Kemble’s answer was his lips upon her mouth. She met him with her own harsh passion, then softened incomparably in his arms. The wild American that hid in Kemble’s puritan soul burst forth with terrific power, fierce delight. Margaret O’Hara matched it with her own doomed wildness.
“Oh, ‘tis a man, a man among men you are and a match for me,” she murmured in the dawn, naked in his aims. “Let us be lovers and the world be well lost.”
“We will have both - world and love,” Kemble said.
“I will not hear a word of politics here,” she said, freeing herself from his arms. “I must go, at any rate. Your self-appointed Irish stepmother, Molly McGovern, would flay me if she knew I spent the night here.”
“And tonight and tomorrow night and the night after that,” Kemble said.
“If I am not sent back.”
“Back where?”
“To New York. I must go when I’m summoned.”
“You are going to stay here the rest of your life. You are going to stop crying over Ireland, stop thinking of yourself as Irish. You are going to change your name to Stapleton.”
“The drink is still with you. I have never seen it last so long.” “I know exactly what I am saying.”
“I know exactly what I must do. Go back to New York.”
For a moment Kemble glimpsed his tormented future. But he could not, would not believe the love he felt for this bewitching woman did not affect her in the same way. It would take months of intermixed joy and pain before he realized that she did not believe or trust anyone or anything except blind malignant fatality.
Later that Day, Jonathan Gifford returned from Little Egg Harbor. Kemble found him alone in his office, counting a mountain of paper money. “If this stuff depreciates any more,” he said, “I’m going to have to build another barn to store it in, like hay.”
“Margaret O’Hara is a spy. I gather you know about it.” Jonathan Gifford nodded, avoiding his, son’s eyes. “Yes, she told me the day she arrived.”
For a moment suspicion leaped in Kemble’s veins. “What did you do?”
“I told General Washington immediately. At his request I didn’t tell you. He likes to keep his intelligence operations in separate compartments.”
“Of course, I - I should have known.”
“She brought a letter for me from Moncrieff, and another from Major Beckwith, one of their intelligence men. The information will be left here sealed with a special crest - the head of a sphinx. The girl will carry it to New York in the lining of her dress.”
“General Washington is going to permit this?”
“Of course. The letters will be addressed to no one. They will only be recognized by the seal. So Beckwith had to give me a precise description of it complete with a drawing. We’ve had an engraver in Philadelphia make us an exact duplicate. Everything will be read and if necessary rewritten before going to New York. Washington has a fellow on his staff who can imitate anyone’s handwriting after a half-hour’s study.”
“A forger?”
“A counterfeiter. He was condemned to death in Philadelphia. Washington arranged a reprieve. I like the way he beats the British at their own game. They’ve been playing it for years in London, you know. There’s a secret staff at the post office who work nights opening and copying diplomatic and political mail. Even letters of Members of Parliament.”
“So she will be - Margaret O’Hara will be - going back to New York.”
“Beckwith made it rather clear that if we arrested her, he would arrange to make a bonfire of this tavern within the week.”
Kemble retreated, dismayed by the contradiction raging within him. He exulted at the way the British were being gulled and hated it with his next breath. He loathed the idea of Margaret O’Hara returning to New York to the arms of Major Beckwith. He knew with scarifying clarity that this would be an inevitable part of her journey. It was an unspoken promise in the last thing she had said to him.
The next day, a small talkative man with a squint in his left eye arrived from Philadelphia, full of news about the Congress and rumors from Europe. Congress was about to withdraw the almost ruined Continental dollars. A revolution and a French invasion were threatening England. The war would end before Christmas. The Squinter, as Barney McGovern called him, dispersed this news with numerous toasts to honest Whigs. He was a merchant en route to the coast in search of salt to sell at the price set by Congress. No speculator he. From the sound of him, a better patriot never existed. But at the end of the night, he found Jonathan Gifford in his office and handed him a letter sealed with the head of a sphinx.
“The girl must leave first thing in the morning. There is urgent matter here,” he said.
