The Tory Widow

by Christine Blevins

  “How’s your arse, Tully?”

  “Don’t worry about my arse, Titus. My arse’ll be fine once one of you digs the lead out of it.” Tully loosed the stern line and took the rudder.

  Jack shot Titus an elbow as they took the oars. “Now there’s something to look forward to.”

  Tully rasped, “Sally, loose that bowline.”

  Anne grabbed Sally by the arm. “Did you pack my brooch?”

  “Yer brooch?” Sally’s eyes grew wide. “I didna! I meant to, but something . . .”

  Anne tugged on the bowline and pulled herself out of the boat. “I have to go back for my brooch. It’s all I have of Jemmy—I’ll be quick . . . I promise.”

  Jack scrambled out after her. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Annie! Keys!” Sally fished through a bag at her feet, and tossed up a ring of keys.

  “Wait!” Titus dove under his seat. “Redcoats are on the prowl—arm yourselves.” He handed up a saber in scabbard to Jack. Anne took the pistol Titus pulled from his sash and dropped it into her pocket. The two linked hands, and ran the short distance to the Crown and Quill.

  When Anne put the key in the lock and turned the latch, she was relieved to find the inside bolts had not been thrown, and Jack would not be forced to scale the wall. Pointing to the burning candle Sally set out for the Redcoat officers, she whispered, “They are still out . . .”

  “But might be back at any time.” Jack slid the three bolts home. “I’ll stand watch. If they come, we’ll go out the back way. Hurry now and get the brooch.”

  Anne hiked her skirts. Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran down the hallway and pounded up the garret stair.

  She had left her room in a complete uproar—but the laquered box was on the night table, where she always kept it. Anne pinned the brooch to the inside of her stays, and pressed both hands over it. Having it next to her heart brought her great ease. Everything is going to be alright.

  Anne ran down the garret stairs and skipped down the second-floor hallway, calling out a merry, “I have it!” when the door to her old bedchamber swung open and she was grabbed hard by the arm.

  Edward Blankenship shouted, “Thief!” and put his sword to her throat.

  “Stop! Edward! I’m no thief—it’s me—it’s Anne,” she blubbered.

  The captain spun her around, lowering his blade. “Anne?”

  He must have been readying for bed. In stockinged feet, his shirttails were half-hanging and his hair was unbound. He had a pistol stuffed into the waistband of his breeches. She could smell rum on his breath.

  “I thought I heard a noise . . .” she blathered. “I didn’t hear you come in. Where are the others—Wemyss and Stuart?”

  Sword in fist, Blankenship jerked her toward the doorway of his room where the candle cast a light on her disheveled costume and painted face. “What are you up to? Who were you calling to?”

  “She was calling to me.”

  Blankenship jerked around, his boyish brow beetled, like a school-boy at his ciphers.

  Jack stood at the top of the landing. The week’s worth of stubble he wore enabled the captain to put a name to a familiar face.

  “Stapleton?”

  “You have a good memory for faces.”

  “I have a good memory for rebel spies.”

  Jack moved forward. His filthy shirt was besmeared in blood, and dark welts were raised where the noose had burned his neck and fingers. He unsheathed his sword and tossed the scabbard aside. “Let her loose. She’s going with me.”

  “Then she’s a spy as well . . .” Blankenship pulled Anne close.

  “Bravo, Captain.” Jack laughed, inching forward. “You’re a quick study, aren’t you? She’s the rebel spy you have brought into General Howe’s home—she’s the rebel spy who’s passed along every secret you’ve been gulled into uttering.”

  Like a terrier with its quarry, Blankenship’s grip tightened and he gave Anne a rough shake. “Not true . . .”

  “She’s been playing you for a fool all along—‘Soon, Edward,’ she says, right? Promising to come to your bed? Well, friend, I know the pleasure of her bed—every night—right over your very head.” Jack pointed up to the ceiling.

  Blankenship growled. Letting go of Anne, he drew his pistol and fired. The hurried shot went wide, splintering the doorframe. Anne ran to Jack and they flew down the stairs.

  The captain barreled after them, meeting Jack at the bottom of the stairs in a clash of honed steel, while Anne fumbled with the bolts. The dragoon drove Jack away from the door.

