The Tory Widow (21 page)

David dropped his saddle and returned the salute with a sweep of his hat. “Don't tell me you two have joined the militia!”

Titus laughed and Jack said, “Nah! The greens and salutes just make it easier to get around on this side of the heights.”

“
This
side of the heights—” David noted the distinction as he hoisted his saddle back to his shoulder. “It sounds like your army of two might be causing the British some mischief.”

“Might be.” Titus grinned.

“Come along with us to the Ferry House Inn for dinner,” Jack said, “and we'll tell you all about it.”

“The Ferry House!” David snorted. “I'm afraid my meager pay will not support a meal there.”

“Did you forget the emolument?” Jack reached inside his shirt and pulled forth a plump purse. “C'mon, lobster dinner all around.”

David looked over to his tent as one of his messmates pulled a steaming gray lump from the simmering pot. “Let me stow my saddle and shed my spurs.”

The three men marched down to the gable-roofed inn flanking the ferry landing, and they were seated around a comfortable table with a fine view of the East River. Once a round of pints was pulled and dinner ordered, David asked, “So how long have you two miscreants been on the island?”

“Six days now,” Titus answered.

Jack added, “We came over on Monday night.”

David unbuttoned his jacket. “Monday night? After the storm?”

“During the storm.” Jack smiled.

“We were halfway across the river when the storm blew in.” Titus scowled. “Took us some doing—getting across—soaked to the bone we were.”

“That was the worse storm I've ever seen,” David said. “The next day we found three officers lightning-struck on Cortlandt Street. Roasted to a black crisp they were—the tips of their swords and the coin in their pockets melted.”

“Bad omen, that,” Titus said.

“Pish,” Jack scoffed. “Just a bad storm is all.”

A pair of tavern maids brought over a platter piled high with steamed lobster and clams, a bowl of buttered and parsleyed potatoes in their jackets, and a fresh green salad of spinach and cress dressed with oil and vinegar. The hungry trio fell into silence, concentrated on wresting every bit of sweet meat from the shells, calling for seconds on the potatoes and salad. Sated, they finished the meal off with glasses of rye whiskey and stubby cigars.

David blew a cloud of smoke up to mingle with the ceiling rafters. “A grand meal. Thank you, Jack—Titus.” He savored a sip of his whiskey. “You two really ought consider joining up for the fight. We are about to give the lobsterbacks a sound drubbing—just like we did at Breed's Hill.”

“We lost at Breed's Hill,” Jack reminded.

David ignored him. “Our lines are solid and well situated—naturally fortified by the heights—and the passes through the high ground are guarded by our best troops.”

“The King's army has might.” Titus puffed on his cigar. “They can barrel right through one of those passes—crash through and lay siege to your works from landside
and
from warships on the riverside.”

“They can try and get through.” David nodded. “And be severely bloodied in the process.”

Jack reached into his shirtfront and handed David a folded sheet of paper. “Have you seen one of these?”

David unfolded the page, smoothing it on the tabletop. He moved the oil lamp centered on their table a little closer, and read:

 

“Are many answering this call?” David asked.

“We'll find out. Titus and I intend to join up.”

“Join the Redcoats? You're mad!” David pushed back from the table. “Both of you!”

Jack stroked his beard. “There's no madness in a Loyal citizen and his slave volunteering to help restore order.”

“It is madness when the Loyal citizen is truly a most ardent rebel, and his slave is in truth a free man.”

Jack and Titus sat puffing their cigars, grinning like boys on school holiday.

David shook his head. “You're bound to be caught and strung up as spies.”

“We've already been to Flatbush—fifteen thousand soldiers camped there, and not one gave us any trouble but to hand us that broadside . . .” Titus said, pointing to the page.

“Fifteen thousand?” Beetle-browed, David stubbed his cigar out on the table. “What do you mean fifteen thousand? Our scouts reported eight thousand landed.”

“Your scouts are dead wrong.” Jack threw back the last of his rye, and signaled the barman for another. “We were there at the landing, watching and counting to the very last man. They've fifteen thousand camped at Flatbush. Maybe more now with this proclamation. We have our tally from two days ago. Show him, Titus.”

After a few moments, Titus worked the tiny paper scrolls back out through the hole in the lining of his waistcoat. He pushed the notes across the table.

David studied the writing. “What does this mean—red, black, green, blue?”

“Redcoats,” Titus said, pointing to the first column. “Foot, grenadiers and dragoons.”

“And the black are Highlanders—” Jack added. “Dark caps and plaids.”

“Green jackets are those Jäger riflemen,” Titus said. “And blue is for the other German mercenaries—Hessians, Waldeckers and the like.”

“I need to get this information to General Putnam.” David stuffed the papers into his pocket. “With the report of eight thousand landed, General Washington is of a mind that the army here on Long Island is a feint to distract our attention from a true invasion force at King's Bridge. He's been holding back troops . . .” David misbuttoned his gray jacket and seated his hat crooked on his head. “Fifteen thousand! With so many of our lads fever-stricken—we're lucky if we have six thousand fit for duty.” With that David stomped off. Halfway to the door, he halted, turned and called, “When are you leaving for Flatbush?”

“Now.” Jack tossed the butt of his cigar to the floor and crushed it underfoot. “We aim to be back by Monday—Tuesday at the latest. We'll find you.”

With a nod and a wave, David all but ran out the tavern door.

 

 

NEAR the town hall serving as General Howe's headquarters in the tiny village of Flatbush, Titus and Jack hooked onto the tail end of a long, slow queue of men and boys formed in front of a trestle table set up near the shade of a white oak tree. A few of these locals were interested in joining the British Army as colonial irregulars. Most waited in the hot sun to register as Loyalists, and obtain the requisite permits as per Howe's proclamation.

