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

by Kit Sergeant

  Brewster let out a wolf whistle. In a moment, a responding whistle sounded from a nearby tree.

  “Bolton?” Brewster called.

  “Here!” the voice was closer now. Elizabeth could discern a tall figure making his way through the undergrowth. As he approached their vicinity, Elizabeth recognized him. “Major Tallmadge?” she asked, the confusion obvious in her voice.

  “Bolton’s his code name,” Brewster said. “In case anyone is listening.”

  “Are we in danger?” she asked.

  “Not presently,” Tallmadge said. He held out his arm and Elizabeth clutched it and climbed out. She turned to Brewster and noticed he still sat in the boat. He tipped his hat at her. “This is where I leave you, Mrs. Burgin.” Brewster, having safely delivered his cargo, was back to his American accent.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brewster.”

  Tallmadge stepped toward the boat. “Any reports?”

  “No,” Brewster replied. “But Culper Junior says something big must be going on in the city. The rank and file seem restless.”

  Tallmadge nodded. “Keep us informed.”

  Brewster touched his hat once more before he set his oars back in the water.

  Elizabeth wondered who Culper was but didn’t say anything as Tallmadge led her to where two horses were tied.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Burgin,” he told her wryly. “The army doesn’t own a sidesaddle or pillion, so you will have to ride in a gentlemen’s way.”

  “It’s fine, Major Tallmadge,” she told him before she mounted. She may have grown up a city-girl, but her father had taught her to ride when she was little.

  They traveled for an hour or so before stopping at an inn. Elizabeth was doubly thankful for the soft beds they provided, although the feeling of still riding a horse and the threat of nightmares made it somewhat difficult to sleep.

  They set off early the next morning, traveling north along the Hudson River. Because of its proximity to New York City, with routes to almost all of the New England states, Elizabeth knew that West Point was important strategically to the Continental Army. Tallmadge seemed well familiar with the area and knew where to stop to water their horses or rest. The countryside was quite pretty, with columbine and wild geraniums blooming, but Elizabeth was too worried over the fate of her children to notice much. They finally arrived at a fine mansion situated between two large hills.

  “The Robinson House,” Tallmadge stated before dismounting.

  Elizabeth followed suit and felt the familiar ache in her legs from a long day of riding.

  Dr. McKnight greeted her warmly and, after Elizabeth had some food, took her on a tour, filling her in on the history of the mansion. He’d been stationed there for a few months; Mercy had recently had a baby and was currently with her family in New Jersey until the time the baby was old enough to travel. The Robinson House, or “Beverly,” as Dr. McKnight called it, was a few miles south of the military stronghold and was once a summer house belonging to Beverly Robinson, now a colonel with the British Army. Like many other fine Loyalist houses, the mansion had been confiscated when the Robinson family fled for the city. “Oddly enough,” McKnight told her, “Robinson is at this minute on the British-man-of-war the Vulture, stationed down the Hudson a little ways,” He inclined his head toward the north. “An early commander of West Point, General Putnam, resided in this house, and General Washington occasionally stayed here, but now it, along with the multiple outbuildings scattered around it, houses sick and wounded officers.”

  “Smallpox?” Elizabeth asked as Dr. McKnight showed her into the room she would be staying.

  “No,” he replied. “I have the ones suffering with the disease isolated in the lazaretto barracks at the base. I’ve turned one of the huts into an inoculation room.” He nodded at her. “I might reassign you there soon, since you are no longer in danger of catching it.”

  “I’d be happy to help.” Anything to keep her mind off of missing the children. The room was simple, with whitewashed walls, and only a desk and chair and the bed for furniture. She went to the window, espying some of the outbuildings Dr. McKnight had mentioned. “How does it that I get my own room?”

  “There aren’t that many women at West Point other than the camp followers and the ‘girls of the night’ out of Fishkill. Since you’ll be working with me, it was decided that you would get the Robinson’s maid’s room instead of housing in the barracks. Besides,” he continued with a wink, “General Robert Howe, West Point’s commander, had a soldier in his troop that was rescued from the Jersey.”

