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

by Kit Sergeant

  “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” the lead Redcoat sneered from atop his mount. “But if you haven’t, I’ll hang on to this. And that goes for anyone else who dares disobey His Majesty’s orders.” He waved the cat o’nine tails before he pulled at the horse’s reins and galloped away, his fellow officers behind him.

  Weeks fell to his knees. Sally’s mother appeared with a jar in her hand. She silently bent down and began rubbing the salve onto Week’s wounds. He cringed but then managed to mutter, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mother paused to shoot a fearful look at her husband. He sighed and bent even more over his cane. To Sally, it seemed Papa had aged greatly in those few minutes. Instead of the stylish dandy she’d always seen him as, he now appeared every bit the old man, the cane more of a necessity than a fashion piece. Mother sent Audrey to go fetch Weeks’ wife and daughter and let them know that it was over. It took Sally and both of her parents to help Weeks into the Townsend home and onto the living room couch. Mother instructed Sally to make Weeks some tea as she gathered all of the pillows she could find.

  Weeks fell into a deep sleep as his family came in and sat silently beside him. Sally’s heart sank as she watched the scene. They had all been wounded by the British soldiers’ authoritarian presence in their town, but Weeks’ scars would serve as indisputable evidence that the King’s tyranny was still present in Oyster Bay.

  The whipping episode of John Weeks forced Sally to become even more determined to do what she could to help the rebel cause. She paid a visit to the Youngs’, hoping to pick up on some information about the Loyalist’s plans, but all she learned about was that some of the British had raided a Patriot storehouse in Connecticut a fortnight ago.

  Finally, near the end of spring, the Loyalist brigade began to move out of their winter quarters in Oyster Bay, presumably to Connecticut to fight General Benedict Arnold. The summer of 1777 dragged by for Sally. She learned of snippets of information, such as the British occupation of Philadelphia, from Robert, when he paid his family visits from New York City, or Daniel Youngs. In August, Robert told her about the attack Caleb Brewster and company had made on neighboring Setauket, Caleb’s hometown. Robert explained that the Loyalist Colonel Richard Hewlett had pillaged the church ministered by the father of Benjamin Tallmadge—another of Robert’s acquaintances. Hewlett’s men had looted the interior of the church as well as knocked over the gravestones outside. When the Patriots had descended on Hewlett, a gunfight ensued, halted only when someone forewarned Brewster that several British men-of-war were headed to Setauket’s harbor. They managed to capture a few of the Loyalists’ horses on the way out.

  “That sounds a lot like Brewster Bragging,” Sally replied when Robert had finished retelling the story. Caleb was sometimes known for embellishing his stories. He once told Sally about how a wounded sperm whale attacked his boat off Greenland.

  Robert shrugged. “At any rate, it’s a good story.”

  “Indeed,” Sally confirmed, wondering who the person was that tipped off the Patriots regarding the descending warships. If the Loyalists occupying Setauket were anything like the oppressive ones here in Oyster Bay, she didn’t blame Brewster’s men in the slightest for attacking them.

  The harsh news that the British took over Philadelphia was brightened a month later by the news that General Burgoyne surrendered to the Patriots in Saratoga, New York. Sally read about it in the Gazette, knowing that Rivington rarely printed anything positive pertaining to the rebel cause, so it had to be of consequence. Below that was an editorial by Rivington himself, predicting that, if the Patriot victory did indeed lead to an alliance with France—and Sally fervently hoped that it would—then King Louis XVI would then be crowned the American King and would force the women of his new country to wear cosmetics and heeled shoes like the ladies of his French court. Even Sally giggled at that.

  Chapter XXIX

  Elizabeth

  June 1777

  Elizabeth rose early one day in mid-June. Now that she had suitably recovered from her inoculation, it was time to take on the duty of visiting the prison ships. Robert met her in the street carrying boxes of supplies. He nodded at her but did not say anything more as they walked the few blocks to the wharf. The day was gray and rainy and Elizabeth, standing at the docks, questioned Brewster whether it was a good idea to venture out to the hulks in this weather.

