355: The Women of Washington's Spy Ring (Women Spies Book 1)

by Kit Sergeant

  “This will be of much benefit when the time comes for us to arrive on Manhattan.” Meg’s chest grew tighter as she remembered Aaron’s promise that he would burn the city he loved so the British could not occupy it. “Do you know of any more information that could help our cause?”

  Meg folded her hands on her lap as she tried to recall those muddled moments in Putnam’s office. “Something about roads and passes on Long Island.”

  “Yes?” the admiral prompted.

  “They are sending troops to protect them. Except, there was one they didn’t think needed much defense.”

  The admiral shouted for Lieutenant Brown. When he entered the room, Howe demanded a map of Long Island. Brown fetched it from a corner and then stood over Meg to unroll it onto the desk, setting a silver mug in one side and an inkwell in the opposite corner to hold it taught. Meg felt a pang of sadness—the scene reminded her of the one in Putnam’s office only a few days ago.

  “Do you remember the name of it?” Admiral Howe asked.

  Meg peered at the map, but couldn’t make out anything from it. “It sounded foreign. Jamba. Jericho.”

  “Jamaica?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s it.”

  Brown pointed to a black line that curved around a green area. “This pass is the Jamaica Road.”

  Meg closed her eyes, remembering how the General’s hand had been on the left side of the map. She opened her eyes again. “Yes, sir, I believe that’s it,” she repeated, this time with less hesitation.

  “Thank you, Miss Moncrieffe.” The admiral sat back in his chair to light a pipe. “Brown, we will prepare to descend through Jamaica Pass. We will do it in the dark of night. The Americans will be taken by surprise.”

  Meg leaned forward. “Sir, can I get your word?”

  Admiral Howe blew out a ring of smoke before nodding.

  “There is a man. He fights with Putnam by the name of Aaron Burr. If he is captured, will you spare him his life?”

  The Admiral nodded again.

  “I suppose you want us to have mercy upon Putnam as well,” Brown said, his beady eyes appearing even more narrowed as he squinted at her.

  “Yes, please.” Meg’s heart began to hammer as she realized she had just placed both Aaron and Putnam in imminent danger.

  “We will do everything we can to honor your request,” the Admiral said. “When we arrive in New York City, I will release you to the safety of your father.” He nodded at Brown, who went to the door and opened it.

  “Thank you, sir,” Meg said. She curtsied before exiting the room.

  Lieutenant Brown led her back to her cabin. He bowed before saying, “I must take my leave of you, Miss Moncrieffe. I’m afraid we have an army to destroy.”

  Panic rose in Meg’s chest. She tugged on the lace sleeve of the lieutenant’s uniform. “Aaron Burr. Remember the name.”

  The man’s face twisted cruelly as he shrugged her off. “No rebel needs to be spared. Especially not one that thinks himself in love with a proper English lady.”

  Chapter IX

  Sally

  August 1776

  True to his word, Papa used his political influence to secure Robert a position as commissary with General Woodhull’s army. From what Sally understood, that meant Robert supervised the troop’s provisions on Long Island. He and Papa left for Queens County in mid-August to protect the cattle. To Sally it seemed such a trifling task, relocating livestock when a British attack seemed eminent, but Robert impressed to her the importance of protecting their food supplies. He reminded her of the year before when the British had confiscated and then hoarded the cattle of Gardiner’s Bay, on the eastern side of Long Island, while the locals starved. At least it meant that Robert and Papa would not be involved in the fighting, Sally told herself. If it came to that.

  Papa returned home a few days later, saying that the mission had been somewhat of a success. Robert was moving eastward with what were left of Woodhull’s men, for many of them had deserted. Sarah commanded her daughters to pray for their brother’s safety.

  Chapter X

  Elizabeth

  August 1776

  Afew hours before dusk on August 21, Elizabeth was startled to see a massive thundercloud form over the North River. As it started to rain, the thunderclaps boomed with seemingly no break in between, and sounded louder than even the British cannon had been outside her window. The cloud hung overhead for hours, emitting the worst lightning storm that Elizabeth had ever seen. The baby inside of her seemed to have the hiccoughs, its rhythmic movements matching the staccato of the lightning. Later Elizabeth would hear of people in the street being struck down by the bolts, which blackened their bodies and melted the coinage in their pockets. As if pulled by the same magnetism that kept the cloudburst from moving past the city, Elizabeth and Abigail stayed near enough to the window to watch the storm light up the night sky, but far enough away as to give some measure of protection. Although she knew Jonathan had installed one of Franklin’s lightning rods atop the roof, Elizabeth’s heart still pounded every time she saw a bolt streak across the darkened horizon. When she finally went to bed, Elizabeth had a sleepless night, kept awake by the tossing and turning of her son and daughter and the kicking of the baby in her womb.

