they heard a horse approaching. They exchanged looks of alarm as someone’s fist rapped on the front door.
Mrs. De Hart rose to open the door. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for a Miss Moncrieffe,” a gruff voice stated.
“For what purpose?”
“I am Major Aaron Burr, aide de camp for General Putnam. He has sent for Miss Moncrieffe on orders of Captain Moncrieffe.”
“Father got my letter!” Meg exclaimed as she walked to the door. Major Burr looked to be around 20 years old. His facial features were even and lean but for his cheeks, which still held a boyish roundness to them. He wore the navy blue uniform of the Patriots, his dark hair tucked under a tri-corner hat. His eyes, black as pitch, fixed on her as he bowed. “Miss Moncrieffe?”
Meg curtsied toward him in the manner she’d been taught at her Dublin boarding school and offered her hand. “Indeed.” His skin was softer than his appearance, bronzed by many months spent outdoors, would have avowed.
His hand freed of Meg’s, Major Burr put both arms behind his back and drew his legs together. “I am to convey you to General Putnam’s residence on Manhattan Island.”
“Manhattan!” Mrs. De Hart repeated. “With all of the British warships in the harbor?”
“I will make sure Miss Moncrieffe is safe at all times,” Major Burr replied.
Putnam was a rebel, but at least she would be under the protection of a general, Meg surmised. Her relief at being sent for was being quickly eclipsed by exhilaration at the possibility of riding alone with the handsome Major Burr. “Is it far to the city?”
“About ten miles. We must leave soon, my orders are to have you at the Putnam residence tonight.”
Mrs. De Hart beckoned him inside. “Let’s get you some food and drink while Meg packs her things.”
“I shan’t be long,” Meg promised as she hurried to the guest room. She had not brought much to the De Hart’s as she had not had much time to pack when they originally fled Elizabethtown. Most of her fine gowns were still at the Bankers’ house. Meg threw the only riding dress currently in her possession on the bed. It hadn’t been cleaned since she had last worn it and dust still covered the burnt orange fabric. She shook it out and sneezed. Despite its state of unwash, the close-fitting dress would both make riding easier and show off her womanly curves. She added an ostrich feather onto the matching bonnet and tucked her blond hair underneath it.
When Meg returned to the kitchen, she noticed Major Burr had removed both his sword and hat. He had fine hair, Meg noticed. Dark and thick, it curled underneath the blue ribbon that held it back in a queue. “Ready, Miss Moncrieffe?”
“Please, Major Burr, call me Meg.” The white edge of his forehead, previously hidden under his hat, spoke even more of long days in the sun.
His smile lit up his face, including those dark eyes. “If you would call me Aaron.”
“Aaron it is.” Meg turned her shoulders as she moved past him, offering him a glance at her décolletage. When she turned to get his reaction, she noticed the smile had left his face.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Why, Aaron, I am a woman of seventeen.”
“Not much of a woman,” he grunted, rising from the table.
“How old are you?”
“Just shy of 20.” He gave her a meaningful look before putting his hat on and tucking his sword back under his belt.
“That is not so much older than me.”
“Older in years, and in experience.” He picked up her valise from the doorstep and walked out the back door.
“Have you seen many battles?” Meg fell into step with him as they headed to the stables.
“I was with Benedict Arnold in Quebec.”
“I see.” Meg assumed he knew where her loyalties lay, her father being a British captain and all.
“Do you have a horse of your own?” Aaron asked.
“Yes. Father brought him over from England.”
“Is he as majestic as his master?”
“Of course.” Meg turned toward Aaron and batted her eyelashes. “And yours?”
“My horse was dispatched to me by General Washington himself.”
“Oh!” Meg exclaimed. “You are an important man.”
They reached the stables. Normally Salem wouldn’t let anyone else handle him, but Aaron gave off a calming air that seemed to charm her horse. He expertly saddled Salem and then led him to the side of the house where a brown steed was tied to the fencepost. Aaron handed Meg Salem’s lead as he mounted his own horse.
Mrs. De Hart came to give her a hug and Meg thanked her profusely for her kindness in taking her in. The elder lady waved from the front porch as they departed. Despite their differing viewpoints on the outcome of the war, Meg hoped that she would remain unharmed and that Mr. De Hart would soon return from Trenton.
“I actually came from Wash
ington’s staff,” Aaron said casually after a few minutes of silence.
“You were under the direction of the leader of the Continental Army?” Despite herself, Meg was impressed.
“Indeed. But I resigned and began working for General Putnam a few weeks ago.”
“You didn’t like working for your Commander-in-Chief?”
Aaron shrugged. “Our Commander-in-Chief has little military training. He fought in the Indian wars, but has yet to win a great battle. And he’s a slave owner.”
“I suppose you have extensive military expertise.”
Aaron shot her a sly smile. “I did go to Princeton.” His gaze traveled from her boots up to the fichu that barely covered the bodice of her dress. “I suppose you are one of those English-educated girls, er, women.”
“I went to boarding school in Ireland,” Meg told him proudly. “And I was raised by General Gage until I was three.”
Aaron leaned over to spit onto the ground.
“One of my stepmothers was the sister of William Livingston, the governor of New Jersey, the other stepmother was the sister of John Jay,” Meg continued.
“All Whigs. Why did your father marry so many women whose families spoke out against the Crown?”
It was her turn to shrug.
“And yet your father espouses a futile cause in the King’s name,” he continued.
“The King is the anointed ruler.”
“He is not my anointed ruler.”
“Clearly not.”
Aaron rounded his steed as they approached the checkpoint into the city. One of the men in charge stuck his fingers into his mouth and gave a loud whistle. Other men in blue uniforms quickly mounted their horses and fell into line behind them. “A cavalry charge?” Meg asked Aaron with a slight hint of mock to her tone.
“An escort,” he replied. This time Meg was the first to break eye contact as she felt her face heat up under Aaron’s searching gaze.
Another rider came beside Salem and Meg. “That is a fine horse you have, Miss.”