by Kit Sergeant
Elizabeth heard Captain Tallmadge inquire again about his brother as he pulled the officer aside, affording the couple some privacy.
Jonathan smiled a thin, weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, my wife.”
“Jonathan.” Elizabeth made to hug him, but he ducked, giving the appearance that it greatly pained him. “Lice,” he explained.
She settled for grasping his hands in hers. “Are you hurt?”
“Not much.” The act of speaking must have also been painful. His lips were dry and cracked, his voice groggy as though he hadn’t used his throat in a long time. He attempted another smile as he put a weak hand on Elizabeth’s belly.
“Your second son should arrive soon,” she told him. “Within a month or so.” Of course she did not know the sex of the babe growing inside her, but she knew the thought of it being a son would be a comfort to Jonathan. She began to chat amicably about Catherine and Johnny, trying to ignore her husband’s clearly weakened state for both of their sakes. She made no mention of the evacuation of Long Island or the renewed soldiers’ presence in New York City. After a few minutes, the officer returned and announced that their time had concluded. The same soldier from before appeared and shoved Jonathan in the direction of the decks below.
Elizabeth wanted to scream at the soldier not to touch Jonathan. She blinked back a tear for her formerly proud, successful husband, now reduced to this miserable hostage. She longed to reach out and grab him—at his attenuated state, Elizabeth could probably have lifted him, even with her extended stomach—and take him back to Manhattan with her. But Elizabeth could do none of these things. She watched as her husband went back down the hatchway and felt an overwhelming foreboding that she would never see him again.
They rowed back in silence, both passengers disturbed by what they had seen. As they approached the shore, Elizabeth tentatively asked Tallmadge about his brother. He shook his head as he replied, “Dead.”
Elizabeth frowned as he continued, “And I’m not surprised. No one has much chance of survival aboard that floating squalor. They wouldn’t let me below, but I could smell enough to picture the putrid conditions they are keeping our soldiers in.” He wiped furiously at his eyes before remembering Elizabeth’s situation. He pulled out a handkerchief and then reached across the skiff to hand it to her. “I will see what I can do about arranging a prisoner exchange for your husband.”
Her attempt at a smile faded as she once again pictured her husband’s cracked face and felt that sense of hopelessness as she watched him walk away. “Thank you,” she told the captain.
That night, Elizabeth waited until her maid and children were fast asleep before she crawled out of bed. She lit a candle and went to the window that overlooked the East River. Across the darkened bay, past the myriad of British war ships tied at the wharf, she imagined she could see the hulk of the Jersey. For the first time since Jonathan had joined the war, Elizabeth found herself breaking down. She tried to keep her sobs quiet, but was unable to stop the flow of tears. Whatever assurance Captain Tallmadge had attempted to provide, given the state of Jonathan’s skeletal body and his pallor, Elizabeth knew her husband didn’t have much time. Never in her life had she felt as helpless as she did then, practically alone in a deserted city with a baby on the way, her country at war, her husband near death on a torture ship. She felt defeated, much in the way that Washington must have felt after the Battle of Long Island. Still, Elizabeth thought, he managed to recognize when it was time to retreat, and rally his troops in order to prepare for yet more battles in this war for independence. Elizabeth wet a linen napkin and patted it under her eyes, trying to keep the swelling down, before extinguishing the candle and withdrawing to her bed.
Chapter XV
Sally
September 1776
After the British victory at Long Island, the Whigs, including Samuel Townsend, worried over what would become of their businesses now that their beloved territory was in enemy hands. Stories swept down the island, rumors of Patriots in Setauket, a few miles to the east, having their homes, harvest, and livestock seized by the British.
In late September, Sally answered the door to find a short, broad man dressed in British regimentals.
“Yes?” she asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice as the uniform brought the nightmare of her father’s arrest back to the surface.
“Miss…” he stood up straighter, as if preparing to recite a litany, and then thought better of it. “Are your parents home?”