  “It’s only a little clouds,” Brewster replied, glancing up at the dismal sky.

  There was something about Brewster’s unceasingly cocky manner that calmed Elizabeth. She took a deep breath before climbing into the whaleboat.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Robert finally spoke as he set down one of the boxes in the middle of the boat.

  “I know,” Elizabeth said softly, “but it is my duty to my country.”

  From his spot on the dock, Brewster wound a few feet of rope around his arm. “Where’s Higday? He’s always late.”

  Robert put his hand over his brow to shield out what little sunlight there was. “I think I see him coming now.”

  Out of breath and empty-handed, Higday arrived and then sat on the other side of the whaleboat. Brewster unwound the rest of the rope from the pier and then settled in between the boat’s rowing poles. “See you in a bit, Rob, ole’ boy!” he called as he began to commandeer the skiff away from the dock.

  After that, the passengers and rower fell silent. Brewster’s oaring was rhythmic and swift. Soon Elizabeth could see the ship emerging as if it were a ghost appearing in the mist. It was low tide that morning and more of the hull was visible than she remembered. The bottom of the Jersey was covered with mud and seaweed from the surrounding tidal flats and appeared even filthier than the rest of the boat. The swampy stench of rotten eggs from the exposed muck reached them even before the smell of fear and dying men.

  “I hate the hulks,” Higday said, breaking the silence that had enveloped them along with the fog. “Evil lives there.”

  “There’s nothing supernatural about them,” Brewster replied. “And not much living to be had, either. It’s a rare thing when one of those poor brutes finishes out his sentence alive.”

  “Still,” Higday leaned over to the left side of the boat to address Elizabeth. “I dislike going there.”

  “So don’t go,” Brewster said. He had to drive the oars with more effort now that the water was shallower. “But we won’t be paying you.”

  Higday shook his head and sat back, muttering about the price of fuel during this infernal war.

  Elizabeth gazed anxiously at the ship. The gray fog was lifting, letting more sun in. From her vantage point, it seemed the Union Jack was stamped at every porthole, even if it was only the daylight reflecting off the barred windows. A few prisoners, emaciated and wearing rags, were on the deck, trying to get fresh air before the sun began to bake down on them. They shouted weakly at their comrades below that Brewster and Higday had arrived.

  One young man, who couldn’t have even been more than twenty, called to Elizabeth, “What’s your name?”

  “Mrs. Burgin.” She wondered if any of them had known Jonathan. According to Brewster, the men who would have been imprisoned with her husband were most likely dead, victims of dysentery, smallpox, starvation, or just maltreatment and neglect.

  “Thank you for your service, Mrs. Burgin,” the young man replied. Other faces, more wretched and gaunt than the boy, leaned over and thanked her as well. Some of the voices came as scratchy whispers, so dehydrated were the speakers. Elizabeth’s heart sank at the sight of the weakened men struggling to lower the accommodation platform. She was sure the skeletal forms before her had once been proud, robust soldiers and sailors, but the British Army had purposefully neglected—or outright tortured—their prisoners of war. She fought back tears as Brewster and Higday loaded the boxes onto the plank. Elizabeth reached out to help them and found that her hands were shaking. She could not get the image of a desolate Jonathan leaning over the side, praising a
different martyr for bringing him food and blankets. She hoped against hope that her husband did not die without knowing any form of kindness aboard that deplorable ship.

  Their tasks completed, Brewster tipped his hat to the men on board as they called out more gratitude before he began to row away. Elizabeth felt a certain comfort as she watched Brewster maneuver the oars—his powerful arms were a welcome sight after the cadaverous forms of the prisoners. She tried to console herself with the fact that she had done a great thing, but at the same time, she could not wipe away the dread of knowing those men were likely to suffer Jonathan’s fate.

