by Kit Sergeant
Sally smiled wistfully, remembering fishing and riding with her brothers and the crowded but affectionate family meals. She had to admit that Simcoe’s presence had livened up the empty house a bit.
When he was not sharing stories from his childhood, Simcoe would enlighten them on his designs for barricading the island. Occasionally he would ask the driver to pause the horses and he would get out, lifting a spyglass in each direction. Upon climbing back into the carriage, he would make a mark in his notebook, telling the ladies that it would make a logical landing spot for the rebels. As they continued their trips, Sally noticed that British sentinels would be placed in these areas Simcoe had pointed out.
Since Sally was usually seated beside Simcoe, she would watch what he recorded and, when they returned home, would go to the desk in her room and write down—and sometimes even sketch—what she had seen. She kept these papers hidden in the bottom of a broken clock, knowing that her hope chest—where she stored old birthday cards and her quilt tops—would be too obvious a spot should anyone become suspicious.
Even as they formed a tenuous friendship, Sally was ever the more wary of Simcoe, especially when he revealed during one of their rides that another of his purposes was to expose any instances of suspected spying activities.
“Do you believe there are spies in Oyster Bay?” Sally asked, trying to emulate Robert’s neutral tone.
Simcoe shrugged. “According to John André, the head of British intelligence, there is information being passed from New York City to the front, and it is believed to be routed through Long Island.”
“Do you know Major André?” Phoebe inquired. Every girl in the state of New York knew of André’s reputation of being a rogue with the ladies.
“He is a good friend of mine,” Simcoe answered. But Sally was no longer listening, realizing that Simcoe’s presence at the house was now more of a threat to Robert—and her for that matter—than her father.
Still, she was determined to do what she could to help the cause, stopping short of searching Simcoe’s documents. She could think of no reasonable excuse for her to go through his personal belongings, and, besides, she also knew how methodical he was. If she left any paper or inkwell in the wrong place, he would know immediately that something was amiss in the Townsend house.
Chapter XL
Sally
December 1778
In mid-December, as was custom, the Townsends decided to host a celebration both in honor of the upcoming holiday and for Simcoe and his Rangers. The day of the party, Sally was dawdling over her breakfast when Phoebe rushed in, breathless. “The apple orchard!” she managed to gasp.
Sally started at the sight of her normally composed sister. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a frantic air about her. When she finally caught her breath, Phoebe told Sally that the Rangers were chopping down Papa’s prized apple orchard.
“What?” Sally stood. Now it was her turn to run, rushing toward the orchard located on the west side of the property.
Just as Phoebe had said, most of Papa’s trees had already been felled. A pair of green-coated soldiers were carrying a trunk in the direction of the redoubt while other Rangers were bent over at the waist, sawing at the bases of the few trees that remained. Sally approached the closest soldier. “What do you think you are doing?”
He stood up. “Miss Townsend?” Despite the cool winter air, a line of sweat dripped from below his felt hat.
Sally looked up to see her parents peering down at the scene from their bedroom window. “I demand you cease this destruction at once,” she told the soldier.
“I’m sorry, miss, but I cannot. I have orders from Colonel Simcoe himself.”
“Colonel Simcoe?” Sally gathered up her skirts and headed toward the redoubt. As she approached, she could see the soldiers sharpening the newly razed trunks into sharp points. It was clear that Simcoe was to use the trees as a rampart around his hill.
When he spotted Sally, Simcoe gave her a casual wave, which only served to heighten her anger. “How dare you do this?” Sally cried. “Just when I was beginning to think you were a decent human being, even if you are British.” She was too upset to realize that last line could be construed as Whiggish.
Simcoe held up his hand as he walked toward her. “I am a decent human being.”
Sally kicked at a bevel lying near her boot. “You are not. You are deliberately destroying my family’s property, after all we have done for you.” She noticed that the soldiers around her had paused in their work to observe the scene.
Simcoe waved at his men, but none of them moved. “Miss Townsend, you must understand—”
“Understand what? That you think you are entitled to take whatever you need? You are just the same as all of them: Tories, Loyalists, Redcoats, thinking that the townspeople owe you. You pretend to have honor, but you, sir, are just a heartless brute.”
Simcoe reddened. Sally took a deep breath and prepared for another tirade, but Simcoe said, “Enough!” in a voice that was just a shade lower than a shout. “I am sorry for the destruction of your father’s trees, but, as military commander, I have the authority to confiscate them at will. Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Townsend, I have work to see to.”
Sally, her mouth hanging open, was speechless as she watched him saunter away. She tried to rein in her fury for Papa’s sake but found it was not easy to do. At any rate, she would have no more qualms about feeding Robert the information about Simcoe’s fortifications. In fact, she walked around the barricade to observe the work in progress, under the guise that she was making sure the trees were being put to good use. The entire orchard had been destroyed and there was nothing she could do about it, other than make sure the rebels knew of Simcoe’s plans for Oyster Bay.
The party was to take place that evening. Sally wanted to follow her father’s lead and retire to her room, but she forced herself to get ready. Papa depended on her to keep the peace, even if he himself was unable to bring himself to act the gracious host for Simcoe and his regiment.
