The Tory Widow (13 page)

Though Jack claimed it was duty to the cause of liberty driving him to visit the widow's coffeeshop day in and day out, he knew better. Anne Merrick was no true Tory, no threat to the cause, yet he could not control his fascination. He'd never run across a woman who'd confounded him so—at once strong and sad, independent and needy—and though he sensed the danger of digging a hole he'd have difficulty climbing free from, he found he just could not stay away.

What the widow needed—Jack determined, after kissing her in the gangway—what would do her the most good, was a complete and thorough frolic between the sheets. Coincidentally, Jack figured such activity would also relieve the distraction this woman had interjected in his life. So, threatening and well-armed brother notwithstanding, contriving a way under Anne Merrick 's skirts and between her legs had now become Jack 's driving aim.

Even if she shows, she's bound to be dragging Sally along.
Annoyed, he tore one last bite from the apple and tossed the core into the gutter.
Sally . . .

He may have made some headway in his quest the night before, if not for Sally and her damn snoring. Much to Jack's irritation, his every smooth and subtle attempt at amorous congress was interrupted by a phlegmy, snorty, indrawn breath.

Working the press with Anne Merrick had been both exhilarating and exasperating. Not only was she a skillful compositor, but from mixing the ink, to inking the type, she impressed him greatly with her meticulous attention to detail. As a result, not a single sheet of precious paper was wasted in their endeavor.

But never, in all his days at Parker's Press, did he ever have to deal with such distractions as his second's sweat-wet breasts glistening in lantern light, or the sight of her soft, round rear bent over in reaching to beat the ink to the form. Jack had restrained an awful urge to flip the widow's skirts up and have done with the whole business right then and there.

Jack had envisioned capping off the night's work by trotting hand in hand with the widow up the stairs, but thwarted by Sally's snoring, he only ended up adding, once again, to the jingle in Mother Babcock's purse.

Evening time had not provided any relief from the July heat—the air thick, heavy and still. Jack loosened the sweat-damp knot at the linen cravat he foolishly wore, and stuffed it into his pocket. A deep rumbling drew his eye upward to a swirling, threatening sky, and he was glad for the prospect of rain. Wiping a hand still sticky with apple against the emerald green wool of his weskit, he peered down the busy street, and smiled. For all the hustle and bustle on Broad Way, it was still easy for him to spot the Widow Merrick and Sally Tucker coming arm in arm up the brick walk.

Like flowers on a midden heap, the two women stood distinct amid the male majority. Sally made sure to be noticed, having rigged herself a patriotic red-and-white striped sash draped over one shoulder to meet at the waistband of her bright blue skirt. Jack was happy to see Anne join in on the spirit of the day, enlivening her sedate mourning-wear with a series of red, white and blue ribbon rosettes pinned around the crown of her straw hat.

“Anne! Sal!” Jack called and waved. “Up here!”

The women struggled through the throng and joined him and the growing crowd of onlookers at the top of the church stair.

“I salute you both”—Jack bent his knee in a florid bow—“the prettiest pair of Patriots in all of New York City!” His silliness drew a girlish giggle from the widow.

“Ahh, would ye listen t' him . . .” Sally laughed, giving Anne a poke with her elbow. “A honey-tongued devil if ever I heard one, na?”

Together they watched as the last regiment of foot marched by. Along with the many pennants and banners snapping on the wind, a tangible excitement fluttered though the crowd as a cavalry of mounted officers came clattering up the cobblestones behind the column of infantry, led by a standard not seen before.

“A new flag for a new country!” Jack cheered as the colors passed by. He'd never cared for the flag the Continental Army had adopted at Breed's Hill—a design merging the British Union Jack with the red-and-white striped standard of the Sons of Liberty. This new flag still made use of the rebellious Liberty stripes, but the reviled Union Jack in the corner was replaced with a hopeful constellation of white stars on a field of blue.

“David!” Sally squealed. “I can see David!”

In the same instant, Anne's brother—cutting a fine figure atop a jet-black stallion—noticed the trio on the stair. Anne and Sally bounced up and down, cheering and waving. Jack stepped between the two women, and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. Grinning like a madman, he joined in, shouting, “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

David trotted past, maintaining a soldierly demeanor made even sterner by the irritation of seeing his sister in the company of Jack Hampton. Sally broke away, and ran down the stairs to track alongside David in the parade.

The pleasure derived from rankling Anne's recalcitrant brother and bidding good riddance to Sally was soon eclipsed by the sight of General George Washington himself. Busked out in blue and buff military splendor and mounted on a lively sorrel gelding, the Commander in Chief cantered by, inducing a raucous cacophony of cheers and huzzahs.

Anne said something, but for all the noise, Jack could not hear her. He leaned down, and she rose up on tiptoes, her mouth to his ear. “The general—he seems sad.”

Jack nodded. “The enemy armada in the harbor,” he shouted. “No doubt a bit worrisome.”

“No doubt.”

Jack took Anne by the hand, and they left the portico of St. Paul's to join the citizens following behind the army to the Commons. The general, accompanied by his immediate staff, rode out onto the green, and took a place at the center of the hollow square formed by the infantry ranks. The crowd, the fifes and drums all quieted. A terse order was given, and the officer at the general's left dismounted and stepped forward. Without preamble, he began to read in a booming voice, “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.” He paused, taking in a deep breath before launching into the heart of the declaration.

“When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another . . .”

The words washed over the thousands gathered at the Commons and Jack took note of the people's reaction. Peppered throughout the multitude, a few faces evinced anger or dread, but the vast majority of heads nodded in resolute concordance as each grievance against the King of England was read aloud.