As veteran players of the intelligence game, the British were trying to give the Americans no chance to do any clandestine copying. The Squinter would loiter about the tavern tomorrow morning until he saw Margaret O’Hara on the road. Any delay would arouse deep suspicions.
Jonathan Gifford told Barney to have a horse saddled immediately. He hurried upstairs to Kemble’s room. In his haste he gave only a perfunctory knock and threw open the door. Kemble stood at the window, Margaret O’Hara in his arms.
“There are Tory raiders on the Raritan,” Jonathan Gifford lied. “They are calling out your company of militia “
As they walked to the barn, Jonathan Gifford told Kemble that he must get the sealed letter to Washington and have it back in the tavern, resealed and ready for forwarding to New. York, before dawn.
As Kemble mounted, Jonathan Gifford tried to decide whether to say anything about what he had just seen in the bedroom. He remembered what Caroline had told him about giving too much advice and said nothing. But Kemble answered the unspoken question as he swung his horse’s head toward the road.
“I love her, Father.”
He galloped into the night, leaving Captain Gifford to meditate sleeplessly on those words.
KEMBLE WAS BACK, well before dawn, the spy’s report copied and doctored for delivery to his British employers. By eight o’clock Margaret O’Hara was telling Molly McGovern and the rest of the kitchen help that she had a message from a militia captain on duty at the Blazing Star ferry landing. Her husband had escaped and was in New York waiting for her. Captain Gifford had been good enough to procure her a pass from General Washington so she could go see for herself if the story was true. By nine o’clock she was on her way.
Kemble stood in the tavern doorway, mind and body drained by his sleepless night, watching her with haunted eyes. A few hours later he went down the same road in his Irish tinker’s disguise. He caught up with her at Perth Amboy, where she waited for the boat that came from New York twice a week with exchanged prisoners and mail. He struck up a conversation with her and for an hour he chatted in his cracked brogue about Ireland’s troubles and his hopes of getting to Long Island or New York, where a man could earn hard money at his trade. She advised him to slip across narrow Arthur Kill at Elizabethtown - which was precisely what he intended to do.
“But I know not a soul in the city,” whined Kemble the tinker, “and I hear the price of food would drive a man mad.”
“Come to me and you shall have your dinner for a night or two, till you get work. There’s no doubting you can find it, and at sky-high wages, too. Ask for Major Beckwith’s house on Bowrie Lane. There’s a fine snug barn in the back for your sleeping.”
“Cod bless you, my girl. You’ve given me new courage. I’ve had enough of these Americans with their damn paper dollars.”
Two days later, Kemble was in New York. He stopped at Horace Monaghan’s place of business and told the excitable little tailor to prepare a report. A few minutes later he was in Bowrie Lane asking strollers which of the fine town houses belonged to Major Beckwith. Every visit to New York depressed Kemble. The Americans had set fire to the city in 1776 when the British drove them out. Few of the six hundred houses - a fourth of the city - destroyed by the flames had been rebuilt. In
many cases their crumbled ruins were still visible on their lots. The streets swarmed with off-duty British and German soldiers and loyalist volunteers, in a mad medley of uniforms. Soldiers drove huge wagons through the streets, cursing civilians. Sentries paced before houses where generals shuffled papers. It was no longer the New York that Kemble had known and loved. It was a military depot. His gloom was increased by the splendid brick three-story house that was Major Beckwith’s home away from home. At the back door he persuaded the fat black cook to find Miss O’Hara for him.
The scullery maid’s clothes she had worn on her journey were gone. She wore an elaborate green silk dinner dress trimmed with white lace. Her hair was piled high on her head in a London coiffure. Sausage curls were draped behind her ears and a bright red ribbon held a mixture Of curls and feathers in place at the crown. A glistening string of pearls wound through them.
“Ah, so you made it safe,” she said before Kemble could remind her of who he was. “There’s many a pot in here that could use some work. Nancy will hand them out to you. Happy am I to help a countryman. I’ve learned from sad experience there is no one else to help us if not each other.”
