by Kit Sergeant
“Howe’s residence is at the Kennedy mansion?”
Mercy was busy gathering up the skirts of her blue taffeta gown and didn’t reply.
Once outside, Meg, dressed in a pale pink sacque dress covered with tiny rosebuds, started. A Union Jack flag, placed in the forefront of her old safe house, fluttered in the breeze. Meg felt an unexpected twinge of sorrow as she gazed upon the flag of her home country. She could only imagine Aaron tearing it down if he saw it in front of his general’s former headquarters. The defeat of the American Army and their loss of New York suddenly became very real. Meg hoped that wherever the Putnams—and Aaron—were, they were away from harm.
Accustomed as she was by now to see the tailored red uniforms of the British Army, Meg had to blink twice to notice them stuffed in the parlor that Dolly Putnam had once established her sewing circles in. Beautiful women in a rainbow array of chintz, damask, and taffeta sat among the Redcoats. Meg and Mercy took seats on fine, though unfamiliar, Chippendale chairs. Although she could hear the lilting tunes of a harpsichord, Meg’s view of the room was obscured by the woman in front of her, whose hair rose in a pyramid shape at least two feet off her head and was topped with an ornament that remarkably resembled the Eagle.
Mercy caught Meg staring at the unusual coiffure and nudged her with a grin. She put her arm around Meg’s shoulders to pull her toward her, giving her a view of the busty woman sidling up to the harpsichord. “That’s Elizabeth Loring,” Mercy whispered in Meg’s ear.
Meg looked at her blankly.
“General Howe’s mistress. They say that her cuckolded husband, Joshua Loring, has been promoted to commissioner of prisoners.”
Meg wrinkled her nose. “Seems like an awfully high price to pay.”
Mercy nodded before sitting upright in her seat.
After the rather off-key performance of Mrs. Loring, the parlor was turned over into a partial dance room. Besides the Loring/Howe dalliance, gossip that night was of an American man caught spying behind the enemy lines.
“What was his name?” Meg asked a foppish fellow in the red regimentals of a British officer.
“Nathan Hale, I believe,” the officer returned.
Meg sighed inwardly in relief that it wasn’t Aaron. Her relief quickly turned to horror as the man continued, “His body is still hanging outside the Dove Tavern.”
Even Mercy seemed shocked and gasped aloud before saying, “Is that not a bit cruel?”
The man shrugged. “It’s what happens to spies caught by their enemies.”
“Tell me, Major,” Mercy said, subtly pulling down on her bodice. “What do you think Howe’s plan is now?”
“Besides cuddling up next to Mrs. Loring?” the man asked with a leering grin at Mercy’s décolletage.
“Now that they have control of most of New York, do you think the army has plans to invade Philadelphia? Or have they set their sights on New Jersey?”
The man shrugged as he drank Madeira from a cut crystal goblet. “I have heard no plans yet.” His mouth turned down. “Why do you ask?”
Mercy gave a dainty roll of her shoulders before placing a hand on Meg’s elbow. “If you would pardon us, Major. My throat is much parched.” She pulled her companion to the refreshment table in the corner.
“What was that all about?” Meg asked, picking at a display of fruit.
“I have relatives in the Jersey area.” Mercy stepped closer to her friend. “Meg, I can’t help but notice how many eyes are on you tonight. You could have your pick of any officer in this room.”
Meg bit into a grape. It tasted sour and she swallowed it nearly whole, feeling its lump move down her throat. “None of them whet my fancy.”
“What about that one?” Mercy used her fan to gesture to a tall, well-shaped man with sand-colored hair. “I hear Major André enjoys his ladies very much.”
Though handsome, in Meg’s opinion the man called Major André was nowhere near Aaron’s caliber. An even lesser-looking gentleman in a double breasted navy coat who had been conversing with the major caught the women’s stare and shoved his way over to them.
“John Coghlan,” he stated in a heavy Irish accent, sticking out a pudgy hand. His bald head glistened with sweat and there was a yellow stain on the cream lace of his cravat. His portly stomach seemed to test the strength of the buttons of his vest.
