by Becky Lower
“Mind your tongue, girl.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Pippa took a step away from her uncle. “I took a huge gamble stowing away on a ship.” She stopped when her uncle inhaled sharply. “Yes, you heard me right, Uncle Walter. I stowed away. Put on boy’s clothing and masqueraded as such until we arrived in Boston. Daniel was the only one who knew my true identity, and I even had him fooled for a few weeks.”
Walter tore his gaze from her. “I had no idea you were so desperate.”
Pippa nodded. “My actions should be enough to convince you of my resolve. It’s only through divine intervention I chose the right ship to be on, that Daniel hid my true identity from his crew, that he didn’t take advantage of me, which he could have done easily. And it’s fortunate I boarded a ship bound for Boston, so I could stay with you and Aunt Bernice.”
Walter rolled his shoulders. “I sympathize with your desperation, Pippa, really I do. But the facts are you are still underage, and still under the control of your father. There’s nothing more than can be done. As I said before, the only way is to marry.”
Pippa gritted her teeth. “Being a woman is not easy.”
Walter chuckled as he left the room. “Try being a major.”
Pippa stood beside the breakfast buffet and picked up a slice of bacon. As she munched on it and enjoyed the saltiness, she also munched on her uncle’s words. She needed a plan of her own, not of her uncle’s or her father’s. She could use what little money she had left and parcel it out to her father, which would keep him occupied for the next couple of months. Maybe if he spent his time gambling, he’d not be so eager to leave the colonies at first crossing. But then, she would be destitute in a strange, unbridled, country, with people who longed to break free of British rule, at least until she could return to claim her inheritance. Perhaps she could persuade Daniel to take her back to England on credit. She’d work on a plan that suited her, not the men in her life.
She still had ninety-seven days to go.
• ♥ •
Daniel and Ben huddled near the fire, watching the snow swirl around them.
“Tis a good thing, this snow, right?” Ben squinted at the flakes.
“We need some of it in order for the sleds to haul their heavy loads. But we don’t need this much.” Daniel squinted towards the night sky as well. “The first couple of inches were welcome. But it hasn’t stopped. We don’t need a couple feet of the stuff to have to bust through. The journey’s going to be hard enough as it is.”
“Well, one way or the other, we’ll be putting these oxen to work tomorrow.” Ben took a sip of coffee and peered into the fire. “Merry Christmas, Cap’n.”
“Same to you, Ben. To think we gave up spending the holiday with our families to do this.”
Ben shifted on the log they were using for a seat. “Tis because of our families we’re doing this, though.”
Daniel nodded. “Does tend to make it all worthwhile, doesn’t it?”
He missed far more than sharing the holiday with Emma, though. He had opted out of the annual Christmas ball, hosted by the general of the British forces. Pippa would have been decked out in her holiday best, and would have spent the evening attempting to find a suitable mate before her father could drag her back to England to marry the man she’d run from. He couldn’t let his heart get in the way of his cause. He owed that much to Gladys. And Emma.
He would test his devotion to the cause over the next month or so. Hauling these cannons across land would be the biggest challenge the colonists had ever faced. The colonists couldn’t easily hide forty sleds and eighty oxen, and if the British discovered them, the cannons would be seized and the men locked up or executed. Daniel prayed the enemy would be too hung over from their Christmas celebrations, or too cold, to venture out.
He crawled into the tent, which provided at least a bit of shelter from the falling snow, and thought about the journey still ahead. If the plan worked, it was a bold bluff, since the colonists didn't have enough ammunition for the cannon actually to mount an attack. There were men in Boston, at Dorchester Heights, already at work, preparing the area in which to place the cannons, overlooking the clogged harbor filled with the British fleet. Daniel, Ben and the other men had three hundred miles of terrain over which to get their heavy loads. And they had to be quick about it. With a healthy dose of American luck and a lot of hard work, they could have their load in Boston by the end of January.
