The Tory Widow (29 page)

“It's hard to believe the auld pinchpenny parted with the coin for such lovely things.” Sally examined the other gun, admiring the smooth walnut stocks decorated with elaborate silver mounts worked with a pattern of twisting acanthus leaves. “What do ye mean t' do with these?”

“Shoot marauders.”

“Yer jokin'!”

“Until the British get here, we are isolated in a lawless city, and we have to be prepared to defend ourselves. David will show us how to use these.” Anne replaced the pistols and snapped the case shut. “Tonight we'll lock everything up, bring food and drink upstairs and sequester ourselves in David's room for the night. Hopefully, no one will even notice we're here.”

When David woke, they propped him up with pillows, and sitting together on Peter Merrick's big bed, all three of them enjoyed a picnic supper of brown bread, cheese, pickle and a drink of cold rosehip tea. Bandit hopped up and lay with his muzzle across David's lap, and they took turns feeding the dog bits of bread and cheese.

Though feverish, David was rested, fed and in good spirits, and he agreed it might be useful for both women to know their way around a gun. “Bring those pistols over, Anne, time for a lesson.”

She laid the open case across David's lap and he examined the weapons. “Dueling pistols—very clean—I'd wager Merrick never once fired them.”

Anne and Sally had a giggle at the notion of Peter Merrick engaged in a duel.

David flipped the lid on the kidney-shaped gunpowder flask and held it to his nose. “Powder's still good . . .” He raised the hammer on the pistol and shaved a curl from his thumbnail on the flint, satisfied with the quality of the edge.

“There's a supply of lead balls in this box.” Anne pointed to one of two compartments built into the case.

“And wee greasy bits of cloth in the other,” Sally volunteered.

“Patches,” David corrected, setting the gun down. “I can't do much with one hand—you both must follow instructions. This is the charger—” He pried a small brass tube up and handed it to Anne. “It holds the proper measure for these guns. Fill it with powder.”

Sally helped Anne pour a gray stream to the top of the measure.

“Bring the hammer back to half-cock—hear how it clicked once? Now pour it down the barrel—good, good—center one of those greased patches over the muzzle of the gun and press a ball to it, pushing it into the barrel with your finger.” David handed his sister the brass-tipped walnut rod. “Use the ramrod and seat the ball firm to the powder.”

“That's a tight fit,” Anne complained, jamming the load down the barrel.

“Store your ramrod—without it, your gun is useless. Now flip open the frizzen.”

Anne thumbed open the brass plate covering the shallow pan.

David handed Anne the powder flask. “Tap just three or four grains into the pan. Mind not to overcharge your pistol, or you'll end up blowing your own hand off. Close the pan and your pistol is loaded. When you want to shoot it, pull the hammer back to full cock, aim and pull the trigger.”

“I never knew it was so simple.” Sally filled the charger, and began to load the other pistol.

David sank back into his pillows, his face flush with fever. “Pistols have a short range. If you want to put a hole in someone, you'd better be within several yards.”

Anne took the loaded pistol to the window. Extending her arm, she aimed at the building across the way. “Oh, Lord! Come, Sally—grab hold of my skirt.” She set the gun down on the bedside table and ran back to the window, climbing up to stand on the sill to better her view.

“What is it, Annie? Brigands?”

“Of a sort—” She hopped down. “A Union Jack flying from the staff at Fort George. The British are here.”

SALLY carried a pierced tin lantern to light their way through the shop as they lugged the ladder from the garden to the front door. Setting her end down to unlatch the door, Sally peered up and down the lane.

“All clear . . .”

The ladder thumped loud as they propped it against the face of the building, causing both women to hunch their shoulders and wince.

“I'll go up—I'm stronger.” Sally pushed Anne out of the way and climbed the angled steps.

Sporadic gunfire popped in the distance. “That's close by.” Shifting from one foot to the other, Anne kept a hand on the pistol weighing heavy her pocket, the bulge a comfort while keeping a look out as Sally fiddled with the hooks and chains.

“Och, it's all a bloody tangle—I need some light . . .”

Anne opened the door on the lantern and held it over her head, aiming the beam at the shop sign. “Does that help?”

“Aye . . .”

More shots rang out—accompanied by shouting and shoe leather pounding on cobblestones.

“Hurry, Sal . . .”

“Quit yer jiggling . . . I'm almost . . . ah!”

Sally succeeded in disengaging the chains from the iron bracket. Anne set the lantern aside to take the unwieldy round placard from Sally and roll it inside the doorway. Sally scrambled down, and they slid the ladder into the shop and locked the door.

Sally heaved a breath. “Och, it's a good thing ye remembered th' sign.”

“Um-hmm . . .” Anne aimed the light on the shop sign, the word
liberty
even larger and more conspicuous at such a close proximity. “Not exactly what we want to advertise these days, is it?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THOMAS PAINE,
Common Sense

 

 

 

 

 

T
HEIR meager pantry had been depleted over the course of the past week, and when she heard tell of traders at the market, Anne exhumed the strongbox from under her bed. Tossing a wad of useless Continental currency into the box, she pocketed a handful of guineas and shillings she'd stashed away when Washington's Army had come to town.

Bandit joined her on the long trek across town to the Bear Market on the Hudson, to find the stalls filled with upstate and cross-river farmers and merchants hawking their wares. Droves of eager customers paying in good old British coin crowded the aisles. A great variety of provisions were on exhibit—an abundance of riches Anne had not witnessed since before the Patriot army was in command of the city.

So many hungry customers with ready coin drove market prices high, but Anne did not stint. She was more than willing to pay the price for best quality, for Jack would be coming soon to rescue them all, and David must be fit and ready to travel.