Kemble God-blessed her in his best brogue and praised her expensive new clothes. “I had no idea I was talkin’ to a fine lady there at the ferry slip.”
“You must forget you saw me here or there if you value my friendship.”
“Why, have you no friends on the other side?” asked Kemble. “A young lady as clever as you?” He gave her a sly wink. “We Irish must play both sides, the way I see it. We care not a tinker’s darn which, of them wins, do we now?”
Margaret O’Hara’s face darkened. “We must do - we must do what we must,” she said. “Go along with you now. You can sleep in the barn. I’ll tell the Major.”
A half-hour later, while Kemble was brooding over a half-dozen pots given him by the cook, Margaret came out to the barn. She wore a green pelisse that matched her gown. On her face was a green silk mask. They were commonly worn by city-bred ladies of the era to protect the complexion when they went out.
“Here’s money for a bit of drink and food. The cook will give you nothing and it’s just as well. She ruins everything she puts over a fire. That’s why we are going out to dinner.”
Kemble had to strangle a fierce wish to reveal himself, to accuse, demand, denounce. He hated himself for his deception and her for her betrayal of their love. He had to remind himself that she had promised him nothing but a temporary dream, a night separate from the rest of their lives.
Around ten o’clock he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs and voices. A few moments later, the downstairs windows of the town house came aglow. Staying well beyond the light they cast, Kemble walked softly down the alley to look through the windows. Three British officers were in the parlor with Margaret O’Hara and two other women. They were all a little drunk. The other women wore coiffures as high and elaborate as Margaret’s. Their faces were stained by a moral emptiness. They were not quite women of the street. But they were on their way to that sordid destination.
Margaret O’Hara was pouring port into long-stemmed crystal glasses. She served each guest with a playful curtsy. The last to receive a glass was probably their host, Major Beckwith. He was a husky thick-jawed man of about forty. She handed him his drink with an even more elaborate mock ceremony. He gave her a rather perfunctory smile and raised his glass in a toast. Glasses were raised in response. Margaret proposed a toast and Major Beckwith accepted it with the same cold smile. To Kemble outside in the darkness it was a pantomime that told him everything he had already known but refused to believe.
Back in the barn be glued the guinea she had given him to the bottom of a heavy pot. He was going to pitch it through the window, shout “British whore,” and run. He would teach her shame at the very least. Then he remembered the ragged, hungry girl in the bogside cabin, remembered he had left his bedroom door unlatched, remembered the shadow on her face as she said We must do what we must. Again he told himself that he would somehow save her.
Margaret O’Hara returned to Liberty Tavern a week later with a sad tale about being misled, her husband was still a prisoner, it was another Sergeant O’Hara who had escaped. Kemble waited until he found her alone, washing clothes in the creek.
“How are all your friends in Bowrie Lane?” he asked.
“What?” she asked, amazed.
“Has Nancy’s cooking gotten any better? Does she still burn everything she puts over a fire?”
“Dear God, you’re in league with the devil,” she cried, springing up.
“No, I think his name is Beckwith.”
She backed away, really frightened now. “You could - you could be right. But how do you know?”
“Come to my room tonight.”
“You have only to ask,” she said softly. “There is no need to terrify me this way.”
When she arrived with her midnight tea, Margaret found not Kemble but the tinker with his bushy red hair and side whiskers. She gasped as he greeted her in a perfect brogue. “Good evenin’ to ya. We Irish must stick together now, isn’t it the truth?”
“You are the devil,” she said, putting down the tea on a chest of drawers.
“If I was,” Kemble said, flinging aside the wig and the rest of his disguise, “I would be rejoicing over your lost soul. What I saw the other night - ”
“What were you doing there, damn you?”
“The same thing you are doing here. Learning what I can. But I don’t do it for money. I do it for my country.”
“You have a country.”
