by Kit Sergeant
“No need for this anymore, then.” General Putnam extinguished the candle on his desk. “It’s all kindling at this point, anyway.”
“What is all of this?” Meg asked as she picked up a single sheet off the top of the pile.
“Old orders, commands of troops, requisitions of supplies. Just boring war stuff.”
Meg’s heart sunk at the word, “old.” She peered at the date on the paper in her hand. April, 1776. “How would you like me to sort it?”
“Keep any bills or lists of payments for Congress’s records. Everything else can be burned. We must prepare for the off-chance that the British invade New York City.”
Meg feigned surprise. “Do you think they are coming?”
Putnam set down his bifocals and rubbed at his eyes. “Those ships in the harbor are probably not just for show. Whether they attack here or Long Island remains to be seen. General Washington must prepare for both possibilities.”
Meg looked up as she heard a door rattle. Aaron, clad in his full blue and buff uniform, entered the room. “Sir, I don’t think we need to ponder Howe’s course of action anymore.”
“Oh?” Old Put dropped the paper in his hand. “What news of Howe?”
Aaron glanced at Meg before replying, “He removed his troops from Staten Island and placed them at Gravesend, on Long Island.” Aaron moved forward and handed the General a sealed letter. “Orders from General Washington. General Greene has fallen ill and you are to be in command of the army on Long Island.”
Putnam sat back. “I will go willingly, but I do not have much idea of the terrain.”
Aaron moved a stack of papers before he unrolled a map on the table in front of Putnam. Meg retreated into a corner, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Both men were too preoccupied to notice her lingering presence in the room.
Aaron pointed to the map. “The British are entrenched at Flatbush.”
“And if we are to keep them there?” Old Put asked, replacing his bifocals to peer at where Aaron was pointing.
“We will need men here, at the Narrows to the right and here at these passes.”
Putnam ran his finger in a semi-circle on the far left-hand side of the map. “What of this one?”
“That’s Jamaica Road, sir. It is a narrow road on rough terrain, set by heavy pines on either side.”
Old Put shook his head. “We need more men on the easier routes. Spare a few for that road, but put Lord Stirling’s men on Gowanus Road at the Narrows and Sullivan’s troops at Flatbush and Bedford Roads.”
Aaron nodded and rolled up the map. He started in surprise upon spying Meg in the corner. “Sir?” He turned back to the General.
Old Put had pushed his bifocals to the top of his head and his forefinger now occupied their place at the bridge of his nose. “Hmm?” he replied, obviously lost in thought.
“What of Miss Moncrieffe?”
Old Put sat up in his chair and cast a glance at his charge. “I suppose it is now time to return her to her father.”
Meg’s heart leapt at the comment, then immediately fell as she realized the full consequence of his words. She gazed helplessly at Aaron. His face had hardened. “Indeed, sir.” He directed his reply to the General, but his eyes were focused on Meg. “It is much too dangerous for her to linger here. I will make arrangements and then see to making sure Mrs. Putnam and the girls have a place to stay outside of the city.”
The General nodded and Aaron left. Meg’s eyes remained on the door, hoping he’d come back and declare that, in fact, he was taking her with him.
“I’m sorry, Meg,” Old Put stated wearily.
Meg sunk her weakened body back into a chair. “For what, sir?”
“I know that you love him.”
Meg turned to him, her mouth dropping open in a most unladylike manner. “General?”
The old man’s lips turned upward in a hint of a smile. “You young people think everything is so new, that no one before you has been in the throes of love. I’ve seen it all, been through it all, watched my men become arsy-varsey with the opposite sex. Even been head over heels myself.” He reached out his hand and Meg came forward to grasp it. “But you are indeed young, Meg, and do not fully realize the consequences of your intended affair.”
“But I do sir, and am prepared to follow Aaron wherever he is stationed.”
He dropped her hand. “Are you aware that your father and Aaron fight for different causes? If given the chance, Major Burr would not hesitate to run a sword through your relations in honor of this new nation. And so it would go with your father in regard to his misguided loyalty to the King. I know—I fought by his side during the French and Indian War.”
