by Kit Sergeant
Robert and Brewster exchanged an uneasy glance. They were probably fearful of Elizabeth losing her composure again. But Elizabeth was done crying, at least for the time being. Unsure of how she’d found herself in the company of two Tories and a smuggler, she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her weak. As she rose out of her chair, she informed them, “Not if I have any say of it.” With that, the new widow walked out of the store and wearily climbed the steps back to her apartment.
Chapter XX
Sally
October 1776
As more British troops began moving into town, the Oyster Bay Tories, once too fearful to declare their political sentiments, now pinned red ribbons to their coats and hats in demonstration of their loyalty to the Crown. Thomas Buchanan delivered one such rosette to Papa, who tucked it into a drawer. Major Green, for his part, never mentioned the Townsends’ lack of red ribbons.
The same could not be said for the other British authorities who occupied Oyster Bay. One morning, Papa asked Sally to drop off a few items from his store to Daniel Youngs’ place on the far side of the Bay. Sally promptly agreed. Even though both Robert and Papa publicly submitted their oath, she couldn’t help feeling the Redcoats were watching her father’s every move and was eager to keep him out of their sight.
Sally set out on her ride. The fall day was sunny and cool, the yellow and orange leaves falling casually in front of her. She was nearly there when she spotted a British dragoon letting his horse graze in Mr. Titus’s field. She rode on without a second glance, but before long, she heard a voice behind her loud enough to resonate over the galloping horses. “You, girl,” the officer called out.
Sally slowed Gem but didn’t halt.
The soldier pulled up beside her. “I see neither your horse nor you are wearing red in honor of our King.”
Sally looked over at the man riding next to her. He was short and squat, his face the same, with heavy cheeks that reminded her of a chipmunk. He returned her gaze, his blue eyes narrowed.
“That’s right,” she couldn’t help telling him. “Gem here happens to have Whiggish leanings and reared when it was suggested he wear Tory red. Besides,” Sally patted her horse, “I prefer him as he is.”
The dragoon’s eyes, for a brief second, seemed to grow even colder as he put spurs to his horse and galloped away. Sally could see that he was also heading in the direction of the Youngs’, and her heartbeat sped up, keeping time with Gem’s quickened pace. She cursed herself for being so rude, for possibly putting her family in yet more danger.
As she rode up to the property, she saw the dragoon tying his horse to a post.
“Sir.” Sally tried her best to sound casual, but the man ignored her.
Just then, Daniel Youngs stalked out of the house and approached Sally. He smiled warmly and held out his arm to help her dismount as the Redcoat looked on. After Sally had gracefully climbed down from Gem, Daniel gave her a hug. As he pulled away from her, Sally figured the dragoon would take the opportunity to tell Daniel about her rudeness, but he stayed silent.
Daniel took the wrapped package from Sally and led her toward the house.
“Daniel?” Sally asked, subtly nodding at the Redcoat, who was examining his horse’s shod.
“Ah, yes.” Daniel said, his hand placed lightly on Sally’s back. “That dragoon is a member of my militia.”
“Your militia?”
“Yes. As a Loyalist officer, I have been given command of a unit stationed here at Oyster Bay.”
Sally fell silent for the rest of the walk. Susannah had been a childhood friend, and Sally had been fond of Daniel. She supposed he was aware of her family’s stance, but that he was choosing not to say anything more, which put only a little salve on her regret that Susannah married such a Tory.
“I hear that you have become hosts to a Loyalist militia unit,” Sally stated to Susannah after the Youngs’ slave girl had served them tea and pastries. Sally picked up a biscuit, but her stomach was still in knots over the fear that the dragoon outside would speak of her behavior to Daniel, that it would get back to Major Green, or, worse yet, Papa.
Susannah shrugged. “You know how it is.” She took a bite of her cookie. “And I hear that your family is hosting Major Green. Tell me, is he good-looking?”
“He is clearly not in want of a good meal.”
“Yet I assume he looks handsome in a uniform,” Susannah giggled.