  Elizabeth had trouble getting to sleep that night. She was not used to the noises of the country—it seemed a cicada was garrisoned right outside the tiny window—and her mind kept straying to her family. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Georgie’s smile, Catherine’s dimples, the way Johnny’s eyes would light up when Robert… No. Mustn’t think these thoughts. She knew that there must be laudanum stored in the medicine closet Dr. McKnight showed her earlier but she did not want to deprive a soldier in pain. She settled with counting in her head, getting to over five hundred before she finally fell into a restless sleep.

  Nursing was difficult work, but the seemingly ceaseless tasks of purging chamber pots, administering laudanum, cleaning the airless rooms, and making sure the patients were adhering to Dr. McKnight’s prescribed diets soothed Elizabeth. She would often fall into her bed at night so exhausted she would go right to sleep. She often dreamt of the children and Robert, waking with an aching need to be with all of them. She would then throw herself into more monotonous duties, and the pattern would repeat again.

  She received only a fraction of what Dr. McKnight made as the resident surgeon, but that and the rations she received for her duties allowed her to gain a bit of dignity. Because of her situation, she was unable to send the money to Oyster Bay, but she stockpiled it in an old shoe to one day pay back Youngs for his kindness.

  Chapter XLVIII

  Meg

  July 1779

  Although Meg had washed her hands of military matters—the rescuing of her Elizabeth notwithstanding—it seemed like information drops were happening daily right in front of her. With General Clinton back in New York, the opulent dinners resumed at One Broadway. Clinton’s mistress, Mary Baddeley, often joined them. The other officers’ wives had gossiped to Meg that Mrs. Baddeley had been John Hancock’s maid in Philadelphia. When Clinton confiscated the Hancock house, he confiscated the maid as well. Her complaisant husband had been promoted up the ranks in the British Army and was now a captain in Colonel Beverly Robinson’s regiment.

  The dinner included ham, duck, and pigeon as well as potatoes, other vegetables, and fresh bread. After the requisite toasts to His Majesty and General Clinton, and an ambiguous toast from the other end of the table to “the Hudson River,” small talk commenced while their dinner companions—more than fifty by Meg’s count—indulged in the food and drink.

  “Are you all set for your trip, André?” one of the officers across from her asked.

  “Indeed,” André said after a sip of wine.

  “Trip?” Meg asked, turning to the major.

  “Ah, the lady did not know!” the man—De Lancey was his name, Meg remembered—exclaimed.

  “I’ll be vacationing in Oyster Bay with Colonel Simcoe for a few days and then I’ll be heading north after that.”

  Meg nodded. She knew that he stayed before with Simcoe at the Townsend House and found it not a tad ironic that the chief intelligence officer was billeted with an enemy spy’s family. The first time André returned from Oyster Bay, he seemed pensive for a few days, as if something bothered him. When Meg inquired as to his mood, he insisted that it was nothing and recovered soon after.

  De Lancey shot André a winning grin. “André’s got something cooking up there that could end the war in a matter of weeks.”

  “That new contact that you mentioned?” Another man in epaulettes from down the table asked. The wine, it seemed, w
as functioning to loosen the officers’ tongues. General Clinton, from the head of the table to André’s left, listened silently, his lips in a tight line.

  “Soon enough we will be referring to you as ‘Sir André,’” De Lancey said.

  “Is it risky, this business of yours up north?” Meg asked.

  “Risky, maybe, but well worth it,” André replied. Meg was of the mind that nothing in this pointless war was worth risking a life for, especially not the possibility of being knighted by a redundant King, but she affected a sympathetic shake of her head.

  André’s manner in the days before he left belied his nervousness. He showed up late for tea, forgetting his usual impeccable mannerisms and lifting his tea cup with shaking fingers. He and General Clinton often met behind closed doors until long into the night, candlelight showing under the doorframe after everyone else had gone to sleep. Had Meg been of her former passion, she would have immediately reported such goings-on to Hercules Mulligan, but doing so, she was painfully aware, might put André in danger. Whatever his task was, she hoped that it would not result in André’s capture—or worse. Although she did not relish a British victory, she realized a swift end to the war could bring a stop to this madness.