And Pippa then would be only two months away from her birthday, and her inheritance. What would she do once she celebrated her big day? Head back to her homeland and to the comforts her money would provide her? A single, wealthy young woman would have a very easy life in England. Or Paris, maybe Rome, if she so chose. Daniel feared the conflict in the colonies was only getting started, and Boston was no place for a young British heiress to be. The Brits didn’t have their reputation as the world’s finest fighting force because they turned tail when the going got tough. America was a prize colony of the crown, and worthy of a protracted fight. How many more years would he have to bow and scrape in order to keep his job as a merchant marine, and steal intelligence, and a bit of ammunition or guns, from England?
Ben crawled into the tent, interrupting Daniel’s stream of consciousness. The cold radiated off his body.
“Thanks, Ben, for hauling the elements into the tent. I was just getting warmed up.”
Ben punched Daniel’s shoulder. “Well, then, maybe I should snuggle up agin ya, so I ken get warm.”
Daniel grinned into the darkness. “You keep to your side of the tent and get some sleep. We've got a long road ahead of us.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n. Besides, I’m not nearly as appealing as young Pippa Worthington.” Ben heaved a sigh as he crawled into his bedroll. “She did look fine in her nice gown, didn’t she?”
An image of Pippa in his cabin, with her skirts up around her waist as he feasted on her popped into his head and his shaft immediately swelled. He groaned. “She nearly uncovered us, Ben. Doesn’t matter what kind of gown she wore. She’s a very intelligent person, and if she could put the pieces together, all she’d have to do is express her concern to her uncle, and we’ll be done for. Our gooses will be cooked.”
Ben rolled over. “Aye. We can trust no one. But she did look fine.”
Daniel laid in the darkness, listening to Ben’s snore. Yes, Pippa had looked fine in her beautiful gown. Any man who got near her, who fell into her orbit, ended up with his tongue hanging out, following her around like the lovesick fool he’d become. He was certain there were British soldiers waking up this morning, after an evening at the dance with her, who fit that description. Daniel had put his life, and that of his crew, at peril, because he couldn’t keep his hands off her. He couldn’t afford to become one of Pippa’s conquests.
But she had looked fine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
January had to be the most depressing month of the year. Even though Pippa wanted to wander the streets of Boston, the biting cold and the mountains of snow prevented her from venturing out of doors. The holiday balls and parties were a thing of the past, and the Tory arm of Boston’s elite had exhausted themselves in the revelry. So Boston slept. But Pippa couldn’t.
She stood at the window, which she had cracked open enough to allow the smoke from her cheroot to billow forth. Despite Daniel’s lack of attention, his lack of a presence in her life, he was foremost in her mind on a daily basis. Now that she understood the extent of how he and his family suffered at the hands of the ‘civilized’ British, she had no wish to reveal her suspicions to her uncle. What she did wish to do was to become part of the revolution herself. After all, she was fighting for her independence, too. Her quest to make her own decisions about her life mirrored what the Americans wanted. To be able to make their own decisions about their country, rather than be told what to do and how to behave by a king who had never set foot in their land. Who had never been in their shoes.
As s
oon as her path crossed with Daniel again, she’d tell him of her change of heart. Of her wish to become a true American. She only had two more months before she reached her birthday and received her inheritance. What could a wealthy single woman do in America?
Anything she wanted.
“So what do I want?” Her whispered words snuck out the window along with the smoke. She inhaled the sharp, cold air and laid her forehead on the windowpane. She squeezed her eyes shut and formed a picture in her mind of her ideal scenario. “I’d give Daniel back his house. The house he built for Gladys and Emma. It’s not right that Uncle Walter and Aunt Bernice should enjoy this home. It’s not right that I’m sleeping in Emma’s bed, drinking tea daily from a tea service that was probably a wedding gift for Gladys.” She opened her eyes, ground out her cheroot, tossed the butt out into the snowdrift, and her words caught in her throat. Placing a hand on her chest, she sobbed. “And, after I make things right, if he’ll have me, I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting for freedom alongside him.”
