Time Enough for Drums

by Ann Rinaldi

  I gasped at the result. What had first been just a letter was now a message! Only certain words showed through the holes in the top paper and my head reeled as I read them.

  My dear sir:

  General Howe has gone from hence. The rebels imagined that he left for New York, but it was soon clear to us who remained that he planned to sail to Halifax. As I dispatch this the word is out that Howe was loath to fight Washington. Howe’s ships lay, dropping anchor in the harbor for days, and Washington wondered what surprise and terror the British planned next. Then one fine morning a signal fluttered from the British ships and their fleet moved out and turned—north!

  Having previously concluded their next place of attack was New York, Washington had already sent his riflemen and five infantry regiments thither. He has need of supplies, I hear, as he goes to New York. The British have need of rest and a chance to reorganize.

  The other news is that Congress has issued letters of marque to permit the outfitting of American privateers to prey on British shipping. It is a job Congress obviously feels must be done. I understand many American merchants are buying shares in profiteer ships. You might consider it yourself as it should prove to be an excellent way to profit. Many Americans, unscrupulous as it may sound, will profit from the share of captured merchandise. So much for the Cause. Should you come to Boston, I will assure you, you will be needed sorely to keep me company, for I am here alone in this city which has suffered the costs of war. I am sure that Howe will reorganize by summer and will make plans for his next attack with renewed fury. Many celebrations are being made in honor of Washington’s victory at Boston, but I remain here with a small force, unsure and afraid for the future. You would laugh if you heard Washington talking of his needs and his fear of British spies. I wish you every success and remain your friend.…

  I heard the sharp intake of my own breath as I read and reread the letter as it appeared through the openings of the paper on top of it.

  My head reeled. What was to be made of it? What could be made of it except the truth? John Reid was a spy!

  An American spy? But how could he be? He was an avowed Tory!

  He didn’t try to hide it, and the fact was known all through town. Several of Father’s Patriot friends had already commented on the fact that my tutor was a Tory, but Father continued to defend him as the son of his best friend. I was so lost in thought that I did not hear Reid approach. My back was to the door, for I had reached across Father’s desk to look at the papers. I cried out in terror as an ironlike hand gripped my wrist.

  “Oh!” Fear surged through me as he whirled me around to face him. “So you’re into my papers, are you? You deceiving little minx. I should have known better than to leave you alone in the room with them. Drop it.”

  But I refused. He tried to retrieve his paper with his free hand, but he didn’t want to rip it. “Drop it!” he ordered savagely, and when I again refused he pulled me over to the door and kicked it shut with his foot.

  It was Mama’s rule that the door remain open always when he was tutoring me. It was only proper. Where was she now? In the kitchen, no doubt, preparing my birthday supper.

  “Let me go!”

  He brought his hand down on mine several times, slapping it sharply until I cried out in pain and released the paper, which fell to the floor. I stood nursing my poor hand as tears flowed down my face. Hastily he picked up his paper. Then, perceiving that I was about to flee, he grabbed me again. This time he pulled me by my wrist across the room and sat me down hard in a chair.

  “What have you seen?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you expect me to believe you? You lie!”

  “No, I never read them. I mean I didn’t understand—”

  He took me by the shoulders and shook me. “You little fool! This is far more than a prank! My life is at stake here. If you read the letter, you know that by now! Did you read it? I want the truth. And if I think you’re lying, I won’t be easy on you, Jemima, I mean it. Try me if you will, but you’ll be sorry if you do.”

  I believed him. His face was livid with anger and his eyes were blazing. He still gripped my shoulders. He would know if I lied, he always did. He was so angry, I believed him capable of anything.

  “Yes,” I said shakily.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir, I read it.”

  “And did you understand what you read?”

  I nodded my head yes. My heart was hammering inside me.

  He released me and stepped back to survey me, standing with his hands on the hips of his breeches, the letter half crumpled in one hand. He was coatless, and I could see the rise and fall of his chest that was heaving in anger.

  “Do you know how despicable a sneak is?”

  A spy. He was a spy for the Americans! My head whirled in dizzy understanding as I looked up at him, standing in front of me, tall and lanky and broad shouldered, still tanned from his trip, his dark good looks spoiled by his anger.

  “Answer me!” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What have I taught you in these last two years about decency and honor? Nothing?”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought you were a Tory.”

  “And would that be reason to go into my private papers?”

  “No. But you aren’t a Tory. You’re a Patriot, after all. You deceived me.”

  “I had to. It’s part of my job. My life depends on it, can you understand that?”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean that I’ll hang from the highest tree or the nearest gallows if the British find out. Would that please you? I know you hate me, so perhaps it would.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Reid …” I started to get up.

  “Sit there!” he snapped. “You’ll not leave that chair until I settle this and decide what’s to be done about you.” He started to pace the floor, once, twice, three times, in front of me. I watched him, seeing him as for the first time.

  “Is that why you stayed in Boston last summer after Mama and Daniel came back?”

  He cast me a dark glance and continued pacing.

