The provost held his glass high, and proclaimed, “His Majesty, the King.”
Which was followed by the rumbled communal response of, “His Majesty, King George the Third.” Crystal tinging, everyone took a good swallow.
Joshua Loring raised his glass and added, “The provost marshall—generous host of this glorious feast.”
“Hear, hear!”
Cunningham accepted the accolade with proper humility, and as planned, Quartermaster Floyd put an end to the toasting, glass aloft. “Our wives and sweethearts—may they never meet.”
The old jest drew the requisite amused guffaw, and the guests resumed their seats.
Wavering a bit, Cunningham remained on his feet at the head of the table. He could feel his new wig had slipped off-kilter, and the sharp tug he gave to right it sent it off to the other extreme. He grasped the table edge, and buttressed his stance with a deep swallow of French brandy, then launched into his speech.
“Trusted servants of the British Crown—not so long ago, this very room served as the gathering place for that nest of vipers known as the Sons of Liberty.” He swept his arms up, inadvertently cuffing the servant boy who had ducked in to set a plate on the table, knocking a wheel of Cheshire cheese onto the floor.
The provost glared, waiting for the boy as he dusted the retrieved cheese with a grimy rag from his pocket and set it back on its plate. “Aye . . .” Cunningham continued, “these very walls bore witness as the scoundrels planned their nefarious treason. And around this very table . . .” He pounded his fist, rattling the nearby china and glassware. “Around this table, these so called Liberty Boys fomented rebellion and war.
“Loyal and valiant men! Your presence around this table is a testament to the rising tide of victory. Washington and his motley rabble are on the run, and soon the country will be swept clean of the rebel menace, and proper order will reign over the whole of His Majesty’s Empire.”
“Hear, hear!” The company broke into applause, and the ardent took to their feet.
Cunningham quieted the room with outstretched arms. “We have brought into submission one of the most pernicious, vile Sons of Liberty to have ever claimed that mantle. An unrepentant black-hearted whore-son, who will at the end of our party answer to the devil himself.”
Joshua Loring offered up a weak, “Huzzah!”
Wincing at the solo bleat issued from one of his pandering sheep, Cunningham raised his glass one last time. “I invite you all to join me at the new gallows behind Bridewell at midnight, to witness as I send yet another rebel bastard to an aggravated damnation in hell.”
The provost plopped back into his seat, brandy sloshing. “Until then, my friends, you’re still my guests—doxies, dice and faro await in the public room.”
TRUSSED into a red silk gown, Anne sat on the chest at the foot of Patsy Quinn’s bed. Fists balled in her lap, she splayed a finger in time with every bong of the new bell at City Hall.
“Eleven o’clock already,” Sally said, with a shake of her head.
“As if we hadn’t noticed. Now keep your mouth closed.” Patsy rubbed her pinky finger into the pot of lip pomade, and artfully applied the crimson paint to give Sally a proper streetwalker’s pout. “There! My turn.”
Sally relinquished her seat at the dressing table to Patsy Quinn, and went to sit beside Anne. “It takes some getting used to,” she said, barely moving her lips. “All this paint and hair.”
Afraid to upset the high-piled wig on her head, Anne thought better of nodding. She fiddled with the red ribbon tied at her throat, the layers of paint feeling much like a skim coat of plaster on her skin. “If I didn’t know better, Sal, I’d never guess it was you.”
“Nor I you—good thing we have some time to grow accustomed t’ this gear,” Sally said with a waggle of her head. “I’m like to burst out laughing every time I take a look at ye.”
Patsy talked into the mirror above her dressing table, twirling her long dark hair into a knot at the back of her head. “The provost and the quartermaster transact regular with sporting girls. If our plan is going to work, the ruse must convince. You ladies might look the part—but you must play whore with some gusto or we’ll all wind up dangling alongside Jack.” Opening the front of her dressing gown, she used a little sea sponge to apply an even coat of stark white paint from forehead to chest.
“You’re right, Patsy.” Anne tried to relax her stiff shoulders. “It’s really no different than flirting with our dragoons, I suppose.”
