by C. C. Finlay
“We need to find someone to take the carriage east for us,” Proctor said. “To throw them off our trail while we double back to the west.”
“We’ll have to be careful,” Deborah said as they rolled past a group of British soldiers. “Most of the people who remain here are probably Tories, just as in Gravesend. What are we going to tell them?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “We’ll say that we’re loaning it to a British officer in Sag Harbor, for his use here.”
“There’s an inn there, Howell’s Inn—we’ll say that’s where he’s staying,” Deborah said.
Proctor nodded. “With luck, someone there will actually claim it.”
The plan was easier to form than to put into action. The British soldiers occupied the largest houses in town and quartered their soldiers in the rest. Both they and the local residents stayed in groups while they sorted out this new arrangement. The rest of the people were much like Proctor and Deborah, strangers to the town—worn and penniless refugees from the recent battles, dust-covered merchants come seeking profit from the war, and young men trying to make up their minds which side they would volunteer for. All of them were wary.
“What about him?” Deborah asked.
She tipped her head, indicating a peddler laboring under a sack large enough to contain several changes of clothes in addition to his wares. He had dark, unruly hair and a wild, furtive cast to his face. But he observed everything, and his eyes didn’t flinch from theirs when they met.
“Excuse me,” Proctor said.
“Harvey Birch is the name,” the peddler said, immediately swinging his sack off his shoulder and setting it down before him. “Can I interest the lady in some silk? Comes straight from China.”
“No thank you, Mr. Birch,” Proctor said. “We were hoping we might engage you to deliver this carriage for us. We’ve come as far as we mean to go, but we promised it to a British officer in Sag Harbor for his comfort. He’s at Howell’s Inn. You could take it there, and ease your journey along the way.”
“I see,” Birch said, closing his sack. “And this officer’s name?”
Proctor hesitated.
“Major John Morse,” Deborah said at once. “He’s an old friend of my father’s.”
Birch studied her face, then shook his head. After glancing around to see that no one stood too near, he said, “That makes no sense.”
“I beg your pardon,” Proctor said.
“The regulars are moving west into Manhattan, crossing at Hell Gate. If he’s moving west too, he’d want the carriage taken that way. If he’s going to be stationed in Sag Harbor, he’ll hardly need a carriage. It’d practically stretch from one end of the town to the other. Anywhere else he needed to go, he could sail to.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Proctor said. “Clearly you know more than we do about the military situation.”
Birch regarded him suspiciously. “I tell you what. The British soldiers stationed here, they send messages east daily. One of them could deliver the carriage for you. Why not come with me and I’ll introduce you.”
Proctor hesitated again.
“Say no more,” Birch said. “I know not what your game is here, but I see you are playing one. I’ll not be a party to any underhanded business.”
“Sir, please,” Deborah asked.
“No, ma’am. Whatever you are about, it’s a dangerous business in the midst of a war.” He shouldered his sack. “A piece of advice for you, from a seller of wares: I suggest you line up your facts before you ply your story again.”
He turned and walked away.
“Maybe he’s got a point,” Proctor said. “Why don’t we just leave the carriage someplace in the woods?”
“It’d be cruel to the horse,” Deborah replied. “And it would be found in almost no time at all. We must find someone to take it off our hands.”
“I saw a stable at the other end of town. Why don’t we see if we can store it there?” he said.
“That’s a good thought,” she said. “But we should ask if they have someone who can deliver it for us. I still think it best to take it as far from us as possible.”
“Whatever we do, we must do it quickly,” Proctor said. “Or the German will arrive behind us while we’re still trying to decide.”
Proctor turned the horse and steered the shay back to the stable. The doors were open, and he could see that most of the stalls were empty. Half a dozen boys idly kicked a football around the yard.
When they pulled up in front, the stable master rose from his seat in the shade. He was a large-bellied man with short legs and eyes set too close together. Proctor asked him for help delivering the wagon.
“How much can you afford to pay for these services?” the stabler asked. Proctor named the price that he and Deborah agreed they could spare from their purse.
“No, sir, can’t say as I can help you for those rates,” the stable master said. “I might be willing to buy that team and carriage though, if the price is low enough.”
“I’m afraid they’re not for sale,” Deborah answered. “We promised to see them delivered, as no one else was available, but I’ve not been feeling well and think I need to return home.”
She hesitated as she spoke the phrase not been feeling well in a way that indicated it was some feminine problem she was too modest to explain.
“Hmph.” The stabler squinted at them as if he could see through the image Deborah cast. “Why didn’t you just send your own servants?”
“They’ve run off,” Proctor interjected. “Joined the rebels.”
“By God,” the stabler said, glancing at the yard. “If I caught any of my boys doing that, I’d whip him to next Sunday and leave him so sore it’d take him to the Sunday after to heal up. And then I’d whip him again.”
The ball rolled away from the boys and past the stabler’s feet. He tried to kick it and missed. A brown-haired boy, thin as a stick, chased after the ball. The stabler kicked at him too, but missed another time. The boy picked up the ball, then paused to stare at Proctor and Deborah.
