The Tory Widow (49 page)

As if he'd been struck once again across the back of the head with a pistol butt, Jack was staggered by the admission.
I end tomorrow beneath Cunningham's gallows
. There was no bravado in the thought. Every hope, dream and desire he'd ever had would be strangled lifeless by a hempen rope.

Jack clutched at the cast-iron half-crown around his neck, his breath stuck in his chest. He closed his eyes and imagined the other half in Anne's possession, lying against the creamy, smooth skin just beneath the hollow of her throat. Gasping a shallow breath, he could almost feel the soothing peace of her fingertips on his brow.

“We didn't mean t' make you sad, Jack,” Jim said, in a quiet voice. “Sometimes, the pictures take you to a place you didn't mean to go to . . .”

Jack heaved in and puffed out a sigh, swiping tears away with his sleeve. “No . . . I'm glad I came. Really. Thank you, boys, for sharing your place with me.”

Brian nodded. “Even if it's only in your mind's eye, and only for a smidge of time, it helps to wander away from this shit-stinking world, don't it?”

Rations were stowed into a small keg with a tight-fitting lid. The lantern was doused, and the three trudged back upstairs to slip back into the crowded yard just as the Hessians began to bark out orders and herd the prisoners back inside. Jack joined the despondent double file of men, moving through the doorway, shuffling along to the beat of consumptive hacks and groans.

“Hampton!”

Jack turned to his name. Through the moving crowd he could see a red-coated officer standing with a Hessian guard call out his name again.

Jack kept pace with the herd, all the while snatching glances over his shoulder.

Jim grabbed Jack by the shirttail, whispering, “What's that bloodyback want with you?”

“I suppose it's my gallows time . . .”

“No, sir.” Brian shook his head. “They ain't allowed t' scrag anybody on the Sabbath . . .”

Jack shrugged. “The provost may have something in mind for me—more than just a hanging.”

“Don't answer, Jack.”

“Make 'em find you.”

“Hampton! Jack Hampton!”
the officer shouted, craning his neck. The Redcoat and the Hessian guard began to move up the line, and as they drew closer Jack could see the officer was cradling the distinctive brass helmet worn by the 17th Light Dragoons in the crook of his arm. In his other hand, he bore a loaf-sized rectangular package wrapped in rose-colored paper and tied with a blue, grosgrain ribbon.

“Here!”
Jack shouted, stepping out with Jim and Brian on his heels trying to pull him back.

The lieutenant was one of the cavalrymen he had ridden with when he had scouted for General Clinton . . . one of the three dragoons Anne quartered above the Crown and Quill . . .
Wemyss.

“I'm Jack Hampton,” he announced. “I'm him.” Jack could see the reciprocal flash of recognition in the dragoon's eye—the lieutenant clearly hesitating before at last handing over the package.

“Your cousin has sent this small comfort for your last hours. Miss Sally bid me to tell you she made this cake special, just for you, and she will pray for your mortal soul.”

“Thank you, sir . . . thank you so much.” Jack slipped the package inside his shirt, and touched his fingers to his brow in salute. “Please tell my cousin I am most grateful for her kindness and her prayers.”

Wemyss brought a kerchief to his nose to allay the stink and considered Jack for a moment with a furrowed brow. Then, turning abrupt on his heel, he marched away.

Jack tugged the boys back into the shuffling throng, and under his breath he said, “I need to use your light.”

Both boys eyed the bulge in Jack 's shirt, and nodded. They dragged their feet, making sure they were among the last prisoners lagging behind when the guards shut the big door. At the sound of the heavy iron bar dropping into its seat, Brian whispered, “Go!” and the three of them peeled away and skittered down the cellar stairs.

“Whatever you got there, it surely smells grand,” Jim said, his nose twitching like a rabbit's as they pried the door open to the secret room. “What do you think it is?”

Jack pulled the package from his shirt and took a sniff. “It is definitely the finest soft gingerbread in all of New York. I'm hoping it is also a message from my woman.”