  Chapter XLIX

  Elizabeth

  August 1779

  In mid-August, Elizabeth was informed that General Benedict Arnold would be taking over command at West Point. As he would soon be joined by his wife—the former debutante of Philadelphia, Peggy Shippen—and his young son, the hospital was relocated to the fort. Elizabeth’s temporary quarters were moved to one of the outbuildings on the grounds of Beverly, which suited her fine, as she had heard that Mrs. Arnold could sometimes be difficult to get along with. Dr. McKnight told her that he would send for her when the nurses’ huts were completed.

  Now without a job, Elizabeth spent her days wandering the countryside around Beverly. A beautiful cliff was located nearby, and, after scaling the rocks, she could observe the military garrisons and barracks of West Point. The first time Elizabeth had seen the fort, there were men—appearing to her vantage point as dots in colorful uniforms—constantly marching, as if they were ants swarming a hill. Now that General Arnold had taken command, the bevy of soldiers had scattered amongst the woods near the stronghold, presumably cutting firewood or foraging for horse fodder.

  One afternoon soon after Elizabeth had relocated to the cabin, she was summoned by a sentinel at her door. “Major Tallmadge is here to see you. He is awaiting your presence in the apple orchard.”

  Elizabeth nodded and rushed outside.

  Tallmadge was in full uniform, his horse tied to a nearby tree and munching on forage from the forest floor. Upon seeing Elizabeth approach, he removed his feather-topped helmet and affected a polite smile. “Mrs. Burgin, I bring a message for your eyes only.”

  Elizabeth took the sealed letter. “Who is it from?”

  “Your maid, Abigail.”

  Elizabeth’s heart jumped into her throat. “Is something wrong with my children?”

  “I do not believe it is your children that are of concern.”

  Puzzled, Elizabeth frowned, but just then both of them spotted a heavyset man walking out of the great house, supported by an ivory topped cane.

  “General Arnold.” Tallmadge saluted.

  Elizabeth curtsied obligingly before tilting her head to study the military hero. He was a large man and she thought that his cane would have been necessary even before he was shot in the leg, as that barrel chest seemed too broad for his tiny legs to sustain.

  “Major Tallmadge,” he returned in a gruff voice. “I need to speak with you briefly.” He stopped short a few paces of Elizabeth, who took the hint and found a shaded spot in the trees, ostensibly to read her letter. Tallmadge walked forward to converse with the General. Whatever it was they were discussing displeased Tallmadge, Elizabeth noted, as she saw the major repeatedly shake his head. Finally he said in a loud voice, “I will not inform any person on earth of their names,” before stalking toward Elizabeth. Arnold watched him, but did not say anything else. After a moment of contemplation, he clumped back to the house.

  “I never trusted that man,” Tallmadge stated. “And you should not either, Mrs. Burgin. Do not ever tell him of the Jersey. He claimed that as commander of West Point, he should be informed of my contacts’ names.”

  Elizabeth knitted her brow. “Why would he need to know their names?”

  “He doesn’t,” Tallmadge said, moving to untie his horse. As he led his horse away, Elizabeth unsealed the envelope, pleased that Abby could write a letter on her own. Her pleasure quickly turned to shock as she read the first sentence: “Missus, I regret to inform you that I am of a womanly way.” The note went on to say that the child was William Townsend’s, although he claimed that it wasn’t. I always knew there was something foul hidden behind that beautiful face, Elizabeth thought to herself. However, Abby went on to write, Robert had somehow found out about his brother’s indiscretion and promised that he would help her and the unborn child in any way that he could. At the bottom, Abby went on to assure her that the children would be fine, and that Robert wanted her to know he was working out a way to reunite Elizabeth with her family.

