355: The Women of Washington's Spy Ring (Women Spies Book 1)

by Kit Sergeant

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but our fathers are old friends.”

  “I see.” Aaron grabbed his knapsack from the hook next to the door. “This conversation has been scintillating, but I’m afraid I will have to take my leave of you as well, Miss Moncrieffe.”

  Meg pursed her lips before asking, “Are we back to Miss Moncrieffe now?”

  Aaron’s face seemed to redden slightly and Meg wondered if he was recalling, as she was, their kiss under the stars last night. When he didn’t reply, Meg inquired where he was off to.

  “The General has asked me to survey the works around the island.”

  Meg knew he was referring to the construction of the barricades Old Put had ordered in case there was a British invasion. “I’ll come with you,” she offered. “The General has given me permission to exercise Salem on occasion in exchange for letting him use him if the need arises. That is,” she continued coyly, “after he promised Salem wouldn’t be shot down by his enemies.”

  “Your fellow countrymen,” Aaron added. “And it would not be appropriate for you to accompany me.”

  Meg tossed her hair back. “Since when have I given heed to what is appropriate?”

  At that moment, Old Put exited his office. “Burr, are you still here?” he called.

  Meg curtsied as he came toward them. “General Putnam, I’m sorry to say it is me who has detained Aaron in his errand. I noticed that Salem is in dire need of exercise, and I’ve asked Aaron if I could join him on his ride.”

  Old Put cocked an eyebrow. “And what did Major Burr say?”

  Aaron stood straighter. “I tried to convince her it was a poor idea.”

  Old Put threw back his head and laughed. “Something tells me there is no convincing this one once she has made up her mind.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Aaron agreed quietly.

  Taking the General’s comment as permission, Meg ran up the stairs to change into her riding habit.

  They rode down Broadway and turned east, crossing New Street. As they approached Smith Street, Meg saw a white figure running toward them, screaming in pain. When they drew closer, Meg could discern that it was a man covered in feathers. The men chasing him were shouting and throwing small pebbles at him. The man tripped over a loose cobblestone and fell, a plume of down scattering in the dust as he hit the ground. Two of his pursuers caught up to him and then bound his arms in rope as the other two men looked on.

  “What goes?” Aaron asked one of the accomplices as he and Meg halted their horses.

  “Another Tory spy, sir,” the man replied, doffing his tri-cornered hat.

  Meg watched as they led the man away. He was still screaming in agony and Meg could see that the skin that wasn’t strewn with feathers was either blackened with pine tar or blanketed in blisters. Aaron gave her a worried glance, but once he realized she was more curious than horrified, he motioned for his horse to move onward.

  “What was that all about?” Meg inquired.

  “Punishment for spying,” Aaron spoke, his eyes on the path in front of him.

  “Spying? How do you know there are spies?”

  “We’ve intercepted a few communications that prove the British have pretty accurate knowledge of the activities of the Continental Amy. There are Loyalist spies as well as Patriot. The Sons of Liberty are rooting out what they call the ‘Tory Nest’ on Manhattan.”

  “But how do these spies deliver their information?”

  Aaron shrugged. “They know someone who knows someone who is able to get the message into the right hands.” He turned to look at her. “I can’t think of a more repugnant occupation than pretending to be on one side while working for the other, all the while living under the threat of a barrel of hot tar, or, worse yet, the hangman’s noose.”

  As they traveled toward the East River, Meg marveled at the breastworks at the end of Queen Street: large wooden trunks stacked ten feet across, the crevices between each trunk filled in with earth and mud. Aaron pulled his horse to a halt at Whitehall dock. Despite the presence of the British warships in the middle of the river, the wharf was bustling with merchants unloading their trade, the smell of spice and rum filling the air. Aaron focused his eyes on the heavy cannons that faced the river. “Intimidating, isn’t it?”

  Meg reached over to nuzzle Salem’s nose. “I’m not sure it’s enough to stop the British navy if they decide to invade.”

