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

by Kit Sergeant

  I wish I could deny that as well, Meg thought. She gave her husband a fake smile. “Thank you.” The words were hard to get out.

  Mercy pulled her hood up. It was a typical early March day: cold and gray. Coghlan retreated for the warmth of the townhouse.

  “Here,” Mercy said, handing Meg a red rosette. “Pin this on your cloak.”

  “What is it?”

  “It acknowledges our loyalty to the King so that no one will bother us.”

  The wharf was only a few streets away. Near the shore was what Coghlan referred to as the “shipyard.” Dozens of small skiffs no bigger than a whaling boat and in various stages of construction were nestled on the embankment. A few of them were not much more than wooden ribs and looking not unlike pigs after the feast had ended. Mercy headed for what must have been the sentry as he was standing at attention with a gun on his shoulder.

  “Excuse me. Sir?” Mercy called.

  Meg’s breath caught as the sentry turned. It was Thomas Walcott, the soldier who had passed her message about the New York fortifications on to Admiral Howe.

  “Miss Moncrieffe. Forgive me for not showing you the proper obsequies, but I am on duty,” he stated.

  “Actually, it’s Mrs. Coghlan now,” Meg replied dourly.

  Thomas broke attention to look at Meg. “You’re married?”

  “Indeed.” Meg curtsied. “We are here to see General Howe.”

  Thomas smiled. “You two don’t exactly look like Mrs. Loring, but you might do for the general.”

  Mercy’s jaw clenched, but Meg placated her by saying, “He’s only jesting. Aren’t you Thomas?”

  He nodded and then turned to a soldier standing a bit farther down the shore. “Andrews!”

  The young man glanced over. He had a baby face and did not look much older than Meg. “Take over my post while I escort these ladies to see the General,” Thomas commanded him.

  “Thomas,” Meg hissed. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “It’s okay. He was supposed to take over for me soon, anyway. C’mon.” He started walking east, creating a lane through the flat-bottomed boats.

  “What are they building?” Mercy asked, her voice raised to be heard against the wind.

  “They’re called Durham boats. Good for navigating shallow rivers.”

  Mercy gazed at a nearly finished boat as they passed by. “Oh? I didn’t think the Hudson was so shallow.”

  “No. It’s for the Chesapeake Bay. Howe’s planning on sailing up the Chesapeake to march on Philadelphia.”

  Meg watched Mercy’s lips repeat the word “Philadelphia.” When Mercy caught Meg watching her, she readjusted her hood and focused her eyes forward.

  Thomas reached a large tent. “Visitors for General Howe,” he told the Redcoat standing outside, who narrowed his eyes at the ladies.

  “We have an appointment,” Mercy added.

  He shrugged and then ducked into the tent. When he returned, he announced that the General would indeed see them. He held the flaps back as Meg and Mercy entered. Thomas declared that he would stay outside. Meg figured that he would not want Howe to know that he had abandoned his post.

  General Howe stood when they entered. He was slightly younger than his brother, the Admiral, with softer features. He wore a regal red coat with heavy gold epaulettes at the shoulders.

  “How can I assist you ladies?” he asked in a booming voice.

  Mercy curtsied and glanced at a group of men in the corner, who paid her no heed. “First of all, General Sir, I would like to thank you for seeing us. I know you are a busy and important man.”

  The General waved a large hand as he took in the rosette pins at their bosoms. “I am always willing to assist our Loyalists. Especially if they are beautiful ladies.” He winked at Meg, who curtsied uneasily. She did not want to give her name for fear of being linked to either Coghlan or her previous activities with Thomas Walcott.

  Mercy explained her carriage plight.

  General Howe nodded. “So you say that your husband was a soldier? Did he die in battle?”

  Meg looked at Mercy, realizing that Meg herself was also unaware as to the circumstances of Mercy’s husband’s death.

  “Smallpox,” Mercy ventured in a low voice. “In 1775.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” General Howe put a casual hand on his sheathed sword. “I wish I could be of more help, but I will not be in New York for much longer.”

  Mercy tilted her head. “The army is moving on?”

