But One Life

by Wyn Estelle Owens

  Her eyebrows rose. “Captain?”

  “Shhh!” He held a finger to her lips. “You must not repeat anything I say outside of this shack.”

  She nodded, clearly startled.

  “General Washington has asked my commander, Major Benjamin Tallmadge, to create an intelligence network in New York to spy on the British headquarters.”

  The girl withdrew her hands and folded them in front of her. “It is a dangerous business, spying, Captain.”

  “I know,” Ethan said solemnly. There was a little silence. He cleared his throat. “I was tasked with one other duty, Miss Phillips.”

  Ginny took in his stance and lifted her eyebrows. “What is it?”

  “Recruiting others to assist in gathering information.”

  He watched her, tense, trying to divine whatever thoughts were passing beneath her pretty black hair. She stared at him for a long, long moment, as Ethan awaited her answer.

  There was a long pause as she tried in vain to corral the swirling mass of thoughts in her head. Ginny turned away, bending over to pick up the letter from where it lay.

  …It is my deepest sorrow to inform you…

  She held it up to a ray of light that slipped through a small hole in the roof.

  …on the 28th of June, in the year of our Lord 1778…

  She read slowly as Ethan watched.

  …Your father fell on the field of battle…

  Deliberately, she lowered the letter, folded it, and tucked it in her bodice. Then she looked at Ethan solemnly.

  …In the service of his country.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Are you certain?” he asked. “You know the penalty for spying.”

  She fingered the locket chain around her neck. “Yes.”

  A small smile spread across his face, and he held out a hand. Ginny placed hers in his, and he solemnly kissed it. “America and General Washington thank you.”

  Dropping her hand, Ethan took a step back and tipped his head to the side, regarding her quizzically. “However, I did not think you would agree so readily.”

  Ginny smiled slightly. “Did you ever hear the final words of Captain Hale, whom General Washington sent to spy in New York City?”

  Ethan nodded.

  “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country,” Ginny quoted solemnly. Her hand fidgeted with her locket as she bit her lip. “My father also died in our country’s service. I have been given a chance to serve as they did. How can I say no?” She dipped in a small curtsey. “Tell your Major Tallmadge that I stand ready to assist him in whatever capacity I’m able.”

  His smile widened into his habitual half-grin, and he gave her a deep bow. “You’re a very brave woman, Miss Phillips. I’m honored to know you.”

  Ginny blushed and looked away. “It is my honor to serve my country.”

  Ethan took a seat on the straw and patted the space next to him. “Now, we need to discuss strategy. How will you pass on information without getting caught?”

  Ginny sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and contemplated the toes of her shoes.

  A draft wafted beneath the door and teased the wispy hairs that insisted on escaping confinement, carrying with it a scent of sweet apples.

  Ginny bolted to her feet. “I think I have an idea, Captain—wait here a moment!”

  Before he could open his mouth to say anything, she had darted to the door and ran out, only to return a moment later, a crimson apple cradled in her hands. The door was quickly bolted behind her and she plopped down on the straw next to him, holding out a hand. “Do you have a knife?”

  Ethan handed her his Barlow knife with a bemused expression, and she cut a circle around the bottom of the apple, prying out a cone-shaped piece. She turned to him triumphantly.

  He stared back, clearly confused. Ginny laughed and handed back the knife. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

  The captain dug around in his satchel and pulled out a small piece. Ginny took it, folding it in half and half again. She stuck it inside the hollow and replaced the piece, tossing it to Ethan with a smile. “What do you think?”

  Ethan held it up to the light and turned it this way and that. “…If I didn’t know there was something there, I wouldn’t notice anything,” he admitted.

  “Exactly,” Ginny grinned. “Who would look for a secret message inside an apple? They might look inside the basket, but they wouldn’t examine the apples themselves.”

  “But won’t the apple soak the paper?” Ethan pointed out, juggling the apple between his hands.

  “Yes… but if I perhaps sealed it with wax… and the apple, too, so the circle won’t fall out or turn brown…” Her voice faded.

