The Tory Widow (28 page)

“He's been fevering.” Jack rubbed the circulation back into his arms. “I wish we could have brought him home sooner, but British warships kept us from the river.”

“The trip was not an easy one,” Titus added. “I'm afraid David's worse for it.”

“I'm fine . . .” David said, with a weak smile. “Happy to be home, thanks to these two miscreants.”

His right calf was wrapped in a rusty bandage stained bright and wet with red, and his left arm tied up in a sling fashioned with wide strips torn from Jack 's green weskit. Anne judged David had lost at least a stone in weight, if not more. The sight of her younger brother so ill and damaged caused her heart to wither.
He is so very pale and wan . . .
Reminding her of her Jemmy in those last, terrible days.

Sally took David's hand and pressed it to her heart. She was smiling.

“Take a good look, Jack,” Titus said. “Miss Sally Tucker is struck dumb.”

Jack laughed. “I never thought to see the day.”

“How did you find him?” Anne asked. “Where . . . ?”

“David can tell you himself, for we've not the time to linger,” Jack said, with a wave. “Fare thee well, Captain. We leave you in the best of hands.”

Titus and Jack ran down the stairs, and Anne followed after them. “Wait . . . how can we thank you . . .”

Ever-practical Titus asked, “Do you have any food?”

She pulled a covered basket from the goods piled in the pushcart, offering the food Sally had prepared for their trip. “Picnic fare—bread . . . dried beef . . .”

“Ah! This is perfect, Mrs. Anne.”

“I wish we could stay”—Jack shoved the loaf of bread inside his shirt—“but the British have landed at Kip's Bay and routed our forces once again.”

Anne nodded. “So the Redcoats
are
on our doorstep . . .”

Jack pointed to the cart. “You'll have to postpone your trip until we can figure a way to get your brother back to his regiment.”

“The army is pulling back to the high ground at Harlem. We have to catch up before we're cut off.” Titus took a bite from a chunk of shortbread, rewrapped it in newsprint and stuffed it into his pocket. “And there are a few of them Redcoat officers I'd rather not bump into.”

“Wait. Just wait—please . . .” Anne ran back to unlock the kitchenhouse door. She returned, offering Titus a bottle. “Take it . . . I wish there was more I could do . . .”

“West Indies Rum!” Titus waggled his brows and showed the bottle to Jack.

Jack slapped his friend on the back. “Let's go . . .”

Like a nor'easter wind, the two of them blew out as swiftly as they had blown in. Anne stood tottering in the wake of their departure, waving and watching from the doorway as they disappeared around the corner.

She heaved a sigh and leaned back against the wide doorframe, reeling. In mere minutes her world was once again turned upside down—but she had to admit, she was filled with joy for it. Her brother was rescued from the enemy's grasp, and was brought home to where he could be cared for properly, and they had Jack Hampton and Titus Gilmore to thank for it.

Just as she was about to shut the door, Jack came pounding back down the lane. Skittering to a halt, he pressed a hand to the doorframe above her head, leaning in to catch his wind.

The Spaniard beard she'd heard tell of must have been recently shorn, the lower half of his face a shade lighter than the rest. Hatless, with dark hair loose and tangled, wearing a belted shirt and boots, he looked ready for adventure. She wanted to reach up and brush fingertips to his stubble-rough cheek—she wanted to go with him.

“Annie—I don't know when I'll see you next . . . and though you consider me of no account and a rogue—I need you to know this . . .” He fiddled at his collar and pulled forth his half-crown from the Bowling Green fence—with a hole bored through it fastened to a leather thong tied around his neck. “I am always your true and constant friend.”

Anne laughed. Digging into her pocket, she showed him the matching half she carried.

“I am your friend as well . . .”

Jack took her by the hands, and kissed her most tenderly on the lips.

“Hey! Jack!” Titus whistled and shouted from the end of the lane. “Will you come on?”

Jack grasped her by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Annie . . .” Two furrows creased the bridge of his nose, his eye intent. “When the Redcoats occupy the city, you must be very careful to keep your brother hidden and secret—the nature of his wounds will betray him at once as a Patriot. I have seen how they take care of their prisoners, and David will not survive it.”

