The Tory Widow

by Christine Blevins

  Wearing a gray jacket with dark green facings, the young fellow bore the marks of rank—a silver epaulet on his left shoulder and a well-polished saber hanging from the scabbard belted across his chest. He had a friendly, open face.

  Jack greeted the man, guessing, “New York regiment?”

  The fellow nodded and tucked his cocked hat under his arm. “Third Yorkers.” Though an officer, he had the air of an enlisted man—he was no powdered Bob. His chestnut hair was drawn back in a short tail with a rather ragged ribbon. The stockings he wore were home-knit and in dire need of a mending.

  Jack kicked at the empty chair across from his. “Here. Have a seat, Captain.”

  “Thanks, but not just yet.” The officer took a few steps, craning his neck as he searched the room.

  Anne stepped through the back door with a tray on her arm. She stood briefly, squinting at the man. Her face then blossomed into most beautiful thing Jack had ever seen. Dropping the tray to the counter in a clatter, she squealed and skipped across the shop, throwing herself into the handsome officer’s arms.

  The big man lifted the widow into the air and swung her round and round—skirts and petticoats rustling. Jack watched the two of them hug and laugh, and hug again, and with all his might, Jack wished he could take a barrel stave to the officer’s head.

  Hanging on to the soldier’s arm, swiping happy tears from her cheeks, Anne called out, “Sally, come meet my little brother!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Now is the seedtime of continental union, faith and honor.

  THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense

  June 29, 1776

  In the Garret, above the Cup and Quill

  SALLY gripped a fistful of fabric at the back of Anne’s skirt and braced her other hand against the window frame. “All set.”

  Anne sat on the sill, snapped the three telescoping brass tubes of Mr. Merrick ’s spyglass to full open and leaned out the garret window as far as she dared. Squinting her right eye shut, she pressed the glass to her left eye and aimed it beyond the rooftops, eastward, at the dark plume of smoke rising up from the hilltop across the East River. Panning across the horizon, Anne fixed her sight on a lone soldier standing at the crest, waving a pair of small red and blue flags. “Smoke and flags . . .” She hopped from the sill and passed the glass to Sally. “Have a look-see.”

  Sally took a turn hanging precarious from the window. “Aye, somethin’ of import is afoot for sure . . . Maybe Mr. Cuddy knows a thing this time.” As part of his morning delivery, Cuddy, the tea-water peddler, passed along news of the British fleet being sighted rounding Sandy Hook.

  But one never quite knew what to believe. The series of rumors careening about the town were embellished and altered by each and every person coming through the coffeehouse door.

  Only last week, Mr. Cuddy was, as usual, the bearer of shocking news—Washington had been murdered, poisoned by a dish of his favorite green peas. Then just as quickly, the tale turned. The Patriot general was not murdered, but kidnapped by the Loyalists. At the end of the day, Washington was neither murdered nor kidnapped, but over twenty men, including the mayor and several members of Washington’s Life Guard, were arrested for organizing an armed Loyalist rebellion. One of the perpetrators had already been tried and hanged.

  It was impossible to separate fact from fiction, and lately, what Anne judged to be wild rumor proved to be utter truth. Who would have thought the British Parliament would hire thousands of brutal German mercenaries to fight against their British citizens in the colonies? But hire them they did. Who would have thought their sovereign, King George, would send forth an armada to wage war against his own subjects? But merchant ships and fishermen reported a mighty fleet was on its way.

  So many rumors flying fast and furious within the span of a few days forced Anne to ponder a series of scenarios that scrambled her brains and bunched the muscles at the back of her neck. Reason dictated she flee the city and seek refuge in her father’s home in Peekskill, so Anne clung desperately to the unreasonable hope that a peaceful resolution was still possible. The sight of the signalman atop Brooklyn Heights surely added another ruffle to her apprehension.

  “C’mon, Sally—let’s get the wash in . . . It’s as hot as Hades up here.” The pulley wheels squawked as Anne tugged on the clothesline suspended between the Liberty Coffeehouse and the building across the lane.