Patsy mixed red and white paint into a garish pink color that she applied to her cheeks and nipples. “There’s a difference dealing with men who pay good coin, and those who try to wheedle the goods for naught.”
“Annie . . .” Sally eyed the nipple painting. “We ought plump up our bubbies a bit . . .”
The women helped lace Patsy into her stays, and pinned her into a red silk dress. After tugging on a big wig to match the wigs Sally and Anne wore, Patsy applied crimson lip pomade, and affixed a small crescent-shaped black silk patch to her left temple, near her eye.
Patsy passed the patchbox to Sally. “Put on a mouche . . . left is the Tory side, and the temple bespeaks passion.”
Sally poked her finger through the assortment of black silk patches and chose a clover shape. “For luck!” Touching a dab of gum arabic to the patch, she mimicked Patsy, pressing the mouche to her left temple and passing the little box on to Anne.
Anne read the motto inscribed on the lid of the enamelware patchbox aloud. “The hardness of your heart causes mine to ache and smart.”
“The city commandant gave me that trifle himself—calls me Hard-hearted Patsy, he does—he’s been after me to become his mistress.” Patsy stood before the mirror, tying a red satin ribbon around her throat. “Bitch Babcock is all for it—says we ought pick the ol’ lecher’s pocket whilst he breathes—but I say there’s more to life than money. I generally don’t have much of a stomach for shriveled-up old men—old Tories in particular—” Patsy glanced over to Anne, adding, “No offense.”
Anne chose a five-pointed star-shaped patch, and glued it into place. “None taken. I prefer a younger man myself—and it seems he prefers me as well . . .”
Patsy flinched and sat down on the bed, biting her lip.
“Annie!” Sally scolded, sitting down beside Patsy.
“I’m so sorry. That was cruel.” Anne sank down to sit on the other side, taking Patsy by the hand. Her barb had shattered Patsy’s protective shell, and Anne could see her for what she truly was, a young girl with a very broken heart.
Patsy shrugged. “Knowing Jack loves you don’t stop me from loving him. I wish it did—but it don’t. My poor heart just won’t mind my brain.”
Anne slipped her arm around Patsy’s shoulders. “You must love Jack very much to risk all for him. When I consider if I would do the same if I wore your shoes, I think I would not. Your heart is far more brave and generous than mine.”
“More foolish than brave.” Patsy heaved a sigh and leaned into Anne.
“Yer nobody’s fool, Pats,” Sally argued.
“We’re lucky to have you as a friend, Patsy—all of us.”
There was a knock at the door, and Titus called, “Can we come in?”
The door inched open and Tully ducked his head in. “Uncle Tully has brung you girls a few trinkets . . .”
The women all leapt up, smoothing skirts and dabbing hankies to eyes, waving Titus and Tully into the crowded little room.
Dressed in his usual wooly cap and longshoreman toggery, Tully’s lading hook dangled from his belt, and he carried a large bundle of sailcloth under one arm.
Wearing a seaman’s checked shirt and striped trousers tucked into cuffed boots, Titus looked like the typical bullyback a madam might send along to protect her girls working the streets.
“Ye have the air of a pirate about ye, Titus!” Sally said.
Tully grunted. “He looks like a pimp to me.”
Titus tippe
d the befeathered tricorn he wore over a red silk scarf tied about his bald head. A mean-looking cudgel was stuck in the sash at his waist. “I hope to confound the provost, lest he recognize me.”
Patsy asked, “How do we look?”
The women lined up, shoulder to shoulder, each in a fair-haired wig, wearing a red dress and ribbon about her neck. When Titus suggested they dress alike, to not only add to their allure, but also to confuse men who would be addled with spirits, Patsy had immediately pounced upon the brilliance of the strategy. “Men go mad for a comely pair of twins. The quartermaster, for one, will not be able to resist a trio.”
Of a same height and build, with faces painted, the only distinguishing marks were the patches adorning their temples. Titus nodded his approval, and Tully graveled, “As alike as peas in a pod.”
“Have we any news?” Anne asked.
“We do.” Tully set his bundle on the bed. “O’Keefe’s been dispatched to fetch Jack to the gallows.”
