The Tory Widow (14 page)

“Arrah!!!”
The same burly Irishman who'd opened the gates charged up the ladder, brandishing his iron pry bar in an upraised fist to rally the crowd.
“Arrah!!!”

He shoved the flattened end between marble and fore hoof, and called,
“Pull!”
to the men at rope's end. The pullers ground their heels in the turf, and slack rope drew tight. The Irishman scurried back to loose a hind hoof and the chanting began again, “Heave! HO! Heave . . .”

Two of the four hooves popped free from the plinth and the behemoth creaked to one side, canted on a two-legged axis. With the statue balanced at this precarious angle, the tugging men gave one last mighty heave before dropping their ropes and scattering like grape-shot. King and horse arced over and toppled from the pedestal in a clanging crash, brought down by their own ponderous weight.

The figures landed in a broken heap, and the illusion of solid gold was exposed as the thinnest layer of gilding over common lead castings. The crumbled plaster, clay and sand used to fill the castings' hollows spilled from the mutilated figures like entrails from a butchered carcass.

Anne pressed her face between the two iron pickets she clutched, her breath caught in her throat, stunned. The symbol of her Sovereign Lord knocked like so much rubbish to the ground—the same Sovereign she'd taught her child to include in his prayers—the beloved monarch whose health was toasted in homes and taverns throughout the colonies—the King who, not six years before, earned this ornate monument erected in his honor—this man would lose an empire. She was certain of it.

The destroyed figures were at least twice the size of natural man and beast, but the giant proportions did not hinder a pair of prostitutes from running in to wrest the gilded crown of laurels free from the statue's head. A solemn-faced infantryman wearing the blue and buff coat of a Massachusetts regiment marched forward, and to rousing huzzahs, aimed his musket and discharged a ball, embedding it between unblinking regal eyes.

The crowd surged forward with shouts of “Liberty!” and “Freedom!” Jack braced his arms to the iron cross rail, acting as a protective counterforce, providing Anne a shield against the crush. A fierce gust swept in off the water, followed by several deafening thunderclaps and accompanying streaks of lightning. Rain began to fall in earnest.

A hard-muscled man armed with a maul began hacking at the king's thick neck, rousing wave after wave of rebellious cheering with every blow. The severed head was speared upon a sturdy pike and the same man who'd acted as axeman paraded the trophy around the green, out the gate and up Broad Way. The fife and drummer boys struck up the “Rogue's March,” fell in step with the most boisterous of the soggy multitude trailing along.

The rain dwindled to a drizzle and the crowd winnowed down to no more than a few score who lingered and watched a young officer direct a handful of men in dragging the statue parts and pieces into a pile outside the gate.

“Hey, Captain,” Jack called. “That's a good supply of lead. I hope you plan on running it into musket balls . . .”

The captain smiled, and raised one booted foot to rest on a portion of the torso. “Even though the poor fella's lost his head, King George here will be making a big impression on more than a few Redcoats.”

A carpenter hurrying home stopped, set his toolbox down with a thump and pondered the salvage operation. He folded his arms, shook his head and announced, “You know, it still ain't right.” Tugging a tool free from his kit, he stepped up onto the curbstone and proceeded to saw at one of the little cast-iron crowns that decorated the top of every fencepost. After five good strokes of the blade, the carpenter snapped the crown off the post, hurled it to the pavement and moved down the line to the next fencepost.

Hand in hand, Anne and Jack tarried, amused by the determined carpenter as he moved from post to post sawing, then flinging the little crowns to the rain-slicked cobblestones.

“Hey, Jack! Jack Hampton!” a man called from a jovial gang making its way around the green. “We're off to Montagne's to toast the Declaration. Join us for a pint . . .”

“Not tonight, Ezra.” Jack laughed. “My pocket won't support one round with you, much less the herd you roam with!”

“Come along, brother—your pretty lady's welcome as well—
I'm
buying!”

“What?!” Jack clutched at his chest, aping a fit of apoplexy to everyone's great amusement.