  Their laundry line resembled pennants strung from the mast of a first-rate frigate—Anne’s somber achromatic apparel interspersed with the bright-colored petticoats, aprons and scarves Sally favored. Sitting side by side on the wide sill, Anne and Sally tossed the wooden clothes pegs into a small basket, and folded the dry clothing into the hamper.

  Sally sighed. “I wonder if David’ll come by tonight—he always knows what’s doing. He’d be able to tell us straightaway what those signals mean.”

  “If he does show, you can be certain it will be to give me an earful on how and why we should pack it all up and leave for Peekskill.”

  “Shame on ye, Annie.” Both women hopped down from the sill, each grabbing hold of a handle on the laundry basket. “Ye ought to thank the stars in heaven for such a brother—so concerned about you, he is.”

  “You know as well as I, David’s visits have far more to do with your pretty make than his concern for my well-being.” Anne reached around and pinched blushing Sally on the rear.

  Though very busy training his company and working on fortifications, what little free time David did have was spent at his sister’s home. Anne was not surprised to see her brother smitten the moment he was introduced to Sally. He had a habit of falling in love, and a weakness for ginger-haired girls. David readily informed Anne he’d graduated from smitten to besotted the moment he found Sally in the kitchenhouse, up to her elbows in dough, reading a copy of Common Sense she’d propped open with a wooden spoon. And it did not take a gypsy fortune-teller to discern the feelings were mutual.

  David’s Third Yorkers had been part of the Patriot Army’s disastrous Canadian campaign. It was lucky their mother—a well-read woman and a modern thinker—saw to it that her children were inoculated, for David did not succumb to the smallpox epidemic that decimated his regiment and wiped out half of the Continental Army in Montreal. Good health combined with his avid devotion to the cause served to propel David’s army career, and in a few short months he rose in rank from enlisted man to captain. He pursued these new duties with his usual boundless energy.

  Sally bustled down the stairs. “I’ll go an’ fix a little supper—in case your brother shows.”

  Anne called, “I’m off to the hospital. I promised Dr. Treat I would do some letter writing.”

  With close to a full third of Washington’s soldiers ailing, the makeshift hospital was overflowing with patients. Oppressive summer heat had combined with bad food, tainted water and crowded living conditions to exact a terrible toll on the Patriot troops, so Anne and Sally took turns spending a few hours every evening volunteering.

  Anne tied a new straw hat over her mobcap. “I’ll be back by curfew!” She grabbed her writing box by the leather handle and was on her way.

  Dearest Wife,

  Though this letter comes to you by another’s hand, it is still from my heart.

  Jenny, pray do not suffer any unnecessary worry for my well-being. I have been something unwell, but am feeling better now. I find I am gaining Strength with the passing of every hour and very soon I will be as Hearty as ever before. I hope these lines find you possessed of the same Blessing. I only look to the day when I can enjoy once more the Comfort of your society. Give my duty to all parents and my respect to all friends. I remain your loving husband.

  “Can you sign?”

  “I’d like to.”

  The soldier hiked himself up from his straw-stuffed pallet to a sitting position. Perched on her little three-legged stool, Anne swiveled her lap desk around, and facing the sloped surface his way, she offered the man the freshly dipped qu
ill. With a shaky hand, he scratched a sloppy “Levi” at the bottom of the page, and flopped back to lie flat.

  Anne was glad Captain Levi Fullshire had survived the worst of his bout with camp fever. The young lawyer from Boston was newly wed, and as he spoke with such loving fondness of his wife, it would have been a terrible shame to write the woman an entirely different sort of letter.

  Helping the soldiers write to their families was her favorite hospital duty. Anne gave the captain’s letter a final dusting of sandarac to set the ink. Tapping the excess grit back into her pounce pot, she folded the sheet twice, sealed the page with one of the paste wafers from her writing kit and flipped it over to pen the address on the other side. “I’ll see to it that your letter leaves with the post rider tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Merrick.” Levi offered a weak smile. The effort expended signing his name seemed to have sapped what little strength he’d lately recovered. “My poor Jenny’s bound to worry. It’s been a month since I last wrote and my letters were as regular as the tide up until the day I fevered.”