Sally wanted to state that it was the wrong uniform, but she bit her comment back along with her biscuit.
An hour later Sally headed back to the Townsend home. Her hackles were raised, expecting to meet yet another soldier on the road who would demand to know why Gem wore no red, but she made it home without incident.
Phoebe met her at the door. “Mother has decided to throw a party!”
“A party?” Sally removed her riding bonnet. “Whatever for?”
“For Major Green, of course.”
Sally ran a hand through her dusty copper curls. Major Green’s presence was not the nightmare Sally had expected the day she found him on the portico—he had kept mostly to himself and was not altogether unpleasant at mealtimes. He had an unassuming, if aloof demeanor, and allowed the Townsend family to go on with their life as it were. Still, it didn’t seem proper to host a party in his honor, given the Townsends’ political leanings.
“Papa?” Sally stood at the doorway of the peach-colored dining room that doubled as her father’s study, watching him as he leaned over his books. She had to repeat his name again before he finally looked up.
“What is it, Sally?”
She entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She also closed the adjacent door that led into the kitchen and then stood beside his chair. “I was just wondering why we should have a party for Major Green.”
Papa set down his quill. “After what happened earlier this fall, I wanted to make sure De Lancey knows that his officer is a welcome guest in our home.”
“But if the British—”
Papa placed his hand over hers. “Sally, these are the times we live in. Officers are quartered all over the colonies. It could be worse. Youngs’ militiamen are terrorizing the town. I’ve heard stories…”
“I know.” Sally had heard them too—stories of Loyalists plundering their fellow countrymen’s farms and homes, and of them kidnapping and raping young women. “I suppose Major Green does offer a bit of protection now that Robert has gone to the city.”
“And for that we can be grateful.” Papa turned back to his ledger, indicating the conversation was over.
The party took place a few days later. The Youngs were invited, as were Jacob Townsend—Papa’s younger brother—and his wife, Mercy, along with a few other Oyster Bay neighbors.
Sally and Phoebe were conversing in the parlor with Major Green, decked out in his uniform, when their cousin Hannah arrived with her sister Almy Buchanan and her husband. Major Green paused what he was saying mid-sentence to peer at Hannah.
“Who is that?”
Phoebe mistook his query. “Thomas Buchanan is a good friend of Papa’s. He helped him during Papa’s trial.”
Major Green did not seem to hear her. He sauntered over to the newly arrived guests and, as custom, politely introduced himself to the married couple before turning to Hannah and bowing. She returned a curtsy, giggling as her cousins watched. Phoebe turned to Sally, eyebrows raised. The three girls, similar in age, had always been close, but Hannah usually garnered the least amount of attention when they were all together. Sally shrugged. She would not have entertained Green’s attentions, anyway. From the way Hannah pranced in front of him, Sally figured she’d follow in her sister’s footsteps by marrying one whose sentiments went against their newly founded country.
In fact, Major Green, though the celebrated guest of the party, did not leave Hannah’s side much of the night until it was time for her to depart.
“Tell me more about Ms. Townsend,” Green begged Sally after
most of the guests had gone.
“Hannah?” Sally slid a chair back to its customary place in the corner. She briefly considered saying something to avert Green’s obvious enchantment with her cousin, but then thought better of it. Hannah was only a year her senior and more than capable of making her own decisions. “Her brother-in-law is a staunch Loyalist.”
Green nodded as he moved another chair. His mind seemed preoccupied.
A few days later, the couple announced their engagement. Green was adamant that the wedding take place as soon as possible.
“Why so promptly?” Sally asked him when he entered the kitchen. It was the servants’ day off and Sally was tasked with making supper. “Are there plans for winter deployment?” After the words left her mouth, she turned to place a bannock pan onto the hearth, hoping to hide her red face. Her question, though posed out of curiosity, might be taken in offense, as though she were trying to dig up information.
“I know of no such plans,” Major Green replied casually. “But, if that were the case, I would like for Hannah to have some prospect of a pension should anything befall me.”