Titus added, “Our boy at the Red Lion says he’s made the rounds to most of Cunningham’s party guests, passing the message that the hanging’s been postponed—just like we told him to.”
Tully unrolled the canvas parcel, revealing their arsenal. “The pistols are all primed, loaded and ready to fire.” Titus grabbed up the largest and stuffed it into his sash. Tully tucked one into his shirt, and handed a pistol to each woman. “Remember, cock the hammer all the way back, grip your weapon with both hands and aim at the biggest target . . .”
Titus pounded his chest. “The heart.”
“Like we practiced, aye?” Sally brooked a two-handed stance and aimed her pistol out the window. Anne and Patsy slipped their guns into their pockets.
Tully handed them each a sheathed, double-edged dagger. “Never hurts to have a knife at the ready.”
Patsy raised her skirts and slipped the sheath into the garter on her right knee. Anne and Sally followed suit.
“I only wish we knew exactly how many and who we might be tangling with.” Tully whisked off his cap and scratched behind his ear, his squinty eye squashed to a slit. “When you dance in the dark, it’s good to ken what might take you by the hand, eh?”
“We face many unknowables in this venture.” Titus stowed his knife in his boot. “Best gather up your pluck, ladies and gents. As my good friend Jack Hampton would say, it’s time to add a new wrinkle to the provost’s arsehole.”
SURROUNDED and serenaded by his snoring brethren, Jack sat propped against the wall near a window, listening to the new bell at City Hall toll half-past eleven.
Almost midnight.
Something must have gone awry. He thought for certain Cunningham would have come for him by now. Since nightfall, he’d waited, anxious, expecting to be dispatched to the gallows at any moment.
Be Ready. We are coming for You.
For the thousandth time since he’d read the clandestine message written in Anne’s hand, Jack’s mind became embroiled in a whirl-wind of hope and worries.
Could they? Should they?
As much as he did not want to hang, the danger posed to his friends staging his rescue was high, and the probability of success low.
The boys came tearing up the stairs, dodging around prone men huddled in their blankets. They skittered across the dark room and dropped down to their knees to sit on either side of him.
“They’re here, Jack . . .” Brian gasped, his narrow chest heaving.
“O’Keefe and the hangman,” Jim continued. “Coming up the stairs.”
Jack stood, nodding. “I’m ready.”
The bootsteps thudded up the stairs and a rough voice bellowed, “Hampton!” rousing the sleeping prisoners and touching off a wildfire of coughs, groans and complaints that spread from floor to floor.
Brian took Jack by the arm. “We’d better say our good-byes.”
“Before I go . . .” Jack clapped both boys by the shoulder, and looked them each in the eye. “I want you to promise me this—next time the recruiting sergeant comes around looking for volunteers, I want you to step forward . . .”
“No!” Jim jerked away. “We won’t swear false. We’re Patriots.”
Brian stepped back and crossed his arms. “We ain’t no turncoats, Jack. We ain’t!”
“Listen to me—listen to me!” Jack grabbed Brian by the shoulder and gave him a shake. “Dying in this shithole serves no purpose. Join the Redcoat army and then desert—you are both clever and brave enough to make that happen. Desert and find your way back to the Continentals.” Jack snatched Jim up by the arm and gave both stubborn boys another hard shake. “Washington needs your drum, Jim—and your rifle, Brian. If you’re the Patriots you claim to be, you’ll do what you must to get back and fight for our cause—promise me now—promise me! ”
Brian and Jim nodded.
“Good.” Jack heaved a sigh. “Good men, you are.”
“Hampton!” The call came from the story below, and a flickering light illuminated the rafters above the stairwell.
Jack gave the boys each a handshake and a bear hug. “Till we meet again, right?”
Standing side by side, Brian swiped his forearm across his eyes, and Jim fisted his tears away.
“We’ll see you soon, Jack.”
“Aye, that . . . good luck to you, Jack.”
“Hampton!” The boys ducked down into feigned sleeping positions as a torch-bearing O’Keefe and the mulatto hangman came up out of the stairwell, followed by a sleepy-eyed Hessian guard bearing a bayoneted musket.