With one last, quick kiss and squeeze, Jack ran to catch up with Titus. At the corner he turned and shouted. “Be very careful, Annie!
Be a Tory!
”

 

 

“WIDOW Merrick!
Widow Merrick!
”

Anne flung open the shutters and leaned out the window. Walter Quakenbos and an overladen, horse-drawn cart filled the narrow lane in front of her shop.

Looking up, the baker waved and shouted, “Come and join us, Mrs. Merrick. We are ready to depart!”

“I'm afraid we aren't able to travel with you today, Mr. Quakenbos.”

“Don't be foolish now, there's no time to waste . . .”

“Fare well on your journey, Mr. Quakenbos.” She waved. “Sally and I are staying put.”

“But, Mrs. Merrick, the city is deserted. Only the most scurrilous and desperate remain. And you will be at their mercy . . .”

“All the same, sir, we will not leave the Cup and Quill. Best of luck to you on your journey!” She closed the shutters, and went back to help Sally make up the bed for David.

“Why did ye not tell the man our David's been returned?”

Anne stuffed a pillow into a slip. “We do not need to broadcast our business to the street.”

“Aye . . .” Sally nodded. “Yer a wise woman, Annie.”

Anne built a fire in the stove and heated what was left of their water supply. Between the two of them, they were able to settle David onto the bed. They gave him a sponge bath, a good dose of willowbark tea for his fever, and re-dressed his wounds. Comfortable in clean linen and a soft mattress, an exhausted David dozed off.

“His wounds dinna seem to be festering,” Sally said, as they walked down the stairs. “The lads took good care of him, but we must be mindful of that fever. Who's to know what manner of poison the English monsters dip their bullets into?”

The women evaluated the food supply and decided to use dried beef and root vegetables from the garden to cook a fortifying broth. Anne emptied the cart they'd only just packed, and with her empty buckets left for the tea-water pump.

She pushed the cart up Queen Street, feeling as if she'd been transported to some strange and foreign city. Every single shop and business concern along the way was locked up tight with windows shuttered. Usually crowded with fluttering laundry, the empty clotheslines strung from building to building crisscrossed overhead like the rigging on an anchored brigantine.

It was the oddest sensation—broad daylight, and Anne Merrick traveled over a mile to the pump, not once crossing paths with another living soul. Without any of the other city sounds to blend in with, wooden wheels clattering on the cobbles resounded like a hard stick dragged along a picket fence. The city was deserted, but Anne had never felt so exposed.

She worked the pump handle in a hurry, the shrill squawk of it echoing in empty Chatham Square, alerting anyone within earshot to her presence. A little spotted hound with funny, floppy ears was drawn by the sound, running up to lap at the puddle collected under the faucet. Anne filled all six of her buckets to the brim. Wasting no time, she hoisted them into the cart and headed back home at a right smart clip.

As she rattled along, toward the crossing at Maiden Lane, her ears perked to something heard over the noise of her wheels. Anne slowed to a halt—

Not exactly a hammer, but before she could define it, the pounding ceased, and she could hear indistinct voices mingled with the sound of shattering glass.

She took a deep breath, putting the initial, visceral desire to take off running like a mad woman in check. Up ahead, what looked to be white rabbits hopped across the intersection. Squinting, she raised a hand to shade her eyes . . .

It was—five handkerchiefs, caught on a breeze, tumbling along the cobbles toward the Fly Market. As quietly as she could, Anne wheeled her cart into a narrow gangway between two buildings and went to peek around the corner, down Maiden Lane.

Anne's heart jammed into her throat. Three doors down, a gang of brigands had broken into Van De Meer's Dry Goods. Four boys ran in and out of the shop with armloads of plundered goods—bolts of fabric, reels of ribbon, towels and handkerchiefs—dumping their ill-gotten gains into a brewer's wagon waiting in the middle of the street, and guarded by three older men wearing swords and pistols.

“Gorblimey!” one of the men swore and flailed his arms as a gust of wind sent his tricorn tumbling down the street.