She plastered a smile onto her face as she walked downstairs with Phoebe. Mother had borrowed a few slaves from the Buchanans to help prepare food and run it back and forth from the kitchen. All the chairs of the house had been gathered in the parlor. The small table the Townsends brought out on such occasions was placed in front of the built-in cupboard and already stacked with sweet meats and bread. Colonel Simcoe was standing in the living room, conversing with another fellow whom Sally recognized as an officer with the Rangers. Upon catching sight of the ladies, he requested them to come be presented to his companion, Captain McGill.
“You are so lucky, sir, to be billeted in the house with the most beautiful sisters in all of Long Island,” McGill said after the introductions were made.
“I completely agree with you,” Simcoe replied.
Sally had to concentrate to keep from frowning as she felt her heart ice over.
“Do you still hold me in low regard?” Simcoe asked as Phoebe and McGill fell into conversation.
Sally said nothing as she walked to the refreshment table. She pretended to be busy wiping down a spotless pewter plate with a rag she had grabbed from the corner cupboard.
“Miss Townsend.” The contrite tone in Simcoe’s voice caused Sally to finally look at him. His eyes, normally so commanding, looked sorrowful. “I’d like to explain my earlier actions, if you don’t mind.” He seated himself in a nearby chair.
Sally remained standing. “I believe you’ve made yourself quite clear. You think you have the right to confiscate other people’s property, and we can do nothing but watch.”
“Yes. There is that. And also, Lieutenant-General Erskine, who commands our forces on Long Island, told me only the day before that the Rangers would be moved to Jericho. I thought that an unwise move—Jericho is too far away from the shore to provide adequate protection from raiding parties. The only way for me to fully assure him of Oyster Bay’s potential was to fortify the redoubt. Yo
ur father’s trees were too convenient for that purpose to pass up.”
She wanted to reply that she would have preferred them all to be relocated to Jericho and out of her town, but she held her tongue. The trees were gone and nothing she could say would change that.
“I do want to say,” Simcoe continued, “that I have much cherished your presence on my daily excursions and would have missed them greatly had I been commanded to depart Oyster Bay.”
The words did little to melt the ice around Sally’s heart but she a forced conciliatory smile anyway. “I accept your explanation, Colonel Simcoe.” She adapted the same supercilious tone he had used that morning at the redoubt to add, “If you will now excuse me, I have more things to see to before our guests arrive.”
In the absence of Papa, who claimed to be sick and stayed in bed, Sally, Phoebe, and Mother greeted their non-military guests and introduced them to the newest British officers to occupy their town. Sally was apprehensive that the Loyalists might still be uncertain of Papa’s allegiances, especially given his nonattendance. Consequently, she went out of her way to appease them, turning on the charm by batting her eyelashes and over-serving their Madeira.
As the evening wore on, the guests—Tories, Whigs, and officers alike—dropped their guard and chatted over innocuous topics like the weather and if it would be a good harvest this year.
“Sarah,” McGill whispered to Sally as she rearranged some of the baked goods on the table.
She looked at him in surprise. “Are we addressing each other by first names now? If so, then you should probably know most people call me Sally.”
McGill’s eyes, slightly bloodshot now that he was deep in his cups, widened. “I’m sorry. Your mother mentioned something about her daughter, Sarah.” He bowed. “And I am John.”
“Mother usually only calls me by my real name when she is upset with me. She is the original Sarah Townsend.” Sally glanced about the room for Mother, but only caught sight of Simcoe, who was watching them from across the room.
“Sally, then.” McGill leaned in closer to her. “Are you close with your brother Robert?”
Sally nodded, fear washing over her.
“Do you think you could get him to print an article on my behalf?”
Sally let out a quiet breath. “You mean in the Gazette?”
“Yes,” McGill replied as another officer, obviously overhearing their conversation, sauntered over.
“Of course, Robert Townsend of New York City. I did not make the connection until now.” The man bowed toward Sally. “I am Captain Wilson. I’ve met Robert several times at Rivington’s coffee shop. In fact,” he took a small diamond ring off of his finger. “I won this from Rivington himself in a poker game.”
Sally took the proffered ring and held it up to the light. “It’s quite pretty.” She handed it over to McGill, who also admired it.
“Do you know what is unique about diamonds?” McGill asked. Both Wilson and Sally shook their heads. “They can cut through anything.”
“Anything?” Sally demanded. “Even glass?”
“Of course. I can prove it, if you’d like.” McGill headed over to the bay windows in the middle of the parlor. He held the diamond up to the window and began to etch. Phoebe and Sally Coles also came over to watch. McGill made a show of his movements, stepping back once he’d finished.
“The Adorable Miss Sally Townsend.” Phoebe read aloud. “But of course, you must sign your handiwork.”
McGill assumed his position, this time signing “J. McGill,” at the bottom with a flourish before turning to grin at Sally. He put an X through the word “Sally,” and wrote “Sarah” right above it.
“Write something about me,” Phoebe commanded. She’d obviously had a glass or two of Madeira herself and did not seem to mind that McGill was writing on her family’s windows. Sally, for her part, was stunned by the phrasing McGill had used. Did an almost stranger really find her adorable? McGill now scratched the words, “Miss P.T., the most accomplished young lady in Oyster Bay.”