“Quit your caterwauling—I’m coming,” Jack called. Picking a path through the field of huddled gray lumps, he made his way to stand before the sergeant. “ You’re a noisy little bootlick, aren’t you?”
“Richmond”—the sergeant tossed him a coil of rope—“bind and gag the devil.
The mulatto came forward, his calloused bare feet scraping on the floorboards. Richmond fished a filthy rag from the pocket of his trousers, forced the cloth between Jack ’s teeth and tied the gag tight. With his long, matted plaits swinging, Richmond’s practiced fingers worked the rope into strong knots, binding Jack’s wrists tight behind his back, and hobbling his ankles with just enough slack to allow him to manage the stairs.
The trudge down four flights of stairs was made ponderous and painful by the hobbling and the point of the Hessian’s bayonet. Once on the street, they shuffled in a silent single file down the long, deserted stretch of Broad Way. O’Keefe took the lead with the sputtering pine-pitch torch, followed by Jack, the Hessian guard and the witless hangman trailing at the last.
Turning into the yard behind Bridewell, Jack was at once riveted by the rope centered on the beam between the two gallows posts. Tied with a hangman’s knot, the noose was fashioned from an un-frayed length of new rope, and almost seemed to glow in the light of half a dozen torches burning bright in holders mounted to the granite prison wall.
The gallows were built perpendicular to the prison, and parallel to Broad Way. Flanked by two circular iron fire baskets with flames leaping, the provost’s improved gallows was three times the size of the one erected in haste on the Commons at the onset of the city’s occupation. Built with an eye for volume business, it could easily accommodate three or four customers at a time.
Three men were waiting near the gallows. Jack spotted the provost immediately. Dressed in black, the silver gorget around Cunningham’s neck reflected the flickering yellow torchlight up onto his craggy features. He fidgeted with his cane in a small huddle with Quartermaster Floyd and a small portly fellow Jack did not recognize. Upon sighting the little parade, the provost snapped his watch shut. “Richmond,” he ordered, “go fetch your wagon.”
The hangman took off running across the field littered with tree stumps. Disheartened, Jack could see no vantage point from which anyone could launch an ambush or attack. Washington’s Army had harvested the small grove of oak trees that once separated the prison from the soldier’s barracks.
All that t
imber and back-breaking work spent to build useless fortifications . . .
O’Keefe gave Jack a rough shove. “G’won and stand your place beneath the gibbet.”
The city bell began a doleful tolling of the midnight hour, and Jack was stricken with an overwhelming weariness, sapping the strength from his legs. The sleepy Hessian guard induced Jack onward with a halfhearted poke to the ribs, and he stumbled forward to stand within the frame of the gallows.
Small comfort for your last hours . . . the notion of a rescue.
The half-crown hidden in the ginger cake—the message but a distraction so he might wile away his final hours dwelling upon something hopeful, something other than his inevitable, lonely, inglorious demise at the hand of a despicable man.
The agitated provost checked his pocket watch again. “You both heard me say midnight, didn’t you?”
The stout fellow wagged his head up and down. “It was probably a mistake to loose the whores on that lot afore the hanging.”
“Christ, Loring, you can be such a dolt. That’s how we’ve always done it—gambling and whoring before the hanging.” The provost fished a flask from his pocket, and took a generous swallow.
What I wouldn’t do for a drink of water . . . Jack ’s throat felt like it had been scoured with a sooty chimney brush. The dusty rag Richmond used as a gag tasted of turpentine, and absorbed every bit of moisture in his mouth.
“Of course, you’re right . . .” Loring toadied. “They are a brood of ungrateful buggers.”
“The bastards ate my food, drank my liquor and they are now fucking the cunt I paid for—selfish, greedy bastards . . .” The provost paced a few steps forth and back.
Loring threw his arms up. “The height of rudeness to say the least . . .”
Floyd shot an upraised eyebrow Loring’s way before offering, “I can run over to the Lion and roust the bastards from their beds . . .”
The Tory Widow Page 37