  A journeyman was certainly no match for a cavalryman, and Jack stumbled around tables and chairs, awkward in parrying the relentless onslaught of expert blows Blankenship rained down upon him.

  “Rebel scum!” the dragoon growled, slicing his blade through to the bone on Jack ’s right forearm.

  “Stop, Edward, or I will shoot!” Anne leveled her pistol, and brooked the shooting stance. Steadying her wrist like Titus had taught her, she held her breath and sought a clear target.

  His right arm hanging useless, his left weakening, Jack flailed his saber, and was beaten back into the corner.

  In total command, Blankenship smiled. “You, I will kill . . . a gut wound, I think.” The tip of his angry blade lashed out and sliced Jack across the cheek. “And after my men have had their fill of her, your whore will hang for a spy.”

  “Anne!” Jack shouted. “Shoot him! ”

  Blankenship glanced back at Anne. Jack lunged forward with a backhanded swipe of his saber, and cleaved the captain across the face at the exact same instant Anne pulled the trigger, felling him with a ball to his head.

  As suddenly as it all began, it was over. With a measure of disbelief, Anne and Jack gulped air, tasting the sulfur floating on the smoke. Anne whimpered, “I told him I would shoot.”

  An alarm was shouted. A dog barked in the distance. The saber slipped from Jack’s grip and fell clanging to the floorboards. He skirted around the dragoon lying facedown in an ever-widening pool of deep red blood. Stumbling through a tangle of chairs, he reached out and took Anne by the hand.

  “Let’s go.”

  Anne slipped the pistol in her pocket, and together they ran out into the night.

  PART THREE

  Epilogue

  Monday, July 28, 1777

  Peabody’s Press at the Sign of the Oak and Acorn

  Peekskill, New York

  ANNE’S father sat in a chair at the opposite end of the table, positioned to catch the lone shaft of fading light coming in through a west-facing window. With one leg crossed over the other, he held a copy of the Peekskill Journal at arm’s length, reading the latest edition issued by his press, lips pursed in disappointment. “This composition looks very ragged, daughter—”

  “I did the best I could with the poor type you keep.” Anne looked up from the potato she was peeling. “It is a pity you don’t have another daughter to exchange for a new set, isn’t it?”

  The rusty cowbell rigged over the shop door clanked twice as the door swept open. Anne leaned back in her seat to peer through the doorway between the living quarters and the small pressroom and smiled. “It’s Jack!”

  The bell brayed again as the door closed behind him, and Jack skirted around the ramshackle press to enter the room that served as kitchen and parlor in the Peabody home. Pale and thinner from a prolonged bout with fever, he carried his right arm in a sling. Anne cleared a space for him to sit at the end of the long table where she and Sally sat preparing root vegtables for the stew pot.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Peabody,” Jack said with a nod, taking a seat beside Anne.

  Without bothering to glance up, Amos Peabody emitted a curt hmmph. Gathering his reading material, he rose from his seat and headed for the stairs. “Anne,” he ordered over his shoulder, “have that girl bring my supper up to my bedchamber.”

  “ ‘That girl’ is Sally, and David will marry her no matter how you grumble or pretend
not to remember her name,” Anne shouted after her father, the timbre of her voice rising with his every angry stamp up the stairs. “Be assured, we here are more than happy to be relieved of your rude and unpleasant company, you miserable, old ba—” Anne stopped herself, heaved a sigh, and with a shrug to Jack and Sally she said, “My mother was the one who knew how to temper his willfulness. I should try to have more patience with him.”

  Sally stirred a bowlful of cut carrots into the pot of stew simmering over the fire. “Stubborn and proud, yer da is—and from what I ken, th’ acorns dinna fall far from the tree.”

  Jack reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Anne’s flushed cheek. “He’ll come around. When me and Titus brought David home, your father was nothing but friendly and kind to us...”

  “That was afore he knew ye were fixin’ t’ wed his daughter and rob him of his dower share,” Sally said, with a shake of her spoon. “Yer a thief and a rogue, Jack Hampton, and I am a grasping Jezebel.”

