He squeezed her hand before letting go to ruffle her copper curls. “Of course not, little Sally.” He turned back to Robert. “Probably John Kirk as well.”
As if to match the solemn mood that had descended upon them, the sky opened and a torrential rain began to fall. The four of them huddled closer underneath the portico that offered little protection as the rain blew sideways. Mother and Sally ran inside, leaving Papa and Robert to endure the soaking downpour.
Like many of their Oyster Bay neighbors, the Townsends owned slaves, but they were usually kept for outdoor work, such as caring for the livestock and helping with the harvest. The regular household duties fell to Mother and the Townsend girls, although Sally would much rather have been outside with the horses and chickens.
The night Robert returned, Audrey, the eldest Townsend sister, and Phoebe, the youngest, helped their mother prepare dinner while Sally set the table with earthenware plates. There was a time when the Townsend meals had been clamorous and full of entertainment—three of Sally’s brothers, with the exclusion of the reticent Robert, were boisterous and quick-witted, and spent their mealtimes exchanging jokes and laughing loudly. Visitors, either out-of-town patrons from Papa’s store or friends and family, often joined them as well. But now, with the war dividing the neighborhood into Tories and Whigs, guests were a rarity. The oldest Townsend son, Solomon, was currently away at sea and Samuel Junior, Sally’s second oldest brother, had passed away a few years ago. There was plenty of room around the pinewood table in the kitchen, where Papa nowadays preferred his family to dine. The crackling of the fire didn’t much compensate for the solitude of these new family dinners.
Whenever any of Sally’s brothers were present, the dinner conversation characteristically turned to war. Tonight was no different. William, older than Robert by three years, asked his father what he thought of Congress’s Declaration of Independence.
Papa chewed and then swallowed before replying. “I think this has turned what some thought was a rebel skirmish into a real war for the new America, where one side struggles for the right to be free and the other for the right to oppress.”
Robert nodded. “I fully agree. And with that, I am ready to take up arms for our new country.”
“No, Robert.” Papa reached for his son’s hand. “You cannot. You know as well as I do of the strict pacifism we adhere to as Quakers.”
Robert pulled his hand back. “But Papa, as Paine wrote, we must follow our own Inner Light.”
Sally glanced at William, whose face looked blank. Papa had given both William and Robert a copy of Common Sense, the pamphlet advocating independence written by fellow Quaker Thomas Paine. Sally had been curious as to what part had gotten the residents in Oyster Bay so divided. She had snuck into William’s room one night and grabbed it, intending on returning it as soon as he noticed it was missing. It had been several months and she had read the now dog-eared copy front to back at least six times. Each time she read it, she became more in favor of America eschewing the monarchy and becoming its own republic. Sally knew—and William clearly didn’t—that Robert was referring to the part where Paine urged his readers to follow their own conscience.
Papa took a sip of ale and then set down his mug. “I can get you a position in the Queen’s County militia that does not require you to fight.”
Throughout the meal, Phoebe and Audrey had been quietly focused on the food in front of them. Sally guessed that her sisters were too preoccupied with the thought of their childhood friends marching off to war to worry much about Thomas Paine. But their mother’s head, like Sally’s, had been volleying between the men as they spoke. “Samuel,” Mother put her spoon down and wiped her mouth. “I’m not sure I want Robert involved in the war at all.”
“But Mother,” Sally replied, “Robert has to do something. I would too, if I could.”
“What would you do?” William guffawed. “Ride off into the night like Paul Revere? Take up arms against the Redcoats?”
Sally flipped her hair and glared at her brother. “Just because I’m a female doesn’t mean I can’t serve my country.”
“Actually,” William said, picking up a forkful of food, “that’s exactly what it means.”
Samuel Townsend had been elected to the fourth Provincial Congress and was summoned to White Plains, New York in mid-July. A few days into his journey, Papa, sensing the frustration from his middle daughter on not being able to contribute much to the rebel effort besides sewing uniforms, sent word for Sally to come to White Plains to hear the reading of the Declaration of Independence. Robert volunteered to be her chaperone.
Sally had always sensed that she was Papa’s favorite daughter. The Townsends believed an education was necessary for all of their children, and, consequently, the three girls had attended school and learned to read and write. Sally was particularly good at math, and Papa often asked her to assist with his ledgers if she was not preoccupied with climbing trees or catching frogs with her brothers. Audrey, however, was more adept at womanly duties like sewing and baking. She planned on marrying James Farley, a captain who sailed with their brother Solomon, as soon as she turned twenty-one and Sally had no doubt she would excel at her household obligations as a matron. Phoebe was only sixteen months younger than Sally but she took after Audrey and was already a much better cook and spinner than her middle sister.
Sally was thrilled at Papa’s invitation and had her portmanteau packed days before she and Robert left. Although they would only be spending one night away, she stuffed her bag with combs, petticoats, and jewelry. Sally normally could not be bothered to worry about such accoutrements, but this was a very special occasion: the Provincial Congress was tasked with adopting the Declaration of Independence for the state of New York. Only days ago, General Washington had read it aloud in Manhattan, and she was eager to hear what Thomas Jefferson had written for herself. She chose her best day dress, a hand-me-down from Audrey. Ever since the boycott of British goods, Sally had refused to buy new clothes and settled for either homespun, or—more likely since her sewing skills were somewhat lacking—castoffs from her older sister.