“So do you. It’s all around you. Margaret, when I think of that cold-eyed bastard touching you - ”
For a moment her face was wet with tears. But only for a moment. “You can beat me if you like. I have never let a man strike me. But you - ”
She stood there, her dark head bowed.
“I don’t want to beat you,” Kemble said. “I love you.”
“You’re a fool!”
Her head was up, her eyes ablaze with blue fire. All her despair, the terrible cold uncaring that had emptied her heart, was in those words.
“I will - I will go on being a fool,” Kemble said.
He was not mocking her. He was telling her the truth. He picked up the cup of tea and inhaled its rich strange odor. “Little by little you will fall in love with this fool,” he said. “Little by little this fool will teach you that you don’t need this. You don’t need Major Beckwith. All you need to do is trust - your American fool.”
“I wish to God I could, I truly wish I could,” Margaret O’Hara whispered. She kissed him, caressed him with an abandon that he more than matched. They were lost in each other, two dark stars exploring a universe of wonder and delight. In the dawn she chanted poetry to him, an. ancient Gaelic cry written for long-dead lovers.
“Between us and the fairy hosts
Between us and the hosts of the wind
Between us and the drowning water
Between us and the shame of the world
Between us and the death of captivity.”
To Kemble she was as exotic as a creature from the South Sea Islands. It was impossible to believe she was not as innocent. Kemble’s politics were radically modern, but his attitude toward women was medieval. He saw them as will-less, almost mindless creatures, to be protected, rescued, adored. He was sure that he could save Margaret O’Hara not only from the British but from herself.
A week later, the Squinter was back with another packet of news about Philadelphia. Kemble almost went berserk when Margaret O’Hara told him she was leaving for New York early the next day. After a week of love, he had convinced himself she would refuse. In a fury he told her he would follow her again and haunt Beckwith’s house in a new disguise. If she let the Major touch her, he would shoot him. She matched his rage with a tantrum of her own. She swore she would betray him to the provost marshal and have him hanged as a spy if she saw him anywhere near
the house.
“I don’t believe you,” Kemble said.
“Try me.”
It was a mad, dangerous game they were playing, each with their empty, reckless hearts. Kemble donned his tinker’s disguise and followed her to New York. The day she arrived he knocked on the back door of the house and asked for her. She slammed the door in his face. But she did not betray him to Beckwith. That night Kemble stood in the darkness beyond the house lights once more and watched her play hostess in a bright red gown trimmed with gold. He did not shoot Major Beckwith.
When Margaret returned to Liberty Tavern, she brought with her an ambiguous peace offering. Major Beckwith had told her he was about to become acting chief of British intelligence. The current chief was sailing south with the British commander, Sir Henry Clinton, to attack Charleston, South Carolina. This was important news. Kemble rushed it to Washington’s headquarters. The General immediately alerted all his spy networks to find out more about the expedition and warned South Carolina to prepare for the assault.
For a while, as Kemble rode back to Liberty Tavern, he was exultant. Then he saw how totally Margaret O’Hara had outmaneuvered him. He would never be able to object to the time she spent with Beckwith now. In the name of the Revolution he was being forced to accept what his soul detested. But what troubled him even more was the knowledge that Margaret O’Hara did not detest it. She clearly considered it a triumph over him.
Kemble was encountering the darkness in the depths of Ireland’s defeated soul. It was redoubled by the darkness which is part of so many women’s souls. Is it because they are also in a way a defeated people?
For a week Margaret O’Hara did not enter Kemble’s room. It was her time of the month. Kemble found sleep impossible. One night, seeing a light in the greenhouse, he went down to find his father working among his roses.
“What’s keeping you awake these days?” he asked.
“Worry.”
“About what?”
“About the war, for one thing. No one seems to care whether we win or lose any more. Money is the only thing they talk about. Slocum’s privateer captured two transports a few weeks ago. They say he made a half million dollars. Most of the day laborers in the district are heading for Little Egg Harbor to ship out. We can’t hire men to work at Kemble Manor for double last year’s wages.”
The Heart of Liberty Page 44