Sally turned back toward him and Green nodded at her before swiping a biscuit on his way out of the kitchen.
Her heart was still thumping at the conversation. True, Green had provided no useful information, but what if he had? Sally had resented living in such close quarters with the enemy, but now she began to ponder if somehow she could take advantage of the situation. Perhaps, if prodded in the right way, Green—or any of the other myriad of British officers stationed in Oyster Bay—might divulge secret plans or tactics.
Silly me, Sally thought, wiping her hands on her apron. What would I do with that information anyway? Whisper it in General Washington’s ear? She pulled the pan out of the fire and set it on the trivet to cool before removing her apron.
Chapter XXI
Elizabeth
October 1776
As the weather began to cool, life settled into routine for Elizabeth. Although rumors of raping and pillaging spread throughout the city, they were mostly contained to the charred remnants of the west side. The ironically named Holy Ground had been decimated, but in its place sprung Canvas Town, a much more apt epithet. The poor, who had no money to rebuild, spread sails from old boats over the burned out chimneys and ruins and continued their bawdy revelry. The deluge of Redcoats on the street became a familiar sight to Elizabeth and no longer struck fear in heart.
The loss of Jonathan was not as easy a reconciliation, however. As independent as she had become in his absence, she missed him terribly. As was her custom while he was away at war, every morning she woke up without him, she reminded herself that he’d soon return home. Gradually the realization that he was never coming back would sink in, along with the sorrow. The time between the two thoughts grew closer together as the month went on, but that did not mean the pain lessened.
Mary Underhill stopped by for tea at least once a week. She was well informed of Elizabeth’s grievances against Robert Townsend, who had befriended Rivington and started writing Tory trash for his paper. At one such meeting, Mary shrugged off Elizabeth’s complaints to ask, “But how goes the store?”
Elizabeth took a sip of tea and carefully set the porcelain cup back on the plate before answering. “Well enough. Mr. Townsend used his contacts at the Gazette to secure a contract to supply the British Army with stationary.”
Mary broke off a piece of scone. “That should bring in a good amount of money.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I suppose, but I cannot get the image of General Howe writing orders to condemn a man using ink and paper procured from Jonathan’s store.” The words, uttered from her own mouth, stung her unexpectedly and her eyes filled with tears.
Mary reached out to pat her friend’s hand. “I’ve said it before, Elizabeth, but we all do what we can.”
Mary was a first cousin of Nathaniel Woodhull, the general under whom Jonathan served, and who was tortured in battle, later dying of his wounds. It seemed to Elizabeth that Mary was too quick to forgive traitors. “I just don’t understand how Robert Townsend can go about openly associating with Redcoats.”
“Elizabeth, things aren’t always what they might seem. A lake with calm waters at the surface can run very deep.” Mary’s voice carried an ominous undercurrent. Elizabeth searched her friend’s face to see if her expression might belie her meaning, but the teacup she held to her mouth obscured any telltale sign.
Robert Townsend himself was a contradiction. As much as Elizabeth resented him, he, for his part, made himself useful. It helped that there was a continuous flow of money into Elizabeth’s account, which was a double blessing as the price of fuel skyrocketed with the British occupation. The unusually cool October foreboded an even more frigid winter.
One morning she stopped by the store to check on things while Abby was out on a walk with the children. She flipped uselessly through the ledger while Robert restocked shelves before slamming the book shut with a loud sigh.
Robert turned toward her. “Anything wrong?”
Elizabeth did not want to admit her ignorance, but something seemed off to her. “There are a great many blankets and canned food attributed to a Mr. George Higday, but I don’t see any payments, on loan or not.”
Robert colored slightly. “No, Mrs. Burgin, that is true. I make the payments from my own account.”
“But why?”
Robert walked over and stood on the other side of the counter. “Mr. Higday serves the prison ships.”
“The prison ships? How?”
“He arranges a trip out there on a whaleboat at least once a week to offer food and other necessities to the prisoners.”