Meg dropped her gaze. The thought that Aaron and her father might meet in battle had never occurred to her. “Still, I would choose Aaron over my father’s allegiances.”
“Nonsense,” he barked, folding his hands across his broad chest. “I will not allow you to make that decision.” His eyes softened. “Hence my sorrow. Major Burr would have been the ideal choice for you in every other respect but for this one unavoidable fact. As a friend of your father’s outside of this war, I must order you to return to him and forget about Aaron. I’m sure that once Captain Moncrieffe’s attentions are not otherwise distracted, he will find you a fine fellow countryman for you to marry.”
Meg burst into tears as she rushed out of the room. She ran up the grand staircase and threw herself on the bed to cry for everything that she had lost.
Eunice was ordered to Meg’s room to commence packing. Meg stared despondently out the window, willing her love to come rescue her. It was pouring rain and, as she was unable to escape to her rooftop post, she felt even more trapped than she had that afternoon when General declared his orders to send her back to her father. After Eunice left, Meg cried herself to an uneasy, restless sleep.
When morning dawned, Meg dressed in a spring green traveling dress tied in the back with a flourish. The slighter skirt would allow her to be more comfortable on the rig that carried her away from her love.
He was standing in the hall when she went downstairs. “Aaron! Have you come to spirit me away?”
He frowned, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Meg, don’t joke.”
“I wasn’t,” she said sadly as she passed by him. She went into the kitchen to say farewell to the family. General Putnam had already left for his post on Long Island and Mrs. Putnam and her daughters were going to stay with friends in Connecticut. After tearful goodbyes with both Belle and Molly promising to write, Meg once again ventured to the hall. Her bags had been loaded into the carriage waiting outside. Aaron had not moved from his spot.
“Are you at least going to convey me to my father’s ship?” Meg asked him.
He nodded. “I’ve been ordered to join General Putnam, but he gave me leave to see you off. I can only go as far as the docks. Colonel Webb will take you from there. The General also asks that you pass this note to Admiral Howe.” Aaron bent down to tuck it into Meg’s traveling purse before he hoisted the bag onto his shoulders. He held the door open as Meg left One Broadway for the last time.
The coach began its journey in silence. Meg stared out the window, tears running down her face.
“Meg.”
She looked up at Aaron. He looked as sad as she felt. “I’m sorry.”
“Will you come for me after the war?”
He sighed. “I don’t know how long that will be. You will probably be married with nine babies by then.”
“I will wait for you. All you have to do is ask.”
“I cannot ask that of you.”
“Will you not wait for me?” She paused as a thought occurred to her. “Let’s just tell the coachman to turn back. We can find a clergyman and demand that he marry us straightaway.”
He shook his head. “I am a soldier, and ready to die for my cause. But I don’t think I give myself fully if I fear making a widow of you.” Every word he spoke emphasized how willi
ng he was to sacrifice himself for his country, at the same time, widening the gap between them, cutting loose the thread that bound their love. “Every time I see your beautiful face, I also see the tyranny of England. I see lordships and titles and privilege. The Continental Army does not pay well. If we were to marry, you would be forced to live in poverty and I would have to turn my back on all that I have come to believe in. General Putnam was right: our love can never be.”
The carriage came to a halt and Meg rose from her seat. “You might one day know the blessed feeling of independence, Aaron. But I, as a woman, will never be free to make my own decisions.”
Colonel Webb helped her out of the carriage and down to the dock while Aaron loaded her bags onto the boat. The wharf was mercifully empty of the onlookers that had graced it for the past few days. Most of the American soldiers had been commanded to Long Island and the rebel sympathizers had evacuated to other parts of the country. Meg looked at the vast ships that stood at the entrance to the harbor. Her father was aboard one of them, titled the Eagle, but she had no idea which one that was. A seagull landed nearby and pecked at the wood of the wharf before cawing mournfully. In due time her bags were tied onto the skiff. Colonel Webb stepped into the boat as Aaron came to stand beside Meg.
