The Messenger

by Siri Mitchell

  “An unguent?”

  “Aye. To soften the scar.”

  Soft or hard, it didn’t matter.

  “Right here.” She placed a finger on my stump and softly stroked it.

  It felt like the touch of a thousand angels. Gentle. Cool. It stilled, for once, that terrible ache that ricocheted back and forth between my fingers that were no longer there. Sweet relief, sweet reprieve. I wanted to beg her to continue, but I jerked my arm from her instead. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters, Jeremiah Jones, because it would bring relief. Why would thee keep thyself in pain? It must distress thee.”

  Miss Pennington ventured to set a foot inside the tavern. Squinted at us through the gloom. “Hannah? If we don’t get home soon . . .”

  Though she looked up from her task, Hannah tightened her grip on me. “If we’re late, ’tis only because of thy foolishness, cousin. I’ll accompany thee home when I’m done.” With that she recaptured my stump and then she bathed it, a firm hand on my shoulder to keep me from shrinking away.

  A hand on my shoulder. A touch on my arm. When was the last time someone—a woman—had touched me?

  A memory teased at the edges of my mind. There had been a ball somewhere. A dance. A girl’s hand reaching out in flirtation. A light touch on my shoulder. A hand I’d captured in my own. I’d planted a kiss on that palm. I was certain of it. That’s what I would have done. That’s what I’d always done.

  “A man ought to be able to do for himself.” It shamed me that I could not clean up my own messes.

  “And a man can, admirably, when he acknowledges his own limits and asks those who know him to help him when needed. It seems to me the strength of a man is in knowing his weaknesses.”

  “Weaknesses!”

  “There is weakness in all of us, Jeremiah Jones. ’Tis only in denying, in despising it, that we succumb to it.”

  27

  Hannah

  Seventh day had come once more. The children were all well and the weather fine, so Polly and her mother had gone out calling. Mother had done the same. I had barricaded myself in Polly’s room in order to fill my basket for the afternoon’s visit to the jail.

  I pulled a knotted cloth from the bottom of my trunk and counted once again the number of rolls I’d collected from the dinner table that week: eight. My pocket was still filled with their crumbs. I’d slipped down into the kitchen earlier and asked the cook for a bit of cheese. The jailer expected it now, and Aunt Rebekah’s cook seemed not to mind my asking for an extra bit of food every now and then. I wished we were still at our home on Chestnut Street. Then I could have taken freely from the pantry and cellar. At Pennington House I could only take to hand what was available when no one was looking.

  Eight rolls were all I had for the men, one onion not yet gone too mushy, and a turnip of average size. Taken together with Jeremiah Jones’s bag of grain, they would have to do.

  I went down the back stair and found Doll outside waiting for me.

  She helped me fit the grain into the sling and then she reached for the basket.

  I clutched it to my chest as I turned from her. “I’ll carry it.” I didn’t want Jeremiah Jones to think I had a message to pass.

  “Just wanted to contribute something of my own.” Her hand snaked beneath the cloth.

  “Thank—”

  “Don’t you go thanking me. Weren’t for you anyways. Was for those prisoners. Don’t suppose it would hurt them none to have a bit more to eat.” She refused to meet my eyes.

  I gave her a swift embrace before I led out through the back and into the alley.

  Robert had been ailing last week when I had visited. I prayed, as we walked up Walnut Street, that he would be much strengthened. I slid a glance toward the King’s Arms as we passed.

  No Jeremiah Jones; no message.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. It was bad enough to walk into the lion’s den every seventh day. I didn’t want to have to worry about passing messages as well.

  The guard didn’t hesitate in taking his cheese when I offered it. “You haven’t got any bread there, have you?” He was eyeing my basket with a hopeful gaze.

  “No.” I did not. What I had was for the men and I was planning on keeping it for them. Only a bully would insist upon taking it from me.

  “You early today?”

  “ ’Tis four o’clock, the same time as always.” Was he going to deny me entrance? Could he do that? And if he did, what could I say?

  “Well, let me just see . . .” He hiked his belly up over the rim of the table and then lurched around his chair toward the door. Drawing it open, he poked his head through. “That lady’s here again. The one to see her brother. Is Captain Cunningham done?”

  “Don’t see no reason to keep her waiting.”

  The guard waved me through. As we approached Robert’s cell, I began to discern the smell of broth over the stench of refuse. Perhaps General Washington had been able to get supplies delivered!

  The door to the room stood ajar, so I pushed it open. I was astonished to find I was not their only visitor. A man stood there among them, a kettle swinging from his hand. He was grinning. “Smells good, don’t it?” He dipped a ladle into the kettle and then brought it out and waved it around the room. That wholesome smell, in the midst of that foul place, set even my own stomach to growling.

  “Want some?”

  None of the men moved. I could not understand it. Why did they not move to partake?

  “It’s from that headquarters of yours. And . . . what’s his name? Mister Washington?”

  “That’s General Washington to you.” William Addison was glaring at the man through red-rimmed eyes.

  “Come and get it. While it’s nice and hot.”

  One of the men who’d been lying on the floor rolled from his side to his belly and crawled toward the man. Kneeling, he stretched out cupped hands.

