The Tory Widow

by Christine Blevins

  Anne dodged Titus and ran back, tossing the tricorn onto the floor. “I hope you’re happy. My press is in ruins; my types are all gone . . .”

  “All gone? I don’t think so . . .” Turning slowly on his heel, Jack studied the perimeter walls.

  “I’ll have you leave my shop at once, sir.”

  Titus came and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Anne, you go on upstairs with Sally now. I’ll see this fellow to the door.”

  “No need for that,” Jack said, folding the page into quarters. “Fine work this, very fine—my compliments to you both.” He slipped the paper into his coat pocket and squatted down for his hat. He rose eyeing the floorboards, quickly traversing the space between himself and the supply cabinet in three long strides.

  “Your work is done here, sir,” Anne said, scurrying after him. “I would have you leave.”

  Jack paid her no mind. He traced the toe of his boot along the raw scrape marks in the floor. Grasping the edge of the cabinet, he angled it a few inches away from the wall, enough to peer behind and see the hidden closet door.

  Anne lurched forward and pulled him back by the arm. “Haven’t you done enough?”

  Jack shrugged her off, looking behind the cabinet. “It seems I haven’t.”

  Anne’s voice grew shrill. “Just go . . . Why can’t you just go? I’ve been punished enough . . .”

  Jack set his hat on his head and made an abrupt about-face back to the compositor’s table. He grabbed up the wire bale handle on the tin pissbucket, marched straight for the bookcase and splashed the stale urine over the fine volumes, tossing the empty bucket to land with a spin and clatter at speechless Anne’s feet.

  “That is your punishment, madam. Be grateful I don’t call the boys back to give you the tarring and feathering you so richly deserve.” He answered her openmouthed astonishment with a stern admonition. “I will have my eye on you.”

  Jack Hampton hiked up his collar and stormed out the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We have it in our power to begin the world over again.

  THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense

  April 1776

  At the Sign of the Cup and Quill

  THE new day candled at the edge of the horizon. Through a dewy haze, soft dawn illuminated church spires and gabled rooftops, inching in to color the docks and quays, and light the dirt lanes between storehouses, taverns, shops and homes. A crisp, clean breeze bespoke a fine, clear day—welcome change after a long spell of rain. With spade on shoulder, Jack Hampton slogged through the sucking mud, glad to see the early-morning streets alive with like-minded men on the move.

  The Continental Army had been massing on the island for weeks—almost fourteen thousand soldiers arrived to defend the city. Jack was among the New Yorkers who were glad to hear General Washington would soon be setting up his headquarters at #1 Broad Way.

  A month before, British General Howe woke in Boston to find rebel cannons mounted on Dorchester Heights, and he withdrew his forces and evacuated the town. Attention turned south, for it was clear as glass to anyone who could read a map—the Redcoats needed to take New York City.

  Unfortunately, Jack’s beloved hometown provided the perfect base from which to quell a widespread rebellion. The quality of her protected harbor was unsurpassed, and the mouth of the Hudson provided as excellent an access to the north as the Atlantic did to the south. British warships menacing the bay gave proof of intent to take New York and nothing could be done to drive them away. Unopposed by naval force, the Asia alone with her sixty-four guns could pound the city to a fine powder in a matter of hours.

  While Patriot soldiers marched into town, the civilian population headed out. The daily influx and exodus clogged Broad Way all the way to the Post Road. Docks sat empty. Trade idled. Shops closed. Normal living turned absolutely topsy-turvy.

  Jack was proud to be one of the staunch New Yorkers who stayed put and supported the effort to fortify the city against invasion. But many Tories remained as well—those who held quiet hope for reconciliation, and to Jack ’s utter dismay and disgust, those active collaborators who supported the monarchy. It galled him when the Provincial Congress did nothing to put a stop to the Loyalists who provided food and fresh water to the British warships lurking off Bedloe’s Island. Like a pack of well-fed wolves, the Asia, the Mercury, the Phoenix and the Duchess of Gordon cruised the bay at will, presaging certain perdition.