Her stomach churned at the sight of the ugly pink scars on his head—the very same foul man who would have left her murdered months before.

“Move yer arse, ye wee shit-sack, and fetch my hat.” Greedyguts gave one of the boys a shove and a none-too-gentle kick in the pants.

“Why fret fer that auld hat with the hatter's shop right 'round the corner on Queen Street?” one of his cohorts questioned.

“Heigh-ho, me matey, right you are!” Greedyguts brightened. “It's off to the hatter with us!” He joined the other two, pulling at the harness yoke like human draft animals, to roll the heavy wagon down the street.

Anne looked up at the wooden sign swaying overhead. DIBBLEE'S FINE HATS, it read on one side, a black cocked hat with flowing red feather painted on the other. Heart pounding, she ran back to the gangway where she'd stashed her cart. Pulling the barrow deeper into the shadows, she ducked down to hide behind it just as the marauders turned the corner.

Crouched hugging knees, with her back pressed up to the brick wall of the hatter's shop, Anne concentrated on making herself small. There was no need to risk raising her head a few inches above the buckets in her cart to check on the progress of Greedyguts and his thievish band of rascals. Her ears told her everything she needed to know. The brigands made no secret of their nasty business. They moved up Queen Street toward Chatham Square, breaking into shops and businesses all along the way.

Driven into hiding by the noisy plunderers, the same little dog she'd met at the tea-water pump came scrabbling under her cart, a lovely handkerchief edged in Brussels lace clenched in his teeth, which he relinquished in exchange for sanctuary.

“You little bandit!”
Anne whispered, stuffing the hanky into her pocket. She settled to sit tailor style, and the dog required no coercion to curl up on her lap. Alternately tracing her finger around the black and brown patches on the dog's white coat, and toying with his floppy black ears, she was happy to have company as she waited the time it took for the thieves' noise to dissipate into silence.

Deeming it safe, Anne set the dog on his feet and ventured out from her hiding place. The marauders had indeed traveled out of sight.

“Time for us to go . . .”

With her cart bounding on the cobblestones, buckets sloshing to and fro, heedless of losing half the water she'd collected, Anne ran full speed the rest of the way home, her newfound friend behind her all the way.

Careening around the corner onto her lane, she slowed to a trot and turned into the open doorway, bumping the cart up and over the threshold. Shooing the dog inside, Anne kicked aside the tin of lead slugs propping the door open, and slammed the door shut, snapping the brass bolts home.

Sally stepped from the kitchenhouse, swiping hair back from her eyes. “Hoy, Annie! I was beginning to worry fer ye . . .”

The dog scurried through the shop, ears flapping, tail wagging, making straight for Sal.

Dropping to her knees, Sally gathered the little dog in her arms, accepting a thorough face licking in the process. “Such a fine wee doggy . . .” She laughed. “Who does she belong to?”

“
He
belongs to us. And he's called Bandit.” Anne emptied the buckets of water into the stone-lined cistern built onto the side the kitchenhouse wall. She puzzled the wooden lid into place, eyeing the plume of smoke trailing east from the kitchen chimney. “We'd best put out that fire. I saw a band of brigands tearing up the shops along Queen Street. We do not want to draw their attention.”

Sally's smiling face turned grim in an instant. She immediately pulled the kettle cooking over the fire and scattered the embers with a poker. “Ye ken, Annie, if there's one band of evildoers, there are bound to be others.”

“We have to be prepared to protect ourselves.” Anne went into the shop and swung open the doors on the big cabinet. Standing on a chair, she dug to the back of the topmost shelf, muttering, “I thought I saw . . . ah! Here it is!” She jumped from the chair and carried a flat rectangular box to the nearest table, wiping the dust from the mahogany and brass corner fittings with her apron.

“Old Merrick 's pistols,” Anne said, flipping the latch to open the case.

The interior was lined with rich green wool. A pair of brass barrel pistols and their necessary accoutrements lay in compartments designed to fit each piece exactly. “He sent to England for these—paid a pretty penny for them, I recall.” Anne took up one pistol, surprised by the weight of it.