“No.” Sally shifted impatiently. “May I help you?”
The Redcoat’s shoulders sank and he seemed to deflate before her eyes. “Miss, my name is Joseph Green. Colonel De Lancey has ordered me to quarter with your fine family this winter. I’m told you have a room available?”
“There is no room,” Sally told him resolutely.
From somewhere behind her, a voice piped up, “My brother Robert has only just left for New York City.” Phoebe appeared beside Sally. “I suppose you might as well occupy his room.”
Sally stood firm at her post at the entryway as the officer transferred his bag from one arm to the other. Phoebe elbowed Sally hard enough that she was forced to step aside. The officer made no move forward as he stated, “New York City. Isn’t that quite a dangerous place to be?”
Sally smiled sweetly. “No more so than any other spot on the Continent during this infernal war.”
“Indeed.” The soldier dropped his bag. “If you don’t mind sending your father to speak with me as soon as he arrives, I’ll just make myself at home on this stoop.” He turned toward the portico steps.
“But Papa is home,” Phoebe stated. “I’ll get him for you.”
Sally shot daggers at her sister’s back as Phoebe departed for the interior of their house. How dare this enemy officer demand to share our home! In Robert’s room, no less. Her eyes threatened to tear over at this newest indignation, but she blinked them back. She would not give this Redcoat the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Papa gave his second eldest daughter only a brief glance as he passed by, but his meaning was clear: stay out of this. Sally sullenly retreated to the kitchen to help her mother with supper. Presently, she could hear two sets of footsteps in the hallway, and knew that there was no alternative: the Redcoat was going to spend the winter at the Townsends’.
Chapter XVI
Meg
September 1776
In mid-September, the British landed at Kip’s Bay, an inlet on Manhattan off the East River. The few continentals stationed there fled as cowards instead of fighting and the island was then completely under British rule.
Meg and her father were finally reunited soon after. When she heard the announcement that a few men from his company had arrived on the Eagle, she went to ask news of him. Captain Moncrieffe himself was standing on deck and Meg ran into his arms as soon as she spotted him.
“Daughter,” he said finally, pulling back to look at her. “I’m glad you are safe.”
“Of course, Father. General Putnam and his family were very kind to me.”
It had been nearly a year since Meg had last seen her father. He did not look that much different—the face that so many late wives had admired was still handsome, if only a bit more faded. The stern voice, however, had not changed in the least. “Seems like you are not a little girl anymore.”
Admiral Howe sauntered over to stand by Captain Moncrieffe. “No, she seems to be quite the woman now. And she’s made a few admirers of my men,” he continued with a wink at Meg.
She lowered her eyes. “You flatter me, sir.”
The Admiral put an arm around Captain Moncrieffe. “General Putnam says he could find her a good husband, but I think we would do better to find one of our own.”
Captain Moncrieffe shook his head. “She’s still too young.”
“A bit young in age, perhaps, but not in temperament. Sometimes when she speaks, I think her double her years.”
Captain Moncrieffe
nodded.
Another man appeared and saluted, his face dark. “Admiral, sir, we are the bearer of distressing news.” He gestured toward New York City. “The west side of the island is in flames and the fire is spreading.”
The admiral went to the bow of the boat and spit into the water. “Forgive my rudeness, but though they may be British citizens, those rebels are no Englishmen.”
Meg placed a gloved hand on the banister and peered at the distant island. She could just barely see a column of smoke rising from the opposite shore. She had heard not a word from Aaron, but knew that, despite his threat, he couldn’t have been the one to set fire to his beloved city. She knew, too, that he wouldn’t have been among the soldiers who threw down their arms rather than fight at Kip’s Bay. It was true that Aaron Burr did not consider himself an English gentleman, but he still had his own sense of worth. She wished she could query the admiral of Aaron’s fate, but did not want to face the fatherly inquisition it was sure to incite in Captain Moncrieffe.