  Jack turned off Duke Street and headed for the sign of the Cup and Quill. Just as he arrived, Sally unbolted the door and opened the shop for business. Jack Hampton filed in along with the ready crowd of eager customers, grabbing his regular seat to the left of the door that Sally had propped open with a tin of lead slugs. Before immersing himself in the latest issue of the Philadelphia Gazette he’d stuffed into his coat pocket, Jack perused the day’s collection of customers.

  Citizen soldiers.

  Farmers and tradesmen from every colony volunteered for service, and lacking uniforms, many served their stint dressed in their everyday garb. It was easy enough to identify the origins of the two men in fringed hunting shirts and leather leggings. Propping their long rifles against the wall, the pair of backcountry Virginians doffed battered felt hats and settled in at the far corner table. A group of uniformed soldiers sat at the table across from Jack ’s.

  New Englanders.

  It was difficult to keep track of the sundry uniform types sported by some of the colonial companies. Such a hodgepodge affair, this Continental Army—nigh on impossible to tell officer from enlisted man save for bits of colored cloth General Washington ordered worn on shoulders, or ruffled into cockades and sewn onto hats. Sporting bright ribband sashes worn across the chest, the highest-ranking officers were the easiest to identify.

  The young fellows sitting across from Jack—enlisted men, all—wore matching striped waistcoats, blue jackets and round felt hats. Jack caught the eye of one. “Where do you boys hail from?”

  “Massachusetts. And you?”

  Jack leaned back, tipping the two front legs of his chair from the floor. “New York City, brother.”

  The young soldier grinned easy, admiring Sally’s rear end as she circled their table distributing wooden mugs and plates. “A native son! Not many of you around. We’re told this is the place for the finest coffee in all of New York City.”

  Jack laughed, examining the inside of the empty mug Sally had set before him. “I’d say this is just about the only coffee in all of New York City.”

  Anne Merrick sidestepped through the open back door, balancing a tray of baked goods on each hip. She slipped the trays onto the stationery counter, which had been pushed to the back of the shop. Since the day the Liberty Boys had relieved Mrs. Merrick of her printing press, the entire length of the first floor was devoted to serving comestibles. The rebel occupation proved an enormous boon to the Tory widow’s business, and she did not want for customers.

  True to his word, Jack Hampton kept his eye on Anne Merrick, making it a habit to take coffee in her shop at least once a day. He had to admit a grudging admiration for her resilience. Even the most steadfast Tories fled the town once visited by the Liberty Boys. But not Mrs. Merrick—she simply swept up the mess, repainted her shingle to read LIBERTY COFFEEHOUSE and reopened for business.

  She came in from the kitchen, hefting a steaming coffeepot onto the countertop. For a wife who had not seemed overly fond of her departed husband, Jack had never seen the woman dress in anything other than mourning-wear. Today the widow wore a gauze kerchief tucked about the square neckline of a plain gray gown. Her skirt was protected by a brilliant white apron, its crisp starched bow at the small of her back being the only adornment added to her Quakerlike simplicity. A frilled mobcap covered her chestnut hair, framing her flushed face with a pretty ruffle.

  Contrary to her mistress, the Scottish servant girl favored cheerful patterns and colors. Sally brightened the shop in her green skirt and blue-checked apron; her riotous red
hair was tied back with a matching checked head scarf.

  Crisscrossing the room, Mrs. Merrick carried a tray and Sally handled the coffeepot. Together they visited each customer, filling mugs and this day offering a selection of raisin scones and corn muffins. As usual, Jack ’s table was the last stop on their route.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hampton!” The women greeted him in unison and together dipped a silly, florid curtsy.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he answered, equally jovial.

  “Coffee today, Mr. Hampton?” Sally asked with a grin.

  “Please . . .” Jack offered up his mug, and as usual she poured him the dregs from the bottom of the pot—a bitter sludge of grounds mixed with eggshells—coffee so thick he could easily get his spoon to stand upright in it.

  Widow Merrick tipped her tray, which was empty save for a lone raisin scone. “Can I tempt you today, Mr. Hampton?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Merrick—I think the scone.”

  “Good choice.” Mrs. Merrick plucked up the scone and placed it on his plate. “Sally baked this one special for you.”

  Sally peered into his mug with some concern. “Och! The coffee seems a bit on the strong side this morning. Shall I brang ye a lump of sugar and a wee bumper of cream, Mr. Hampton?”

