by Kit Sergeant
Meg tilted her head as she recalled something Mercy had told her about André. “And you threw General Howe the most marvelous going-away party. What was it called? The Meson-something?”
“Meschianza.”
“Yes, that’s it.” Mercy had been derogatory, saying how awful it was for the British to be throwing such elaborate parties while the Americans were starving at Valley Forge. The extravaganza required the ladies to dress as Turkish mistresses (as though in a harem, Mercy had related) and even included a mock joust, portrayed by the soldiers themselves, who wore knight costumes. While the Redcoats and Tory ladies of the city danced the night away, the Marquis de Lafayette led his men to Barren Hill, just a few miles outside of Philadelphia. What was it Mercy had said? It was like Nero fiddling while Rome burned.
“Mrs. Coghlan,” André lifted his teacup to his mouth with impeccable English elegance. “There actually is something I wanted to ask you.”
“Yes, Major André?” Meg asked, batting her eyelashes.
André set his cup down and leaned forward “It is about your husband.”
Meg could not keep a scowl from forming.
André nodded, as if the expression on her face had answered an unasked question. “I spent some time with him in Philadelphia.” He took her arm to examine the purple bruises. His hands were soft and Meg felt a tingle from his touch. It was a pleasant experience to be handled so gently by a handsome soldier once again. “Normally I would not dare ask such an intimate question of a lady and her affairs.” He frowned as he released her arm. “But, I feel that it is my duty as a gentleman and a soldier, considering your husband seemed a bit—how shall I say this? Unhinged.” He glanced over at Meg and saw her grimace deepen. “I am well to assume the marriage is not a happy one?”
Meg nodded. Most men would shun asking a woman about the state of her marriage, but she had quickly ascertained that John André was not like most men, American or British. The idea flashed in her mind that he could be her savior. Since they had already gone beyond the breeches of etiquette, she was going to be as frank with him as she could. “I consider it more along the lines of—dare I say—honorable prostitution?”
If Major André were shocked to hear the vulgar words come out of Meg’s mouth, he hid it well. He drew up a booted leg and set it atop his other knee. “And your father? Does he know he hurts you?”
“My father was the one who forced me into this arrangement. It is more important for him to not admit he is wrong than to annul the marriage.” It was her turn to lean forward. “My only hope is that Coghlan will die in battle.”
This time André did not camouflage his surprise. He crossed himself before saying, “Mrs. Coghlan, one does not wish a soldier to perish in combat.” He lifted her chin so that their eyes met. “No matter how hated the man,” he finished as Meg began to cry softly.
She reached again for his hands. “Major André, is there no way for you to help me? He will be returning tonight, and every night thereafter to mistreat me.”
He squeezed her hand and then pulled away to sit for a moment, deep in thought.
“Major André?” Meg asked after a minute of silence.
He stood, looking a bit perplexed. “I’ve never left a damsel in distress and I do not intend on doing it now. However, this might require some maneuvering on my part.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small flask. “Slip some of this into your husband’s drink tonight. I will return at dusk with a solution.”
It was not easy for Meg to follow André’s directive. She had to invent an excuse to the servants as to why she was in the kitchen in the first place. She told them she wanted to check the supply of silver for a party she was planning. Noah did not question her. She’d concealed the vial in the ruffles of her gown, and then, after the wine was poured, convinced Noah that she’d heard the doorbell. Meg waited until Athena was not looking and then emptied the contents of the flask into Coghlan’s glass.
He fell asleep at the table, face down into a plate of ham. Meg told Athena that he’d had too much wine, which seemed to soothe the servant’s startled demeanor.
André, true to his word as Meg knew he would be, arrived soon after. After Noah had led him to the dining room, André glanced from Coghlan’s immobile form to Meg. He bowed. “Mrs. Coghlan, I’ve made arrangements for you to stay at General Clinton’s residence.”
Meg nodded.
“If you don’t mind, we must make haste.” His gaze settled again on Coghlan. “Gather what you need for immediate use and I will send for the remainder.”
It did not take long. She took a few fine dresses and jewelry and then left instructions for Noah to arrange the packing of the rest.
“Are you leaving us, Madame?” Noah asked as Meg headed back downstairs.
“For a little while.” She did not tell him where she was going, not that she knew exactly where Clinton was quartered. The less information Noah knew, the less Coghlan could demand of him.
In the hallway, Noah handed Meg’s things to André. He managed all of it while still being able to hold out the crook of his arm, which Meg took as he escorted her to the carriage.
“It’s Mrs. Litchfield’s,” André said, pausing at the curb before he loaded her bags in the back with the help of the Redcoated driver. “I didn’t think she would mind.”
André came around to offer Meg his aid in climbing into the coach. As they began to move forward, he cleared his throat. “There is one thing you must know.”
“Yes?” Meg asked, moving the curtain aside so she could see out the window.
“In order to convince the General your need to stay, I had to tell him a small fib.” André attempted a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“And that is?”
“I told him you were my mistress.”
Meg let out an uncomfortable giggle. “Why, Major André—”
He put a hand on her knee before withdrawing it quickly. “I’m sorry if that embarrasses you.”