Phoebe beamed as McGill glanced over at the remaining girl and wrote, “Sally Coles,” before pausing in thought.
“Captain McGill,” a gruff voice spoke out. Simcoe had joined them. “What exactly do you think you are doing?”
“Just having some fun with the ladies, here.” Remembering his place, McGill clicked his boot heels together, adding, “Sir,” before handing the ring back to Wilson.
Simcoe reached out to rub at the beginning words on Sally Cole’s window, to no avail. “These will never come out,” he said, dropping his hand. “You dare to deface our kind hosts’ property?”
Sally furrowed her brow Simcoe. How could he carry on so? A few scratches on the window were nothing compared to the destruction of an entire orchard.
“I’m sorry, sir.” McGill addressed Sally. “Please accept my sincerest apologies, Sarah.” He couldn’t keep the grin from spreading as Sally relaxed her face. “I mean, Miss Townsend.”
Sally had not truly believed that the diamond etchings would be permanent, and, as she had imbibed in the wine as well, returned the smile. She would worry over Papa’s reaction to the windows in the morning. For now it was nice to have a handsome officer describe her as “adorable.”
Simcoe turned to Sally. “While I agree with Captain McGill’s sentiments, I must declare that it is time for my men to return to their post. Thank you for the party.” He bowed at Phoebe and then Sally Coles before glaring at McGill as the young captain followed suit.
“Maybe next time you could finish recording your thought,” Sally Coles giggled as McGill took his leave of her, kissing her on the hand. As the officers walked away to say their goodbyes, she said to the sisters, “That McGill is something else.”
“Indeed,” Phoebe agreed. “But all the while, his lieutenant was practically shooting daggers out of his eyes at him. I have a feeling that, with Simcoe in charge, McGill’s life in the regiment will not be easy going from now on.”
Chapter XLI
Meg
December 1778
That holiday season, the Theatre Royale performed on Shakespeare’s tragedy Julius Caesar. Meg took on the role of Calpurnia, the wife of Caesar—played by André—who tried to warn him before he is assassinated that she dreamt of his death, to no avail.
Shortly before the dress rehearsal, Meg was astonished to see the set designs, which included the Parthenon and beautiful Roman countryside. “Who painted this?” she asked, slowly rotating on the stage to take it all in.
“I did,” André said, entering in his toga.
“You speak German, French, and English, draw, paint, act, and have the finest military mind this side of the Atlantic.” Meg took an appreciative glance of his form before asking, “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I cannot juggle.”
Meg smiled. “But mayhap you will learn someday.”
“Mayhap.”
The rehearsal went well, and André, heady from both his spotless performance and the Madeira the cast had to celebrate afterward, was especially talkative at the fireplace in Meg’s room that night.
He confided in Meg his other reason to celebrate: “Clinton has just made me his chief intelligence officer!”
“Congratulations!” Meg lifted her glass to his.
“Yes. I do not believe that the Yankees take much stock in their newly formed alliance with France and now, with their currency practically worthless, they shan’t hold out much longer. One more decisive victory in our favor and I think the war will be over.”
Meg plastered a fake smile on her face and clinked his glass again. She hadn’t realized that the tides had turned that much. If her husband ended up on the winning side, she supposed they would soon return to England. Whereas she once fervently hoped for that outcome—albeit with a different beau—now she was not so sure she wanted to leave America.
“Of course,” André lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip. “There is the pro
blem of intelligence slipping out of Manhattan.”
Meg practically choked on her wine. “Pardon?”
André seemed not to notice her disconcertion. “We’ve intercepted a letter intended for Washington mentioning a man named Samuel Culper Junior who has access to information on our troop sizes and the comings and goings of our warships. Apparently there exists a Samuel Culper Senior who also provides such intelligence. My men are on the lookout for a father/son spy team.”
“The Culpers?” Meg astonishment was not false. “I’ve never heard of them.”
André let out a giggle, followed by a hiccough. “It didn’t occur to me that you would have.”
Meg covered her confusion the best way she knew how. She tucked a stray ringlet behind her ear and slid closer to André. “Do you have any suspicions as to who these spies might be?”
“No,” André said, standing up. “But as chief intelligence officer, it is my job to find them.”
Meg’s lips formed a pout. “Are you leaving so soon?”
He shot her another of his easy grins. “I have to. I need to get up early tomorrow and continue my search.”
Meg barely noticed him leave, she was so concerned about the danger to her friends. Mercy was out of the city, but could Hercules Mulligan be one of their suspects? As far as she knew, his father had passed on and his sons were too young. But the Culpers could merely just be a code name. And with that, one of André’s lines from the play popped into her head:
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.
He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.
Closing her eyes, she could see an image of Robert Townsend’s lean, dark-haired figure. Whomever these Culpers were, Meg had an intuition that Townsend was involved somehow. But instead of being afraid for him and his contacts, Meg felt a rush of fear for André. Shaking it off as Caesar did, she turned down her bed in preparation for sleep.