  “No need, Sally, this coffee is perfect.” Jack pushed his spoon through the muck in his cup. No amount of cream would salvage this brew, and at any rate, as he knew from past experience, any cream brought to him would be curdled, and the lump of sugar would more than likely be a lump of salt.

  “Well then”—Anne Merrick smiled—“enjoy!”

  Jack was subjected once again to the ridiculous tandem curtsy before they left him to stand at the back of the shop, arms akimbo, watching his every move.

  Jack eyed the scone on his plate. Sprinkled with a generous amount of brown sugar and baked to crusty golden perfection, it looked delicious. The regular customers always raved about the quality of the fare produced in the widow’s kitchen. He broke the scone in two to expose a soft, crumbly interior, loaded with plump black beetle bugs. Jack pushed the tainted scone and coffee aside. Sally and Anne scampered back to the kitchenhouse, giggling.

  Among the many dreadful things he’d been served since becoming a regular at the Liberty Coffeehouse were scones burnt to a charcoal crisp, muffins sprinkled with mouse droppings, cakes frosted with dung and puddings drenched in what smelled like horse piss. The clever women contrived to couple the friendliest, most charming service with the meanest, most rotten fare. The most insidious being the servings where the food seemed perfect and he could discern nothing amiss—steaming coffee, rich cream, sweet sugar, lovely baked goods. Suspecting the food might be laced or injected with some undetectable poison or emetic, Jack could do nothing other than pay for the wonderful fare left uneaten on his plate. Those were the days when the laughter coming from the kitchen was the loudest.

  Anne began to clear tables, and Sally began another round, pouring coffee and serving scones and muffins to the new customers. Jack flipped opened his newspaper to catch up on the latest news from Philadelphia.

  A breathless boy came in off the street. He pulled the widow to the side, and after a short but excited exchange, Mrs. Merrick slipped him a coin from her pocket and sent him on his way with a pat on the head. She ran up the stairs untying her apron strings and was soon on her way back down with a black wool shawl thrown around her shoulders and a shallow-crowned straw hat pinned to her mobcap, its black ribbons tied in a bow beneath her chin. Calling, “Mind the shop, Sally!” she sped out the door.

  Jack folded his paper, tossed a few coins on the table and slipped out as well.

  ANNE darted up Whitehall toward Broad Way. The city’s refuse collection, which had been erratic even during the best of times, became negligible with the coming of Washington’s army. Anne gave wide berth to the pigs snuffling through piles of rubbish and puddles of stagnant water. She slowed her pace at the Bowling Green to skirt a crowd gathering around an effigy dangling from a mock gallows, and she stopped to read the label attached to the straw-stuffed figure.

  Our Royal Governor—the bloody tool of the sanguinary Despot who is using his utmost efforts to ENSLAVE you!

  Adding drama to the display, the gilded equestrian statue of King George dressed in Roman toga and laurel leaf crown loomed from beyond the iron fence surrounding the green. The Liberty Boys had truly honed their craft.

  A day did not pass without some poor Loyalist being hauled out by a mob, pelted with brickbats and run from town—often astraddle a rail. The crier had even taken to tolling the names of accused Tories along with the hour. No longer able to depend on wealth or influence for protection, many avowed Loyalists—the Royal Governor included—fled for their lives, taking sanctuary aboard one of the four British warships menacing the harbor.

  Shading her eyes, Anne took a few steps toward the waterfront and scanned the bay. She could just make out the bright pennants and Union Jacks fluttering from the masts poking up through the morning mist. That pretty sight drove the bulk of the populace from the city.

  A newsboy pressed a broadside into Anne’s hand. She read it quickly—an offer of reward for information on any “traitor” associating with Royal Governor Tryon and his “nest of sycophants.”

  By far the most valuable commodity supplied to the British Navy was the information being passed along by Loyalist supporters—accurate reports on Patriot troop numbers and placements, fortifications and armaments. Anne eyed the effigy and noted the fierce anger bubbling among those gathered. Dangerous work, Loyalism. She crumpled the paper in her fist and dropped it into the gutter.