Another macaroni, Meg thought, before she curtsied and then introduced herself.
“Ahh, yes, Captain Moncrieffe’s daughter,” Mr. Coghlan concluded. “I am acquainted with your father.”
“Indeed?” It was Meg’s turn to find an excuse to leave the conversation. Unfortunately they were already standing next to the refreshment table. She cast her eyes about the room.
Major André caught her glance and walked over. “Ah, Mr. Coghlan, I see you have wasted no time in finding the most lovely ladies in the room to converse with.”
Coghlan frowned as he bowed toward André. “I see you are trying to do the same. I am interested in finding out what other acquaintances Miss Moncrieffe and I have in common.”
André bestowed a brilliant grin on Meg and Mercy. On second thought, maybe he is not so different from Aaron, Meg thought. “Although I believe it is becoming late. General Howe does not approve of women being out past curfew.”
Meg’s return smile toward André held a hint of gratitude.
Coghlan’s gaze was icy as he must have known that he could not argue with the major. He bowed before saying, “I hope to see you again, Miss Moncrieffe.”
As Meg linked her arm through Mercy’s, leading her to the door, she whispered, “I hope never.”
Chapter XIX
Elizabeth
October 1776
Despite the chaos that had accompanied his birth, George was a surprisingly calm baby. He took to the breast eagerly and expertly. Although he slept in four hour patches, Elizabeth still felt constantly drained. Abby took Catherine and Johnny out for daily walks and filled her mistress in on what was happening in the city around them.
The fire had exhausted itself, but not before it destroyed nearly every building between Broadway and the Hudson River, save for the Kennedy mansion at One Broadway and a few others. Roughly a quarter of the city had gone down in flames, including Trinity Church.
Elizabeth couldn’t muster the strength to go down to open the store, consequently there was no money coming in. Abby usually managed to scrounge up milk from somewhere and Mary Underhill visited daily, often bringing meat and loaves of bread.
One day in early October, Abby startled Elizabeth while George was feeding. “Mrs. Burgin, Mrs. Underhill is here.”
“Show her in.”
“She’s also brought Mr. Underhill and another man with her. I told him you were busy, but they insisted on waiting outside until you are ready to receive them.”
Elizabeth glanced down. George must have had his fill because he was now sleeping at her breast. Elizabeth gently broke the contact between the baby’s mouth and her nipple. After handing the infant over to Abby, Elizabeth slipped her bodice back around her shoulders and realigned her stomacher, the strings still tied loosely now to accompany her wide belly. Mary Underhill was used to seeing Elizabeth half-dressed, but that would be no way to greet a strange man.
She went out to the living room and arranged herself as elegantly as she could before nodding to Abby. “Show them in.”
The man who entered with the Underhills was tall and thin, with brown hair tied back in a low ponytail. He had solemn blue eyes above a hawkish nose. His plain dress indicated that he was probably a Quaker. He bowed in Elizabeth’s direction before holding up his hand in a clear urge for her not to get up to return the gesture.
Amos Underhill also bowed. “Mrs. Burgin, I would like to introduce you to Robert Townsend.” Amos sat down in one of the wooden chairs Abby had arranged in the living room while Mary remained standing by the fireplace.
Elizabeth nodded slowly. She had heard the name many tim
es: the Townsends were Jonathan’s biggest competitors. Their import business sold many of the same items, though they operated mostly out of Oyster Bay on Long Island. “What brings you to see me?” She waved her hand toward another chair and Robert sat down.
“I am aware of Mr. Burgin’s recent…” Robert paused as if to find the right words. “Capture. I am also aware of your new arrival. I can only assume that things must be challenging for you at this time.” Robert speech was dotted with breaks. It was clear the matters this pensive man came to discuss were difficult for him to voice.
Elizabeth folded her hands over her dress. “Indeed, but I’m not sure what concern it is of yours. Especially given the circumstances betwixt you and my husband.”