“Why don't you join your friends?” Anne urged. “I have to get going anyway. David will be sending the cavalry out in search if I'm not home before curfew.”

“Alright . . .” Jack 's eyes shifted to his fellows waiting on his answer. “. . . but I'll see you home first.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Anne pulled her hand free from his. “I'm not helpless—there's still plenty light and home is but two blocks away . . . I'll be fine.”

“Alright, then . . .” Jack said, taking several backward steps. “I'll come by tomorrow morning—to break down and stow the press.” He turned to circle the green in a brisk half run to catch up with his mates. Suddenly, he pulled up short, bent down to retrieve something from the pavement and ran back to Anne.

“Look . . .” Jack smiled, breathless. In his hand he held one of the discarded crowns that had broken cleanly into two pieces. He dropped one half into his pocket and pressed the other half into Anne's hand. “For us—a token to remember the day by . . .”

Anne grasped Jack by the placket of his weskit, pulled him down to her level. “Oh, I'll not soon forget this day.” And before she knew what she was about, she kissed Jack Hampton most brazenly on the lips. Releasing him with a little shove, she took a step back. “Go on . . . off with you now . . .”

“Why, Widow Merrick.” Jack grinned, straightening his hat thrown askew by her kiss. “You never fail to surprise.”

“Hey, Hampton! You comin'?”

Jack took off up Broad Way. He looked back once and waved, and Anne waved back, watching until he disappeared in the scrum.

A gust of wind off the bay tugged at her damp skirts. Anne's fingers tightened around the little half-crown Jack'd given her—the broken edge biting into her palm as she pressed her closed fist to her heart. Turning toward Whitehall Street, Anne cast a lingering look over her shoulder, at the empty pedestal on the green.

Void of its King, the marble monolith stood desolate in the twilight, facing a storm-tossed sea and the silhouette of the armada menacing the horizon.

CHAPTER SIX

THOMAS PAINE,
Common Sense

 

 

 

 

 

W
OOD squawked against wood, and stacks of treenware plates tottered on the shelves, clacking in alarm as Anne and Sally wrestled the unwieldy cabinet away from the wall.

“Heave, Sal!
Heave!
”

Together, the women managed to jerk the heavy cabinet from its comfortable footprint, and push it far enough to make accessible the small door behind it. Swiping mobcaps from heads, Anne and Sally fell back, gasping.

Anne could no longer operate her business with the back end of the shop in total disarray. After waiting two days for Jack Hampton to come as promised and break down the press, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She chased the dregs of her breakfast trade out the front door, and closed her shop for the day.

“It's only but forenoon, and this day's already hotter than the middle pits o' hell.” Sally whisked off the kerchief tucked at the neckline of her dress and floated it to hang over the lever handle on the press.

Anne opened the door to the odd-shaped little storage room beneath the stairs, only to be pushed back by a heated cloud of dusty air. “Ullcchh!” she said, scrinching nose and eyes. “Best give it a moment to air out.”

“This swelter is no friend to me.” Sally unbuttoned her skirt and kicked it off. “I canna bear it—soakin' wet I am.”

Anne stepped out of her skirt as well, and pulled her blouse over her head, giggling. “Brazen, but it is just the two of us here. Why should we suffer this heat?”

Barefoot, and considerably cooler stripped down to sleeveless muslin shifts and stays, the women went a step further, pinning their hems at their hips to accommodate a breeze and ease of movement about the legs.

“Well.” Anne propped her hands akimbo and took stock of all the printing accoutrement piled upon and around the press. “I suppose we ought first get this lot stowed and out of the way, and then we can figure out how to dismantle the press.”

Together the women slid heavy cases of type across the floor, pushing and pulling them to the pitch-black, narrow end of the space.

“Damn that Jack Hampton—he's a canny one, aye?” Sally said. “Leavin' all this work for us . . .”

Anne shook her head. “I don't know . . . He promised to come by on Wednesday morning, and here it is Friday with no word. I confess, I'm a bit worried.”

