Anne removed her cloak, and before taking one of two chairs, she handed Betsy the pressed paper box of sweet biscuits Pink had prepared. “Mackeroons—a specialty at the Cup and Book.”
“J’adore les macarons!” Betsy exclaimed with a tolerable French accent. Peeling off the ribbon, she popped one in her mouth. “You must have angels working in your kitchen—these are heavenly!”
“The Cup and Book,” Dark Peggy asked, reaching for one of the mackeroons Betsy offered. “Isn’t that the new coffeehouse on Chestnut everyone’s talking about?”
Anne beamed. “The Cup and Book is my shop.”
Fair Peggy let out a high-pitched squee and clapped her hands, and Dark Peggy explained, “We’ve been meaning to frequent your very shop, Mrs. Merrick… John’s been raving about it.”
“John?”
“Major John André,” Betsy said. Shifting her chair forward, she began to pour the tea. “He’s the darling of the Twenty-sixth Foot, and has set every female heart from the Delaware to the Schuylkill aflutter.”
“How can you not know who he is? Johnny frequents your coffeeshop daily!” Fair Peggy was fair perplexed by Anne’s unfamiliarity with Major John André.
Anne gave a little shrug. “So many British officers frequent the Cup and Book…”
“You must know him. He is very well-favored,” Dark Peggy said.
“The Twenty-sixth Foot?” Anne thought for a minute. “Does he sketch? There is a handsome young officer from the Twenty-sixth I’ve noticed—very solitary. Sits alone near the window with his chocolate, sketching street scenes…”
“That is him.” Dark Peggy accepted the cup and saucer Betsy passed her way. “Major André is a gentleman of many talents.”
“He cuts silhouettes, and he paints the backdrops for the theater company,” Fair Peggy said with a nod.
“You should come with us to the theater, Anne,” Betsy said.
“Oh, I couldn’t…” Anne heaved a sigh to mask her excitement at the invitation. She was certain to make good connections mixing with the theater crowd. “I’m so very busy, getting the shop in order…”
Fair Peggy said, “They are staging a comedy this Friday evening—No One’s Enemy but His Own…”
“All proceeds go to the benefit of army widows and orphans,” Dark Peggy added.
Betsy plunked a lump of sugar into her teacup. “All work and no play makes Anne a very dull girl. You’ll be a guest in our box,” she insisted. “William will be most pleased to see you again.”
BEYOND THE BRITISH OUTPOST LINES—WITHIN THE ROOFLESS WALLS OF A DILAPIDATED CABIN
Jack looked up at the thick gray clouds and announced, “I am sick to death of snow.”
“That makes two of us, brother.” Titus sat beside him on the log they’d pulled up onto the old stone hearth, monitoring a dozen eggs clattering in a tin pot of water boiling away on the gridiron. Judging them ready, he fished each out with a wooden spoon, setting the steaming eggs one by one inside the crown of his hat. Titus tapped Jack on the head with the spoon. “Get the bread and tea fixin’s.”
Yawning, hands stuffed into pockets, Jack shuffled over to their pushcart and pulled back the canvas cover. He tucked one of the loaves they’d purchased from the baker’s stall on Market Street under his arm and found the sacks of bohea and maple sugar. “How about some cheese?”
A turkey answered from a thick stand of pine trees to their left. Titus stood, and snatching up his rifle, he cocked the hammer back. Jack cupped hand to mouth and gobbled out a response. After a moment, David and Alan McLane came out of the trees, leading their mounts. Titus waved and shouted, “Just in time for breakfast!”
Jack got the horses situated with their steaming noses buried in oat-filled feed bags. David and Alan took seats close to the fire, and Titus served the saddle-haggard officers eggs, crusty bread, and mugs of sweet, hot tea.
Alan tore off a bite of bread and used it to scoop up the soft-boiled egg from its shell. “Mmm… good eggs, these,” he said between mouthfuls.
Jack dropped a woolen blanket over David’s shoulders, relaying the verbal message concerning Howe’s retirement, and handed him a letter from Sally. “There’s a package of paper with something from the Quaker woman as well—page fifty-four.”