She turned and hugged him hard. The tears were threatening to spill again, but she forced them back. She did not want Aaron to remember her as a sobbing, weak fool. “Take care, Aaron. I fear you will come to harm in the next few days. For your sake, I hope the British leave New York City alone.”
“I shall burn the island myself before I let the British take it over.” Aaron’s voice was muffled.
Meg drew back. “Would you cut the ties that bind you to this city so easily?” she asked, knowing they were not speaking of the city itself.
He nodded and cast his gaze out to the warships bouncing in the gray, rippling water of the Hudson.
Meg reached up to touch his face. “I will love you forever.”
He did not reply as he descended into the skiff and held out his arm. Gently he conveyed her into the boat and led her to a seat, arranging her skirt so it would not get wet. He kissed her cheek before he stepped back onto the dock and nodded at the oarsmen.
As the boat pulled away, Aaron stood motionless, as if he were a statue adhered to the dock. The tears could now flow freely. Colonel Webb handed Meg a handkerchief but said nothing. She watched the figure of Aaron Burr grow smaller and smaller, half hoping he would dive into the water and swim to the boat, declaring that he changed his mind, that he would marry her after all. A tiny smile emerged on her lips. Aaron was too much of a gentleman to put on such a scene. The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared as Meg cursed the fate that brought so fine a man into her life only to be torn apart from him.
As though nature had sensed her mood, it began to rain. The waters were rough and Meg’s stomach dropped. “Is it much farther?” she asked Colonel Webb. Now that her providence had been determined, Meg was anxious to see her father again. Colonel Webb narrowed his gaze and looked off to the distance. “I see a British barge approaching under a flag of truce.”
“Are we not to reach the Eagle, then?”
“No, Miss. My orders were to meet your countrymen. We cannot board a British man-of-war no matter what the circumstances.”
Meg sighed. As the small skiff pulled up next to the barge, a red coated arm was extended. Meg grasped it as she stepped across the boats. “I am Lieutenant Brown,” the officer said once Meg was secure aboard. He wore a full uniform, complete with powdered wig. His face was round, his beady eyes eclipsed by the chubby cheeks of a young man. “I’ve come to convey you to the Eagle.” He turned toward Colonel Webb. “Sir, I also bring a letter.” He bent down to pass it to the colonel.
“This envelope is addressed to George Washington, Esquire,” Webb stated.
“Indeed,” Brown replied. “Can you present it to Mr. Washington?”
Webb frowned. “I know no one in the army of that address.”
Perplexed, Meg stared down on the rebel. His face was tight with anger. “Surely you know it to be the Commander-in-Chief!” she cried.
Webb looked up at her. “You must refer then to General Washington.”
“This letter is not of a military nature,” Brown spat out. “Hence the address.”
Webb handed the envelope back to Brown. “I’m sorry, I cannot deliver this letter. As an Englishman, you should know the necessity of proper titles.”
Brown tucked it back into his breast pocket. “As an impertinent rebel, you should know the insult you have propagated on your army’s behalf.”
Colonel Webb sat down in the boat and the oarsman began to row away from the barge. Meg turned away from the railing and, thus, turned her back on America.
Meg was dismayed to find out her father was not aboard the Eagle. He lingered on Staten Island to supervise the redoubts. Nonetheless, Admiral Howe extended an invitation to dine at his table.
Meg put on her finest gown, the same one she wore to the ball only a fortnight ago, and arranged her hair in a similar style. Twenty or so impeccably dressed guests were also seated at the long mahogany table. Most of the men wore British uniforms and were adorned with powdered wigs. Meg was relieved to see that she had been placed next to Major Montresor’s wife, whom she had known since she was a little girl.
“Such a beautiful dress, Meg.” Mrs. Montresor said, bending her gray head in closer. “Were you much taxed to be forced to bunk with a rebel leader?”