Her mind flitted over the men she had met, danced with, talked to, over the holiday. Not one of them could even come close to Daniel. He stole her breath each time he was near. She had to tell him so.
Now, where was he?
As soon as they cleared the streets of snow, and a person could maneuver around without getting stuck in a drift, she’d go looking for him. Maybe don her boy’s attire and head back to the tavern where the Sons of Liberty gathered. Maybe she’d offer to join their ranks, if she could keep her disguise in place. They probably wouldn’t welcome a woman in their midst. But then again, this was America.
Why wait? Pippa stood at the window. She was about to turn her back on everything she’d known and join forces with these upstart Americans. With or without Daniel, she could make a go of it. And now that she’d had a taste of life without the harsh guidelines of British society, she had no wish to return to it. Even if she had a large pot of money at her disposal, she no longer wished to live by the boring conventions the English imposed on themselves. She wanted the freedom to go where she wished whenever she wished by herself. To smoke without hiding in a tiny room or on a balcony. To take a lover without regard to what society thought of him. To have as many children as she wanted, even if she didn’t have a husband.
She opened the window again and hung her head out, breathing in the bracing American air. The free air. Almost giddy with her realization that she never wanted to leave this side of the Atlantic, her stomach fluttered as if a thousand butterflies had just been released into the wild.
Mind made up, she shed her nightgown and hauled her cabin boy clothes out from the bottom of the closet. She bound her breasts quickly, yanked up her trousers, piled her hair up under her tweed cap, stuffed a cheroot and some coins into her pocket and tiptoed down the staircase, boots in hand. She shrugged into a coat and donned her boots before she opened the back door.
The snowdrifts threatened to separate Pippa from her boots with each step, but now that she’d set her course, she gritted her teeth and tugged her boots out of the snow, trudging toward the tavern. Except for the howling wind, the streets were remarkably quiet.
It took three tries to open the wood tavern door against the wind, but she finally cracked it open wide enough to get inside. She stood at the entrance for a moment to catch her breath and let her gaze wander around the room. Only a few brave souls had ventured forth tonight, and the big center table, where the Sons of Liberty held court the other time she was here, sat empty. She tried to quell her disappointment.
She strode to the bar. “I’ll have a pint, please.”
The bartender studied her for a long moment, and she held her breath. Then, he grabbed a mug and filled it with the frothy brew and sat it in front of her, probably more grateful to have a customer than to question her age. Or her sex.
She dropped some coins on the counter and retreated to a table in the corner where she could keep an eye on things without being subject to any further scrutiny. She sipped the cold, bitter brew as she observed the few brave souls in the tavern. One man, in a homespun brown shirt, kept circulating among the sparse crowd. He’d sit and whisper to the men and then get up and wander away. Within minutes of their conversation, the men he’d been talking to left the tavern. She lit a cheroot and observed his actions several times through a veil of smoke. Finally, she was the last person in the place, other than the bartender, so the man strode over to her table and sat.
“What’s yer name, fella?” The man peered through the haze.
“People call me Pip.” She took one last puff of her cheroot and treated the man to her expertise in blowing a smoke ring.
“Impressive.” He nodded at the drifting ring. “Yer accent sounds British.”
“Aye.” She lowered her eyes. “I am of English blood, but I’m an American now.” She glanced up at him. “Where’s everyone taking off to?”
“We’re doing our part, is all.”
“By doing what? Can I help?” Pip’s voice rose from the lower pitch she used when she impersonated a boy.
The man leaned over the table and took hold of her hands, turning them face up. “Do you even know how to use a shovel?”
She wrenched her hands away. “It’s not so hard to operate a shovel.”
“So get one and get to Dorchester Heights. We can use all the help we can get, even if it’s from a weak young lad such as yourself.” He stood and left the tavern.