“But why are you aiding him?”
Robert put both hands on the counter. “I consider it my patriotic duty.”
“You’re no Patriot.”
Elizabeth’s voice held less animosity than usual, but still Robert visibly recoiled at the harsh words. “I’m a Quaker. I have no side.”
“Then you are definitely not a Patriot.”
He returned to his former position restocking inkwells. Elizabeth ran a finger across the cracked leather of the account book. As much as she hated his Tory-leanings, she felt badly that she had obviously offended him. “I’d like to meet this George Higday,” she said finally.
Robert gave her a long, searching look before he nodded in return.
A few days later, Elizabeth was knitting in her apartment when someone knocked at the door. Abigail raised her eyebrows at her mistress, who shrugged. It was not the day of Mrs. Underhill’s weekly visit and, besides Robert Townsend, they did not get many visitors.
“Is Mrs. Burgin available?” a rough voice called after Abby had answered the door.
Elizabeth rose. “I am here.”
Caleb Brewster, the former whaler and Townsend’s probable smuggler, stood in the hallway holding a faded hat in his hands. He bowed. “Mr. Townsend wanted me to inform you that a mutual acquaintance of yours has entered the store.”
Elizabeth frowned before remembering her request to meet Higday. “I’ll be back shortly,” she told Abby. She ran into the bedroom to grab a blanket she had quilted and then followed Brewster as he clomped downstairs.
George Higday was a squat man with a large paunch. His goat’s hair wig was too small for his head, revealing his own graying hair underneath it. He stood before the counter as Robert Townsend wrote in the ledger.
“Ahh, Mrs. Burgin, I’m glad you were able to finally make the acquaintance of Mr. Higday,” Robert said, nodding at the man.
Higday turned to Elizabeth and bowed. “Mrs. Burgin.”
She set the blanket on a shelf behind her before extending her hand. “I hear you do a great service to your country.”
Higday glanced at Robert, who returned an almost imperceptible nod. Higday turned back to Elizabeth and gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Oh, I do not do much. I am mostly in charge of the garneri
ng letters from the prisoner’s families. Dame Grant and William Scudder are the ones who actually gather the supplies.”
Elizabeth could not help noticing that he seemed rather nervous. His glassy-eyed stare bounced from Robert to Brewster and then back to Robert, who had his hand wrapped around his chin while he studied Higday.
“Who is Dame Grant?” Elizabeth inquired.
Again, Higday looked at Robert before replying. “It looks less suspicious if a woman is on board.”
Robert coughed and Higday’s countenance took on a guilty look, as if he had said something awry.
“Suspicious?” Elizabeth asked.
“He means it makes it look more meaningful,” Robert clarified. “The prisoners like to see a cheery female face as it reminds them of their wives and daughters.”
Brewster covered up his guffaw by stretching his arms overhead and pretending to yawn.
Elizabeth did not tell them that she was also acquainted with Dame Grant, a corpulent older woman. Although Dame Grant’s patriotic blood ran deep, Elizabeth questioned whether her face, with its deep-seated frown lines and heavy jowls, would be considered cheery. There was definitely something the men were not telling her. “And William Scudder?”
“One of my crew,” Caleb Brewster drawled.
One of your smugglers, Elizabeth corrected him silently. “And what happens when you arrive at the prison ships? Do you go aboard?”
“No,” Higday answered. “It’s too dangerous—many of the men have the pox. We anchor next the accommodation ladder and a guard lowers it for us.”
“I am familiar with the dangers of the hulks,” Elizabeth said, forcing a vision of an emaciated Jonathan out of her mind. “But how do you know your supplies are actually getting to the prisoners?”
“Well…” Higday gestured toward Robert, who answered, “They have to make sure the guards on duty are His Majesty’s soldiers and not American loyalists. Our fellow countrymen are much crueler than their British counterparts. And we have a note from the commissary to prisoners, Lewis Pintard. He is charged with making sure our men receive decent care. As much as can be done in those rotting hulks, anyway.”