She gave a lilting laugh. “It is of no consequence.” Meg was well aware that many British officers took on mistresses while overseas. At this point she had not given thought to whether she wanted the fib to turn fact or not. She was just glad to once again be away from Coghlan’s grasp. Still, Meg thought, glancing at the soldier across from her, André was a mighty handsome fellow.
The carriage came to a halt. All Meg could see out the window was an iron balustrade that looked vaguely familiar. “Is this…” she began to ask as André, already on the ground, held out his hand.
“One Broadway,” he said proudly as Meg emerged from the carriage. “The erstwhile Kennedy mansion.”
“Oh,” Meg replied as she once again looked up at her former—now present again—residence. The Union Jack still flew as haughtily in front as it had during General Howe’s stay; not much else had changed. Her heart began to beat in trepidation as she recalled all that had happened there: sewing with Mrs. Putnam and the girls in the parlor, flirting with Aaron on the rooftop, learning military secrets in Old Put’s office.
André showed her to her old room. “This is where Mrs. Loring stayed while General Howe was here,” he told her. Meg nodded, too overwhelmed with emotion to be disdainful of Mrs. Loring’s relationship with the General. After André had taken his leave, Meg walked over to the desk where she’d once drawn images of the Yankee’s fortifications of the city. Ironically, now that she was being housed at British headquarters, she was in the best position possible to spy for the Patriots. But I’m done, she reminded herself. I will be the cause of no one else’s pain or death. Not even her husband’s.
Chapter XXXVII
Elizabeth
August 1778
Robert seemed somewhat fearful after the prison ship escape and begged Elizabeth to end her runs to the Jersey, to which she finally consented. Robert informed Higday that he too must lie low but declined to tell him the reason why. Higday was understandably upset as the price increases of food that sum
mer were unbearable. The inflation was mostly due to the presence of the blockade by the French fleet at Sandy Hook, as well as the population swell in Manhattan resulting from the mass exodus of Loyalists from Philadelphia. Bread was scarce in the city; the British were feeding their men rice and oatmeal instead of flour products. Somehow Elizabeth’s family, the Underhills, and Robert Townsend were never in want of these products, thanks presumably to Caleb Brewster and his whaleboats in the Devil’s Belt.
But Higday was not so lucky and insisted that he needed some way of earning income for the family. He entreated Elizabeth with his request, who promised to pass it on to Robert when he returned. Robert managed to get him a job at the coffee shop. He told Elizabeth that Higday complained endlessly when he was out of earshot, but was polite enough to the faces of the British officers that frequented there.
Elizabeth no longer frowned when Robert mentioned his Tory contacts. She was not exactly sure what Robert did, but his disappearances from the store increased in both frequency and duration until he ceased to come in every day. As she was convinced that his loyalties matched hers, she did not question his absence. Plus, Elizabeth now felt more than capable of managing the store by herself.
Robert took on the task of educating little Johnny, now seven. He would come over in the evenings, brandishing books in Latin and Greek. It was not long before Robert noticed that Abby often crept into the kitchen as well. Abby could read enough to get by, but she had always considered herself “unlettered.” When Robert learned this, he brought Abby paper and ink and gave her daily assignments to practice her handwriting.
Elizabeth set about teaching Catherine to embroider. They would sit in the living room as Robert, Johnny, and Abby occupied the kitchen table. True to form, Elizabeth never called out her daughter when she seemed distracted by the instruction in the next room. Both would be silent, intently listening as Robert’s voice, rich with enthusiasm, expounded on the classics.
Elizabeth taught Catherine her letters and numbers, which the little girl then stitched onto her sampler. Catherine was particularly adept at sewing and Elizabeth, who was not, soon ran out of stitching patterns to instruct.
She paid a visit to the Underhill’s to inquire if Mary had any of interest.
“Indeed,” Mary replied. She had been manning the tavern, but her husband, Amos, had arrived shortly after Elizabeth. “It’s upstairs in the attic bedroom. My brother Abraham has been staying there.”
“I do believe Abraham has been out and about on business,” Amos interjected.
Mary gestured for Elizabeth to follow her up the staircase. “Abraham is a farmer and comes into the city to sell his goods.”
“He must find a good market with them now, considering the French blockade,” Elizabeth commented.
Mary was out of breath by the time they reached the attic. “It’s just in here,” she said, opening the door.
Elizabeth started as she heard a shout followed by a loud crash. Peering into the room, she caught sight of a man standing next to an overturned desk. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at something. Although an inkwell was lying on its side, Elizabeth did not see the telltale spreading stain of spilled ink.
Mary rushed to the desk to help. “I’m sorry, Abraham, I did not realize you were in here.”
“Yes, well, considering the hazards of my occupation, you would do well to knock first.” The man’s voice seemed shaky; it was obvious he’d been quite spooked at his sister’s sudden entrance. He stacked up a few scattered papers and then held them close to his chest.
Elizabeth, standing in the doorway, thought that an odd reply for a farmer. And why was he so protective of that pile of blank papers?
As Mary moved past him to her trunk, Abraham grabbed a utensil off of an empty plate and squatted to spoon clear liquid from a puddle into the inkwell.