  “That’s it. Right here. There you go.” The man swung the ladle in the prisoner’s direction, but then quite deliberately stopped short and let it spill out onto the filthy straw.

  The prisoner didn’t seem to care. He bent to the straw and lapped at the quickly disappearing soup.

  William Addison lunged from the wall toward the man.

  The man dropped the ladle and pulled a pistol from his waistband, pointing it at the kneeling prisoner. “I’ve been wanting to shoot me a rebel.”

  My fear had turned to trembling rage. “Stop!” I wrenched the kettle from the man’s hand and swung it toward William Addison. He latched onto the handle and slowly stepped back with it toward the wall.

  I addressed myself to the man with the pistol. “What is the meaning of this! Have thee no shame?”

  The man swung the pistol in my direction. “Who are you?” His gaze went out past my shoulder to the door. “Guard! There are to be no visitors!”

  There came a scrabbling at the door. “She has a pass from the general, Captain Cunningham, sir.”

  “There are to be no visitors to my jail.”

  “It’s the general himself what gave her permission, sir.”

  He looked at me, malice glinting in his eyes. And then he lowered the pistol.

  I found that I could breathe once more. “Thee have no right to deny them their own food!”

  “Not denying it.” He pushed back his coat and shoved his pistol into his belt. “They’re welcome to it. Just so long as they salute me properly.”

  “As long as they grovel. Is that what thee mean to say?”

  “They’re rebels. It’s their proper attitude.”

  “I’ll have thee dismissed for this.” Or whatever it was the army could do to its officers.

  “For treating the rebels as they deserve?” He gave me a long malevolent look. “I don’t think so.” He stalked from the cell.

  The prisoners had already gathered around the kettle. William Addison was passing around the ladle.

  I knelt by Robert and gave him my basket, noting th
at he took nothing from it before he passed it on.

  “Who is that man?”

  “Captain Cunningham. He’s the provost of the jail. The general brought him in special, from New York City. He comes down every day just to taunt us.”

  “Every day?”

  “That’s why we aren’t fed. He wastes it all. Or sells it for his own purse.”

  “But that food is meant for thee!”

  He gripped my hand. “Which is why we’re trying so hard to get that tunnel done. Without thee we would have succumbed long ago. All of us would have.”

  I glanced around the room. The prisoner who had lapped at the broth lay where he had fallen. “Will no one help him?”

  “He’ll be dead before the week ends. Nothing should be eaten once it mixes with that muck. There’s two who did it died of the runs last week. Better not to eat at all.”

  Tears pricked at my eyes. Of all the rebellion’s indignities, this man and his cruelties somehow seemed the worst.

  “Hannah?” He squeezed my hand. “How is Betsy?”

  I placed my hand atop his own. “She’s fine. The British daren’t quarter troops in their house; Mr. Evans is too important to their cause. She’s fine.”

  My answer seemed to put him at ease.

  “Won’t thee eat anything?” If I took back my basket, I might still be able to salvage half a roll for him.

  “Can’t.”

  Panic clawed at my stomach. Was he that ill? “Not even one bite?”

  “Only the prisoners who dig get to eat.”

  “But—”

  “It’s only fair.”

  “It’s not fair! The food I bring is for thee.”

  He pushed himself up to his elbow. “I’m starting to feel better. And once I start digging, then I’ll start eating. I promise.”

  “I’ll have a word with William Addison.”

  “No! Don’t. Thee don’t—thy food might sustain us, but ’tis the diggers who will free us.”

  “I don’t bring it for them. I bring it for thee.”

  “But it must go to them. We’re all brothers here.”

  “No.” No, they were not all brothers. I had but one brother. The rest were nothing like him.

  The dreams began on second night. A slow disintegration of the earth, the sky, of everything around me. An abrupt and stifling absence of air. And then . . . nothing. A complete absence of everything.

  As I woke, my mouth stretched into a soundless scream.

  I sat, hand on my chest. My heart ought to have been pounding, I was that terrified, but its beat was slow and steady. Then as suddenly as that terror had come, it lifted. And it was replaced with a perfect, calming peace.

  I had the dream again on fourth night and on sixth night. It was then that I began to suspect it meant something dreadful.

  On seventh day, as I descended the steps into the madness of the jail, I feared that I might discover that Robert was dying, that his illness had left him choking and gasping. But I did no such thing. In fact, as I circled that pitiful room, I could not find him at all. A panic began twisting through my stomach that carried my heart up to my mouth. A peculiar smell in that place had already made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. For the first time in many visits I feared that I might gag. Stepping over the men that lay ill on the floor, I went and tugged at William Addison’s sleeve. “Where is Robert?”

  He put a finger to his lips, nodded toward the corner where the tunnel was being dug.

  Robert had barely had the strength to speak to me last week. He couldn’t have recovered in such a short amount of time. Which meant . . . he must have needed food. An indecent rage rose within me that he’d had to choose between his hunger and his health. It was followed by a wave of helplessness and then a trickle of despair. Why had I ever thought I could do anything at all for him? “He’s well enough to dig then?”