“We’ll get new servants, I’m sure,” Deborah said. “In the meantime, do you know anyone who can deliver the carriage for us?”
“No, I don’t,” the stabler said. “But I’ll give you a piece of advice. Report your servants to the British officers. They’re moving into Manhattan and will roll up this rebellion within a month. They won victories at Kip’s Bay and Harlem Heights this past week. They’ll punish all the rebels and runaways.”
“You believe it will happen that fast?” Proctor said.
“Mark my word,” the stabler said, swinging his hand at the boy and chasing him off. “The news I hear is that the rebels know they can’t win. They’re broken, all but a few men desperate to avoid justice. The rest are leaving the army as fast as they can sneak away. If you wait another week, your servants will come crawling home like dogs with their tails between their legs.”
Proctor wanted to argue with the man, but he was afraid he was right. The curse was doing its work, driving the soldiers away from the American army.
“Perhaps that’s what we should do,” Deborah answered.
“You won’t go wrong.” He held up his meaty fist. “And you won’t go wrong either if you show them the business end of a whip when they do come back.”
“Thank you,” Deborah said.
“We appreciate your help,” Proctor said.
“I can tell you aren’t persuaded,” the stabler said. “So if you’ve a mind to ask someone else for advice, I say be careful who you trust.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s a rumor that there are rebel spies all over the island, masquerading as Quakers and such.”
Proctor’s throat tightened, and he felt Deborah tense up beside him. “You don’t say?” she said.
“I do say. I heard it from one of Roger’s Rangers. All my horses are loaned out to his men, so they can search for the spies. A spy like that might take y
our carriage off your hands, but he’d only deliver it to that rebel Washington. So I’d be careful who you trust.”
“We appreciate the warning, sir,” Deborah said. She emphasized the sir, knowing it marked her as a non-Quaker. To Proctor, she said, “I don’t feel well. May we go?”
“Of course,” he said, taking up the reins.
“There’s a tavern just down the road on the left,” the stabler said, “if you need a place to rest a bit.”
Proctor thanked him again and then snapped the reins, sending them on their way. The stable boys had stopped their game and watched the carriage depart.
“We have to get rid of this,” Proctor said. “It marks us as sure as a beacon on a hill.”
“I agree,” Deborah said. “If we take it north to Flushing and abandon it there, maybe they’ll think we took one of the ferries across the sound to Connecticut or Massachusetts.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Proctor said. Relieved, he turned the horse north, onto the Flushing Road. As they bounced along, he said, “I can’t keep the lies straight anymore. I keep forgetting, are we brother and sister, or some German and his lady guest?”
Deborah let his comment pass away without remark. After a moment, she said, “The German is too strong for me to face.”
A bump in the road jarred Proctor. “You don’t have to face him alone. We can face him together. Maybe the two of us—”
“That’s what I meant. I meant, he’s too strong for us to face. I think we have to try to break the curse from the other end.”
“How do we do that?”
“The spirits of the dead aren’t naturally tied to this world. They’re trapped here.” She put her palms together and then opened them. “If we can release the trap, they’ll depart and move on, exactly as they should.”
Something in her voice sounded uncertain. “It sounds like a good solution to me. What’s the problem with it?”
“It means we’ll have to find and treat every single soldier touched by the curse.”
Proctor whistled. “That’s a lot of spells.”
“Yes,” Deborah said. “But if it’s the only way …”
A fellow in a brown coat stood by the side of the road. He took off his broad-brimmed hat and waved it at them. Proctor slowed down for him.
“Dost thou mind offering me a lift, friend?” the man asked.
The words were Quakerish, but the accent was pure Connecticut Yankee. The young man was about Proctor’s age and height, with pale skin pinked from the sun. His hair was the color of flax and his eyes as blue as flax flowers. He had a large mole on his neck, the kind that marked a man as unlucky, likely to find a hangman’s noose.
“We’re happy to offer you a ride as far as Flushing,” Proctor said. “Although we’d be glad to offer you private use of the carriage if you would but deliver it to a British officer out at Sag Harbor for us.”
The young man straightened, like a pointer finding a covey of birds. “You work for the British?”
“We have agreed to send this carriage eastward for an officer’s use,” Deborah said.
“How many British troops are on the island now, dost thou think? Surely, they’ll have to leave some behind to occupy it when they move east to engage General Washington’s forces.”
“We can’t say,” Proctor said.
“Can’t say?” the earnest young man asked cagily. “Or won’t? Come now, share. We are all friends here.”
“I detect in your voice the sounds of the Society of Friends,” Deborah said.
“Art thou Friends also?” the young man asked.
“Friends of Friends,” Proctor said quickly, remembering the stabler’s warning about spies. “What is your name?”
“Nathan Hale. I left Connecticut because of the rebels there.” He held up a large lesson book, with a quill tucked in the binding. “I’m a schoolteacher looking for work.”
“An honorable calling,” Proctor said.