“Can I help?” Elizabeth asked from her post.
Abraham obviously hadn’t spotted her previously. He jumped to his feet and glared at Mary. “Who is this woman and why is she here?”
Mary looked up from her forage in the trunk. “Abraham, I’m sorry, this is Mrs. Burgin. She is a friend of Robert Townsend’s.”
Upon hearing the name, Abraham seemed to relax. “Forgive me, Mrs. Burgin, but you both gave me quite a fright.” He resumed his prior task of rescuing the liquid.
Mary located the sampler and straightened up. “We will leave you, then, Abraham.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said with a curtsy.
Abraham gave them a listless wave before Mary shut the door.
“I’m sorry for that, Elizabeth,” Mary said, beginning to descend the stairs. “Abraham tends to be a bit… jumpy sometimes.”
“Is he also a friend of Robert’s?”
“Indeed. As you know, Long Island is a tight-knit community. Abraham and Robert had quite a few mutual friends so it was only natural they would make acquaintances of each other.”
Elizabeth, reflecting on Abraham’s absurd behavior, had a feeling that those mutual friends might be named Benjamin Tallmadge and Caleb Brewster.
As Abby was putting the children to bed after their nightly tutoring session, Elizabeth made tea as usual, but that night’s topic of conversation between her and Robert would be unexpected, at least on Elizabeth’s part. “Who is Abraham Woodhull and why was he using the sympathetic stain you had mentioned to Benjamin Tallmadge?”
Robert, taken aback, glanced quickly around the room. “How do you know—”
“I saw it with my own eyes. Do not try to placate me, Robert. You know I am a trustworthy individual and loyal to the cause. Is Abraham a spy? Are you?”
Robert pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. It was the most visible sign of emotion she had ever seen come from him. “Yes.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to be momentarily stunned. She had long suspected that he was indeed, but never thought he would admit to it.
“Both Abraham and I operate under code names, which I will not divulge for your safety.”
“And Brewster and Tallmadge?”
“Caleb is our courier. He delivers the message to Ben, who then, I’m told, gives them to Washington himself.”
“You correspond with the Commander-in-Chief?”
“Yes, but again, he only knows me by my code name. I’ve received direct instructions from him, though, to mix among the officers and Loyalist refugees. As I’ve told you, my work at the paper allows me to travel about the city without question.”
Elizabeth exhaled a long breath. “Are you in danger?”
Robert gave a wry smile. “Of the noose? Yes. But we take great precaution so as not to strike suspicion in anyone.”
“Such as using codes?” Elizabeth asked, remembering the ease of which both he and Tallmadge had written the cipher to Selah Strong.
“Yes, often, for the stain is expensive and hard to come by.”
That explains why Woodhull was so concerned about saving the spilled ink, Elizabeth thought.
“Ben, Abraham, General Washington, and I are the only ones who have the cipher,” Robert continued. “We also employ covert ways in which we pass on the information. I do not want to go into too much detail, for if you were ever questioned, you could honestly say that you do not know.”
“I will worry about you,” she said quietly.
Robert reached out and put his hand on hers. This time he did not remove it. They sat that way for a few minutes, both in awe of the other’s sacrifice for their country. Finally, Robert got up to leave.
“Will you stay?” Elizabeth asked. “In the guest room?” She had a sudden fear that he would be harmed in the street.
Robert hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I will.”
Chapter XXXVIII
Meg
September 1778
Meg’s new life at her former residence was even more gay and pleasant than it had been the first time. Dinners given for the high-ranking
British officers and their mistresses began at four and lasted well into the night. She attended concerts, balls, and card games on the arm of André, who proved to be a most deferential companion, even if Meg was not his true mistress.
Ironically, many of the attendees were the same people Meg met during her spying days. But now Meg forced herself to stay away from Robert Townsend and Hercules Mulligan, try as they might to pull her into a corner. She clung to the illusion that she was the same ardent Loyalist she was at the beginning of the war.
As André was aide-de-camp to the new commander, Sir Henry Clinton, he always seemed to be buried in paperwork. To keep up appearances, André would visit Meg’s room, where they would sit by the fire and simply talk, as he was ever the true gentleman he gave the impression of being. One night he told her about the woman he had once planned to marry back home in England. He pulled a small trinket from his breast pocket and handed it to Meg. It was of a young girl, painted in meticulous hand, on ivory.
“Her name was Honora Sneyd. You look not just a little like her, actually,” André said.
Meg took a closer investigation of the painting. The girl had blond hair and blue eyes, true, but there was an innocence about her that Meg never quite associated with.
“She was one of the most intellectual women I’ve ever met. We were engaged to be married,” André added.
“What happened?” Meg asked, handing him back the ivory piece.
André took another affectionate glance at it before tucking it back into his waistcoat. “Although we were betrothed, her father did not think I had enough finances to support her. He pressured her to end the engagement, which she did. I recently heard she wed a man who I’d met a few times while he was still married. The ceremony took place only a fortnight after his first wife died in childbirth.”
“Scandalous,” Meg replied, noting the slump in André’s shoulders. “Is that why you joined the army?”