The Tory Widow (5 page)

And ol ' Merrick scoffed so when I taught Sally to read,
Anne gloated, trickling the last handful of s's into the lower case.

Four years before, with little to recommend Sally Tucker save for the low price of her contract, Merrick purchased the timid fourteen-year-old girl from the master of a schooner just in from Glasgow. Indented as their maidservant, the quiet girl was diligent at her chores, but she tended to hover when Anne would teach Jemmy his letters—sweeping, dusting and polishing the pewter—never very far from earshot. When Anne discovered Sally tracing the day's lesson on a sooty window, she decided to include the girl in her classroom. Quick-witted, it was not long before Sally graduated from the primer to more complicated works. One often found Sally's freckled nose buried in a book or a newspaper.

The front door opened and slammed shut.

“A mob, Annie!” Sally flew in, flinging her basket to the table.

Anne jumped from her stool. “Where?”

“Rivington's!” Sally pulled the folios from the drying rack into a sloppy pile. “They say poor Mr. Rivington's fled the town.”

Titus opened the door. The handle was wrenched from his grip by a wicked gust off the East River and the door slammed
bang
against the wall. The wind tore in, creating a swirling maelstrom of paper flying erratic about the shop. Titus pushed the door shut, putting an equally sudden end to the sudden hurricane. He clacked the three brass bolts home—bottom, top and center.

“Och, but tha's an ill wind.” Sally scooped up one of the wind-strewn pages and stared despondent at the copy. “This Tory business'll surely do us in.”

“Into the fire with them, Sally,” Titus ordered as he threw off his coat and hat. “Mrs. Anne—you and I must see to the type.”

Anne did not waste time bemoaning all the fine work going up the chimney. She knew the drill. Following Titus to the back of the shop, together they pulled and pushed the unwieldy supply cabinet away from the wall to expose a short, wide door—access to the triangular closet space beneath the stairs. Anne unlatched the door and Titus pulled out a few heavy cases filled with old worn fonts they kept stored there. While Sally darted about plucking up pages and tossing them on the fire, Anne and Titus worked like a pair of stevedores loading a ship's hold, lugging the expendable old type to the compositor's table and tucking the precious cases of fine Caslon into the closet.

Titus maneuvered the last case into the closet when a raucous pounding sounded at the front door. Sally helped to push and shove the supply cabinet back into position, concealing the closet door. The hammering at the front door and boarded windows became more boisterous, accompanied by much shouting and sharp whistling.

Anne swiped the ink-stained mobcap from her head and stuffed it into the box with the leading. She twisted her tumble of chestnut hair into a quick knot and secured it with the pair of pins from the pocket at her hip. Spying a streak of black ink on the kerchief tucked about the low neckline of her blouse, she stripped it off and tossed it into the fire. There was no time to change from the old brown skirt she wore on press days, or the linsey blouse, now made immodest for lack of a neckerchief.

The knocking at the door shifted to an incessant thudding, but the sturdy brass hinges and bolts withstood the weight of determined shoulders being heaved into the oak door. Anne took a position at the front of the shop next to one of the trestle tables. A good foot taller, Titus stood behind her, the iron poker snatched from the hearth gripped in one fist. Anne waved Sally to the door. “Go, go, go . . . afore they break it down.”

Sally snapped the bolts back, one by one. “Hoy, lads!” she shouted. “Keep yer breeches on, aye?”

The door swung open, and a dozen men spilled into the shop like so many slippery cod from a fisherman's net—young men smelling strong of rum and ale—dockworkers, mechanics and apprentices by the looks of them. Having gained entrance, the raiders blinked in momentary confusion, floundering to form slipshod ranks. Most were armed with clubs, though Anne noticed several muskets and one man with a brace of pistols tucked at his waist.

The last three men came through the open door bearing grim expression—all three familiar to Anne. Walter Quakenbos, the baker in apron and shirtsleeves, must have come straight from his shop next door. Captain Isaac Sears and Jack Hampton were dressed for cold weather in boots and caped wool coats, their cocked hats tucked beneath their arms. Hatless Quakenbos, a burly man, folded his arms across his chest. Sally shut the door and backed away to stand together with Anne and Titus.