The officer finished reading the last sentence, “. . . And for the support of this Declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” Folding the Declaration into his pocket, he then announced, “The general hopes this important event will serve as a fresh incentive to every officer and soldier to act with fidelity and courage, as knowing that now, the peace and safety of his country depends solely on the success of our arms: and that every soldier is now in the service of a state possessed of sufficient power to reward his merit, and advance him to the highest honors of a free country.”

Caps and hats flew from heads. The intensity of the cheer rising up from the ranks shook the very ground they stood upon. Horses whinnied and stamped and the officers struggled to control their mounts while muskets and pistols were fired haphazard into the air.

The troops were dismissed and the newsboys tore into the crowd. The broadsides Anne and Jack had worked so hard to print the night before were snatched up by eager hands, as if each sheet were wrapped around a sweetcake. Small crowds of soldiers and citizens encircled those lucky enough to grab a copy, rereading the incredulous words they'd just heard, puffed with pride, faces alight, happy to at last officially shed the cumbersome yoke of tyranny.

“There it is, Annie,” Jack proclaimed. “The power of ink on paper—”

Anne stood looking up at him, smiling proud, her blue eyes sprung with tears. “Oh, Jack . . .” She squeezed his hand and tipped her head to his shoulder. “Our independence is won as much by lead type as it will be by lead bullets.”

Jack gathered Anne Merrick in his arms, and there—in the middle of Broad Way—kissed her most thoroughly on the lips.

 

 

BEFORE Anne knew what he was about, Jack slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a crush, his mouth on hers. This bold kiss unfolded with such force and speed as to leave her no recourse but to cling to the bunched muscles at his shoulders, lest she be swept from her feet. Innate modesty was overcome in an instant by the taste of sweet-tart apple coupled with a brazen and wonderful sensation stirring in the warm place between her legs. Anne let escape an unexpected and wanton moan, and she cradled his face with her hand, the day's unshaven stubble rough in the cup of her palm.

Jack released Anne as suddenly as he had embraced her, and she wobbled for a moment to maintain her balance, unsteady on the cobbles. A wild horde of celebrants brushed by, marching back toward the waterfront with a cry of
“T ' the Bowlin' Green!”

Without giving Anne much opportunity to gather her wits, Jack looped his arm through hers, and the couple became part of the human current sweeping down Broad Way, marching in time to the thunder of drums and trilling fifes.

Anne struggled to keep the pace in her French heels, all the while cursing her vain choice of footwear. Taking two steps to Jack's one, she realized she had somehow lost her hat.

“Don't worry—I've got a hold on you, Annie,” Jack shouted, holding tight to her arm. His tricorn was cocked at a dashing angle, and he looked down at her with a happy, satisfied face, as if they'd been at play and he'd just won every one of her marbles. All Anne could do was nod and notice how he was made even more handsome for the jubilant smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“That's the way, lads!” Jack shouted as they marched past Trinity Church. A tall sailor had mounted atop another's shoulders, and to the cheers of all passersby, the pair tore down the banners hung over the church doors that proclaimed the King's crest.

The fife and drum boys struck up “The British Grenadiers,” a familiar tune from the time, not so long ago, when red-coated soldiers would drill on the Commons. The marching Patriot mob began to sing along, substituting the standard lyrics with a popular rebellious refrain:

Singing at the top of their lungs, Anne and Jack merged in with the mad tumult congregated on the street around the Bowling Green. Spirits were high—bottles produced and shared, and New Yorkers banded together with soldiers from all the colonies in impromptu song and jig. Anne scanned the confused throng of happy revelers, searching for Sally and David with no luck. The drummer boys began to pound a quick-time march while soldiers and citizens continued to swarm the green.

An impatient crowd of men churned near the locked gates of the green as a burly, red-faced Irishman strained with a crowbar, working the sturdy padlock. At last he broke through, the gates swung open and the six-foot-tall iron fence encircling the elliptical green was breached.

“We better stay out of there . . .” Jack steered an aggressive path to claim a spot outside the enclosure. Grabbing the iron bars with both hands, Anne stepped up onto the curbstone that curved along at the base of the fence, improving her view by a few inches. Jack moved to stand behind Anne, both hands at her waist, planting his feet to defend his ground, and keep from being pushed aside.

“Finest seat in the house,” Jack said, his bristly cheek rasping the curve of her ear.

A half a dozen laughing boys ran up with a bulging gunnysack. Bypassing the crowd clogging the open gate to scramble over the fence like a troop of monkeys, the lads entertained the growing crowd, flinging rotten peaches at the statue centered on the green.

Raised up on a massive marble pedestal almost two stories tall, the figure was posed clad in patrician Roman robes astride a noble steed. With head wreathed in triumphant laurels, New York 's golden King George III loomed out of reach against an ever-darkening and flashing sky.

A spindly forest of musket barrels, halberds and pikes and upraised fists had sprouted around the pedestal, shaking in happy defiance. Amid a chorus of “Coming through!” and “Let 'em pass!” the crowd parted to allow two men—one carrying several coils of stout rope, the other, a ladder. The ladder was quickly propped against the marble base, scaled, and King George now shared his pedestal with determined men busy securing rope around the horse's withers, middle and rump. The activity garnered the attention of one and all, and a deafening roar went up when the last noose was tossed over the monarch's head.

Jack pressed forward, the dome-shaped buttons on his weskit dimpling a vertical line along her spine, his hot breath tickling her ear. “Can you believe it?” he asked.

The loose lead ends were tossed down to many willing hands. Anne and Jack shouted along, “Heave! HO! Heave! HO!” Muscles and ropes strained, stretched taut as bowstrings, but the King did not budge.

Bright flashes chased behind the thunderheads roiling in the sky and big summer raindrops pattered down, ticking like an erratic mantel clock as they hit the sun-warmed King and his mount.