  “Daniel said that only spies and some travelers could get through.”

  Still he continued pacing.

  “Mama won’t like it if the door is shut.”

  “That door stays shut until I deal with you.”

  He was ever the schoolmaster.

  “Is that why you went to Boston in February? You have no property in Boston, do you? You spied for Washington before he fortified Dorchester Heights!”

  “Be quiet!”

  “Did you meet Washington?”

  He stopped pacing and glared at me. Then he pulled me to my feet, gripping my shoulders again. “In heaven’s name, Jemima, do you know what it is that you say? This town is full of Tories! Must I live in fear that every time you step outside this house I am in danger of being reported to the British authorities?”

  “I wouldn’t report you, Mr. Reid. Please let me go. You’re hurting me.”

  He realized that he was and released me. “You had no right to go into my papers. I’ve a mind to tell your father to birch you.”

  “Do my parents know?”

  He looked at me. “Why do you think they’ve been so understanding of my so-called Tory philosophies?”

  “And Daniel, too. That’s why you two always had your heads together. Who else?”

  “That’s it. Except for you. And now my life isn’t worth the King’s shilling.”

  “Mr. Reid, I would never tell a soul. Why do think so little of me?”

  “Because I know how little you think of me. Let’s at least be honest. Honesty is one of your better qualities—at least it was until today.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Reid.”

  He turned to gaze at me, taking all of me in, down to my very soul, and it made me shudder. “I believe you are, Jemima. This time. But that doesn’t help me or lull me int
o thinking that you wouldn’t use this as an opportunity to either blackmail me into making life easier for you or to give me away.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You’ve been looking for the chance to get back at me for my strictness. Admit it.”

  I said nothing.

  “Now you have your chance,” he said bitterly.

  “I don’t feel that way anymore, Mr. Reid.”

  “Ha! Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes. Mostly I hated you because you were a Tory.”

  “Mostly you hated me because you plain hated me, Jemima. A few weeks ago, when you were ill, I attempted to make amends with you, and you would have none of it.”

  “I … I was ill,” I stammered, “and I was caught off guard by your kindness and didn’t know how to act. I cherish the book of poetry you gave me. I read it every day.”

  “You cherish the book I gave you, yet I can’t trust you alone in the room with my papers.” He smiled sardonically. “Come, now, Jemima, you dislike me intensely because of the way I’ve kept you under my thumb. It’s become a challenge for you to constantly provoke me. Admit it.”

  “All right, but—”

  “Exactly. So if I had a brain in my head, I’d save my skin by going directly to your father and advising him to ship you off to Philadelphia.”

  “I’d die in Philadelphia! And besides, Mama wouldn’t let me go. She worries over Dan and told me today that David is wanting to join the militia. She wouldn’t part with me.”

  “Let me tell you something, miss. Your parents would pack you off today if they thought I stood in danger of being hanged because of something you let slip, in innocence or not.”

  He was right. “So now it’s up to me again. What shall I do with you this time?” He began pacing again. Despite his predicament, he seemed to be enjoying himself a little, watching me suffer.

  “Philadelphia gets terribly hot in the summer,” I said, “and there is always disease in the cities in summer. I would certainly die.”

  “You might well die from studying here with me the rest of the spring. I’ll add science to your studies. It’s not a pastime that females are generally fond of, but I must keep you busy. After I tell your father about this, I shall ask him to let you help him mornings in the shop. You know your sums, and his work with the Committee of Safety is increasing. That way I’d always know where you were and what you were up to. And you wouldn’t have time to tell people what your hateful tutor is doing in his spare hours.”

  “I don’t hate you. I think what you’re doing is most wonderful.”

  “Spying is not wonderful, Jemima. My work is all secrecy. I’m on my own. If I’m caught, no one steps forward to help. Everyone despises what spies do. And I won’t have you thinking it’s wonderful. Or gossiping a word about it to anyone. Not David or Lucy, not even your parents. They never speak of it to me. And when you and I leave this room today, the discussion is closed forever between us. If you violate that trust, I’ll be finished with you completely.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “That remains to be seen. You are sixteen today, but it’s up to you to prove to me that you are a grownup. You can start proving it this evening at supper. There will be company, but you must pretend nothing has happened between us. I’ll talk to your parents about it tomorrow. But tonight you will act polite and agreeable and give away nothing, or tomorrow I’ll have your head, I can promise you that.”

  At supper, as I sat in my new gown at a table surrounded by friends and family, with John Reid dressed in his best dove-gray breeches and coat and whitest linen, it was as if our quarrel had never happened. He was the witty schoolmaster, reciting stories about the boys he taught each morning, the surrogate son to my parents, the cordial dinner guest, always attentive to my mother. He talked about hunting with David, discussed the merits of Miss Rodger’s School with Mrs. Moore and Betsy, and entered into a lively discourse with Reverend Panton about the recent imprisonment of New Jersey’s Tory governor Franklin. Once or twice he caught my eye in warm approval. I watched him in amazement. The man was an actor. He should have been in plays, and it was obvious that everyone was captivated by his dark good looks and debonair manner.