  When they arrived back at the dock, Robert was waiting in the same spot, as if he’d never left. He reached for Elizabeth’s hand to help her out of the boat. She was so overcome with relief to be on dry land again that she threw herself into Robert’s embrace. He folded his arms around her and she felt the soothing sensation of being in contact with an able-bodied man still in the realm of the living. She broke apart to ask, “How could anyone be so cruel to other human beings as to lock them up on that… thing?”

  Robert stuck his hands in the pockets of his breeches, seemingly befuddled by the unexpected contact. “It’s that bounder, Cunningham,” he said finally. Recovering, he added, “Come, let’s get you something to eat.”

  Chapter XXX

  Sally

  September 1777

  As fall approached, the Townsends grew even more apprehensive as to who they might be asked to quarter for the winter. Major Green had moved in with Hannah’s family so Robert’s former room had been empty all summer.

  “German mercenaries!” Audrey announced one afternoon as she came into the kitchen. She had spent the morning visiting Hannah.

  “What?” Sally stood up from the table, the dough she’d been rolling spread out in front of her.

  “The Germans are to occupy Oyster Bay for the winter season.”

  Sally glanced at Mother, who had her hand held to her mouth. She pulled it away to ask, “Hessians?”

  Everyone had heard of the stories of the hired German military men during the Battle of Long Island. After the Americans had realized they were trapped, they threw down their weapons and surrendered, but the Hessian troops charged them anyway, shooting down and then bayoneting the would-be prisoners of war. Now the barbarians were plundering through the countrysides of New York and New Jersey, burning any house or field in their path, after taking anything they considered valuable as part of their booty.

  “Major Green said they were called…” Audrey wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Jägers?”

  “The huntsmen,” Sally said softly.

  *=

  Oberstleutnant Ludwig Johann Adolf von Wurmb, the Lieutenant Colonel of the 1st Battalion Jäger Corps, was the commander who moved into Robert’s room. Despite the residents’ initial fears, over time they realized that the Jägers that came to Oyster Bay were not nearly as destructive or insolent as the Loyalist troops.

  At tea a few weeks into September, Daniel Youngs told Sally of a story about their neighbor, Jonathan Haire, who fired upon the Hessians after they supposedly shot six of his sheep. “Lieutenant Colonel Wurmb ordered Haire brought before him.”

  Sally, recalling John Week’s fate, stated that she could only imagine what had happened.

  “No,” his wife Susannah held up her hand. “Just wait to hear this, Sally.”

  “Wurmb then asked,” here Youngs affected a German accent, “‘Did you fire upon my men?’ And then Haire replied,” Youngs switched back to an American accent. “‘I did indeed, as a result of them killing my sheep.’ Wurmb said that he hoped Haire would not repeat his actions, but Haire told him that he would do so again.”

  “And what happened to Mr. Haire?” Sally asked.

  “Wurmb gave him another reprimand, but allowed him to go about his business.”

  Sally put a hand to her mouth. “The Loyalists have killed men for much less.”

  “Indeed.” Youngs took a sip of tea.

  As the townspeople realized that the newcomers were in fact polite, friendly, and, most of all, fair, the prominent families of Oyster Bay began inviting the Jägers to dinners and gatherings. During an outdoor concert, Lieutenant Wurmb presented all three Townsend sisters to the men of his Jäger Corps, the majority of whom were quartered nearby at Mudge’s farm. Sally found one man, introduced as “Leutnant Ochse” to be particularly attractive. It was evident by Audrey and Phoebe’s giggles that they felt the same. As Papa had recently announced Audrey’s engagement to Captain Farley, Sally no longer felt threatened by her older sister. However, Phoebe, now seventeen, had turned into quite a lovely young lady. Sally knew the competition was over when Phoebe broke a ribbon on her shoe, and Ochse sang her a little ditty accompanied by fife and drum to cheer her up.

  Although Sally had to admit to herself that the billeting situation could have been much, much worse, she found herself slightly dismayed by Ochse’s preference for her sister. That and the fact that she was unable to garner much information from the reticent Wurmb to pass on to Robert contributed to the cloudy mood she exhibited for the next few weeks.