  The cloud had completely disappeared by the next morning, which dawned clear and bright. But before long, Elizabeth could see a massive cloud of smoke rising across the river. The British had invaded Long Island.

  Chapter XI

  Sally

  August 1776

  It was a rainy afternoon in August and the Townsend women were in the midst of making strawberry preserves when Robert burst into the kitchen. “Long Island is lost!”

  Sarah turned to her son, her hands red with strawberry viscera. “What?” Audrey put a chair directly behind her and her mother sank into it. “Samuel!” she shouted.

  Papa, who had been in the parlor going over his books, rushed into the kitchen. “Robert?” he asked, his face white.

  Robert gestured toward another chair. “Sit down, Papa. The news is not good.”

  Robert relayed the story of the capture of Long Island. “General Woodhull was stationed at Jamaica with less than a hundred men. He had sent most of us on to convey the stock eastward. Somehow the British knew that the Jamaica Pass was left unguarded.”

  “And then?” Papa asked wearily.

  “A British victory,” Robert replied in a soft voice. “And a massacre of the American Army.”

  “How goes General Woodhull?” Sally was aware that he knew the general personally, as Woodhull’s first cousin, Mary, was married to Robert’s friend Amos Underhill.

  Robert shook his head. “No one is quite sure of his fate.”

  “How did you escape?” Sally asked him as his mother handed him a wet rag to mop his face.

  “It wasn’t easy,” was all he said before he buried his face in the rag.

  Chapter XII

  Elizabeth

  August 1776

  Elizabeth waited in vain for news of Jonathan. Gossip at the storefront, as repeated by the middling amount of customers she had that week, was of a near annihilation of the new army of the United States of America, but there were no specifics about how many men were lost, let alone the names of any of them.

  Elizabeth had woken up early on the morning of the 30th to prepare breakfast when she caught sight of movement on the streets below. The fog, thick as a blanket when she had awoke, had thinned enough for her to make out the parade of soldiers beneath her window. Her hands on the curtain began to tremble as it occurred to her that the British might have invaded Manhattan, but after a minute of worry, she could see that some of the men wore Continental Infantry uniforms. Contrary to the times that Elizabeth had watched them march past her apartment in the summer, there were no fifes or drums playing now and these soldiers half-heartedly plodding by were in no discernible formation. She crept into her bedroom to grab a cloak before rushing downstairs to study
each man as he passed by her, hoping to spot her husband’s form among them. A few met her eyes, and Elizabeth could see shock registered in their sleep-deprived faces. Many of them appeared malnourished, their clothing soaked through by the recent rainstorms.

  “Ma’am?” A young man in an officer’s uniform paused in front of her.

  “Yes?”

  He clicked the heels of his boots together and folded his arms behind his back. “Ma’am, General Washington ordered our evacuation from Long Island last night, and my troops have been up since then. Would it be possible for some of my men to catch a smattering of precious sleep in your apartment?”

  Elizabeth was taken aback. She fussed with the ribbons of her cloak, closing it tighter around her body, while she thought of a reply. She wanted to say that her husband would think it improper for strange men to be in their house when he was not home. But then again, if Jonathan were somewhere else, she would hope that another woman would be willing to supply him a quiet place for a few hours of rest. “You can have my children’s room,” Elizabeth finally replied. Since Jonathan had left, Catherine, Abigail, and Johnny were all sleeping in the master bed anyway. “There are two beds in there. I can get bedding so that some men can sleep on the floor as well.”

  Relief flooded the young man’s tired eyes. “Thank you ma’am. You do a great service to your country.”

  The men did not stir until midday. Elizabeth had let Abby know of their presence behind the closed bedroom door and instructed her to have supper on hand when they woke. Elizabeth went down to the store, but, after several hours of not receiving any customers, went back upstairs to find the four men seated at the table, a meager spread of bread, salt meat, and ale before them.

  “What news of General Woodhull’s men?” Elizabeth asked the table as she refilled their mugs. “My husband was among them.”

  The men exchanged uneasy glances with each other. One fair-haired young man ventured to say, “General Woodhull’s men were on cattle duty.”

  “Cattle duty?” Elizabeth asked.

  Another young man stood up to offer Elizabeth his chair. “Yes’m. General Washington wanted to keep the livestock from getting into the Redcoats’ hands. So he had the General round them up.”

  Elizabeth sat down, relieved. She could nearly picture the disdain on her husband’s face when he found out that his duty was not to press through the British lines, but to play cowboy to roaming cattle.

  The seated men exchanged another tense glance as the blond one continued, “General Woodhull and some of his men spent the night in a tavern to keep out of the rain. They were captured there the next morning.”

  “Captured?” Elizabeth sat up straight.

