“Ain’t it ’ard lines, being beaten for talking to an American whore?”
“It’s against General Ross’s orders.” Another voice.
“She be talking first to Charley.”
“Give me ’er price, she did. My God, what I’d give for a roll with one of these nice, plump Yankee pieces.”
“Dipping your candle ain’t worth getting shot for, Charley. And you know the general. A man of ’is word.”
They sounded genial enough, but what if they spotted us in the shadows? Shuddering, I pushed him away. “You must go!” I whispered.
He drew me back into his embrace. “Liberty, sweetheart, they can’t see us,” he said against my ear.
“It’s you I fear for!” I whispered urgently. “Please, please go!”
“Not until they’re well away,” he replied.
“You heard them! They have orders to treat women respectfully.”
“Nevertheless, while they’re here I’m staying,” he whispered. “Liberty, this rain’ll put out the fires eventually. But as soon as I leave, break into this house. The slate roof’ll keep you safe and—”
His words were drowned out by a roaring crash. The second story was caving in. Flames leaped high, and monstrous shapes of brightness, like giant crimson sails, flapped wildly around us. The soldiers’ faces were clearly visible.
“Please!” My teeth were chattering with fear for him. “You must get away!”
The intensity of my panic must have reached him. He pressed a kiss on my quivering lips. “I’ll be back as soon as the war lets me,” he whispered.
Watching him edge silently along the wall, I thought, I love him.
It was as simple as that. No questions, no answers, just the one thought.
I love him.
I held my breath until his shadowy form slid around the corner to the back orchard. The British stood another minute in the increasingly heavy downpour and then tramped off on Pennsylvania Avenue, disappearing in a cloud of smoke that swirled suddenly from my house.
The hallucinatory numbness had left me. Shaking with fever, drenched with rain, my lower body still in agony, I began to weep, but in obedience to his words, I bent stiffly for a rain-wet stone to break Mrs. Yarby’s kitchen window.
Seven
I had changed to Mrs. Yarby’s brown challis wrapper and was lying shivering on her big four-poster when a deafening explosion shook the sturdy brick house. Pictures toppled from walls. A bottle shattered. Through chintz curtains shone a vivid red light.
Fear rippling through my stomach, I struggled from the bed to look out the window. Beyond Capitol Hill, from the Naval Yard, lurid flames were twisting skyward amid smoldering black clouds of rain-drenched smoke. My mind filled with anguished prayer: Let him be safe. Please God let him be safe.
By dawn the torrential summer storm had doused the fires of Washington. My house had burned to its foundation stones. The tall, blackened chimneypiece rising from mounded ashes resembled a tombstone. Amid still-standing buildings were other desolate ruins. From Mrs. Yarby’s bedroom the White House wasn’t visible, so I couldn’t gauge its fire damage, but in the opposite direction I could make out the Capitol. What had been until yesterday the pride of our new democracy was now a roofless, twisted shell, the wooden hall that connected its two wings entirely gone.
Capitol Hill hid my view of the Naval Yard. In that direction, however, a dark streak blurred the gray dawn sky.
From up the street came jovial voices. The slashing rain had turned into a soft warm drizzle, and soldiers were doffing their drenched red jackets. I clambered back onto Mrs. Yarby’s big bed, too ill to fear being in enemy territory. I was trapped in a dim, borderline place where one thing alone mattered: Let him be safe.…
Late that afternoon the sun came out. Fifes and drums played and feet slogged along the mud of Pennsylvania Avenue. The British were moving on.
Two mornings later, as I stood eating a brown-spotted pear, I watched through the broken windowpane Washington returned to life.
At the sound of the front door opening, I jumped. Hope filled my heart, and for a moment I thought that he had returned. But then I realized only Mrs. Yarby had a key. I forced myself to walk smoothly as I went into the bright hall to greet her.
“The Georgetown stage’s running again,” Mrs. Yarby said matter-of-factly as ever, but her square face was drawn into sadness.
“The baby?” I asked.