  General Howe gave her a tight smile. “I cannot divulge that, but we will do our best to see about your coach when the army returns for the winter. Isn’t that correct, André?” One of the soldiers in the corner turned. Meg recognized the handsome gentleman with sand-colored hair from Howe’s party in the fall. He walked toward them and bowed. “We will do our best.”

  Mercy nodded, her eyes on André. Meg noticed that she did not seem that upset about her carriage not being returned. She bowed and thanked both General Howe and André before grabbing Meg’s arm to lead her out of the tent.

  Thomas escorted them to the edge of the wharf. “I was sorry to hear about your marriage, Meg.”

  Meg bit her tongue back from telling him that she was too, but Thomas continued. “I was hoping to propose to you when you were of age, but I thought that you and that rebel Burr had something, the way he stood guard in the hallway when I first visited you.”

  Meg blinked hard. “No,” she said finally. “We had nothing.”

  The trio reached Thomas’s partner. “Are you ladies fit to return to your residence?” Thomas asked.

  “We’ll be fine,” Mercy said. She led the way out of the shipyard. Instead of heading in the direction of the townhouse, Mercy turned the wrong way down Queen Street.

  “Where are we going?” Meg asked.

  Mercy stopped at a storefront and walked in without replying.

  Meg peered at the sign above the door, which was imprinted with a threaded needle. The lettering read, “Hercules Mulligan, Tailor.” She followed Mercy in.

  Hercules was talking in a low voice to a tall, lean man. Mercy unfastened the rosette from her cloak and marched over to them. “Mr. Mulligan, I need this rosette mended. It’s very important.”

  Meg gave a curious look to her friend. She hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the brooch. Mercy’s eyes were focused on Hercules, who took the rosette in his hands. “Is it urgent? I am with a customer.” He gestured toward the tall man, who took a step backward.

  “Terribly so,” Mercy replied.

  “My business can wait,” the tall man said.

  “Actually, I think I have some thread in the cellar that will do just fine for this rosette. Robert,” Hercules turned to his customer. “I think this particular thread would be of interest to you as well.”

  Mercy eyed the man named Robert. “If you are sure he should be there,” she said to Hercules.

  “What about…” Hercules’s gaze shifted to Meg.

  “She can wait,” Mercy said. “We won’t be more than a minute.”

  Hercules led his two patrons to the back of the store. Meg went to a window and watched as they walked into the alleyway. Mercy and Robert paused as Hercules lifted up the door to his storage cellar and then they disappeared.

  Convinced now that there was something much larger occurring than a rosette in need of mending, Meg glanced around the store. It seemed a typical tailor’s shop: a few wooden dummies in various states of dress stood in the corner of the room and a shelf held bolts of fabric.

  Mercy had been acting awfully odd, Meg mused. But not all morning. In fact, she was fine up until… just then Meg espied the cellar door opening. She stepped away from the window and pretended to be absorbed in a cut of wool on the counter.

  They returned the way they left, through the back door of the shop. Their raucous chatter seemed a bit forced to Meg.

  “Well, Meg, are you ready to leave now?” Mercy asked.

/>   “Of course.” Meg set down the wool. “Did you get your rosette repaired?”

  “I did,” Mercy said, not recalling that the original task was only to retrieve thread.

  “Here it is,” Hercules said, returning the intact brooch to its owner.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” the tall man said before bowing toward Meg. “I am Robert Townsend.”

  “Meg Moncrieffe, er, Coghlan.”

  “C’mon Meg,” Mercy said, moving to the door. “Let us leave Mr. Mulligan and Mr. Townsend to their business.”

  Meg gave Robert a polite smile as she stepped out of the shop. She was pretending to go along with Mercy’s ruse, but the best she could now figure out was that the fake rosette matter had something to do with the information about Howe’s next move that Thomas had betrayed to them.

  She must be a spy was the conclusion Meg came to that night as she laid in bed. As usual, she had a hard time falling asleep, but when Coghlan came in after having drinks and cigars with her father, Meg pretended to be sleeping.

  She hoped this would deter him from performing his marital rites, but he lifted up her dress anyway. She kept her eyes closed and bit her lip as he roughly entered her. When he finished, he slapped her. Startled, she sat up.

  “What was that for?” she asked, putting a hand to her tender face.

  “I knew you were awake the whole time. But that’s no matter,” he said, getting up. “I prefer my women not to talk.”