“Och, Annie, dinna waste a smidge o' worry on th' rogue. He's the devil's get, that one—as charming and handsome-dark as he is—the devil's get—I'd lay a wager on it.” On the count of three, they lifted a ponderous crate filled with leading strips and quoins, and waddled it in through the door, dropping it with a thud.

“
Whew!
Like to put a hole through the floor.” Sally swiped a forearm across her dripping brow and Anne sank down on the crate, taking a moment to catch a breath, when the brass bell tinkled, signaling the shop door had opened and closed.

“Bugger it!”
Sally's hand flew to her lips. “Ye didna shoot the bolts home!”

“I thought
you
had.”

The women poked their heads from the storage room, squinting and blinking at the bright daylight, as two tall figures moved toward the back of the shop.

“Away wi' ye, lads,” Sally called. “Cup and Quill is closed for the day. No a drop o' coffee to be had. Away wi' yiz! Come back tomorrow—we'll be offering blaeberry tarts.”

“Sally? Mrs. Anne? We've come to lend you a hand . . .”

Anne recognized Titus's voice, and for a moment, the muscles at the back of her neck relaxed. Her eyes adjusted, and as the men drew closer, she could see the “we” in Titus's pronouncement included a grinning and rather disheveled Jack Hampton. The women ducked back into the shadows, fingers fumbling to tug free the hems of their shifts, and at least cover bare legs.

Jack peered inside the storeroom, calling, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” and Sally burst forth, ablaze in a redheaded ire, backing Jack up to the printing press with a remonstrating finger in his face.

“And where have you been? It's either honey or turd from you, Jack Hampton, na? First ye have us throw our shop topsy-turvy with all yer Patriot palaver—and then ye dinna make good on yer promise t' clean up this mess. Out carousing wi' yer mates, from the smell of ye, while two of us have been trippin' over the press and one another t' git from kitchen to customer . . .” She gave him a rough shove to his shoulder.

Jack leaned back, his arms upraised, laughing. “Sal! I thought we were friends?!”

Titus stood by, shaking his head, smiling. Anne stepped out of the stifling storeroom, arms folded in stern admonition. “We've no need for a friend who cannot keep true to his word.” Too aware she was standing there clad in her thinnest summer-weight shift, she managed to dredge up the dignity to dismiss Jack with a wave. “Be on your merry way, Jack Hampton—Sally and I can manage on our own, thank you very much.”

“Aw, Annie.” Jack brushed past Sally. “I'm sorry. I know I'm a trifle tardy, but I'm here now, aren't I? Ready to make good on my promise—see, I've brought Titus.” Though his tone mimicked that of a contrite man, his telling smile was made mischievous by the crinkling at the corners of his bloodshot eyes as he stifled a laugh. Two days' worth of dark stubble added to the devilish cast of his features.

Standing there in naught but her shift, Anne squirmed under his scrutiny. “You don't seem to be very sorry . . .”

“I
am
sorry”—Jack's strangled chortle burst into a guffaw—“but the two of you—so fierce in your petticoats—”

Titus sputtered, “It
is
awful funny, Mrs. Anne.”

But Anne was not laughing. She noticed all but one button missing on the same green weskit Jack'd worn when she'd kissed him farewell at the Bowling Green, and she considered the curious crimson smudge tinting the unbuttoned collar of his shirt with a bit of animus. Hatless, most of his hair had escaped the sad, bedraggled ribbon slipping so low on his queue that it threatened to fall away at any moment. He tucked a black tangle behind his ear and she caught the glint of gold.

Anne moved in to get a better look, encountering the cloud of alcohol and cheap perfume emanating from him like piss-reek from a chamberpot. “Is that an earring you're wearing?”

“What?!” Jack fingered his ears, the surprise clear on his face as he discovered the small gold hoop pierced through the lobe of his right ear. “So I am!”

Titus doubled over, hooting and stamping his boots to the floorboards. “Oh, you must have had yourself a
good
time!”

Jack nodded. “I must have!”