  Aaron sighed as he looked downriver. “Here we go again.”

  “Aaron.” Meg adjusted her seat on the saddle to face him. “What if this war ended as quickly as it had begun? We could marry in peace.”

  “Quickly in whose favor? Your father’s? The King’s?”

  “In anyone’s favor,” she replied. “Just so long as we could be together. But, you have to admit, the British have the might: the navy, the cavalry, the money. What do a rag-tag bunch of colonists have against the most powerful empire in the world?”

  Aaron glanced over at her, a scowl darkening his handsome face. “I wouldn’t be so quick to preclude the result of this war. We might not have the naval strength that the King does, but we have the will and the desire to be free.”

  “Freedom does not put a penny in your pocket.” Meg maneuvered Salem so that she and Aaron were nearly touching. “Aaron, I could get my father to give you a commission in the British Army.” She reached out and took his hand. “You could be a colonel instead of a major. And then, when this ridiculous skirmish is over, we could go back to England and raise babies on a fine piece of property.”

  He yanked his hand back. “Meg, that’s treason talk. And besides, I would never give up my taste of freedom, not for land, not for a commission—”

  “Not for me,” Meg filled in.

  He glanced at her before moving his gaze once again to the river. “I don’t know what more you need from me. We want two different things.”

  “But we both want to be with each other.”

  Aaron clicked his tongue, causing his horse to move forward. “That’s not enough.”

  Meg led Salem into a gallop, her tears blurring the barricades before her. She’d never met more of a stubborn man than Aaron Burr. He was never going to waver from his precious rebellion. If only there was a way to end this war quickly, Meg thought as she headed back to One Broadway.

  Meg was still thinking the same thoughts that night as she sat down to write a letter to Mrs. DeHart in Elizabethtown. Instead of filling the page with descriptions of last night’s ball, she began to sketch the fortifications she had seen earlier. Gun batteries covered the Hudson side of the island and there were more cannon down by the Battery and at Coenties Slip, a block north of Broad Street.

  When she was done, she was looking at a map of Manhattan, diagramming most of the defenses she had scouted with Aaron. She crumpled up the paper in her hand, hearing Aaron’s voice speak once again of treason. She nearly lit it on fire with the candle beside her before she heard Aaron’s other words from earlier. “They give it to someone who knows someone who can get it into the right hands.” If the British were somehow informed of the American defenses, maybe they could find a vulnerable place to invade and end this conflict once and for all. Defeated, Aaron would have no choice but to follow her and her father back to England, where the captain would give them some of his extensive land as a wedding present.

  “Indeed,” she said to herself as she ran her fingers along the paper, smoothing the creases, thinking that she would do anything to be with Aaron. And she knew just the person who could get this report into her father’s hands.

  Aaron was mercifully absent the next morning when Thomas Walcott came again to call on Meg. It was a warm, sunny day and she invited him for a stroll in the gardens.

  After a few minutes of pleasantries, Meg asked Thomas about being a prisoner. “I thought that meant you’d be held in a jail.”

  “Yes, thankfully not. Because I am of nobility, and not much of a threat, according to the rebels, anyway, they let m
e walk free. But I’m not allowed to leave the city.”

  “Are you a threat?” she asked, a note of sincerity underneath her teasing tone.

  Thomas glanced quickly at her and then focused back on the path in front of them. “That depends.”

  “On what such matter?”

  He shot her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It depends on who is asking.”

  “Suppose,” Meg bent down to sniff a hydrangea bloom. “Suppose I had some information to get to my father.” She straightened back up.

  “What sort of information?”

  “Some might call it ‘intelligence.’” She looked Thomas in the eyes as she reached into her bodice and pulled out the folded slip of paper.

  Thomas grabbed it from her before peering around the garden. “Miss Moncrieffe, you need to learn a bit more discretion. What if someone saw you hand this to me?”

  Meg clasped her hands in front of her. “You could just say it was a love poem.”

  Thomas colored slightly. “And if I was searched, what would they find?”