The Dosoris ferry took them across Long Island Sound, which Robert told her his friend Caleb Brewster called the Devil’s Belt. After they disembarked on the mainland, the final leg was to be accomplished on horseback. Confident in his sister’s ability to properly ride a horse, especially since he himself had taught her, Robert rented Sally her own bay instead of having her ride with him on a pillion. They finally dismounted at the farmhouse of her uncle, James Townsend, in mid-evening. Exhausted from the long trip, Sally fell asleep right away.
A crowd had already established itself in front of the White Plains Courthouse when Robert and Sally arrived the next morning. A fife and drum corp played “Yankee Doodle,” while a boy waved the flag of the local minute men to the beat. Unlike the divided neighbors of her hometown, the hordes of people gathered around her all seemed to be Whigs and buzzed with support to sever ties with the King.
Suddenly the courthouse doors opened and the delegates emerged. Everyone around them gaped at the men blinking in the sudden sunlight. Even the band members stopped to stare, holding drumsticks paused in mid-air and fifes to frozen mouths. After a moment, the rumble of the crowd quickly filled the silence that ensued when the music ceased. Robert, standing behind his sister, whispered some of the delegates’ names in her ear. “That’s John Jay and Lewis Morris.”
Sally stamped her foot and glared at her brother. “I know.”
Robert, too caught up in the excitement, ignored her. “Look, there’s General Woodhull—the elected president of the Congress. And there’s Papa.” The drummer resumed his beat and Sally’s heart thumped in time with it. A man dressed in a dark blue coat and tan breeches climbed to the top of the steps of the courthouse.
“That’s John Thomas,” Robert murmured before the entire congregation hushed.
Mr. Thomas’s voice rang clear and loud against the still s
ummer air. “When in the course of human events…”
Sally hung on every word of the document, trying to process what it all meant. Her chest swelled with outrage as Mr. Thomas read a list of complaints against George III. When he spoke about the inalienable rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” that Parliament and the King had previously deprived the colonists from seeking, some of the crowd members shouted their agreement. Mr. Thomas concluded the reading by proclaiming that the Convention had unanimously resolved to ratify the Declaration of Independence. At this, the throng of people broke into two factions: those who cheered enthusiastic “huzzahs!” on their way to the pub to continue the celebration and those so overcome with emotion they were sobbing openly outside the courthouse. Sally was among the latter; as she wiped her eyes, she noticed her normally stoic older brother doing the same thing. He too, had been moved to tears by the powerful words that finally set them free from the King’s tyranny.
Chapter 4
Elizabeth
July 1776
On the evening of July 12, Elizabeth was at supper with Abigail and the children when Johnny spotted a fleet of ships passing by.
“Look, Mama!” The excited little boy got up to point out at the harbor. “Are they American ships?”
“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth replied, knowing there was no American navy to speak of.
“Are they British, then?” Catherine, astute for a four-year-old, even more for a girl, asked.
In lieu of replying, Elizabeth scooped more soup into both of their bowls. “Eat up, now.”
A loud booming noise shook the panes of the window. “They are firing at us!” Johnny shouted.
Elizabeth felt the now familiar terror rising as she lifted her heavy belly out of the chair and went to the window. Below them, neighbors were fleeing from their houses. As if pulled by the shrieking below, Abby and the children joined her at the window. Catherine pushed in front of Elizabeth and she put her arms upon her daughter’s tiny shoulders. In a matter of minutes, the crowds below were packing up wagons with household goods and heading toward King’s Bridge, the only land bridge leading to the mainland. Troops moving in the opposite direction rushed into the throng of people. The soldiers, finally arriving at their destination on the shore, seemed dumbfounded. A few of them peeled their guns off their shoulders and fired at the ships, to no avail. Another boom caused Elizabeth to abandon the window and take the children to the interior of the house.
“Missus, we need to go now!” Abigail shouted.
“How?” Elizabeth frantically gestured to her belly. She knew it was probably wisest to leave the city, but at the same time, she didn’t know how two women would manage to convey Catherine and Johnny to safety, especially given her condition.
“Maybe the Fraunces can help? Or the Underhills?”
Elizabethgestured toward the kitchen window. “They are probably fleeing the city with the rest of them.” She met the eyes of her maid square on.
Abby’s normally stoic brow was furrowed with worry as she hugged Johnny to her. “Missus, the baby. Your midwife?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Gone too, I’m sure. But I’ve still got time to figure that part out.”
Abigail took a deep breath. “I can do it. I helped Madame Nance a few times when she delivered babies in the log huts behind the Commons.”