It disturbed Anne to see Jack Hampton once again mixed with vulgar company, but then, the man who'd just stepped into her shop was not the celebratory, smiling Jack of her memory. Tar-and-feather Jack had come to call this day. Beat-a-man-senseless Jack.

Isaac Sears took the lead, and came to stand before her. “You are Widow Merrick, the proprietress?”

Anne nodded. “I am, sir. Indeed.”

“Why did you bolt your door to us?”

Her knees had gone as soft as Sally's egg custard and she braced a hand on the tabletop beside her. “Bolted with no prejudice on my part, I assure you, sir. All comers will find my shop closed Mondays.” Anne forced a smile. “Why, my neighbor Mr. Quakenbos knows this for the truth. He can attest.”

“ 'S truth.” Quakenbos shagged his head up and down. “Always closed Mondays, even back when ol' Peter was alive.”

The baker's confirmation did not serve to ease her plight, for Sears was not persuaded. “Why did you hesitate to come to the door when called to it?”

“Habit, sir. I am a widow alone living in uncertain times”—Anne pointed to her boarded windows—“with ample cause to be wary.”

“But you are not alone today,” Sears noted.

“My journeyman and maidservant are here cleaning shop.” Anne pointed to Sally's basket sitting on the table. “We were making ready for supper when you and your companions arrived.”

Sears peeled back the napkin covering the basket. He picked up a crescent-shaped pie, sniffed it and took a bite from one flaky end. Chewing this mouthful, he stepped closer to eye Titus and the poker tight in his fist. A spattering of crumbs sprayed from his mouth when he spoke. “Your nigger seems to have violence on his mind.”

“I hold no slaves,” Anne asserted. “Mr. Gilmore is a free man in my employ and a good friend to Sally and me. As such, he is concerned for our protection.” Anne turned to her journeyman. “Please put the poker by, Titus. I'm sure these men mean us no harm.”

Titus hesitated, then flipped the poker to bounce and clang onto the table. Disarmed, the big man still bore a threatening countenance and Anne was grateful to have him at her back.

“Mr. Sears,” Anne brooked a conciliatory tone. “I do sincerely apologize if my locked door and Titus's fervor caused you and your friends alarm. You need not waste any more of your valuable time with us. As you can see, we are up to no mischief here.”

“Very nice. Very civil indeed.” The captain popped the last bite of the lobster pie into his mouth. “And yet”—he reached into the basket again—“I still wonder why you were so long in opening the door . . .”

Jack Hampton shifted from one booted foot to the other and loosened the horn buttons on his overcoat. “Isaac! What does it matter? Let's get on with the search.”

“Search!?” Anne squeaked.

“A thorough search.” Hampton looked her square in the eye without a flicker of recognition. “Rivington's apprentice informed us we'd find Tory swill originating from your press.”

“Well, sirs,” Anne dithered, “I—I . . . I'm absolutely shocked to hear you lend credence to such charges. Your source is obviously suspect—a terrified boy who would no doubt say anything to gain this lot's good graces—including pointing a finger my way.” Anne dismissed the notion with a flip of her hand. “So much stuff and nonsense. My press has been idle for weeks for lack of paper and ink.” Interlocking her fingers she clasped them at her waist to keep the men from seeing her trembling. “Times are hard, sir. Our living at Merrick's is earned from the sale of coffee, quills and scones these days.”

Jack squared his shoulders. “We have cause to search. If you've nothing to hide, you've nothing to fear.”

“I fear for the loss of my common rights.” Anne took a step and blocked the aisle leading back to the print shop. “I will not allow a search. I recognize neither your cause nor authority.”

“We do not seek your permission, madam.” Sears came to stand before her. “We cull traitors from our midst by the authority of the people.”

“The people?” Anne scoffed. “This drunken mob?”

“Liberty must be protected.”

“And who's to safeguard my liberty?” Anne gritted her teeth, anger displacing fear. “My rights are being trod upon here. Am I to be tarred and feathered for not flinging my door open quick enough?”

“Widow Merrick,” Quakenbos interceded. “Be reasonable. We've no tar and feathers here . . . Allow the lads a quick look around and then we can all be on our way.”