It was Robert’s turn to nod. “I am aware that, in the past, my family’s store might have been seen as a rivalry for Mr. Burgin. However, there are affairs that have precluded our business in Oyster Bay. My father was recently arrested, and now we are forced to have the British quarter with us. The army will soon settle for the winter, and I fear that the same might be brought upon your household.”
“Soldiers? No one, including General Howe, will be forcing the enemy upon my home.”
Mary interceded. “Elizabeth, you haven’t been about the city. Everywhere there are doors painted with the black G.R.”
“G.R.?” Elizabeth asked.
“For Georgius Rex,” Amos spat out. “Indicating that the house has been confiscated by order of his majesty.” Amos wiped his gleaming bald head with a handkerchief. For an October day, it was quite warm outside.
Robert steepled his long fingers. “Mr. and Mrs. Underhill mentioned that you are alone here and they worry about you. Some of the abandoned businesses have been looted, and there are riots breaking out constantly. There are stories of British soldiers raping American women.”
“The taverns are clogged with enemy soldiers and Loyalists,” Mary added. “They are pouring into the city.”
Elizabeth went to the window. The streets below were littered with broken glass and trash. “What will become of us?” she asked, more to herself than the room.
“I believe that I can offer a solution.”
Elizabeth pivoted her head toward the speaker. “What exactly are you proposing to me, Mr. Townsend?”
“I am suggesting that you might let me run your shop for the winter. With the British occupation, they are in need of worldly goods more than ever. Every day the store remains shut, you are losing money.”
Elizabeth glanced at Amos. He and Jonathan had grown up together in Setauket. Amos wouldn’t suggest anything to her that Jonathan wouldn’t abide by. “Mr. Underhill, are you in agreement with this?”
Amos nodded. “Mary and I both think it is the best solution. That way you will have protection of a man, and one in good favor with the British.”
Elizabeth sat back down. “What have you done to cause such favoritism?”
Robert had the grace to color slightly. “I swore an oath to the King.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened into fists. “You are a Tory, and a traitor to your faith.” Her uncle had been a Quaker and Elizabeth knew that the religion specifically forbade taking oaths.
Mary put a restraining hand on her friend’s shoulder. “These are trying times, Elizabeth. Many people do things they don’t approve of to get by.”
Elizabeth took her eyes off Robert to gaze around the room. Many of Jonathan’s fine art and trinkets had disappeared—Abigail had to hawk what she could to keep food on the table. Every day she went out into those streets, Elizabeth worried for her. She worried for all of them. Amos was right: Robert’s presence in the shop below would offer them some measure of safety, at least until Jonathan returned to take his rightful place. Elizabeth finally nodded her assent at Robert. “You may manage my store. I expect to get the majority of the profits.”
Robert stood to bow again. “Thank you, madam. You will not regret your decision.”
Elizabeth also rose. “We all must do what we can to survive mustn’t we?”
Robert’s blue eyes looked pained as he replaced his cap. “Indeed.”
Elizabeth still didn’t feel strong enough to venture downstairs, but Abby’s daily excursions provided the excuse to spy on Robert.
“He reads a lot, Miss Elizabeth. Whenever the store is empty of customers, he usually has his nose buried in a book.”
“And are there customers?”
“Oh, yes, Missus. The shelves are stocked again with all kinds of things: tea, perfume, feather pens, even rum.”
“Rum?”
Abby nodded, her eyes wide. “Sometimes the Redcoats are queued up outside the door. They love their drink. That’s why they are so loud and rowdy in the streets at night.”
Hmm, Elizabeth mused, wondering how Robert was able to stock such luxuries. She went to the window. The docks were packed with British warships and Elizabeth could surmise that the Redcoats were carefully monitoring the harbor. One would think it would be difficult to get items imported from other parts of the world. Either her new business partner had money to bribe British officers, or else he was somehow affiliated with the privateers that roamed the harbors.
Elizabeth thought she’d confirmed her latter suspicion when she finally felt well enough to see the effects of Townsend’s tutelage for herself. True to Abby’s word, the store was filled with lobsterbacks and commoners alike. Though the shelves were not completely full, a peek inside the storage room proved that it was not because of short supply but more due to people buying items faster than Robert could stock them. Elizabeth watched from the corner of the counter as Robert served a few customers, the scent of tea and exotic spices filling the room. She held the air that she intended to supervise, hoping that Robert would not guess she was unfamiliar with most of the nuances of being a merchant, especially with the new goods.