  Ethan coughed, drawing her from her contemplation. “Yes, Captain Armstrong?”

  “I shouldn’t keep you, lest your mother-in-law notice.” He tossed the apple to her, grinning. “We’ll use the apples. You can figure out the details later—I have full confidence in your abilities.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks and Ginny ducked her head to hide it, wondering at her sudden smile.

  The captain held up a finger. “But first, would you agree to me being your contact?”

  Ginny nodded. “That would be fine, Captain.”

  “Good,” the captain said. “Now, where would you suggest we meet?”

  Ginny twiddled her thumbs thoughtfully. “I like to take walks down the road in the early evening. Perhaps we can meet on the road—by the big old chestnut tree—and I can hand on the message then. There aren’t any houses nearby, and since we’re outside the city, as long as you don’t act suspiciously the British will likely ignore you. Is that agreeable, Captain?”

  He stood up and bowed. “It is indeed, Miss Phillips. I shall see you then, Miss, by the old chestnut—on Wednesday next?”

  He held out a hand, and she took it, smiling. “On Wednesday next, then, Captain Armstrong.”

  Once he had carefully assisted Ginny to her feet, the Captain quirked a brow and grinned down at her. “One more request, Miss Phillips.”

  “Oh?” she said, noticing he still held her hand.

  “Will you call me Ethan?” he asked cheerfully. “Since we are now partners, I feel you have the right to use my Christian name.”

  Ginny arched a brow. “On one condition, Captain Armstrong.”

  “What?”

  “You must call me Guinevere.” She stepped away and unbolted the door, looking over her shoulder with a smile as she laid her hand on the knob. “Stay here, I shall return for you when Mother-in-law’s guests have gone.”

  She swept out, leaving Ethan staring after her. A long moment later, he stepped forward and bolted the door.

  Tuesday, September 1st, 1778

  Ginny’s heart was pounding. She was certain it was loud enough for the British officers on the other side of the wall to hear her, and she pressed a hand to her breast in a feeble attempt to silence it.

  Get up, Ginny-girl, she scolded herself. You’re being silly. Get back before Mother-in-law finds out you’re missing.

  She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then carefully got to her feet in the blackness. I suppose I should thank you, Grandfather, for building these passageways.

  When her Grandfather first came here from Wales, he had two houses built—the farmhouse which he eventually gave to his son, and a house in town, designed after the house he grew up in—including the secret passageways in the walls. Grandfather had said the original ones were made to help hide Cavaliers from the Roundheads when Grandfather’s grandfather was a boy. Ginny had spent hours in those passageways, and she knew every inch—especially where the spyholes stood.

  Gathering her skirts in her hands, she sneaked through the halls and emerged into her bedroom. She busily brushed out her skirts, removing the wrinkles and dust gained from kneeling in the passageways, lifted her chin, and made her way down the stairs to stand by Mother-in-law at the door, where the British officers had gather
ed to say farewell to their host and flirt with Mistress Phillips’ beautiful stepdaughter.

  Martha’s mouth twitched slightly in displeasure at each overt compliment, while Ginny continued to smile prettily and lie through her teeth.

  Finally, the officers filed out, Major Andre (a good friend of Ginny’s Mother-in-Law) being the last. As he was preparing to step through the doorway, he turned and said, “I almost forgot—commend us to your husband, Mr. Phillips, when he returns from his merchant endeavors.”

  Ginny stiffened, biting her lip to stay her tears. But Martha nodded serenely, not showing the faintest amount of guilt at the lie she had spread about her husband’s current whereabouts, and assured the Major she would do so.

  Then the maid shut the door, and Martha promptly rounded on her with a dangerous gleam in her eye.

  “Indisposed? Ha! I think you were playing the elusive game to whet their interest,” she snapped. “It’s indecent in a girl your age. Or is your frantic haste due to a fear that none would marry you once they discover your scandalous origin?”

  “My parents were honorably married in the Presbyterian Church. I see no scandal,” Ginny said quietly.