“Bugger that!” Sears swiped the back of his forearm across his mouth. “We will search these premises at will. We're not a mob. We're militia, duly recognized by the Committee of One Hundred.”

Anne's ire sparked a fury. “Militia—mob—it is a pity that most of us citizens are hard-pressed to tell the difference these days.”

Sears towered over her. “You are glib, madam.”

“And you, sir, are a brute.”

“Search the shop,” Sears shouted.

The militiamen pushed past Anne and fanned out to begin poking about. Sears sent half a dozen men up the stairs to search the living quarters. Titus followed after them, calling out, “Don't worry, Mrs. Anne. I'll mind they don't steal anything.”

Smug Isaac Sears made himself comfortable at one of the tables. Quakenbos joined him. Jack Hampton set his hat down and made a beeline for the press.

Anne paid no mind to the militiamen rifling through drawers and cupboards. Her eye was locked on Jack Hampton. He strolled around her press, stopping to give the rounce several turns—moving the carriage in and out from under the brass platen. He swung open the tympan and pressed a palm to the marble imposing stone still damp from its recent cleaning. Jack wandered to the compositor's table and poked through the disorganized pile of quoins, gutter sticks and leading—the miscellaneous parts and pieces from the form she had just dismantled. He found the pissbucket in the corner and hoisted it onto the compositor's table. Using a gutter stick, he fished up one of the leather inkball covers, studying the urine-drenched sheepskin for quite some time before dropping it back to the bucket.

Blast his eyes.
In all the hubbub, she had not thought to clear the bucket away. She called to him, “Cleaning day, sir! Long overdue.” He nodded and continued to poke through the mess on the back table.

Sally came up and whispered. “Tha' one's a nosy bastard, in't he? Dinna fash, Annie, these rebels canna arrest ye fer keepin' an untidy shop.”

“I don't know . . .” Anne grasped Sally by the hand. “Who's to stop them from doing whatever they please?”

Hampton looked out the back window and called two militiamen over. “Go search those outbuildings there,” he ordered, sending the men through the back door to search the privy and the kitchenhouse.

“Och! My kitchen . . .” Sally snatched up her cloak and bustled after them.

Jack turned his attention to the other items on the table. Picking through the type cases, he held the inferior bits of type up to daylight. He tugged Anne's mobcap from the box of leading and spread it out on the tabletop. After contemplating it for what to Anne seemed an eternity, he took the leather aprons hung from their hooks and laid them on the table.

A loud noise erupted from the Stationery and Anne turned to see a big man—a fisherman by his wooly cap and cuffed seaboots—standing before her case of Books for Sale, sweeping shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes to the floor like so much rubbish.

“Have you lost what little wits you possess?” Anne rushed round and gathered up an armful of books from the floor, piling them onto the countertop. “Fish-stinking lout!”

“Mouthy Tory bitch.” The fisherman swept his arm across the countertop and redistributed the books she had just set there back to the floor.

“Blount!”
Jack Hampton came over, boots pounding hard on the floorboards. “There's no call for that!”

“Bugger off, Hampton. Who's to say I won't find some Tory scribblins hidden here?” Blount pretended to study the gilt-stamped title of the book he was holding upside down in his filthy hands.

Anne winced at the sight of his coarse fingers reeking of fish offal fanning through the pages, muttering, “It might be easier to read if you held the book right-side up . . . you illiterate ape.”

Blount paused from his feigned perusing of the pages. He grimaced at Anne, baring filmy gray-green teeth, and slammed the book hard against the edge of the countertop, flipping the broken volume onto the floor with the others.

“Enough!” Jack clapped a hand to Blount's shoulder and shoved him toward the door.

Blount shrugged free, rubbing his shoulder. “Leave off. You ain't the cap'n here . . .”

In a single swift motion Jack took a step forward and freed a nasty dagger from his left boot. With eye dark and voice low, he growled, “Off with you.”

“Yiv no call t' pull yer sticker on me, ye correy-fisted devil. I'm on my way.” Blount backed away slow. Pressing a crooked knuckle to his brow in sullen mock salute, he exited the shop.