“Rob!” a boisterous voice exclaimed.
“Cal!” Robert returned in an equally excited voice. He shook the man’s hand before addressing Elizabeth. “Mrs. Burgin, I would like to introduce you to my friend, Caleb Brewster.”
Elizabeth obligingly came forward and curtsied. “Mr. Brewster, how do you do?”
Brewster bowed. He was taller than even Robert and much broader, but he had a disheveled look about him: his unruly brown beard was in need of a serious trimming and his trousers were worn at the knees.
“I knew Caleb before he was a whaler,” Robert offered.
“And now, sir, what do you do?” Elizabeth asked. “I imagine whaling expeditions are hard to come by, what with the Redcoat seizure of the harbor.”
“Everyone still needs whale oil.” Brewster scratched at his beard. “But it’s true, madam, that I’ve parted with my whaling ways. I served the Continentals during the Battle of Long Island.”
“And now?” Elizabeth repeated.
“Now I’m a longshoreman.”
Ahh, Elizabeth thought. That’s how Robert has access to these items: ‘longshoreman’ must have been code for privateer, someone who profits from robbing ships of their cargo.
Elizabeth glanced at Robert. He was noting something in the ledger and didn’t look up. The bell rang and all three pairs of eyes watched the newcomer step inside. Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to speak a customer’s name. “Mr. Rivington!”
Robert’s pen paused as he scrutinized the impeccably dressed Rivington striding over.
Brewster’s friendly expression became sour. “As in Rivington’s Gazette? You own that paper?”
Rivington nodded. “I do.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Burgin, it is a pleasure to see you. Are you feeling well?”
“Well enough, thank you.”
“Then, would you mind if I had a word?” He directed Elizabeth to a corner before pulling a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket. The store had emptied and both Brewster and Robert were watching them, Elizabeth noted.
The normally composed Rivington seemed nervous. His halting manner pani
cked Elizabeth as she took the slip from him. “What is it, Mr. Rivington? Is it news of my husband?”
“It is from one of my contacts aboard the Jersey.”
The store seemed eerily hushed as Elizabeth scanned the paper. In response to your inquiries… Elizabeth skipped down to the bottom, her heart hammering away in her chest. Cannot find any trace of a Jonathan Burgin. Immediately Robert was at Elizabeth’s side, grasping her hand to support her weight so she wouldn’t sink to the floor. “Is he…?”
Rivington dropped his gaze. “As the letter stated, they cannot find a trace.”
“But what does that mean? I saw him with my own eyes on that awful ship.”
Brewster shook his head as he went into the stockroom, his baritone voice booming as if he were still in the same room. “If it’s the Jersey you speak of, he wouldn’t have lasted long. He would have died either from the pox or from starvation. They presumably dropped his body overboard once they found out he expired. The same thing happened to my friend Ben’s brother.” He returned, brandishing a chair which he set in front of Elizabeth. As Robert helped her into it, Brewster continued, “I’m sorry to say, madam, but he’s probably shark fodder now.”
As Robert elbowed Brewster, Elizabeth buried her face in her hands and wept. Although she didn’t fully love Jonathan when he first proposed marriage, she had grown to both respect and admire her husband. Not to mention depend on him. The past few months had been very difficult, and she had to constantly console herself by thinking of how things would right themselves once Jonathan was set free. But now he was gone. He would never meet his new son, never see his children grow up in an independent country, never get the chance to be fully out of England’s grasp.
When the tears had finally calmed, Robert handed her a handkerchief. As she wiped her eyes, her sorrow turned to anger. “How dare they?” she demanded. “How do they let such a fine man as Jonathan die and then not even give him a proper Christian burial?”
Rivington picked up the letter and tucked it back under his waistcoat. “I’m afraid that many more men will suffer the same fate.”