She blinked at the door he’d just closed behind him. Get a shovel and get to Dorchester Heights, he’d said. She had no idea what he meant. But it had something to do with the Revolution and she was about to become part of it.
She wondered where Daniel kept his shovels. And she wondered what excuse she could use so Aunt Bernice wouldn’t question her absence. A resilient young lady such as herself could figure out both answers as she trudged the empty streets back to the house. Her pounding heart was partly due to the exertion of trekking through foot-high drifts, but more from what she was about to do.
She was going to join the American fight. Against her home country.
• ♥ •
With a shovel over her shoulder and her hair tied into a queue, Pippa trudged down the quiet streets of Boston. She had a vague idea where Dorchester Heights was, overlooking the harbor in the south end of town. Her mind buzzed with ideas of what she would find once she got there. It involved a lot of men, and their work involved the use of shovels. Most intriguing.
“If it isn’t the boy from the tavern.” A man strode alongside her. It was the man who had recruited her. “I had my doubts you’d show.”
She tipped her hat to him, which she could do now that her hair was held together in a queue down her back. “How could I possibly refuse?”
He stuck out his hand to her. “Name’s Patterson. What’s your name again?”
She squeezed his hand. “Name’s Pip.”
“Welcome to the Revolution, Pip.”
Her entire body broke out in gooseflesh. She was part of something, finally. Part of the Revolution.
“What are we doing? Why do you need shovels?”
“We’ve got fifty-odd cannons en route here and they all need to be pointed to the harbor, so we have to dig out spots for them behind the garrison wall.” Patterson’s voice was so low she could barely make out what he said.
“Where did we get so many cannons?” Fifty sounded like a lot.
“A couple of hundred men have been hauling them by sled down from Fort Ticonderoga. They should be here sometime tomorrow, and we’ve got lots of digging to do before they arrive.” Patterson squinted toward the sky. “Nice of the moon to be providing us with some light. Can’t tip our hand.”
Pippa joined the men who were digging. Dirt flew all night long, and when some men tired, others took their place. Her arms and back ached from the strain after a few hours.
Patterson tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t wear yourself out, Pip. There are others wh
o can take over.”
Pippa mopped her brow with her sleeve. “But I want to help.”
“How are you at painting?”
Pippa thought back to her debutante days in London. She had been trained in all the social graces expected of a young lady, including needlepoint and painting. She’d tortured many a canvas with her interpretation of a still life. There were no still lifes here. Active, vital ones, yes, but no still lives.
“Pretty fair. What do you need?”
“Over there,” Patterson pointed to some men working across the way. “We’re painting logs so they’ll resemble cannons. Help yourself to a brush.”
Pippa grinned as she slapped black paint on a log. She had to hand it to these Americans. They were a clever lot. And now she was one of them.
The last log was painted as dawn broke over the horizon. She placed her brush in the jar of turpentine and surveyed her surroundings. Trenches had been dug, the logs were drying, and now they were waiting for the cannon. Pippa’s heart raced, partially because of the exertion she'd put forth during the night, but also because of the magnitude of what was being undertaken.
Patterson strode over to her. “Good work tonight, Pip. Have to admit, I didn’t think you’d be up to the task, but you hung in.”
“So what comes next?”
He handed her a cheroot, and she gratefully inhaled.
“The cannons are close by and we need to create a diversion, but you’re dead on your feet. Why don’t you head on home for now? Your folks might be looking for you.”
“But how will I be able to tell when the cannons have arrived?” Pippa drew on her cigar and blew a ring of smoke in the air. She ignored Patterson’s remark about her folks wondering where she’d gone off to. She was out of her father’s clutches now.
Patterson focused on the ring as it dissipated. “We’ll create a ruckus that will be heard even in the streets of Boston. Never fear. You’ll know.”
Pippa could barely keep her eyes open. “A bit of sleep would be a good idea.”