“How'd your woman get a Redcoat to deliver it?” Brian asked, putting flint to steel to light the oil lamp.

“My Anne, she is a wonder.” His heart was dancing a jig in his chest, and he fumbled so untying the ribbon, he threw up his hands and left it to Brian to accomplish the unwrapping.

The deep brown loaf was wrapped in four sheets of rose-colored foolscap paper. He spread the sheets out on the countertop, examining each one, front and back.

Seeing every page was blank, Brian sighed in sympathy. “It was probably too dangerous for her to write a message . . .”

“No. There's a message here. I know it.” Jack set aside the two most grease-stained pages, and ran his fingertips over the surface of the two clean pages.

“Can we eat a bite?” Jim asked. On Jack 's absentminded nod, the boys converged on the loaf, prying off two good-sized chunks.

“Looky here,” Brian said, “there's somethin' in this cake . . .”

“Looks like the mate to the one you wear.” Jim showed Jack the crumb-covered half-crown in the palm of his hand.

“ ‘
Made it special . . .
' ” Jack said, with a grin and shake of his head.

He removed the glass chimney on the lamp, held the paper to the heat of the flame and held his breath when the faint strokes of a pen began to darken on the page. “Here it comes . . .” He laughed. The script formed into full black, and he threw his head back and exclaimed, “Oh, Annie!”

The boys crowded on either side. “What's it say? What's it say?”

Jack read aloud the words rendered in Anne's fine, strong hand:

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THOMAS PAINE,
Common Sense

 

 

 

 

 

E
IGHT o'clock
. . . William Cunningham snapped the case on his pocket watch shut and waved the serving boys in to clear the table. But for a few scraps and bones congealing in greasy, bloody puddles, the platters and bowls were picked clean and the gravy jugs were drained dry. The boys carried off the remnants of the main course, and set out an impressive array of exotic sweetmeats and imported English cheeses. Brandy goblets were distributed, and the publican placed six bottles of Armagnac on the long table at regular intervals. The provost poured himself a glassful, and waited for his guests to ready their drinks.

The cut-crystal goblet weighed heavy in his hand. Pushing away from the table, his head swam a bit.
Too much claret and punch, and not enough meat and potatoes,
he thought. Of late, his appetite never seemed to match his thirst.

Cunningham fortified himself with a gulp of brandy, and rose to propose the customary toast. On this signal, chairs scraped back across the floorboards, and the group of merchants, bureaucrats and British officers whose favor he regularly curried joined him.

The provost held his glass high, and proclaimed, “His Majesty, the King.”

Which was followed by the rumbled communal response of, “His Majesty, King George the Third.” Crystal tinging, everyone took a good swallow.

Joshua Loring raised his glass and added, “The provost marshall—generous host of this glorious feast.”

“Hear, hear!”

Cunningham accepted the accolade with proper humility, and as planned, Quartermaster Floyd put an end to the toasting, glass aloft. “Our wives and sweethearts—may they never meet.”

The old jest drew the requisite amused guffaw, and the guests resumed their seats.

Wavering a bit, Cunningham remained on his feet at the head of the table. He could feel his new wig had slipped off-kilter, and the sharp tug he gave to right it sent it off to the other extreme. He grasped the table edge, and buttressed his stance with a deep swallow of French brandy, then launched into his speech.

“Trusted servants of the British Crown—not so long ago, this very room served as the gathering place for that nest of vipers known as the Sons of Liberty.” He swept his arms up, inadvertently cuffing the servant boy who had ducked in to set a plate on the table, knocking a wheel of Cheshire cheese onto the floor.

The provost glared, waiting for the boy as he dusted the retrieved cheese with a grimy rag from his pocket and set it back on its plate. “Aye . . .” Cunningham continued, “
these
very walls bore witness as the scoundrels planned their nefarious treason. And around this very table . . .” He pounded his fist, rattling the nearby china and glassware. “Around
this
table, these so called Liberty Boys fomented rebellion and war.