Chapter XVII
Elizabeth
September 1776
There were no church bells to warn of the fire. After the British had entered the city, Washington had ordered that all bells were to be taken down and melted for cannon fodder. Elizabeth watched the progression of the fires from her second floor window. From her vantage point, she could see at least two or three conflagrations, the nearest one off Broadway at the White Hall inn. After the unusually wet August, the September days had been mostly dry. The wells had been wanting of water and the fire spread quickly through the city.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, mentally shutting out the screams and terror of the people running through the streets. If she had time to think of it, she might have been pleased that her beloved New York City, though now even more of a ghost town, was fighting back against the British invasion. But she didn’t have time to dwell on anything else: the baby was coming.
Elizabeth steeled her mind away from the thought that the birth of a child often resulted in loss, either of the baby, like her last child who had died shortly after she was born, or of the mother, like Elizabeth’s own mother who had died in childbirth. Now was not the time to panic.
“Ooh.” she nearly doubled over as another contraction began.
Abigail’s eyes widened with fear. “Miss Elizabeth, you’ve got to get in bed.” She cast her eyes toward the window and outside, which, at nine in the evening, was currently filled with more light than at dawn. Abby cursed under her breath as she dragged Elizabeth into the bedroom. She got her mistress settled and then ran for the tureen of water boiling in the fireplace.
The labor pains, as with the fire, continued through the early morning. When she wasn’t attending to Elizabeth, Abby paced around the floor in the living room. She instructed Johnny to sit at the table and learn his letters while Catherine played with her dolls. But every time their mother screamed in pain, both children looked at Abby with frightened eyes. Abby knew she needed help, but, from the sound of the chaos below her, it seemed that the few people that lingered in the city after the arrival of the British were finally fleeing as their homes and businesses went up in flames. Abby paused as a thought occurred to her. Mrs. Underhill!
Mary Underhill was an old family friend of the Burgin’s. She was only a few years older than Elizabeth and they had become fast friends after Elizabeth’s marriage to Jonathan. She and her husband Amos ran a boarding house on Queen Street. Abby knew that Mary had two girls in their early teens, so she would be the best person to help with the birth. That was if she hadn’t also left the city.
While Elizabeth dozed fitfully, Abby hastened to the Underhill’s boarding house. Thankfully the fire hadn’t spread to the east side of town, at least not yet. Mary Underhill was seated at one of the tables in the tavern with her husband, Amos, and a few other men.
As Abby rushed toward them, she shouted, “Mrs. Underhill, you must come quickly! Mrs. Burgin is in labor!”
Amos stood, knocking over the wooden chair he had been sitting in. “Is she all right?”
“So far.” Abby stooped over, panting from her run. “But Mr. Burgin has been captured and there’s no doctor to be found.”
Mary grabbed a worn satchel off a nearby hook and went into the kitchen. She emerged a few seconds later, the satchel bulging with cloth. She nodded at Abby and the two women headed back to the apartment above Jonathan Burgin’s store, wet handkerchiefs placed over their face so as not to breathe in the smoke that hung in the heavy air.
When they arrived at the apartment, Elizabeth was awake and once again grunting with labor pains. Mary commanded Abby to take the children downstairs to the storefront. She handed Elizabeth a twisted handkerchief and told her to bite down on it when the pain got too much to bear. She wet a washcloth with cool water and patted Elizabeth’s sweaty face.
After several more agonizing hours, the baby finally arrived. Mary’s expert hands cut the umbilical cord and wrapped him in swaddling before handing him to his exhausted mother. He possessed a hearty wail, Elizabeth was pleased to note. He had Jonathan’s mouth and eyes and just looking at him triggered both sorrow and happiness in his mother.
“He’s beautiful,” Mary declared as she came to stand behind mother and baby.
Elizabeth softly rubbed his button nose. “If only Jonathan could see his new son.”
“You’ve still had no word from him?” Mary began gathering up the bloodied linens and cloth.
Elizabeth shook her head wearily as she tried to get the baby to suckle her breast. “Not for a month.”