“Already? Mrs. Darragh is as rich a vein as we’ve ever mined… Her son’s an ensign in Wayne’s Brigade, you know.” Unfolding the page, David huddled into his blanket to read the letter from Sally.
“You don’t say? A Quaker officer…” Jack dipped up a cup of tea and sat down beside David. “I was wondering what it was that got Friend Lydia to working for our war effort.”
“Women are all alike.” Titus sliced a wedge of cheese from a waxed round and passed it to Alan. “A pup in distress turns a Quaker ewe into a she-wolf.”
David’s head snapped up. “Sally says here that you and Titus are spending nights at the coffeehouse?”
“So?” Jack took a gulp from his cup. “What of it?”
“What of it!” David threw back the blanket. “It’s true?”
“It’s true Sally has a big mouth,” Jack said.
David gave Jack a shove. “Are you sleeping with my sister at the Cup and Book?”
Dark brows met in a knot at the bridge of his nose, and Jack resisted shoving him back. “That’s none of your business.”
“Such an idiot…” David turned to Alan. “He’s intent on dancing from the gallows once again, and taking my sister along with him this time.”
“Unpinch your arse, David,” Jack bristled. “We only go at the dark of the moon, and we leave well before daybreak.”
“Don’t you understand? The two of you are the link between us all, Jack. If you or Titus were to be apprehended,” David said, “and if anyone could connect you to the Cup and Book, then Anne and Sally and Pink would all be in terrible jeopardy.”
“We’ve only gone twice, David, and I swear no one’s seen us,” Titus asserted. “We’re always very careful.”
“We have to check in on them once in a while,” Jack said. “They need some guarding—they need some regular connection to the rest of us.”
Alan McLane stood up. “I’m afraid David’s got the right of this one, fellows. The rule is minimize contact and minimize risk.” He waved a finger. “Keep little Jack and little Titus buttoned inside your breeches from now on—no more nighttime trysts. If I catch wind you’re even strolling past the Cup and Book, you’ll be dismissed from the operation. Understand?”
“Put an end to it—both of you—you hear?” David added.
Jack threw up his hands. “Enough already… I heard.”
“We understand,” Titus said.
Alan and David loaded their saddlebags with fresh supplies. After Jack and Titus waved them off, they packed gear into pushcart, topped it off with as much cordwood as they could fit, and headed back to Elbert’s.
A westerly wind came in to blow the early-morning cloud cover away, and they pulled their load back to town on muddy roads under sunny skies. The British pickets barely glanced at the passes Elbert had forged for them, and Jack and Titus were turning onto Market Street in no time. Pushing their heavy load of firewood along, they found the main artery void of foot and wheeled traffic, and the sound of pipes and drums echoing over the noise of their cart wheels on the cobblestones.
“You hear that?” Titus noted. “They’re playing the ‘Dead March.’”
A gang of boys came tearing pell-mell out of an alley.
“Hey!” Jack called. “What’s going on?”
One boy flashed a big grin over his shoulder. “A hanging!”
Jack and Titus parked their cart between two empty stalls and ran toward the skirl and rattle of pipes and drums. As they neared the waterfront, the pipe’s drone ceded to a continuous drum rattle. Gasping for breath, they reached the large crowd gathered on Front Street just after the drumming abruptly ceased and the crowd’s collective gasp yet hovered in the air.
&n
bsp; From the fringe, Jack could see a company of gold-jacketed drummer boys and a group of red-coated British soldiers in the center before a gallows tree erected of fresh-milled beams. Thousands of Philadelphians had gathered, and all eyes were captivated by the hooded figure suspended from the gallows, her skirts and petticoats ruffling on the stiff breeze blowing off the river.
The crowd was still, and Jack could swear he could hear the gallows groaning as the woman’s body spun to and fro like a plumb-bob at the end of a carpenter’s line. Catching his breath, he felt oddly light-headed, as if he might cast up his breakfast on the spot. Grasping Titus by the shoulder, they pushed forward into the crowd.
“Too big,” Titus whispered into Jack’s ear.
Jack sucked in a deep breath and nodded. She’s too big around to be one of ours…
They squeezed through the tight crowd, inching forward, and Jack could see the woman’s bare feet were calloused with coarse bunions. Her work-worn hands were bound behind her back. Someone had pinned a piece of paper to the woman’s breast, and as the corpse slowly spun around, he could now make out the words printed in very neat block letters—REBEL SPY.