  Meg leaned in to whisper, “Information about the rebel’s defenses. Can you get it to my father?”

  Thomas nodded discreetly. “I know a few Loyalists who are in contact with Governor Tryon. I think I can pass this on. Will there be more of the same sort in the future?”

  Meg stepped back. “Mayhap.”

  “And how will I get this information?”

  “You could call on me again,” she replied.

  “Don’t you think that would arouse suspicion?” Thomas ducked as they passed underneath an arbor. “What would your friend Major Burr say?”

  “He might just have to turn the other cheek. This is for his own good, though he doesn’t know it yet.” She bent down to pluck a rose from the vine trailing up the arbor.

  “You do know you are playing a dangerous game.”

  “Why, Thomas, I am just a lowly woman. They would hang you over me any day. I could just claim I had no idea that information was treason.”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. “For a woman, you seem to know an awful lot about treason.”

  Carefully, so as to avoid any thorns, Meg tucked the rose behind her ear. “I’m not sure to what you could possibly be referring to.”

  Sunday morning, Aaron and Meg accompanied the family to Trinity Church off Broadway. As the Putnam contingent filed into the seats, Meg glanced around the regal edifice to take in the décor. The scattering of light filtering through the gridded windows would have resulted in a dim room had it not been for the massive chandelier hanging from the nave. Meg mused that there must have been more than a hundred candles in it. The pews were constructed of dark hardwood; a grand organ ornamented with angels and cherubs was placed near the pulpit. A fine bouquet was perched atop the stately altar, the vines trailing across it and downward. More flowers and shrubbery sat on either end of the Lord’s Table and the scent of lavender and lilies filled the air.

  Meg’s assessment of the interior was interrupted when Old Put leaned over his pew to grasp the shoulder of the man in front of him. Meg caught his profile when he turned to pat Putnam’s hand. It was the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army himself.

  After the army’s arrival in the city, most of the clergy had removed their Royal coats of arms and ended their tradition of praying for the health of King George at the conclusion of their sermon. Charles Inglis, the rector of Trinity Church, however, refused to, even under the threat of lynching. Aaron raised his eyebrows at Meg as he sat next to her in the pew. He seemed to be wondering what she was: would Inglis dare to speak of the King with General Washington in attendance?

  Tensions rose as the time for the litany grew closer. Meg detected the faint sound of fifes and drums outside. The sounds became increasingly louder until the church doors were thrown open and the band of men entered. Meg peered behind her. The green uniformed soldiers stood in between the pews, brandishing muskets, their bayonets gleaming in the candlelight. Meg started to rise to get a better view, but Aaron pulled her back down. On the other side of her, Belle murmured, “If he prays for the King, it won’t be long until he finds his own eternity box.”

  Meg reached for Aaron’s hand. He squeezed it reassuringly but his eyes were on Reverend Inglis. A few men in front of them stood up and both Meg and Aaron leaned to opposite sides to see what would happen next. Meg winced upon hearing the reverend’s voice—in a booming, clear tone—declare, “Heartily we beseech thee with thy favor to behold our most gracious sovereign lord, King George.”

  Aaron’s grip on Meg’s hand tightened as she heard Belle gasp. On the opposite end of the aisle, Putnam rose to bark commands: Molly had fainted. Mrs. Putnam pulled smelling salts out of her bag and shoved them underneath her daughter’s nose, all the while her eyes never left the podium. The rest of the congregation was in a similar uproar, but Inglis, unharmed and still at his position at the pulpit, droned on. Meg breathed an inward sigh of relief and couldn’t help thinking, God protect the King and his faithful servants.