“I know it’s not much of a comfort now, but just think—your son will be able to grow up in a free country because of men like his father.”
Elizabeth managed a tiny smile as she stroked the head full of dark, wispy hair. “I think I will name him George. George Washington Burgin.”
Mary’s worn face relaxed into a grin. “I’ve yet to hear of a finer name.” She hoisted a sack of soiled clothing. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go home to wash up. I’ll send Abby back to take the baby.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
She nodded. “Get some rest. You need to keep up your strength.”
Chapter XVIII
Meg
September 1776
Admiral Howe rewarded Meg’s father—and Meg herself, though only the Admiral and Lieutenant Brown knew of her assistance regarding the Long Island raid—by giving them a fine brick townhouse on Queen Street. Meg installed herself in the largest of the three bedrooms, complete with a walnut bed frame and pink and white striped chintz curtains. The house had once been occupied by a wealthy rebel merchant who fled the city during the invasion. Like many such properties, the British declared the house to be payment to the King and assumed ownership. It stood on the Hudson, in a part of the city that was spared by the fire.
The captain’s military duties still required him to be absent quite frequently, so he invited the widow of a British soldier to stay with Meg. Her name was Mercy Litchfield and her house had been destroyed in the fire. Mercy was a true aristocrat: her mother was of Old Dutch stock and her father’s Scottish lineage stretched back to ancient times. She lost her husband, John Litchfield, a British captain, in 1775. Mercy was what Belle Putnam would have called a “breath of fresh air.” She was devastatingly beautiful, and, despite the dire circumstances of a city under siege, seemed to find humor in everything.
A few days after she arrived, Mercy burst into the townhouse. Her cheeks, flushed from the autumn wind, were a color similar to the damask curtains lining the first floor parlor Meg was ensconced in.
“Meg!” She fluttered the paper she held in her hand. “We’ve been invited to General Howe’s house!”
Meg hid the embroidery hoop she’d been working on by tucking it under her skirt. “Pardon?” General William Howe was the brother of Admiral Richard—one family member fought the Americans by land, the other by sea.
Mercy sat in the claw-footed wooden c
hair across from Meg. “A night of musical celebration, hosted by General Howe, is to take place in a fortnight!”
“And what are we celebrating? This incessant war?” Meg longed to retrieve her sewing but she did not want Mercy to know what she had been working on.
“No, silly. We are celebrating the handsome Englishmen that will bring back New York society.” Mercy rose elegantly from the chair. “I wonder if Mulligan fled with the rest of them. I wouldn’t mind a new frock.”
As Mercy flounced upstairs, Meg retrieved the hoop, frowning. She didn’t want to celebrate any Englishmen. She pulled at an errant stitch. She had been attempting to sew the initials A.B. onto a handkerchief, on the off chance she’d ever lay eyes on Aaron again. But the sewing would not have been up to Aaron’s fine taste. In a fit, Meg used the tip of her scissors to pull out all of the stitches before crushing the hoop under her satin shoes.
Meg could not have been less enthusiastic about the party. Mercy, in her growing gaiety, did not notice. Normally it would have been unseemly for a widow to be gallivanting around New York, but, with the onset of the war and the fleeing of many of the leading matriarchs, a lot of the societal norms had all but disappeared.
The night of the party, Meg and Mercy set out in a splendid coach, which had also been confiscated from a Yankee. When they crossed Broad Street, Meg’s eyes did not move from the window. The commercial district, through which she had passed with Aaron less than a month ago, was now a wasteland. Brick chimneys and cellar holes were about all that stood from the smoldering ashes that had once been stately Dutch homes. Tears of relief sprang to her eyes when she saw her beloved Kennedy Mansion, and next to it, Aaron’s old residence at Three Broadway, both miraculously spared from the conflagration.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of One Broadway. “Why have we halted?” Meg asked.
Mercy gave her a quizzical look. “Because we’ve arrived at General Howe’s.”