Catherine flew into Elizabeth’s arms as another cannon sounded, this one even closer than the ones before it. Again, the two women met each other’s eyes over the heads of the little ones in their arms. Abby had grown up in the unpaved back streets of the Holy Ground, the slums near Trinity Church, the daughter of a prostitute who had wished for a better life for her progeny. Elizabeth’s friend Mary Underhill had once cared for Abigail’s mother and suggested to Elizabeth and Jonathan that they hire her daughter. Thus, Abigail had come to serve their family at the age of thirteen. Even when times were tough, like the past couple of months, Jonathan made sure he could at least provide Abby with food and a roof over her head, less she suffer the fate of her mother and countless scores of other destitute women in the city.
Chapter 5
Meg
July 1776
In the same fashion that her husband commanded the troops, Mrs. Putnam ordered her female servants and daughters to spin fiber to make shirt cloth for the infantry.
“Do you not spin, Meg?” Belle asked one morning in the parlor-turned-sewing room.
“No, I’ve never learned.” Meg couldn’t ignore the look Belle gave her sister.
“Such as happens when one loses a mother at an early age,” Molly whispered back, loud enough for Meg to hear.
“I was taught to embroider, however,” Meg told them. “And I can sew buttons.” She wasn’t exactly eager to repair uniforms for the enemy, but desired to make herself useful to the general, or at least his family, for hosting her.
The living room was comfortable, warmed as much by Mrs. Putnam’s genial personality as it was by the warm summer air. The pleasant smell of the servants cooking dinner wafted in.
When they returned to their tasks after a satisfying lunch, sans the general and Major Burr, Meg didn’t feel the need to put on her usual airs. She filled Molly and Belle in on some of the pranks she had pulled on the head mistress in Dublin, such as the time Meg put ink in her powder so that her hair turned the color of pitch for weeks.
“What did you learn there if not how to spin?” Molly asked.
“Needlework,” Meg said, holding up the frame on which she was embroidering a handkerchief for Old Put. “My headmistress was French. She thought that English gals were boring, and was determined to teach us how to make good conversation, so we were exposed to some reading and poetry. Mostly though, we learned traits that would make us a good wife: dancing and singing.”
“How does singing make you a good wife?” Belle asked.
“Apparently French gentlemen like to be sung to sleep after dinner,” Meg replied.
“Do you suppose Major Burr likes to be sung to?” Belle inquired. Molly seemed to find that extraordinarily funny.
Upon hearing his name, Meg could feel her face grow hot under her mob cap. “Ouch!” she shouted, looking down at the dot of blood that now graced her finger.
Molly giggled again. “Try to keep your mind on the task at hand, Meg. That way you won’t prick your finger while thinking of a handsome soldier.”
Thankful for the distraction, however painful, Meg rose from the chair. “I’ll just go upstairs and fetch a washcloth.” She hastened from the room and climbed up the grand staircase. While she was looking for a clean rag, she noticed a door off the hallway. She headed to it, bloody finger forgotten, finding that it was unlocked. It led outside to the gallery on the flat roof of the house. She fiddled with the knob on the door, and once she was sure it wouldn’t lock behind her, ventured outside.
With no trees to provide shade from the mid-afternoon sun, it was quite warm. She walked to the balustrade that bordered the edge of the rooftop, kicking something in the process. Awkwardly she bent down, casting her hands underneath her skirts to find the object, which turned out to be a small spyglass. She lifted it to her eye and peered across Manhattan. The Gothic Trinity Church, on the corner of Broadway and Wall Street, dominated the skyline with its steeple, the highest on the island. At Bowling Green, she could see the empty space where a statue of King George had once stood. The statue had been abased by ruffians upon the announcement of the Declaration of Independence just a week before. On the other side of the Mall, near Broad Street, she could see soldiers in green jackets cutting down the beautiful trees that shaded the avenue. Across the way, other men were busy digging trenches next to the cobblestone street. She moved the spyglass to the wide beach that led to the East River. Beyond that she could see the British men-of-war, the Asia and the Phoenix, docked at the harbor. She wondered if her father were among the men on either one of those ships.
A voice from behind Meg knocked h
er out of her revelry. “They say an invasion is imminent.”
She took a step back from the edge of the roof, wishing her wide skirt would have allowed her to sit. Her knees had weakened, either from the heat of the day or from the fact the voice belonged to Major Burr.
“So that is the cause for all the raucous.” Meg gestured toward his fellow countrymen below in the act of destroying the charming avenues of his adopted neighborhood. “Will they evacuate the city, then?” She felt sad that she’d finally found a decent home—even if it was occupied by the enemy—only to be forced to leave it again.
Aaron shrugged, taking the spyglass from her to train it on the British ships. “Your father and his friends have their guns pointed at us again.”
“If the rebels would halt their crazy dreams of independence, maybe they would point them elsewhere.”
“Not a chance.” Aaron tossed the spyglass a couple of feet away. He glanced at her. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I’m stationed at the old Webb mansion.” He leaned over the balustrade to point at a narrow bridge that connected the Putnam house to its equally stately next-door neighbor. “The Kennedys—the ones who owned this house before Putnam confiscated it—and the Webbs used to host opulent balls, and wanted an easy way to get to and fro.”
“That doesn’t necessarily answer my question.”
“I saw you up here, and didn’t think it was a ladylike thing to do, spying on warships.”
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 3