  Anne laughed and leaned her head against Jack’s shoulder. “But for you and Sally, I would have gone mad after one week under this roof.”

  “As soon as Hercules sends the money, we can marry and find a roof of our own.”

  “A home of our own and a printshop . . .” Anne added. She and Jack exchanged a soft kiss.

  “And you won’t have to put up with your father except for when he comes to visit his grandchildren.” Jack winked.

  Sally heaved a sigh. “Yer so lucky, Annie, t’ have yer man at hand, safe and sound.”

  “He’s not yet sound.” Anne gave Jack a little nudge. “Move into the good light, and let me see to your arm.”

  “I’m all healed.” Jack slipped his arm from the sling and rolled his sleeve up. “Four days since I last fevered—I’m sure the wound’s no longer festering.”

  Anne unwound the bandage protecting the deep gash on his right forearm while eyeing the lighter wound on his face. The facial cut healed clean, and she knew Jack was pleased with the thin pink scar curved from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. “A swordmark lends an air of menace to a man, don’t you think?” he had said, looking into a mirror the other day.

  But she noticed he had taken to always wearing a linen neckstock to hide the ugly story told by the abrasions around his neck. Anne doubted the rope scars would ever fade completely away. “Ooohhh . . .” She peeled away the pad of cotton lint. “Much better today, don’t you think, Sally?”

  Sally leaned in for a good look. “Aye—much calmed—tha’ new ointment from the apothecary is doin’ ye some good, na?”

  Jack slowly flexed his fingers, opening and closing his fist. “The muscle is on the mend as well—feels stronger.”

  While Anne re-dressed his wound with fresh ointment and a clean bandage, the doorbell clanged, followed by a familiar voice calling, “Titus here!”

  “Come on back,” Anne shouted.

  Titus plopped down beside Jack and fished a folded copy of the Pennsylvania Gazette from his pocket. “Bad news—Howe’s finally left New York—over two-hundred and fifty ships heading for Philadelphia.”

  Sally groaned and sank into a chair.

  Jack studied the newspaper. “It says here eighteen thousand men at arms are aboard those ships . . .” He whistled low. “And that’s not counting the eight thousand in Burgoyne’s army.”

  “Washington’s shifting his forces as well. I saw a full corps of riflemen on the march toward Putnam’s camp on the hill above town. They say the Putnam and Gates will be dispatched to try and stop Burgoyne from reaching Albany.” Titus puffed out a breath. “Looks like all hell’s about to break loose.”

  The cowbell clanked anew and Anne went up front to find two dusty soldiers dressed in like fringed frock shirts and leather leggings, standing at the open doorway, squinting upward, trying to read the weatherworn shop sign in the twilight.

  “Can I help you, sirs?”

  “A-yup . . .” the shorter of the two took a step inside. “We’re lookin’ fer Peabody’s Press . . .”

  “At the sign of the Acorn and Oak . . .” the second soldier added.

  “This is Peabody’s Press . . .” Anne felt the comfort of Jack and Titus looming behind her. Sally scooted around to stand at her side, iron poker in hand.

  The short soldier let the breach end of his long rifle thump to the floorboards as he drew forth a pair of sealed letters from inside his shirt. “These here are sent by Cap’n Peabody, Third Yorkers.”

  With a high-pitched yip, Sally ran up and snatched the letters from his hand. Saying, “One for you and one for me,” she handed a letter to Anne and cracked the seal on the other, wandering back into the kitchen to sit on the hearth and read by the light of the fire.

  “Can we offer you boys a meal for your trouble?” Jack asked.

  “Smells awful good.” The shorter man leaned in on his rifle. “I wouldn’t oppose the notion of drawing a quick bite to eat.”

  The tall man shouldered his weapon. “We thank ye kindly for the offer, friend.”

  The soldiers were ushered to seats at the kitchen table. Anne dished up brimming bowls of stew served with crumbling hunks of cornbread and tankards of spruce beer.

  Armed with spoons dug up from the depths of their possible bags, the riflemen grinned at the portions, the shorter one saying, “I don’t hardly memorise the last time we et anything as fine.”