She pushed a full cart back home, more than pleased with her acquisitions. Cornmeal, wheat flour, salt pork, coffee berries, sausages, eggs, cheese and butter—the kind of fresh food her brother needed to recover his health. Anne suffered a small pang of guilt for the pound sack of black bohea in her cart, but it had been so long since she'd had a proper cup of tea, she could not resist the aroma wafting from the tea merchant's stand.

Very Torylike, drinking tea
. . .

That morning, when British dragoons came marching down the lane, knocking on her door with the pommels of their swords, Anne tried not to panic, but she was quite terrified David would be arrested and carried off to some awful prison. She envisioned herself and Sally set upon the street, their home and possessions confiscated by order of the King.

Armed with pistols, Sally and David waited upstairs, while Anne answered the door with a gentle widow's countenance, and an offer of refreshment.

Be a Tory,
she thought, knees quaking, as she invited the Redcoat officers inside to take a seat at a table.

Bemoaning the lack of tea, she offered cups of chicory coffee and coarse corn muffins with peach preserves, and proceeded to weave a Tory tale of woe designed to tug at any Englishman's heartstrings. Beginning with a homily to her dearly departed, staunch Loyalist husband, she gave a dramatic recitation of the harm she'd endured at the hands of the demon Liberty Boys—the blackguard rebels who put her livelihood to ruin, and destroyed the very press and types she used to extol the King's Majesty, and defend Crown interests.

Not only did Captain Blankenship praise her bravery and her fortitude, he told Anne about the Bear Market in progress, and gave her a length of red ribbon to wear. “To show your loyalty to our King,” he said. The Redcoats bid her good day, never knowing an armed rebel officer lay in a bed situated just above their heads, and they moved on without painting the dreaded “G.R.” on her door, indicating her property confiscated by the King for service to the Crown.

Anne found great wisdom in Jack's command to “Be a Tory.” In truth, women had it far easier when it came to shifting loyalties. No oath or promise of service demanded—only a few inches of red ribbon and a pin required for a total transformation.

Like a figure carved on the prow of a ship, Bandit sat at the head of the cart, proudly perched upon the firkin of cider she'd purchased. Nose to the wind, silly ears flapping, he sported a red ribbon collar matching the red ribbon rosette Anne pinned to her straw hat.

“Tory doggy,” Anne teased, when she tied the collar to his neck. Bandit growled, and spun round and round, making himself dizzy trying to tear it off.

She pulled her cart to a stop at Broad Way. The street was choked with a reverse exodus—wagons hauling supplies, furnishings and many Loyalist New Yorkers driven from their homes now returning in happy triumph. Loyalists seeking sanctuary from rebellious strongholds like Boston and Philadelphia also flocked to the city for protection.

“Surrounded we are . . .” Anne muttered. Bandit agreed, beating a tune on the little keg with his tail.

She dove into the fray, wriggling her cart through the tangle to travel down Fair Street.

The city had also transformed in an instant. In the seven days since the British began their occupation, people poured in on the Post Road, and ferried in from the hundreds of boats anchored in the harbors. A whole new influx of sailors and soldiers roamed about in packs defined by uniforms different from those she'd become accustomed to, and Anne was learning a whole new set of distinctions.

Crowding the sidewalks along with the multitude of British Redcoats were Scots Highlanders in dark tartan kilts, green-jacketed Brunswickers wearing upright plumes on their caps, and mustachioed Hessian grenadiers in blue jackets and mitered brass helmets topped with a fuzzy red wool ball—the sight of which always sent Bandit into a barking frenzy.

The forlorn clotheslines bridging streets and alleyways were now filled with coats of red, blue and green wool flapping alongside petticoats and nappies. These new occupiers came with families in tow. The nomadic wives and children of officers and enlisted men took up residence in dwellings confiscated by the Crown, and the women now collecting water at the tea-water pump spoke in accents and languages foreign to Anne's ear.

With the population burgeoning, lodgings were quick becoming a scarce commodity, and Anne was beleaguered daily by newcomers in search of rooms to rent. The probability of being forced to quarter British soldiers in her home was high, and the stuff of her most recent nightmare.

Smiling, she turned the corner onto her little lane between Duke and Dock Streets, and skittered to an abrupt halt, causing Bandit to lose his seat and leap from the cart.

She had seen many a G.R. painted on the houses and businesses she passed along the way, but the G.R. on the Quakenbos Bakery door stopped her dead in her tracks.

Anne touched her fingertip to the wet black paint.

Anne pulled her cart the few steps to her door, pondering the paint on her finger.

 

 

ANNE bolted upright with an indrawn gasp—eyes wide-open.

In two staccato leaps, Bandit bounded from bed to floor, then to the chair she'd left beside the open window. Front paws resting on the sill, he joined the enthusiastic barking and howling chorus disturbing her sleep.

“Shush that noise,” Anne moaned and slapped the mattress. “
Come.
”

Bandit continued to bark without even suffering her a sideways glance.

Anne rubbed her eyes and blinked—the portion of sky visible though the window flashed in shades of gold, blue and green. Amber light flickered on her whitewashed walls.

Sally appeared in the doorway with a stubby candle sputtering in a dish, her sleepy-eyed face squashed in squint. “D'ye smell smoke?”

Anne threw back the sheets and ran to the window.

Bandit stopped barking. Sally squeezed in, and the three of them leaned out over the sill.

“What's happening?” David stood with his right shoulder bolstered against the doorframe, his left arm in its sling.

“Whitehall Slip is on fire.” Anne pointed toward the East River.

“It looks like the Fighting Cocks Tavern is in flames.” Sally pointed straight ahead to the battery.