  By repainting her shingle Anne acquired instant Patriot status. In times so ridiculous and volatile, she was quickly learning to roll with the swell and chart an ever-changing course to maintain her own independence. On this day she embarked on a quest for things sweet.

  With invasion literally on the horizon, trade disrupted and an army encamped, Anne competed for hard-to-come-by but oh-so-necessary commodities like sugar and coffee. The boy from Van Cortlandt’s Sugar House brought word of a rare shipment arrived from the West Indies. If Anne intended to get her hands on a share before the limited stock was depleted, she could not spare the time to make a patriotic show by joining the brewing mob at the Bowling Green. She continued on her excursion up Broad Way.

  The cobbled main thoroughfare was daily clogged with the confused hubbub of fleeing citizenry, soldiers on the move and enough beasts, overloaded carts, and heavy artillery to create a daily writhing quagmire rivaling Dante’s fifth circle of hell. Anne kept a hand on her hat to keep it from being knocked to the ground as she melded in with the throng.

  Overnight, her hometown had become an armed camp. Lacking warships and armament, the Patriot army had no other choice but to transform New York City into an advantageous battleground. Trenches were being dug and redoubts thrown up. Martial law was imposed in full effect—complete with a set curfew, sentries posted and passwords issued.

  No place for a widow on her own . . . as her father was wont to remind Anne in letters admonishing her to return home to Peekskill. And she might well follow his advice, if it were not always coupled with the endorsement of some old friend or ancient widower in need of a wife.

  In need of a slave or a whore, more like. Anne repressed a shudder. It did not speak well for filial affection when she’d rather brave the perilous clime in an occupied and dangerous city than risk coming under her father’s dominion. Her father was more than happy to profit by another “advantageous” match as the means to provide for her security.

  Anne shuffled along the crowded sidewalk, bypassing a large gang of trench diggers. She made slow progress past the row of elegant mansions with doors and windows uncharacteristically thrown open to the dirt, clang and clatter of the street. Hundreds of the same men who toiled the day long mired in muck and mud now occupied these fine homes. The soldiers cooked their mess on hearths framed by ornate
mantelpieces, and crowded the parquet floors every night to sleep lying shoulder-to-shoulder.

  Anne shook her head in wonder at the instant ruin befallen these premium properties. The fear of having her own home commandeered for quartering soldiers fed her resolve to remain entrenched and in business. And though business at the Liberty Coffeehouse boomed like a mainsail filled with strong wind, Anne was careful to husband her resources and hoard her profits. For fair winds do not forever blow . . .

  At last reaching the picket fence delineating the graveyard at Trinity Church, she turned off crowded Broad Way and shifted pace to march a snappy quickstep. The breeze grew heavy with a cloying sweet smell, announcing the presence of sugar to one and all.

  An imposing five-story stone building, Van Cortlandt’s sugar refinery took up the corner of Thames and Lumber. Ahead, Anne could see two big men off-loading large barrels of unrefined muscovado sugar from an ox-drawn dray. One by one the barrels were rolled, rumbling down a ramp through the double doors leading to the lowest level.

  Anne followed the caramel perfume up a flight of stairs and through the main door. Louder than intended, she cursed, “Adrat!” upon finding several customers already formed in a queue. Samuel Fraunces, the owner of the tavern where Titus kept his room, stood at its head. A pair of Continental Army officers and her neighbor, the baker, had also beaten her to the sugarhouse door.

  “Good day, Widow Merrick.” Quakenbos tipped his hat.

  Anne acknowledged the baker’s greeting with a vague nod directed at the empty air to his left. She slipped her woolen shawl to drape over one arm, fanned her face with her fingers and waited her turn while watching the sugar boilers feeding charcoal to the fires beneath three steaming cauldrons.

  Sugar making was a tricky business. The temperature must be carefully controlled—the cauldrons must be kept hot enough to liquefy the coarse brown muscovado sugar, but not so hot as to burn it. One of the sugarworkers stirred a quantity of sticky bull’s blood into a ready batch, to bring impurities to the surface. He quickly skimmed the dross, and poured the sugar slush into cone-shaped vessels. As the sugar hardened, dark molasses drained down to drip out through an opening in the cone tip. A valuable by-product of the refining process, the molasses was collected in shallow pans.