  “You’re an awful man!” Meg spat out.

  He shrugged. “At least I have money. You could be married to a poor brute instead of rich one.” He took his hat off a hook and put it on.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to find myself a whore who enjoys a rollick.”

  “But you were just intimate with me.”

  “Yes, I used my good seed on you. As soon as you get a babe in your womb, I’ll give you a break and spend more time with my whores.” With that, he left the room.

  Bewildered, Meg pulled her legs to her chest before calling Athena for a cool rag and the chamber pot. She would be damned if she allowed his seed to take hold inside of her.

  A few days later, Coghlan announced that he’d been given orders to leave for Philadelphia. Meg lifted her eyes to Mercy’s face; the blank look Mercy held seemed contrived. Meg’s smile was genuine as she gracefully offered to help her husband pack. Anything to get him away from her.

  Coghlan left for places unknown that afternoon; Meg figured he frequented Canvas Town, the area once next to Trinity Church that was once known as The Holy Ground and was in all actuality anything but. Captain Moncrieffe was summoned to a meeting with Admiral Howe.

  “Should we pay a visit to Hercules Mulligan, then?” Meg asked Mercy when she was sure they were alone in the living room.

  “Why, Meg, whatever do you mean?” Mercy replied.

  “I mean, I know what you are doing—” Mercy sat up straighter on the couch, but Meg continued, “And I want to help.”

  Mercy raised her chin and studied Meg’s face. “It’s dangerous work. If you’re caught, you could suffer Nathan Hale’s fate.”

  “I understand,” Meg said firmly.

  “Can I just ask one thing?”

  Meg nodded.

  “Why? This defies everything your father, and your husband for that matter, stand for.”

  “That’s the first reason.”

  Mercy leaned forward. “And the second?”

  “Aaron Burr.”

  Meg sat back. “You are a married woman, now, Meg. You will have to give up your hopes of ever being with Burr.”

  Meg rose. “I no longer have such designs. But I never met anyone as devoted to a cause as Aaron. It will be my one sacrifice, the one good deed I do in this world, to help him achieve his dream in any way I can.”

  Mercy stood as well. “Then let’s go call on Hercules Mulligan.”

  Chapter XXVII

  Elizabeth

  April 1777

  After a few days of a fever and mild achiness following her inoculation, Elizabeth felt much better. The spots on her arm had faded, and it seemed that the rest of her family would also survive unharmed. Elizabeth congratulated herself on making the right decision, difficult as it was.

  When Mary Underhill came to return Georgie, she brought a well-dressed, dark-haired lady with her.

  “Elizabeth, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Mrs. Mercy Litchfield.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Litchfield?” Elizabeth asked.

  Mercy curtsied prettily. She had the air of a debutante, and, as she looked around, Elizabeth saw her living room through Mercy’s eyes: the shabby rug, the empty shelves where expensive knick-knacks once stood, the unpolished furniture. Although the store was doing well under Robert’s guidance, Elizabeth had begun selling off many of Jonathan’s prized possessions, including a mezzotint portrait of John Hancock and a sculpture of Julius Caesar, in order to buy more blankets and food for the prisoners. Elizabeth hoped both of the women realized that the unclean state of her apartment was due to her and Abby’s recovery and not any slovenliness on her part. As Mercy focused her blue eyes on Elizabeth, Elizabeth noticed they were not unkind.

  “George Washington,” Elizabeth breathed, going toward her baby. “He’s gotten so big!”

  “He’s walking now,” Mary said proudly.

  “Soon he too will be ready for inoculation,” Elizabeth commented.

  “How are you carrying on?” Mary asked, busying herself with tea in the kitchen.

  Elizabeth gestured for Mercy to sit at the kitchen table. “Well, thank you.” As Elizabeth was about to seat herself, she heard a knock at the door. “Who could that be?” Elizabeth asked aloud as she went to the door.

  It was Dr. McKnight. “I’ve just come to check on you,” he said. “General Washington has requested me to accompany the army on the next campaign, and I wanted to pay one last visit.”

  “Please do come in, Doctor,” Elizabeth said, stepping aside of the door. “I have a few guests here, and Mrs. Underhill was just about to serve tea.” Elizabeth led him into the kitchen and introduced him to Mercy Litchfield as he was already acquainted with Mary.