“My daughter’s doing well. But the poor little mite was too small. He couldn’t breathe properly.” She turned away, tears glinting in her eyes. I put an arm around her. “It’s for the best, Liberty. He was so very frail.” She moved away, unpinning her riding hat. “It’s terrible about your house. The sky was bright as day over Washington, and I was out of my mind worrying about where you’d gone.”
“I … I stayed.”
“You what?” she cried, aghast. “Liberty, how could you stay alone in a captured city set to torch!”
“I got ill right after you left, and fever made me drowsy. I slept until it was too late.” This invented story slid out easily, I’d never lied before, but how could I tell my godmother the truth? My painfully throbbing welts were as nothing to the profound humiliation of the beating. I swallowed sharply before asking in an urgent tone what was most on my mind. “Mrs. Yarby, did you hear about our Naval Yard blowing up?”
“The Georgetown Pilot wrote that an American navy officer risked his life to prevent our magazine from falling to the British. No name, but they reported he got away.”
The joy that swept through me was so intense that I actually grew dizzy.
“Liberty, are you all right? You look so strange. What made you ask about the Yard?”
“The night the British were here, an American sailor helped me get Father’s chest from the house.”
“I saw it outside,” she said. “The paper mentioned that orders were confused and some of Commodore Delaplane’s flotilla men remained in Washington. I suppose it was one of them who helped you.” She put a large, cool hand to my forehead. “Child, you are ill.”
She hurried about changing the linen in the small back bedroom. Still filled with relief, I didn’t mention the guardianship paper until she brought up my supper.
For a long moment she peered at me over the steaming dish of buttered porridge. “So Amos Thornton got a judge to do it,” she said. “But when did he tell you? The Maryland Militia retreated to Baltimore.”
“He came here before the battle. He ordered me to go to Willowood, but I wouldn’t—I was … sick.…”
“Well, what’s done can’t be undone,” Mrs. Yarby said, looking as unhappy as I felt.
“My birthday’s almost a full year away,” I wailed.
“Liberty, you sound so frightened. You’re not yourself. Was it the fire? Losing your house?” Her expression grew determined. “Eat this. Some hot food’ll perk you up and you’ll be yourself again.”
The smell of the porridge nauseated me, for I was wondering who myself was, and who I would be after a year in Amos Thornton’s custody.
That same night several of Mrs. Yarby’s boarders returned. The men struggled upstairs with the Egyptian chest. Having the huge old piece in the small room meant I could barely move about, but during my convalescence it comforted me for two reasons: it reminded me of my rescuer, and I could read Father’s papers.
During those long, careful perusals, I began formulating a plan both to escape Amos Thornton and to restore Father’s reputation. My plan depended on Captain Yarby, and, impatiently, I wished for my godfather’s speedy return.
Those hot days of late August while my welts healed were disastrous for the country. The British couldn’t be halted. They conquered Alexandria and much of the land along the Potomac.
Prisoners on both sides were exchanged. Mr. Key, appointed to make our arrangements, traveled on a flag-of-truce sloop with the British fleet. And he was at Fort McHenry on September 14 when the British fleet loc
ked us in battle for Baltimore. Through that long, anxious night as bombs and Congreve’s rockets hailed from British warships onto the fort, Mr. Key watched, and jotted down his emotions. He recorded the fearful suspense he felt until it was light enough to make out our flag on the ramparts, and his joy on seeing it flying.
We had won!
Mr. Key set his poem to the well-known tune of “To Anacreon in Heaven,” and soon his triumphant words were on every lip, a rallying reminder of our sorely needed victory. He had given it no name, but people were calling the song “The Star Spangled Banner”
My own jubilation was mingled with fear. The Maryland Militia were stationed in Baltimore. If the British were to retreat to another section of the country it was entirely possible that Amos Thornton’s volunteer forces would be disbanded. He would be free to return to claim his legal guardianship over me.
For the first time in my life I had nightmares. My wounds had healed, yet in these dreams they throbbed with agony, for Amos Thornton was eternally raising my clothes to lash me. Sometimes my rescuer would arrive and the dreams ended in a melting, physical ecstasy.