  Martha sniffed. “You wouldn’t.”

  Ginny continued, “I received distressing news this afternoon.”

  “What distressing news?” Martha said, arching a fashionably crafted eyebrow. “Was that rebel general you seem so fond of defeated?”

  “No,” Ginny replied quietly, removing the letter she had received from the cap—Ethan—from her bodice. Wordlessly, she handed it to her mother-in-law.

  Martha unfolded it. A moment later her lips pinched together. “I knew this would happen, the fool,” she hissed. “At least he did me the decency of dying in battle and avoided the scandal of prison or the gallows.” Her fist clenched, crumpling the letter.

  Ginny felt the first stirrings of anger. “Quite so,” she murmured, practically biting her tongue. “Now, Mother-in-law, if you don’t mind, I wish to return to the farm. Besides, you probably need some time alone to prepare a funeral for Father, and to think up some excuse for his death.”

  With a disdainful sniff, Martha dropped the letter and swept off down the hallway. Ginny fell to her knees and picked up the letter, smoothing it out carefully on her knee and folding it before walking up the stairs, mentally composing her message.

  She had a job to do.

  In the middle of the night, Ginny padded over to her door in the darkness of her bedroom, stuffing a blanket against the crack at the bottom and draping another over the doorknob to block the keyhole. Finally the curtains at the window were carefully adjusted, ensuring that not a sliver of light would escape her room. She paused a moment, listening for a step in the hall. Hearing nothing, she clacked the strikers together, and a spark flared into flame in the darkness of her bedroom. She held the lighted spill to her candle until it caught.

  Ginny wondered if she might be acting a bit ridiculously, but then again, she had no desire to have her neck stretched by a gallows.

  When she was certain the room was secure, she sat down at her desk and picked up a sharpened quill, dipping it in the ink. She paused, trying to think of what to write. Finally, she set pen to a small slip of paper and swiftly wrote down what she had learned in letters as tiny as was legibly possible.

  Dear Captain-

  The British have plans for a large expedition out of New York City in about three weeks. I believe it to be an offensive or perhaps a foraging effort. I have heard the expense of feeding the British Army has been mounting and the lower-ranked soldiers are grumbling about the quality of the food. I will endeavor to find out more.

  ~Your Friend

  Ginny held up the small piece of paper and read it over slowly. She nodded, satisfied, and folded it into as small a piece as possible. Another taper was held to her candle, and Ginny watched patiently as the wax warmed and began to melt. She held it over the small square of paper, carefully dripping small bits of wax until the paper was covered in a thin layer. When the wax had cooled, she flipped the piece of paper over and dripped wax on the other side until her message was completely encased.

  Ginny took up her penknife and carefully trimmed off the extra wax. Pressing a hidden spring on the bottom her desk, which caused a tiny drawer to slide out silently. She put the wax-encased paper inside with a sigh of relief. That was done. The rest she would do tomorrow.

  Wednesday, September 2nd, 1778.

  “Off for your evening walk, Miss Ginny?” Sally said as she turned the corner.

  Ginny looked up from fastening the buttons of her coat and smiled. “Yes. I should be back before sundown. Give my excuses to Mistress Martha if she asks after me.”

  Sally bobbed a quick curtsey as Ginny waved cheerily and stepped out the door.

  When the door had been shut behind her, Ginny paused on the porch and placed a hand on her heart. Thank the Lord I am not trembling like an aspen in a storm.

  She walked down the porch steps and ambled calmly to the road, her gloved hand sliding into her pocket and wrapping around the apple that nestled there.

  Strolling slowly along the dirt road, she gazed at the sky and watched the westering sun gild the edges of clouds into ribbons of gold. She turned around a bend in the road and glimpsed a figure in a black coat and a tricorn hat slumped lazily at the foot of the old chestnut tree. Ginny’s heart leaped in sudden panic and she tripped over her own feet, stumbling a few steps. Our meeting place is compromised! Perhaps that man is a British spy!

  Then the man looked up and Ginny’s heart leaped for an entirely different reason.