  “I think,” Mary said, setting a tray of tea and biscuits on the table. “I think we are all friends here.” She looked at each person meaningfully after she sat. “I know Abby is a competent caretaker, but please let me know if you ever need me to look after the children. I must say, Elizabeth, what you are doing is extremely brave.”

  Dr. McKnight nodded. “I agree. The Redcoats burned my father’s church and then imprisoned him. He died aboard the Jersey.”

  Mercy put a mouth to her hand. “How horrible!”

  As Dr. McKnight turned to her, Elizabeth could practically see a spark light between them. “’Tis what happens in war,” Dr. McKnight replied.

  Mercy dropped her eyes coquettishly. Elizabeth had always thought Dr. McKnight was good-looking and now it seemed the beautiful Mercy Litchfield agreed.

  “Mrs. Burgin,” Mercy reached out to put her hand on Elizabeth’s. “Please do let me know if I could ever be of service. I believe we have more than Mrs. Underhill and now, Dr. McKnight,” she paused to look over at him, “as friends in common.”

  Elizabeth gave her a puzzled look.

  “Robert Townsend and Hercules Mulligan,” she said, again with a glance in Dr. McKnight’s direction. The doctor’s expression did not change, but Elizabeth fought to keep her eyes from widening. She knew that Hercules Mulligan still frequented the store, but was unaware that Robert and Hercules had more than a casual acquaintance. Not for the first time, she wondered just what Robert Townsend was up to.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Sally

  April 1777

  Word spread of the injustices that Oliver De Lancey’s Loyalist troops inflicted upon their fellow countrymen in Oyster Bay. The Townsends’ neighbor, Joseph Lawrence, was arrested and put in jail after attempting to stop
British soldiers from digging up his garden. Other families who were barely able to scrape by with what they had watched silently as De Lancey’s troops stole their horses, harvested their wheat, and slaughtered their livestock. It was the same up and down Long Island: the Loyalists even robbed from Tories who professed loyalty to the King.

  One day in early April, Sally was relaxing in the orchard after her chores. The day was unusually warm and she sought relief in the shade of the apple trees. She had just begun to doze off when she was startled by drumming. The commotion was coming from in front of the house and Sally rushed over to what looked like a crowd forming. Audrey was already there.

  “What’s going on?” Sally asked, breathless from her sprint.

  Sarah Underhill was also among the crowd and came to stand next to the sisters. “John Weeks from down the road was out after curfew. When the sentry stopped him, he refused to give the countersign and tried running away. He was caught by De Lancey’s men and Judge Smith sentenced him to be whipped.”

  Sally’s mouth flew open as two lobsterbacks shoved Old Man Weeks, his hands tied with rope, toward Papa’s giant locust tree. “They aren’t going to whip him right here, are they?”

  No one replied as they watched the Redcoats manhandle their neighbor, a respected, kind man whom Sally had known her whole life. The soldiers roughly fastened another rope to the one between Weeks’s hands and then tied it around the tree.

  “No!” Sally shouted involuntarily. Weeks’s adolescent daughter took up Sally’s cry as well.

  “Hush child!” Mrs. Weeks commanded her daughter. “That’s not any help.”

  Sally caught sight of her father walking out of the house, leaning heavily on his gold-tipped cane as he came to stand next to Sally.

  “Papa,” she said, pulling on his lace sleeve. “Can’t you do something?”

  He merely shook his head as the rest of the crowd fell silent. The lead Redcoat, a man with squinty eyes and an invariable frown on his face now bestrewn with sweat, brandished a cat o’nine tails and lifted it over his head. Sally covered her eyes with her hand as he swung. The sound of the whip cut through the air, followed shortly by a man’s howl, and then a young girl’s whimper. Sally peeked with one eye at John Week’s daughter, who was sobbing. The girl’s mother grabbed her arm and then led her away while the whip cracked again. Every fiber in Sally wanted to run, to find sanctuary under the orchard trees again, but she was unable to move. The awful whipping sound seemed to go on forever. Eventually Weeks grew silent and Sally could feel a cool breeze as the crowd dispersed. She finally opened her eyes again to see the soldiers mounting their horses.