In late September, the summer heat broke with a frosty spell. Mrs. Yarby’s hired girl had never returned, and I insisted on paying for my room and board by taking her place. So it was that I was laying the parlor fire on the evening my godfather returned home.
Captain Yarby hid a warm heart below his red-veined bulldog face. Before he left on this voyage, Father had suffered chest pains, so when Captain Yarby saw my black dress, he immediately understood what had happened. Tears shone in his blue eyes. Though the captain hadn’t read anything more than a ship’s log since his school days, he and Father had been closest friends. He said little, but patted my shoulder with such compassion that I couldn’t control my weeping.
Mrs. Yarby drew him into the kitchen. I didn’t intrude, but as she warmed the leftover spoon bread and chicken stew and he ate, she must have told him all she knew of what had transpired between me and Amos Thornton.
When Captain Yarby emerged, I started to go to the kitchen to do the dishes.
He took my arm. “Mrs. Yarby’ll clear up. You and I must talk,” he said, and then fell silent.
Possibly from being at sea with only the company of men he commanded, he had a habit of halting to gather his thoughts, then speaking bluntly. He stamped into the parlor, poking at the applewood fire I’d just made.
“Elihu intended me as your guardian,” he said. “Mrs. Yarby wants you with her. I’m ashore only a couple of days, so first thing tomorrow I’ll set about making the arrangements. Amos Thornton can manage whatever property Elihu left you. You’ll live here.”
“He’ll never agree to that!”
But Captain Yarby, accustomed to being the sole decisive voice on the small Ithaca, ignored me. “He’s an intelligent man. Once I point out that you should be in a woman’s care, of course he’ll agree.”
What was the point of arguing? I needed to get my plan before Captain Yarby. “I have something to show you, godfather,” I said.
My candle wavered violently as I raced up the chill stairs for the letters I’d selected from Father’s correspondence.
Back downstairs I clutched the packet anxiously. “After Father’s book was published, he received these,” I said. “They’re from English and French Egyptologists.” I opened the envelope on the top. “This is from a Monsieur Champollion. It starts out with his congratulations. But you must hear what else he says.” I leaned toward the candlelight, reading: “‘As you know, my dear Professor Moore, at the turn of the century when Napoleon so briefly conquered Egypt, we came into possession of certain ancient statues, reliefs and papyri. I have access to these. And when the British, in their turn, took Egypt, they also collected antiquities. Sir Arthur Young and I, despite the war, have managed to correspond. (Because Egypt’s current Pasha, the infamous Mohammed Ali, has forbidden most Westerners to enter his country, we consider it our duty to pool our knowledge.) With the artifacts and copies at my disposal I hope, dear Professor Moore, to decipher the hieroglyphs. Maybe someday I can confirm your excellent deductions about ancient travel routes.’” I looked up at Captain Yarby.
“I’ve never been one for scholarly folderol,” he said.
“Monsieur Champollion believes in Father’s theory but cannot prove it,” I said, folding the stiff paper carefully. “Father talked to me often. He left many notes. Maybe I can find the key.” And then I burst out with my cherished plan. “Captain Yarby, will you give me passage to France?”
The captain looked under shaggy brows at me but said nothing.
“I don’t have any money—Father’s government bonds burned with the house. But I have the land. I’ll give that to you.”
Captain Yarby peered shrewdly at me. “Is this how you hope to escape Amos Thornton?”
My face grew hot. “Yes. But it’s far more. Father died a laughingstock. I have to restore his reputation.”
“Your father’s true friends, like myself, respect his memory.” Captain Yarby prodded the poker at a log. Sparks flew upward. “Liberty, this isn’t a question of money. I want no fare from you. But I can’t take you aboard the Ithaca. She’s no flag-of-truce vessel. We run the blockade. Every day of the voyage we’re in risk of being captured or sunk.”
“But I must get to France to meet with Monsieur Champollion!”
“Wartime travel’s too dangerous for a lass.”
His voice was firm. Final. In less than five minutes my weeks of hoping and dreaming had been dashed. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I bent my face into my hands, silently weeping.