  There was no way she’d ever mistake that half-grin.

  She smoothed her hands along her skirt and continued as calmly as possible down the road. When she drew near to the old chestnut tree, Ethan rose in one smooth move and bowed. “Pardon me, miss. But I have been traveling long and have used all my money, and I am very hungry. Do you have a few shillings to spare for a weary traveler?”

  Ginny bit her lip and shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money, sir, but…” she dipped her hand into her pocket, grabbing the apple and withdrawing it. She offered it to Ethan with a kindly smile. “I do have this. It’s not much, but you may have it, if you wish.”

  He smiled and accepted it gratefully. “Something is better than nothing at all, miss. God bless you for your kindness.” He took her hand and bowed over it politely.

  Ginny concentrated on keeping her face calm as she felt the piece of paper he slipped into her hand. When he dropped her hand and stepped back, she clasped her hands in front of her, neatly concealing the note he had passed her. Ethan tugged on his coat cuffs in what appeared to be nerves and said, “I am hoping to gain work somewhere around here… perhaps I may run into you again, miss?”

  Ginny dropped her gaze coquettishly with a small smile. “Perhaps, good sir. I often take walks in the evenings.”

  Then she swept off along the road, slipping her hands into her pockets. When Ethan had dropped out of sight and the road behind and ahead appeared empty, she slowed to a stop and stepped off the road into the deep shade of an oak. She stealthily snagged the paper out of her pocket, unfolding it with trembling fingers.

  In a simple hand, Ethan had written: In the future, address me as “Dearest Friend” or something of that sort in your messages. Secrecy in all matters is of utmost importance. In case you are ever unable to contact me in an urgent matter, contact the Demigod Tailor in New York. Identify yourself by the number “355” if possible. He isn’t a part of our spy ring, the “Culper Ring”, but he has been spying for the General for a long time. He is very trustworthy—recommended by the General’s Aide-de-camp Hamilton. He will help you.

  Destroy this message immediately. It is the last one I will ever pass to you in this manner.

  ~Your Friend

  Ginny paused, trying to decide what to do with the message. Seeing no other alternative, she crumpled it into a ball and pop
ped it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing hard, grimacing at the bitter taste of the ink.

  When that was done, she glanced up at the sky. It was almost sunset—time to be heading home.

  She turned around and walked slowly down the road. So, it’s done. I’m officially a spy now. There’s no going back.

  Chapter The Third

  Sunday, September 6th, 1778

  The night before her husband’s funeral, Mistress Martha Phillips had a nightmare. It was a very familiar one, but it had been some time since she had last suffered it.

  She was a child again, watching as her father drank and gambled his way into a penniless grave, and in her dream, there was no rich uncle to save her from the dark.

  When morning came—and a damp, misty morning it was—Mistress Phillips stood in the front of the church, clad all in melancholy black, as proper for the widow of one of the richest merchants in New York. To look at her, one would not doubt she was suffering greatly at the loss of her beloved husband.

  This, of course, was true, though for a different reason than one might expect.

  The terms of her husband’s will were nowhere near what she was expecting.

  The Lieutenant Colonel had bequeathed unto his second wife a modest allowance of 1,500 pounds a year. He had considered this sufficient, since Martha had already inherited all her first husband’s money, which was a very handsome amount. But Martha wanted more.

  The rest of Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong’s money and property (which, all told, amounted to a very large sum indeed) he had left to his daughter. His young, useless, half-savage daughter. Martha knew what was coming—with so much money and beauty, New York might forget Guinevere’s origins. The girl would become the cynosure of society, and Martha would be forgotten. Sidelined. Left behind in the dark as everyone chased after the young, rich beauty.

  She would not be forgotten again.

  She gave tiny, painful smiles at all the mourners, murmured small, sad phrases of gratitude, and played her part. Beside her stood her stepdaughter (as though they were equals!), tall and stiff, —except for her hands. Her hands trembled like the last brown leaves in the trees in the first storm of winter.