  While the unexpected but welcome guests smiled and slurped their way through their suppers, Anne brought a brand from the fire to light the four-wick oil lamp, and she sat beside Jack to read her letter:

  Dear Sister,

  I am safe and well and hope this letter finds you the same. There may be reason to Expect a Tumult in the Universe. Please send our Father my Kindest Regards, and offer my Best Wishes to our very good friends J and T.

  Your Affectionate brother,

  David

  Anne glanced over at Sally, still immersed in reading her single foolscap sheet so covered in compact handwriting, she was compelled to rotate the page to read the sentences David crammed into the margins. Shrugging, Anne smiled at the three short sentences her brother scrawled in haste. “I suppose David hasn’t much inclination to write after pouring his heart out to Sally . . .”

  “Aahh, Pinkus.” The short rifleman shot his companion an elbow. “Here we sit, noses buried in our feed, neglectin’ t’ pass along the cap’n’s message.”

  “It’s true—we’re a right pair o’ gluttons, miss,” the taller man sputtered through a mouthful of cornbread. “The cap’n—he said for you to read between the lines of what he writ, as he always must guard agin a letter goin’ astray into enemy hands.”

  Brow beetled, Anne looked at Jack. “Between the lines?”

  “By Christ, I should have figured . . . afterall, he is your brother.” Jack pulled the lamp close and set the glass chimney to the side. He took the page and held it to the heat of the flame. After a moment, words began to darken and form in the blank space between the second and third lines of the letter—

  The General Requires Your Services.

  “I don’t know . . .” Anne looked at Jack, caught up in the excitement dancing bright in his dark eyes. “It seems our small dreams will have to wait while we work toward the larger cause . . .”

  With a whoop, Jack pulled Anne into his arms and whispered into her ear. “Oh, Annie, you are the darling of my heart, to be sure.”

  “A toast!” Titus raised his tankard. “Here’s to those who dare to be free!”

  Monday, July 28, 1777

  H.M.S. Phoenix

  Bound for Liverpool, England

  COOK sent me down with a nice, clear broth, Abner.” The cook’s boy set the covered pot on the table. Stringy arms akimbo, he said with a shake of his head, “Sweet lamb o’ Jesus! Would ye listen to the poor bastard moan? How can you bear it?”

  Abner dipped a rag in a bowl of water and wrung it out. “A wet cloth to his lips seems to give him some comfort.” T
he old seaman sat on a three-legged stool near the bunk, and dabbed the wet rag to his patient’s lips—lips, nostrils and one eye being the only parts of his face not swathed in layers of pus-stained bandages. His moans quieted.

  The boy came to stand beside Abner. “Cook says the poor bugger’s face’s mangled beyond repair.”

  “His face was near cleaved in two by a saber, and he has a rebel musketball buried in his skull bone,” Abner affirmed. “And I should know. Ain’t I the one what changes the dressings?”

  “Cleaved in two!” The boy stepped closer to get a better look. “Cook says you’re wasting your time—cook says this bugger won’t survive the voy—!”

  Quick as a cat, the bandaged convalescent reached out and clapped his fist around the boy’s bony wrist, causing him to near leap from his skin.

  “Foh!” Ol’ Abner cackled and slapped his knee. “Aye, lad. Ye can see the cap’n here has fire in him yet—a fire not so easily smothered.”

  Twisting and tugging, the boy tried to break free but the grasping fingers only tightened and pulled him inward.

  One watery blue eye, red rimmed and shot with blood, stared out from an opening in the rusty bandages wrapped around the man’s head. Crusty lips parted, and the boy heard him gasp out one word:

  “Betrayed.”

  Let the names of Whig and Tory be extinct; and let none other be

  heard among us, than those of a good citizen; an open and resolute

  friend; and a virtuous supporter of the RIGHTS OF MANKIND and

  of the FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES OF AMERICA.

  THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  In order of appearance, the following are characters appearing in this book who were drawn from the historical record. All other characters in The Tory Widow are drawn from the inner recesses of my brain.

  • James Rivington, colonial printer, journalist, and apparent Loyalist.

  • Isaac Sears, fanatic patriot and leader of the New York faction of the Sons of Liberty. He was also known as “King Sears” because of his influential role in organizing and leading the New York mob.