He tapped a plain-dressed older gentleman on the shoulder. “Do you know who it is they’ve hung?”
“Obedience Seaborn,” the man replied. “The innkeeper’s widow from the White Swan.”
“I, for one, am not surprised to see Bede Seaborn hung for a spy.” The woman standing beside him sniffed. “Her man was a rebel through and through—fought and died at Breed’s Hill.”
The news was like a rifle butt to the chest, stopping his heart for a moment. Jack nodded and managed a, “Thanks, friend.”
Titus tugged on Jack’s sleeve. “I can see Pink,” he said, pointing to the opposite side of the circle gathered around the gallows, and the bright blue turban Pink wore, standing together with Anne and Sally.
Titus said, “Looks like you’re not the only one gone gray about the gills…”
Tall men, Jack and Titus tended to stick out in a crowd, and Anne spotted them when Titus waved. She started to wend her way through the dissipating crowd, and as much as Jack wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, he looked over to the Redcoats massed in the center, scrutinizing the crowd for any signs of unrest, and he shook his head. Anne pulled up short, but he could see the tears sprung to her doleful blue eyes.
“Goddamn it…” Jack growled, ripping at the buttons on his coat and digging down into his shirtfront, pulling forth the little half crown he wore hanging on a leather thong for her to see. He clutched his fist around the token, and forced a smile.
Anne nodded. Her attempt at a smile was weak, and her breast rose and fell with the deep breath she heaved before she turned away to take Sally and Pink by the hand.
Jack and Titus watched the women head back toward Chestnut Street, and Titus asked, “How are we supposed to protect ’em if we can’t go near ’em?”
“I don’t like it, either, Titus,” Jack said, his eye on the Redcoat soldiers. “We are committing our lambs to the custody of the wolves.”
SIXTEEN
What are salt, sugar and finery to the inestimable blessings of “Liberty and Safety”? Or what are the inconveniences of a few months to the tributary bondage of ages?
THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis
A GATHERING OF SPIES
Church bells bonged the seventh hour, announcing Friday morning market, and Pink stood by the front door ready to go, basket in hand. “The butter bell’s a-ringin’,” she said.
Throwing a shawl over her shoulders, Sally’s befreckled scowl was fierce. “Show a leg, Annie,” she shouted up the stairs, “afore all th’ goods are gone!”
Anne came scurrying down the stairs, tying hat ribbons under her chin in a sturdy bow. “The wind just banged the shutters closed,” she said, handing pins to Sally and Pink, and the three of them used the pins to secure their straw hats.
Sally made sure the placard hanging in the window was turned to “closed” before she and Pink stepped out to wait while Anne locked up. They headed to Market Street, baskets in hand, and Anne trailed behind, going over the list she’d scratched out on the stitched pad of paper she always carried in her pocket.
“We need cinnamon bark, vanilla beans, blade mace, raisins and currants…”
“Eggs and butter,” Pink said over her shoulder.
Anne stopped to dig for a pencil in her pocket and added the items to her list. “I forgot to put down eggs and butter…”
“Och! Will ye come on, ninny.” Sally grabbed Anne by the sleeve and tugged her along. “We willna be forgetting th’ butter and eggs.”
They strolled past the big butcher’s stall with sides of beef and pork hanging from the rafters on hooks and chains, skirting around the crowd of German hausfraus haggling over the price of hog heads and trotters. Anne pulled to a stop in front of the poulterer’s stall and a sign that read, 50 pigeons / 1s.
“Fifty for a shilling—that’s a bargain.”
“A lot of plucking feathers and birdshot for scant meat,” Sally cautioned.
The poulterer stepped out from behind his stall. “Purchase a hundred birds, Mrs. Merrick, and I’ll see them plucked and breasted for you—an excellent value.”
“Pigeon pies, Annie,” Pink suggested. “My hand for the paste, and Sally’s for the gravy.”
“Sold for a penny a pie, we might turn a tidy profit.” Anne paid the two shillings, and made arrangements to have the birds delivered to the Cup and Book.