  “This letter will be a certain relief to her, then.” Anne stoppered her inkwell and stored it along with her pounce pot, quill and paper inside the compartment of her lap desk. “Your health is much improved, Captain. The next letter home will be from your own hand.” Anne snapped her writing box shut, and bid good evening to all of the patients in the crowded ward.

  The Continental Army was sickly. Since a smallpox epidemic nearly doomed the rebel cause during the Canadian campaign, General Washington maintained an overriding concern for the health of his army. Soldiers or citizens showing symptoms of smallpox were immediately quarantined on Montressor’s Island. There were a good number of soldiers who suffered with the flux and the itch, but the majority housed in the hospital the army’d set up in King’s College Hall were afflicted with the camp fever that was rampaging through all of the regiments. The newly formed medical corps was overwhelmed and hard-pressed to care for so many struck ill with fever. Anne and Sally were among the many New Yorkers who stepped forward to answer the desperate call for help.

  Good intentions aside, Anne learned on her first day she did not possess the qualities required to be of service as a nurse. It was not for lack of compassion, or willingness to work hard and give aid. She just could not detach from the patient’s discomfort, especially with cases of camp fever, when the cure proved far worse than the ailment.

  Try as hard as she could, Anne could not gain control over her queasy stomach and sensitive nose when it came to administering the purging emetics and clysters the doctors prescribed to excite the nervous system and rid a body of fever. These popular treatments resulted in foul expulsions from one end or the other, and Anne’s first day of duty found her off in a corner, heaving into a chamberpot for the better part of her shift. Having witnessed her unnurselike behavior, the physician general had suggested she limit her volunteerism to working with the recovering patients, who required a simpler form of nursing that would prove easier on her stomach.

  Anne paused after exiting the hospital to draw in a deep breath of fresh air. Under Dr. Treat’s rule, the staff put forth a valiant effort to maintain cleanliness and discourage the spread of contagion. The wards were fumigated with smoke from burning brimstone, chamberpots were emptied promptly and floors were swabbed every day with vinegar—but regardless—the malodor of vomit, diarrhea and death hung in the air, wet and thick as steam from a boiling kettle. Anne kept a hanky saturated with lavender oil tucked under the seam at her left shoulder, to allow quick relief with a turn of the head when the smell became more than she could bear.

  She set the writing box down on the stoop. Overlooking the college grounds, Anne removed her straw hat, swiped the mobcap from her head and used it to blot the sweat from her face and the back of her neck before stuffing it into her pocket.

  There were only a few moments of daylight left to be had and the shadows cast by the disappearing sun were long and murky. Realizing she’d been time-tricked by the lengthening summer days into missing the set curfew, Anne turned back into the building to obtain the requisite pass. She chased after the physician general as he bustled by with a pair of young medical students in tow.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Merrick.” Dr. Treat wagged his head at her request, distracted. “Await at the front entry, and I will send ’round a pass and an escort to see you home safe.”

  Anne sat on the stair with her writing kit on her lap and watched as nightfall overcame the last tinge of orange light in the western sky. The street was deserted—silent but for the passing footfalls of a stout sentry making his rounds armed with a slim halberd nearly twice his height. After the sentry disappeared, the old lamp warden came moving along Robinson Street in starts and stops. Wielding a long iron hook, one by one, he lifted lanterns from lightposts, filled the wells to the brim with whale oil and lit the wicks.

  Dr. Treat must have forgotten about me . . . Anne gathered her skirts, her hat and her writing box to go in search of the busy administrator. Scrambling to her feet, she turned and bumped square into Jack Hampton.

  Jack held her at arm’s length for a brief instant. “Mrs. Merrick! What are you doing here?” He brightened at their meeting, his dark eyes shining. He was dressed in rough work clothes—brown leather breeches and a linsey shirt open at the frayed collar with sleeves rolled above his elbows—his face and hands were stained with soot. Hatless, and ribbonless, his hair hung sweat-drenched about his shoulders.