  He gave me a book for my birthday called Paradise Lost. The look in his brown eyes as I opened it made me feel that the title was especially significant. And I was conscious, suddenly, of the scooped neckline of my gown and the way Mama had arranged my hair, with high curls that cascaded down the back of my neck. I felt my face go hot under his gaze.

  Thankfully, Father got up to give a toast just then. Over the table laid with Mama’s fine white linen and pewter and silver serving pieces, he stood, his spectacles resting on his finely chisled nose, his hair curling in wisps around his ears.

  “These are not joyful times for any of us,” he said, “but let us not discuss the war tonight. We drink to absent friends and family members and keep them in our hearts. I’m sure they would want us to be happy tonight in each other’s company, and for my beautiful daughter, Jemima, who is sixteen years old today and a lovely young lady indeed.”

  “Hear, hear,” I heard John Reid intone. My face burned all the more.

  “Everyone does his part these days, no matter what road the good Lord has given us,” Father continued. “No one knows what the future will bring, but I couldn’t help overhearing some of our dear, faithful Lucy’s philosophy a few times lately when there was some discussion about David joining the militia. Did I say discussion? It was more like heated argument.”

  Everyone laughed. He went on.

  “During one of these discussions, I overheard Lucy mumbling, ‘Time enough for drums.’ ‘What do you mean, Lucy?’ I asked her. ‘Drums on the battlefield,’ she said; ‘time enough for drums.’ ”

  There was silence all around the table. “Well, tonight let us enjoy each other’s company,” Father finished. “There is time enough for drums.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  It was court week in Trenton. All up and down Queen Street there were wagons and gigs and sulkies. Since Trenton was the seat of Hunterdon County, the roads were lined with traffic. Lawyers stayed in town the entire week for court, which was good for business. The inns and public houses were always filled. Stagecoaches brought all kinds of people, while others came by horse and boat from New York and Philadelphia.

  I looked down the long white pine counter to where my father was talking with a customer, a man in a powdered wig and fancy brocaded waistcoat. My father was exhausted already and it wasn’t even noontime yet. It seemed like half the town had come in during the morning, needing new hats or sleeve buttons or razors or tobacco or snuff or watch chains.

  “Nine other merchants besides yourself are involved,” the man was saying.

  “I’m not involved,” my father told him. “I don’t wish to hold shares in a privateer ship.”

  “I know it’s a financial risk, James.”

  “Damnation, I’m not afraid of risk,” my father said. “Life is a risk. So is marriage and being a Patriot. But I won’t profit from the miseries of others. Now, it’s going to be a long day, Andrew. Do you want your tobacco or don’t you?”

  “You know I do. You carry the best in town. We of the merchant community in Philadelphia have heard that elections for New Jersey’s Third Provincial Congress are being held this week, James. The talk at the Indian King Tavern is that you will be elected as one of the deputies. You have our best wishes.”

  “I’ll need them,” Father said, “but I cannot discuss it. You understand.”

  “Of course. Will you be at the tavern tonight? It’s the best place for hearing news and discussing politics.”

  “I’ll try to be there, Andrew.”

  He left. I ran over to Father. “You didn’t tell me about the Congress!”

  “It’s best not spoken of, Jem. We face many problems. There are heavy demands being put on New Jersey’s military resources. We h
ave a shortage of arms. In spite of our appeals to the Continental Congress, they refuse to supply us, yet we must assist both Pennsylvania and New York when they ask for battalions of minutemen for protection.”

  “But you said there is more and more feeling these days for independence.”

  “Hush. We don’t say that word freely yet. Yes, there is. And I credit Tom Paine’s little pamphlet for that. It’s really roused people to our cause and made fence-sitters on the subject make up their minds.” He patted the stack of Common Sense pamphlets that he kept on the counter. Everyone was talking about Tom Paine and his wonderful writings.

  “But look here, if I do get elected to the Congress, I’ll have to go to Burlington in June. Your mother will take my place in the shop while I’m away, but you will have to assist her.”

  “I will, Father, I promise.”

  “What is she promising now?” John Reid appeared in the doorway.

  “Good morning, John. Or is it noon already? It is, by heaven. Lucy will be bringing my meal over in a minute. I can’t leave the shop today. We’re too busy. You’ll be happy to know that Jem was indispensable to me this morning. I don’t know what I would have done without her.”

  “Good, good.” Reid picked up one of the pamphlets and laid down some coins. “I’ll have one, sir. Jemima, I think it’s time you read this. For its literary content, that is.” He winked at my father. “I’m going to steal her from you now, James. Here, Jemima, you carry it. It wouldn’t look right if I were carrying such Patriotic drivel.”

  It was the first time in the weeks since I had found out about his spying activities that he had ever referred to anything political. He still spoke like a Tory, although at that moment in jest. My father smiled at him as we walked out.

  I followed him into the warm May sunshine. On the wooden walk outside my father’s shop was a pile of goods tagged and boxed and ready to be taken to the river for shipment by barge to Philadelphia.