They moved down the street, from stall to stall—spice merchant, to egg man, to butter woman, to greengrocer—Anne doling out silver from her pocketbook, Sally and Pink filling their baskets along the way.
“Gweeshtie!” Sally gasped as if she’d seen a ghost. Grabbing Anne by the arm, she pointed up the street to a crowd of women gathered at one of the last of the stalls. “Lookie there! I think it’s a lemontrader!”
They ran to the stall burgeoning with the first fresh citrus fruit Anne’d seen since living in New York. The wonderful smell of oranges, lemons, and limes overtook all sense and reason. She ordered a full bushel of each to be delivered to the shop, and purchased three bottles of orangeade, justifying the expense with, “The Redcoats are mad for punch.”
“Compliments, ladies!” Pleased with the size of the order, the happy lemontrader placed three oranges into Sally’s basket. The women scooted over to the side to peel and share one on the spot.
“Mmmm…” Sally moaned with pleasure, and cracked the real first smile Anne had seen in days and days. “So good…”
Pink giggled, wiping the sweet juice from her chin. “Like eating a little bit of heaven, in’t it?”
Good to see them truly happy for a change…
In the afterclap of Bede Seaborn’s execution, Anne did not know what else to do but carry on, and they kept the Cup and Book open, putting on cheerful countenances as if nothing was amiss. The charade, difficult in the best of circumstances, was very wearing under these worst of circumstances. Isolated from the company of their men and surrounded by an enemy proven fearsome, they’d spent the past two weeks moving between sadness, worry, and plain anger, without direction or word from any quarter.
Anne pulled an orange from the basket. “Let’s peel another…”
Of a sudden, something came flying through the air, striking Sally square in the chest to land with a plop in the basket hooked over her arm. For a brief moment Anne thought it was a bird, until she heard a boy’s laughter and saw Jim Griffin run up, grinning and pointing.
“Beg pardon, miss, but that’s my ball…”
Anne, Sally, and Pink were speechless when quick as a wink Jim reached in with both hands to rifle through Sally’s goods.
“Here ’tis!” he said, producing a small ball made of stitched brown leather and stuffed tight with cork shavings and feathers. With a wink, and a smile, he ran to rejoin his mates and their game of rounders.
Sally looked d
own into her basket and said, “Th’ wee blackguard made off with the last orange!”
“But look—he left a note.” Anne plucked out a dirty, folded piece of paper, no bigger than the palm of a young boy’s hand. They strolled away nonchalant and rounded the corner before crowding together to unfold the slip and read the message.
“That’s David’s hand,” Sally said. “I’d know it anywhere!”
“What’s it say? What’s it say?” Pink asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“It’s a list.” Anne read it aloud, “‘Hat, Quakers, sixth day, forty.’”
Sally puffed out a breath. “Well, I’m fair puggled—what’s it all mean?”
Anne shrugged, repeating, “Hat… Quakers… sixth day… forty…”
Pink ventured, “I think maybe it means we’re invited at Mr. Hadley’s today for tea.”
“Sixth day!” Anne exclaimed. “Of course! At Quaker’s Friday for tea!”
“Yer daft clever!” Sally laughed, and gave Pink a hug. “Do you think David will be there?”
Pink nodded. “He wrote the note, didn’t he?”
Sally laughed and clapped her hands. “Let’s go home. I want to bake some treats for our tea.”
Ripping the message into tiny bits, Anne spun on her heel, sprinkling them on the breeze as if she were sowing seed. Looping arms with Sally and Pink, they skipped all the way back to Chestnut Street.
“Welcome, ladies, welcome!” The odd little engraver met them at the shop door wearing blue-glass spectacles. Elbert hurried to slide the bolt home and draw the curtains closed, all the while his little spotted terrier leaping and barking like mad.
“Here, Bandit!” Sally called to the engraver’s dog and he leapt up into her arms, lapping at her face. She beamed. “See how the wee scoundrel remembers me!”
Anne reached over to give Bandit a scratch between the ears. “Of course he does. He remembers both of us.”
“No time for dawdling, no time for dawdling.” Elbert urged them forward, swinging the door to the workroom open. “My impatient fellows await the pleasure of your company…”
The Turning of Anne Merrick Page 35