  “. . . well as he’ll ever be.”

  “What’s that?” Addison hadn’t spoken clearly, and it was difficult to understand him when he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “He’s fine.”

  He lies.

  I heard the voice as clearly—more clearly even—than William Addison’s.

  How could he be fine when just last week he was lying on the ground? I could, perhaps, believe that he was better. But to think he’d recovered enough to dig? “He’s in there?” I eyed the place in the floor where I knew the gaping mouth of the tunnel to be concealed. A whip of fear lashed at my stomach.

  William Addison spit into the straw. “He’s certainly not out here. Now. Be off with you before any suspect what we’re about.”

  I emptied my basket. Holding back one of the rolls, I placed it into his hands. “For Robert.”

  He nodded, eyes sliding away from mine.

  28

  Jeremiah

  I’d seen Hannah pass by on her way back from the jail and she was not carrying her basket. The slave woman was. I waited until she had passed by and then went out to the bookseller’s.

  “Aeneid. If you please.”

  He gave me a keen once-over before moving to take the book from the shelf. He set it down on the sun-splashed counter in front of me and then crossed his arms and stood there. Waiting.

  I glanced up at him and then I opened the book, flipped through the pages. Tried to be discreet. There was . . . nothing. I went through it once more, but came to no different conclusion. There was no message. Shutting up the book, I slid it toward the bookseller. Put my hat on my head and left. Why had Hannah—?

  “Jeremiah Jones!” A breathless voice made me turn.

  Hannah was gesturing to me from the side of the building.

  Casting a glance behind to see if any had noticed, I joined her. She took my hand and pulled me back into the far reaches of the afternoon’s shadows.

  “An arranged meeting? Isn’t this against your beliefs?”

  “The prisoners are deliberately being starved.”

  Prisoners weren’t known to have the best of luck or the most genteel of treatment. “How do you know?”

  “Because I saw the provost dump a ladle filled with broth onto the floor. He might have wasted it all if I hadn’t been there. If I hadn’t taken the kettle from him, I’m sure he would have left the cell with it.”

  She’d taken it from him? I couldn’t quite imagine . . . I frowned as I tried to conjure up the sight. Gave up. “Can you prove it?”

  “I saw it. The prisoners saw it. Anyone in that jail will tell thee what goes on. It’s no secret!”

  “No one will believe the prisoners. And the guards won’t talk for cause of their jobs. That means it’s your word against theirs. And you aren’t a reliable witness because your brother’s a rebel.”

  “What are thee trying to say? That nothing can be done?”

  “I’m only saying that there’s no proof.”

  Her eyes spit sparks at me. “Then what about this? What he doesn’t waste, he sells.”

  “Sells?”

  “Aye. He sells the prisoners’ food for his own gain.”

  “I might just be able to do something about that.”

  But what? What could I do about the jail’s provost selling food for gain? The British wouldn’t care. It wasn’t their food to begin with. They hadn’t bought it; the patriots had supplied it. They’d probably shake the provost’s hand and give him a medal for a job well done. There were more ways than bullets to kill someone; starving the men took less effort than feeding them.

  I nearly rubbed a hole through the counter as I cleaned it, so fixed was I on the prisoners’ plight. It wasn’t just. But in a time of war, who cared about justice?

  I did.

  And so did Hannah.

  But we were only two in a city filled with pleasure-loving officers and the Loyalist families who were trying to impress them.

  They didn’t care about justice.

  What did they care about? They cared about . . . diversion. Amusement. They cared about
themselves. The provost was a perfect example. Too many people in this city were set on taking advantage of everyone else. Where there was war, there was corruption and bribery and vice of every kind.

  So to fix a problem of graft, I must look not for the honest man but for the dishonest man. I wanted a selfish man. A man that would view the situation at the jail as an opportunity to enrich himself. I didn’t want that man to take the food for himself, of course. I just wanted him to have self-interest enough to stop the provost.

  That meant I needed the general . . . or someone on his staff.

  I went to speak to John Lindley that very afternoon. I’d decided if I approached him at his office at headquarters, he might be more inclined to take the information seriously.

  “The prisoners? Who cares about the prisoners? If they were dim-witted enough to get captured, then who should care how much they suffer? I don’t have to tell you what war’s like.”

  “But the provost is deliberately starving them. I’m not talking about unintentional neglect; I’m speaking of undeserved cruelty.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Miss Sunderland. She observed the provost when she visited her brother.”

  “She’s still going to visit him? After all this time?”

  I shrugged, though what I really wanted to do was knock that smug, pompous look off his face.

  “So, she says she saw Captain Cunningham doing what?”

  “Spoiling a kettle filled with broth. In a room filled with hungry prisoners.”

  “But her brother’s one of them. You know she’d say anything in order to help him.”

  “If truth be told, it’s not the cruelty that concerns me. It’s her claim that the provost is selling the jail’s food. At a profit.”

  “Selling it, eh?”

  “I don’t care whether you believe it or not. I care that Miss Sunderland actually thinks I can do something about it.”

  “You’re truly besotted by her, aren’t you?” He examined me as if I were some lesser species of man.