  The service continued without further incident, save for the men with pointed bayonets standing in the aisle and the loud whispering from the congregation. Afterward, Meg lingered behind to make sure that Molly, who had come back around, was able to walk on her own. Aaron and most of the other men had rushed out as soon as Inglis had stepped down. When Meg finally joined them in the sunshine, she found the scene outside to be much calmer than the one during the service. Many of the patrons had headed home already to their Sunday suppers; only a scattering of families remained, lingering to gossip in the church gardens. Meg caught sight of Reverend Inglis being escorted into a carriage by a handful of Whigs. When she finally located Aaron, she found him deep in conversation with Old Put under the shade of a group of locust trees. She was too far away to hear what they were saying but she felt the heat rise to her face nonetheless. Was it her imagination or did both of them keep glancing at her throughout their exchange?

  She was about to interrupt their hushed conversation when a loud hammering deterred her. A man dressed in a clergy uniform was standing next to the church doors. After he finished his task, he hurried away, leaving Meg to approach his vacated spot. A large chain was strung through the handle of the door and a proclamation declared that, by order of the vestry, the church had been closed until further notice.

  Chapter VII

  Elizabeth

  August 1776

  The movement of the British men-of-war proved that the Redcoats could strike at any point in the city. Jonathan’s commander decided to have his troops sleep out in the open at King’s Bridge, in case the enemy resolved to cut the island off from the mainland. Throughout August, the British ships kept arriving. The few customers at the shop—the numbers had dwindled yet again with this latest evacuation—filled Elizabeth in with news of the Redcoats’ position. Most citizens were convinced that the British would attack the city, but the questions remaining were when and where.

  The family dog, Jonathan’s since before they were married, stared out the window that overlooked Queen Street, searching for his missing master. Johnny and Catherine frequently joined the hound at his post, their sweet little voices continuously asking of the whereabouts of their father.

  As Elizabeth swelled into the final stages of her pregnancy, the summer heat grew even more oppressive. Terse notes from Jonathan stated that he was exhausted from being outdoors all day and night, and felt inferior to the more able-bodied young men of his troop. He wrote in mid-August that dysentery and smallpox were running rampant in the camps. Unsure of where the enemy would attack, Washington had decided to divide his reduced army between the two shores of the East River. Jonathan’s was among those troops transferred to guard Long Island. And still the city waited.

  Chapter VIII

  Meg

  August 1776

  Like wax from a slow burning candle, worry dripped into Meg’s heart. Every day her spyglass, hoisted atop the roof of the mansion,
revealed that more British warships had arrived at the already packed harbor. Meg was not alone in her gazing—onlookers equipped with their own spyglasses also dotted other housetops at all hours and the wharves were crowded with bystanders. No one—American, British or any other nationality—had ever seen so many ships in one place.

  The men refrained from speaking much about the threat of war in the presence of women, but Meg could tell by Aaron and General Putnam’s increasingly prolonged meetings that something was happening. Not to mention that General Washington himself was a frequent visitor to One Broadway Street.

  She had no way of knowing whether Thomas was able to get the information she gave him to British commanders. He had not come to call after that fateful meeting in the garden.

  “Meg?” Old Put poked his head out of his office to find her creeping near the staircase, trying to avoid the sewing circle in the living room.

  “Sir?” she replied.

  “Can you come in here for a minute?”

  “Of course, General.” She strode into the room, skirts swishing. The effect was somewhat wasted since Aaron was not in the room. However, the insides of Putnam’s office could not exactly be termed, “empty.” Heaps of paper covered the mahogany desk as well as the hardwood floor.

  Old Put gestured at the mess. “Since Major Burr is currently occupied, I was hoping you’d be able to help me organize some of this paperwork.”

  Meg curtsied. “I would be delighted, sir.” She glanced at a nearby paper. It was signed by the Commander-in-Chief and her hands itched to see what more information she could glean from her errand. “But first things first,” she told him as she walked toward the window. She pulled back the heavy velvet drapes and secured them with cords. Both Meg and the General blinked in the sudden light that bathed the dark room and softened the olive walls. Old Put grabbed a caned wooden chair and set it in front of one of the piles. Meg sneezed as dust particles danced in the sunlight. The gilt-frames of the portraits—presumably long dead ancestors of Captain Kennedy, the previous occupant—lining one wall looked grimy in the light.