  Anne waved an exasperated hand toward the open doorway. “I’m waiting for my pass and a promised escort, but I suspect Dr. Treat is so busy he most likely forgot to send both.”

  “I’m headed home,” Jack volunteered. “I can see you to yours.”

  “If you don’t mind . . . I would appreciate it. I hate to be a bother”—Anne glanced once more at the doorway—“but I fear Sally is twirling herself into a redheaded fret on my account.”

  “No bother at all—the Cup and Quill is on my way.” Jack held up a finger. “I’ll be right back.” Turning back into the hospital, he emerged after a few moments with hands and face washed, shirttails tucked in and wild hair tied back with a scrap of twine.

  Anne smiled at the ablutions he’d undergone on her behalf. “You’ve come to my rescue once again, Mr. Hampton.”

  “I’d have you call me Jack,” he said, taking her writing kit to carry.

  “All right . . . Jack . . . and you must call me Anne.”

  “Well, c’mon then, Annie—we’re off !”

  She fell in beside him, very much enjoying how he used her familiar name as if they’d been boon companions for years. They strolled along the deserted street—stretches of darkness punctuated by soft ellipses of wavering lantern glow.

  “I didn’t know you were helping to nurse the infirm,” Jack said. “I commend your duty.”

  “Withhold your commendation, sir, for I’m afraid I am the poorest excuse for a nurse,” Anne said, with a shake of her head. “Since I lack the fortitude needed to be of good service to the patients in dire need, Dr. Treat has relegated me to the recovery wards. Today I wrote letters for the men.”

  “Ol’ Treat—he finds use for every willing pair of hands.” Jack walked, swinging her case like a lad on his way home from school. “It’s no wonder I haven’t seen you here, for I’m usually out back in the yard boiling the linen and burning the straw. Although some days, I help out in the upper wards with the lifting and turning.”

  Anne noticed Jack’s shirt was wet around the collar, and she caught a whiff of the lye soap he’d used to wash. “Difficult and grim—the upper wards. You’re the one to be commended.”

  “All for the cause.” Jack shrugged. “Since Parker moved his press out of the city, I have the time. I don’t mind working with the sick—poor fellows—rather help them than dig a trench any day.”

  “Sally and I were wondering why we haven’t seen you lately with your shovel.” Anne winced a little
in telling the lie. Sally couldn’t give a fig for what happened to Jack Hampton.

  Jack noticed the inclusion. “Sally wondered?”

  Anne sidestepped his observation. “Well, I’m no fanatic to the cause, but Patriot or Loyalist, the unwell still need to be tended. I have to say, I am surprised by my squeamishness. When my son was so ill, I suffered no such qualms in seeing to his comfort and treatment . . .”

  “You have a son?”

  Anne swallowed back the painful lump lodged sudden in her throat. “I had a son—Jemmy—such a good boy. He was but six years old when both he and Mr. Merrick succumbed to the smallpox three years ago.”

  “The brooch . . .” Jack said. “In memory of your son?”

  She nodded. “And most precious to me. I keep it safe at home now, and no longer carry it about.”

  Jack rested a hand between Anne’s shoulder blades for a brief moment. “The death of one’s child must be the awfullest pain to bear.”

  “The worst I’ve ever borne.” Anne nodded, shoulders slumping a bit under the burden of her recollections. “Jemmy’s gone from me, and I’m left with naught but a lock of his hair and a loneliness about my heart for which I fear there is no cure.”

  To her relief, Jack did not sweep her grief away with some platitude concerning the ability of time to somehow “heal all wounds,” including one as deep and grievous as her own. Instead, he walked a ways in silence before striking up a new tangent.

  “Contagion is a vexing problem. With nary a shot being fired, our army lost fourteen men just today. And who knows how many at the other hospitals? I tell you, at this rate, General Washington won’t have much of an army left when the fleet invades.”

  “There may not be an invasion,” Anne said. “Didn’t you hear? The King is sending Admiral Howe with a peace commission, and maybe . . .”

  “Peace commission!” Jack spat the words. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that Tory tripe?”