  The regiments usually did not perform much action in the winter, so she was disconcerted to see Wurmb gathering a small group of soldiers near the churchyard in late November.

  “Lieutenant Wurmb!” Sally called out without thinking. Already mounted, he gazed down at her, and Sally took advantage of the courteous smile he wore. “Lieutenant Wurmb, are your soldiers preparing to march?”

  “Yes,” he replied in his thick German accent. “The rebels are sailing through the Devil’s Belt toward Setauket.”

  Sally glanced around. There were no telltale expresses or messengers that she could see, only a sea of Jägers in matching uniforms. “How do you know?”

  A young boy walked up to Wurmb and gave him a piece of paper. As Wurmb scanned the words, Sally wished she knew what syllables were being formed by his lip movements. “We have signal beacons on Norwich Hill,” he answered Sally before he stuck two fingers in his mouth to whistle loudly. He stabbed his spurs into his horse and ordered his men to move out.

  Nothing much came of the raid: Sally heard later from Leutnant Ochse that the rebels had already fled when his battalion arrived. In her mind’s eye, Sally could almost see Caleb Brewster cursing and waving his fist at the Redcoats from the protection of his whaleboat.

  The next afternoon Sally saddled Gem, determined to find more information about the “signal beacons” that Wurmb had mentioned. She told her mother that she was going to deliver some preserves to her Uncle James in Jericho. Norwich Hill was the same direction as Jericho.

  Now that she was looking for them, Sally could just get a glimpse of giant stacks of logs in pyramid shapes placed sporadically. She was unable to get a good look at them because they were up on the hill and each one had a sentinel near it. Once, when she halted for a better view, a soldier called out to her. His voice caused warm blood to cascade through her veins and she clicked at Gem to move faster, giving a backwards wave to the sentinel as her horse galloped off. As soon as she was out of sight of the sentinel, Sally laughed to herself.

  After she arrived back home on a hurried round trip, she closed her eyes and tried to process the information. If the large stacks of wood were lit, the bonfire could be seen for miles. She surmised that the placements of the log pyramids could provide some sort of message to the British. I’ve got to tell Robert! was her thought when she opened her eyes.

  Chapter XXXI

  Meg

  October 1777

  With Coghlan in Philadelphia, Meg felt liberated. Life in British-occupied New York was carefree and frolicsome. Hercules Mulligan introduced Mercy and Meg to hordes of high-ranking British soldiers and then stepped back to let the women use their considerable charms to ferret information. Hercules would then pass on a report to his handler, a man named Nathaniel Sackett, who somehow got the information directly to George Washington himself.
Meg wondered what the Commander-in-Chief would say if he knew that some of the intelligence which guided his tactical decisions came from the feisty girl who once declined in front of him to drink to Congress.

  Meg and Mercy would pay a visit to Mulligan’s tailor shop a few times a week, ostensibly to shop for clothing. Mercy encouraged Meg to purchase something every time, just to keep up appearances. Because she refused to buy anything for her husband, Captain Moncrieffe’s accessory collection grew by tenfold.

  “Christopher Duychenik,” Hercules said one day when they were safely ensconced in the storage cellar.

  “Short, stout, friend of Governor Tryon?” Mercy seemed to have a stellar memory when it came to Loyalists.

  Hercules nodded. “He claims to be one of us, under the cover of working for David Mathews, the mayor, who has ties to William Franklin.” William was the illegitimate son of the founding father, Benjamin Franklin, but, unlike his Patriot sire, was a diehard Loyalist. He was the former governor of New Jersey and a suspected British spymaster, to boot. “We are not sure which way Duychenik’s loyalties lay. If he is indeed a double agent, the information he feeds to the rebels could be deadly.”

  Hercules frequently spoke of the word “we.” Meg was not entirely sure who he was working with, but she suspected it might have had to do with that tall man, Robert, who was in the shop the day when Mercy presented Hercules with her rosette.