When Jack and Titus were yet two dozen places away from a turn with the sergeant, a pair of farmers—father and son by the look of them—walked opposite, newly issued permits in hand, all the while staring boldly at Jack.

Titus was becoming accustomed to the stares Jack engendered by wearing a full beard, and he took to claiming that Jack might ride through the heart of New York City on the back of an African elephant, and draw less attention. Jack still insisted on the need to alter his appearance. Titus was only glad that he was able to talk him into removing the earring.

When the farmers drew parallel to Jack, the elder gawker stopped in his tracks, cocked his head to the side and asked, “Jackie, is that you?”

“Charlie!” All smiles, Jack stepped forward and embraced the man. Looking over to the younger man, Jack exclaimed, “This can't be Billy!”

“It is.” Charles pulled his son forward. “Give your uncle Jack a kiss.”

“When last I saw you, lad, you were wearing leading strings and bouncing on my knee.” Jack wrapped his nephew in a bear hug. “Titus! Meet my brother Charles, and my nephew William.”

The family resemblance was suddenly plain to Titus. Charles Hampton was a stockier, graying version of Jack. Not more than fifteen years, and not yet reached his full height, young Billy was blessed with his forbear's dark, good looks.

It was also plain Charles Hampton did not know what to make of his younger brother or his negro companion. Glancing from Titus, then back to the group of red-coated officers hovering behind the table in the shade of the big oak tree, he muttered, “What kind of mischief are you up to now, Jack?”

Jack took his brother by the arm. “Let's walk a bit.”

The four of them strolled down the street, away from Loyalist ears. After a brief exchange of family news, Jack told Charles of his intent to join the British Army and scout out information for Washington's Continentals.

“You are a brave heart for the cause and I'm very proud of you, Jackie,” Charles said. “I only wish I could do something to help, but with eight mouths to feed, I have to be very careful to husband my resources. Very careful indeed.”

“Eight mouths!” Jack slapped his brother on the back.

“Aye, Bess is newly delivered—a girl, at last—so you see how I just can't afford to mix in this mess,” Charles said, with an apologetic wave of the permit in his hand. “Between the Continentals confiscating our provender and cattle, and British foraging, there's little left to us. I expect it will be a lean, hard winter.”

Jack dug inside his shirtfront, and handed his brother the leather sack given to him by Washington. “Here—there's at least twenty Spanish dollars there—to help get our family through the winter.”

“No, Jack . . . you have done more than your share for the family.” Charles pushed the purse back into his brother's hand.

“Don't be an idiot. Take the money and my love to Bess and the new baby,” Jack insisted, slipping the pouch into his brother's coat pocket.

Charles clasped Jack 's hand in his two. “Just promise me you'll be very careful, Jackie.”

Jack nodded. “Go on home now, before young Bill here catches the recruiting sergeant's eye.”

As they watched Charles and his son disappear down the road, Jack rubbed the beard on his jaw. “Try as I might, I never could fool Charles.”

“A family man, your brother,” Titus said. “The eldest?”

“Of six boys—no more than eighteen years Charlie was, when our folks died of the bloody pox. He took care of us, and our farm—more father than brother to me, what with me being the youngest. He suffered so when I left to be bound out to Parker . . . always wanting to keep us brothers together . . .” Jack swiped at the corner of his eye. “It was good to see him.”

They rejoined the queue, which began to move along at a brisker pace, and soon they found themselves at the head of the line. The beleaguered sergeant in charge of dispensing permits sat back in his chair dabbing face and neck with a kerchief, mopping rivulets of white powder-tinged sweat. “Foh! What have we here?”

Jack paid no mind to the disdainful tone and glare. Throwing back his shoulders, he announced in a strong, clear voice, “I've come to volunteer my services, along with those of my slave, to help restore the Proper Order.”

Years of service in the British Army had not quite obliterated the Irish brogue from the sergeant's speech. “Are ye some sort of foreigner?”

Titus was sure the irony of this question coming from a man who'd recently traveled three thousand miles to get to the American shore tickled Jack's rebel heart as much as it did his own, but they both managed to maintain a stern countenance.

“Just like yourself, I'm a good Englishman, sir,” Jack replied. “Come to do my duty for King and country.”

“Away with the likes of you. A good Englishman kens the worth of strop and razor,” the sergeant growled. “British soldiers are clean-shaven.”

“I am aware, sir.” Jack did not budge. Squaring his shoulders he loudly proclaimed, “Though I may not be fit for the serious business of soldiering, surely I can be put to some use. If not me, then perhaps my slave . . .”

One of the officers wandered from the shade to stand just beyond the sergeant's shoulder. Titus was developing an appreciation for uniforms, and the one worn by this captain was by far the most splendid he'd ever laid eyes on.

Titus figured the captain for a cavalryman by the buckskin breeches he wore tucked into gleaming black topboots. His red coat was faced in dazzling white and fastened with silver buttons—real silver, not pewter—each embossed with the number
17
, twinkling in the sunlight. Most impressive was the helmet. Fashioned of jacked leather and golden brass, it was crested with a flowing plume of madder-dyed horsehair to match his red coat. A black-lacquered plate rising up from the brow of the helmet was decorated with a white skull and crossed bones painted above the words “OR GLORY.”

Death or glory—
Titus imagined that mounted, these dragoons at a full gallop must present an awesome sight.

“Shove off, ye hairy bastard!” The sergeant waved Jack away. “Come back after you've scraped them whiskers.”

Ignoring the sergeant, the splendid officer spoke directly to Jack. “Your name?”