“I’m hoping to find out where the British are strongest,” he said. “I think the best opportunities for teaching will be there. Thou art coming down the Jamaica Road. Canst thou tell me the disposition of the troops there?”
“I think we should be going,” Deborah said, with a glance over her shoulder.
Proctor agreed. “Friend Nathan?”
“Yes?”
“Do not go farther down this road. Please turn back for your own sake.”
“I am sure I don’t know thy meaning,” Nathan said.
“Then may we offer you a ride with us to Flushing?”
“I am sorry I troubled thee,” Nathan said. “I only hoped for information, not for transportation. I am committed to visiting Jamaica today, and hope to try Huntington Bay tomorrow. If thou truly wish for someone to deliver thy carriage, however, I saw someone a few miles back who may be of service to you.”
“Yes?” Proctor said.
“He was an odd character, dressed like a raggedy man and sounded a bit foreign. Said his name was Boots something.”
“Bootzamon?” Proctor asked. Deborah’s fist tightened on his sleeve.
“Dost thou know him?” Nathan asked.
“No,” Proctor said. “No, it’s a common name, that’s all.”
“Well, thou won’t be able to miss this fellow. He’s a prodigious pipe smoker. He was in a tear. If thou catchest up with him, I am sure he will be willing to help thee.” He tipped his hat to Deborah, the way no Quaker would. “Now if thou will excuse me, I’d best continue on my way.”
When he had gone, Deborah said, “If he’s a Quaker then I’m a goose.”
“I hope I am not as poor a liar as he is,” Proctor said. “Although it shames me to wish to be a better one. I would not have thought a fellow my own age would risk being taken as a spy. A man will risk being shot, but no one wants to risk being hanged.”
“And yet we risk hanging every day just because of our talent,” Deborah said.
“No witch has been hanged in eighty years,” Proctor offered.
“Because of the work of the Quaker Highway,” Deborah said. “Problems are fixed quietly before hysteria develops. Do you really think it’s Bootzamon?”
“Yes,” Proctor said. “We have to get rid of the carriage and head west as fast as we can.”
“Hey,” shouted a voice behind them. “Hey, stop right there!”
Proctor and Deborah both turned at once. Proctor reached for his knife. But it was only the brown-haired stable boy, thin as a stick.
He stopped when he got to the carriage and bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “I done been running after you all the way down the road, ever since the stable, and you ain’t heared me or waited.”
“I’m very sorry,” Proctor said.
“Is there a problem?” Deborah asked.
“I thought you wanted somebody could take that carriage out to Sag Harbor,” said the boy, a little angrily.
“We do—” Proctor said.
“Well, whatcha riding away from me for, then? I can take it that far for you. But you gotta pay me enough to make it worth my trouble, and to buy my meals on the way back.”
Proctor hesitated. It was awkward. “If you mean to leave your master—”
“Do I look like a slave to you? No, sir. My father, he’s as free as a seagull, comes and goes as he pleases, accounting to no man. Mostly goes, which is why my mother says he’s a no-account. I would have said something to you there, but the stable master won’t let me hang around his boys if’n he knows I’m taking work away from them now and then.”
“We’ll be happy to take you up on your offer,” Deborah said, reaching into her purse. She counted coins into the boy’s palm. “Will this be quite enough?”
“I think you ought to give me a few shillings more,” the boy said.
“I’m sorry, but that’s all that I have.”
“Then it’ll be plenty,” the boy said, shoving them in his pocket.
Proctor jumped f
rom the carriage and offered a hand to help Deborah step down after him. The boy bounded into the seat, and repeated the destination back to them several times to make sure he had it right.
“The sooner it gets there, the happier the major will be,” Proctor said.
“I understand,” the boy said. “I know the roads all the way out there, and can make the trip as fast as anyone.” He snapped the reins. “Yah!”
The carriage bounced down the road, across the rural landscape, quickly diminishing into the distance.
“I hope we have not put the boy in any danger,” Proctor said.
“We are in too much danger ourselves,” Deborah replied. “Let us hope that the carriage leaves a trail that misleads Bootzamon for a day or so, while our feet carry us as far away from him as we can go.”
They walked to a crossroads and turned westward. “Did you really give the boy the last of our coins?” Proctor asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking stubbornly ahead.
“How could you do that?”
“I didn’t bring much money because I didn’t expect us to be gone this long,” she said.
“We’ll need something to get across the river to the city,” Proctor said. He tried not to be angry, but their options were narrowing rapidly just when they needed more.
“We’ll figure something out,” she said. “Besides, it was all I could do for putting him in danger.”
It was five or six miles from the place they’d left the carriage in Flushing to the western shore of the island. Proctor felt unnaturally tired even before they started, likely a reaction to the surge of fear he’d experienced back at the farmhouse on the arrival of Cecily and the German. But Deborah was even more weary. He worried about her. It was one thing for him to travel this way, exposed to constant dangers. But he didn’t think it was right to do the same thing to her. By rights, she ought to be back at her farm.