“No, Missus.” Meg stabbed at her chicken. “General Putnam and his family were very kind to me.”
“Nonsense,” a man clad in a brown coat and waistcoat sitting across from her replied. “The rebels have not enough manners to be kind to anyone.”
“A toast!” Admiral Howe stood and raised a crystal goblet. “To the King. May the sun forever rise over his vast empire.”
“To the King!” his guests cried, lifting their glasses.
“May reason return to these wretched colonies,” Howe continued. He turned in Meg’s direction. “I welcome Margaret Moncrieffe, returned to us at last from the Americans’ grasp. Who do you drink to, m’dear?”
Meg recalled her promise to toast to Washington if she ever found herself in the company of her countrymen, but now had not the courage to speak his name. She chose to cheers to General Putnam, her protector, instead.
The guests paused, their glasses still in the air, unsure of whether to drink to the enemy. “You must not name him here,” Mrs. Montresor hissed.
Admiral Howe spoke from the head of the table. “By all means, we may drink to him, if he be the lady’s sweetheart.”
The guests tittered and lifted their goblets to their lips. Meg’s faced flushed. Everyone must have been aware of Putnam’s advanced age. “Don’t mind Howe,” Mrs. Montresor whispered. “We all know that his brother, the head of the army, has his own mistress. And a married one as well!”
The champagne left a bitter taste in Meg’s mouth. She was relieved when the men rose from the table. Howe’s close confidants adjourned to his parlor to enjoy brandy and cigars while the other, lesser guests, attended to their wives and departed for the shore. As she had the night before, she threw herself on this new, finer bed, and cried.
*=
The day after Meg arrived on board the Eagle, the Admiral, via Lieutenant Brown, summoned Meg to his office. Hastening to get ready, she searched her reticule for a brush to tame her curls. Her fingers bumping the letter Aaron had put there only yesterday. It was addressed to Admiral Howe, she noted before tucking back into her bag.
Brown was waiting outside her cabin and accompanied her to Howe’s office. He knocked and then opened the door when the Admiral’s voice rang out to come in. Lieutenant Brown bowed to Meg but remained at his post in the hall.
The Admiral’s office was small and dark, the walls papered in navy silk. Bookcases filled with thick books on the art of war adorned the wall, but the
room was void of furniture save for a desk, which the Admiral Howe sat stooped behind, and a scattering of chairs in front of it. Meg studied him as she approached the desk. His gray hair needed no powder but a few frizzy pieces had escaped from its ribbon. He wore a black coat trimmed with gold braid. Up close, his face bore the wear of a man near fifty. His brows were thick and heavy but his brown eyes were not unkind.
“I have a message for you from General Putnam,” Meg said, tentatively extending it toward him.
“Oh?” The Admiral accepted the envelope. His large hands tore back the seal and he perused the paper inside. Suddenly he roared in deep laughter. He held it up for Meg. “Go ahead and read it. It concerns you.”
Meg took the letter. It was written in the General’s own hand and contained his atrocious spelling.
Ginerole Putnam’s complermints to Major Moncrieff. He presents him with a fine darter. If he don’t leike her, he must send her back agin. And he will pervade her with a good Twig husband.
Israel Putnam
Meg sighed as she folded the letter and handed it back to the Admiral. By Twig he must have meant Whig, and by that, he must have been referring to Aaron. “What news of my father, sir?”
“He is to join the troops at Flatbush.”
Meg’s heart felt as though it had been pierced by a bayonet. Perhaps the General was right and Aaron and her father would indeed meet upon each other, fighting for opposite sides.
The Admiral gestured for her to sit at the wooden chair across from his desk before he opened a drawer and took out a folded paper. “Miss Moncrieffe, that correspondence is not the only one I’ve received from Putnam’s household.” As he unfolded it, Meg was surprised to see her map of the fortifications in New York City. “I also was privy to this, and I am told that you were the artist.”
“Yes, sir.” She sat in the chair. It was made of exceptionally hard wood and pressed into her spine.