“Loyal and valiant men! Your presence around this table is a testament to the rising tide of victory. Washington and his motley rabble are on the run, and soon the country will be swept clean of the rebel menace, and proper order will reign over the whole of His Majesty's Empire.”

“Hear, hear!” The company broke into applause, and the ardent took to their feet.

Cunningham quieted the room with outstretched arms. “We have brought into submission one of the most pernicious, vile Sons of Liberty to have ever claimed that mantle. An unrepentant black-hearted whore-son, who will at the end of our party answer to the devil himself.”

Joshua Loring offered up a weak, “Huzzah!”

Wincing at the solo bleat issued from one of his pandering sheep, Cunningham raised his glass one last time. “I invite you all to join me at the new gallows behind Bridewell at midnight, to witness as I send yet another rebel bastard to an aggravated damnation in hell.”

The provost plopped back into his seat, brandy sloshing. “Until then, my friends, you're still my guests—doxies, dice and faro await in the public room.”

 

 

TRUSSED into a red silk gown, Anne sat on the chest at the foot of Patsy Quinn's bed. Fists balled in her lap, she splayed a finger in time with every bong of the new bell at City Hall.

“Eleven o'clock already,” Sally said, with a shake of her head.

“As if we hadn't noticed. Now keep your mouth closed.” Patsy rubbed her pinky finger into the pot of lip pomade, and artfully applied the crimson paint to give Sally a proper streetwalker's pout. “There! My turn.”

Sally relinquished her seat at the dressing table to Patsy Quinn, and went to sit beside Anne. “It takes some getting used to,” she said, barely moving her lips. “All this paint and hair.”

Afraid to upset the high-piled wig on her head, Anne thought better of nodding. She fiddled with the red ribbon tied at her throat, the layers of paint feeling much like a skim coat of plaster on her skin. “If I didn't know better, Sal, I'd never guess it was you.”

“Nor I you—good thing we have some time to grow accustomed t' this gear,” Sally said with a waggle of her head. “I'm like to burst out laughing every time I take a look at ye.”

Patsy talked into the mirror above her dressing table, twirling her long dark hair into a knot at the back of her head. “The provost and the quartermaster transact regular with sporting girls. If our plan is going to work, the ruse must convince. You ladies might look the part—but you must play whore with some gusto or we'll all wind up dangling alongside Jack.” Opening the front of her dressing gown, she used a little sea sponge to apply an even coat of stark white paint from forehead to chest.

“You're right, Patsy.” Anne tried to relax her stiff shoulders. “It's really no different than flirting with our dragoons, I suppose.”

Patsy mixed red and white paint into a garish pink color that she applied to her cheeks and nipples. “There's a difference dealing with men who pay good coin, and those who try to wheedle the goods for naught.”

“Annie . . .” Sally eyed the nipple painting. “We ought plump up our bubbies a bit . . .”

The women helped lace Patsy into her stays, and pinned her into a red silk dress. After tugging on a big wig to match the wigs Sally and Anne wore, Patsy applied crimson lip pomade, and affixed a small crescent-shaped black silk patch to her left temple, near her eye.

Patsy passed the patchbox to Sally. “Put on a
mouche
. . . left is the Tory side, and the temple bespeaks passion.”

Sally poked her finger through the assortment of black silk patches and chose a clover shape. “For luck!” Touching a dab of gum arabic to the patch, she mimicked Patsy, pressing the
mouche
to her left temple and passing the little box on to Anne.

Anne read the motto inscribed on the lid of the enamelware patchbox aloud. “
The hardness of your heart causes mine to ache and smart.
”

“The city commandant gave me that trifle himself—calls me Hard-hearted Patsy, he does—he's been after me to become his mistress.” Patsy stood before the mirror, tying a red satin ribbon around her throat. “Bitch Babcock is all for it—says we ought pick the ol' lecher's pocket whilst he breathes—but I say there's more to life than money. I generally don't have much of a stomach for shriveled-up old men—old Tories in particular—” Patsy glanced over to Anne, adding, “No offense.”