“Things’ll work out right. You’ll see,” soothed Captain Yarby with gruff gentleness. “Your father’s death, your being in the city when it was captured, the house burning, it’s no wonder you’re upset. But there’s no need to worry about Amos Thornton. I know you despise the man for those Open Letters, but he’ll listen to reason. He’ll understand you should have a woman’s guidance. He is your guardian, but you’ll live right here in the boardinghouse. No need to worry about him. Tomorrow morning I’ll get a message off explaining the situation, and two days from now we’ll have his agreement.”
At dawn he gave a sealed envelope to a military courier going to Baltimore.
Eight
No reply had come three evenings later. It was Captain Yarby’s last night ashore and a chill rain fell but we were snug in the parlor. Mrs. Yarby knitted and I darned a stocking while Captain Yarby, his back to the warm fire, explained his route. Tobacco, already laden in the Ithaca’s hold, was bound for Boston, where he would take on a cargo of wheat for Le Havre—grain was scarce this year in France. Homeward bound, he would carry Sèvres, china as well as muskets. I barely listened. My anxiety about Amos Thornton weighed on me like a lead shroud.
Yet by an odd metamorphosis when the door knocker sounded, my spirits leaped. I was positive it was my rescuer. Dropping the darning egg, I jumped to my feet. “I’ll go.”
Amos Thornton, his face gleaming with rain, stood there with a half a dozen equally drenched Militia men ranged on the porch behind him. I glimpsed cavalry horses hanging weary, lathered heads at the hitching rail, and a coach waiting.
“Liberty,” Amos Thornton greeted. He turned to one of his men. “Corporal, you have your orders.”
The corporal saluted, the other men snapped to attention and Amos Thornton came inside.
I hadn’t seen him since that awful night preceding the battle of Bladensburg. The memory of my degradation at his hands brought a cold rush of nausea to the pit of my stomach. I breathed deeply to keep from retching.
“Captain Yarby dispatched a message,” he said.
“He didn’t expect you here in person,” I murmured.
“Before I discuss anything with the old man,” he said, “I want a word with you.”
“There’s no way you can apologize.”
He hung his sopping cape on the clothes rack. “A parent doesn’t beg a
child’s pardon for correcting him. And neither does a guardian. But, Liberty, our relationship won’t remain that.”
“What do you mean?”
He removed his tall, cockaded hat. His thinning, reddish hair clung to his broad skull. “I’ve thought a lot about our kiss. To be honest, my hunger for you took me by surprise. I’ve never considered myself a lustful man. Oh, I have the normal male desires, but I subdue them. You roused a deep, animal instinct that I’ve never had for any woman. Certainly not my late wife. She wasn’t intended for a man’s bed.”
I glared up at Amos Thornton. My anger was halted by a profound yet baffled sadness in his close-set eyes. That moment I pitied him, too. His egotism had erected a wall between his outer image of himself and his emotions—maybe he experienced lust, maybe he hungered for parenthood. It didn’t matter what he felt. He remained forever cut off from his inner being.
“Mr. Thornton, truly it was accidental that my dress was undone and I wore a wrapper. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”
“Professor Moore never taught you moral behavior.”
Hot anger on Father’s behalf crushed my sympathy. “What you’re saying is that he never beat me!”
“I intend teaching you decency and decorum,” he said hoarsely. “By the end of this year you must be fit to be my wife.”
Wife? Stunned, I opened my mouth. Despite my knowledge that he wanted me, it never had occurred to he that he intended marriage. I said the first words that came to my mind. “But I have no property, no family connections.”
“I’m willing to overlook that,” he said. “I’ve been a widower a long time.”
“I’ll never marry you.”
He ignored this. “But we’ll wait until your birthday. I want no gossip that I took advantage of my guardianship. And this I promise you, Liberty. Before we’re married I’ll never touch you except as a father.”
“Beat me with a strap narrower than your thumb,” I said through clenched teeth.
“That’s my right and duty,” he retorted.
The Emerald Embrace Page 5