  Elizabeth sat the letter in her lap, reflecting over its contents. She was disappointed in Abby for sure, but knew that the sins of pleasure were often hard to ignore, especially for someone like Abby, who had a harlot’s blood in her. Perhaps Robert could persuade his brother to do the honorable thing and marry his mistress. At any rate, her hope of seeing her children, Abby now notwithstanding, had been renewed as she had complete trust in Robert.

  Chapter L

  Sally

  August 1779

  “Colonel Simcoe has returned!” Phoebe exclaimed one day in August upon coming into the room.

  Sally clamped shut the book she had been reading and sat up. “He is here?”

  “Yes, and his first question to me was regarding your whereabouts.”

  She had been restless all summer. She had not heard from Major André—or Colonel Simcoe, for that matter—since they left Oyster Bay last spring. Even Susannah Youngs was unavailable for visits as she was taking care of a convalescent relative. At least Simcoe’s presence would liven up this dull summer. Sally sighed and went downstairs without checking her appearance in the looking glass.

  Simcoe had lost a great deal of weight, and his green uniform hung loosely on his now gaunt frame.

  “Colonel Simcoe?” Sally inquired, pausing on the middle stair.

  “Ah, Sally,” he said in a weak voice. “How I have missed seeing your beautiful face. Did you worry much over my captivity?”

  “Captivity?”

  Simcoe frowned. “I was taken hostage by the rebels after my horse was shot out from underneath me. I’ve only recently been released.”

  Sally proceeded the rest of the way down the stairs and stood in front of him. His shoulders slumped forward and he did not meet her eyes. Some of his overconfidence had given way to defeat, giving him the ego of a normal man.

  “Come,” she told him. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  After André had left last spring, Sally pestered Simcoe with questions as to where he might be deployed for the summer. He took it as concern for his safety and would simply reply that wherever he went, he would return for her. He asked one more time for permission to speak to Papa about marriage, but Sally insisted that they should wait until the war was over.

  As he now broke apart a piece of bread, hardened from the time that had passed since breakfast, he told her that the end of the war might be in the near future.

  “How do you know that?” Sally inquired, but of course, Simcoe was enigmatic, only saying there had been recent developments that would result in Britain’s favor. His lips turned upward. “And then we could marry.”

  Sally contrived a smile as inscrutable as Simcoe’s own.

  There was no way Sally could ever marry Simcoe
. She never once believed that Britain would actually win, meaning that Simcoe would be forced to return to his native country in disgrace, and, if she were his wife, her fate would be the same. She would be have to leave her beloved home for an alien country she had grown to despise. But telling Simcoe she had no interest in becoming his wife would be the final blow to his ego and most likely culminate in him lashing out in hurt and anger. So she kept up the charade, keeping him at arm’s distance without ever discouraging him. She began accompanying him again to the redoubt, which had been untouched in his troop’s absence. A few days after he himself returned, Simcoe informed Sally that André was expected in Oyster Bay the next day.

  “Major André?” her heart sped up in the pleasure of speaking his name. While she looked forward to flirting with the handsome soldier, she also knew that his presence greatly complicated the tactics she employed to keep Simcoe clueless of her true feelings. “Why is he coming here?”

  “He is traveling from Gardiner’s Bay on his way north, and asked to speak with me about something.”

  “Does this something have to do with the end of the war you mentioned?”

  Again that ambiguous smirk appeared on Simcoe’s face, the one that Sally was quickly beginning to hate.

  André’s demeanor had also changed. Instead of being the mischievous rogue who had once hid Sally’s olykoeks, he, too had taken on a more serious mind. As soon as André had arrived, he greeted her loftily and then he disappeared with Simcoe into Robert’s room, where they spent the entire afternoon.

  Dinner that evening was a quiet, dreary affair. Mother was warm enough to Major André, and of course, Phoebe tried her best to engage him in conversation, but after the small talk ended, silence ensued. As soon as her parents left, Sally rose from the table. “Enough!” she shouted. “Why do you two insist on ignoring me?”