  “Captured,” the blond man repeated. The other men nodded.

  “Where is General Woodhull now?”

  Another man ventured a guess. “The lobsterbacks have probably taken him prisoner.”

  Elizabeth’s hand reached out to grip the blond man’s arm “My husband is Jonathan Burgin. Do you know his whereabouts?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure, but I can ask when I return to duty.”

  “Please do,” Elizabeth said, dropping the man’s still damp sleeve.

  Heretofore, most of New York society would have considered it improper to explain what happened on the battlefield to a woman and her maid, but the war had ended all thoughts of decorum, especially in the minds of these young men. Using halting, defeated language, the men filled Elizabeth and Abigail in on what they called the ‘Battle of Long Island.’

  The British had waited five days before firing any shots, lulling the American troops into a false sense of security. The men at Elizabeth’s table were from General Sullivan’s division. They had been stationed at Flatbush Pass when they were surrounded by British and Hessian soldiers. Their leader had been captured along with Lord Stirling and General Woodhull. The men mentioned that some of their fellow soldiers had been run through with bayonets by Hessians after they’d already surrendered. They’d received word that all of Washington’s army was to evacuate Long Island for Manhattan earlier that morning,

  “We have lost one island and now we are trapped on another,” one of the men stated sourly. “And those Redcoats across the river can strike here at any moment.”

  “So we are still in danger,” Elizabeth said quietly, with an eye on her children playing in the corner of the living room.

  “Indeed,” another man agreed. “You should leave the city as soon as possible. There’s talk of burning it down to the ground so the British can’t occupy it.”

  Elizabeth exchanged a panicked look with Abigail as the maid cleared the plates. Both had lived in Manhattan all of their lives, albeit growing up under different circumstances. Elizabeth put a hand on her swollen belly. “We know how to survive in times of crisis.”

  “I certainly hope so,” the blond man said. “We hadn’t slept for three days before you were so kind as to give us quarter.” He wiped his mouth and set down his napkin before nodding at the soldiers still seated. Simultaneously they rose from the table.

  Elizabeth also got up to see them out. “Jonathan Burgin,” she repeated to the men at the door. “Please find out where he is.”

  The blond man put on his tricornered hat and said, “I will do my best,” before he left with his company.

  Chapter XIII

  Sally

  September 1776

  As the British presumably planned their siege of New York City, Papa and the rest of the Provincial Congress were summoned to meet in Fishkill. The morning before he set off, Papa wore one of his finely cut suits, his gold tipped cane perched next to him as he wiped a spot off the large buckle adorning his shoe. Some of the Friends from church were known to criticize Papa’s finery as unbecoming of a Quaker, but he never paid them much mind. He’d even bought Sally an outfit from White Plaines. It was in the newest fashion—the yellow skirt gathered just below the bodice, revealing a blue and white striped petticoat underneath. At first Sally had refused the dress, stating she’d rather stick with her homespun and hand-me-downs, but decided to keep it when Audrey and Phoebe each begged to have it instead. The lack of a hoop skirt allowed Sally to join Papa in sitting on the portico as he waited for their servant, Caesar, to bring his mare around. They both looked up as the sound of horses grew closer. A black stallion topped by a British dragoon stopped outside the gate.

  Papa held his hand in front of his eyes to keep out the glaring sun as the officer dismounted. Although it was early in the morning, the temperature was already well above what it would have been for a typical September day. As the Redcoat approached, Sally wrinkled her nose in response to the smell of sweat and muck that clung to his uniform. Her eyes were glued to his brass helmet, which was topped with a mane of red horse hair and featured a menacing cross and bones on the front.

  “Sam Townsend?” the man demanded loudly. Sally recoiled inwardly at the casual shortening of Papa’s Christian name.

  “I am that man,” Papa replied as he stood.

  “You are under arrest.”

  “On what cause?” Papa asked as Sally gasped.

  “Anti-loyalty to the Crown.”

  “Ah, I see.” Papa’s voice held no surprise and Sally recalled Robert’s words two months ago about villagers reporting their neighbors. Papa gestured toward Caesar, who had dismounted Gem and now stood awkwardly looking on from the side of the house. “Shall I ride my own mare?”

  The great man threw his head back in laughter. After he’d regained his composure, he spit on the ground and cursed.

  “Go inside now, Sally,” Papa told her.

  But Sally’s backside seemed adhered to the porch as her father asked if he could have a few minutes to gather some personal items.

  “Don’t take long,” the Redcoat said before spitting again. “We have many other rebel obstinates like you to arrest today.”

  Papa took Sally’s hand and dragged her inside the house. He headed up
the stairs and Sally followed, blinking against the sudden dim light. She paused, dropping Papa’s hand as she heard the front door slam shut another time. From her perch on the stairs, Sally watched that same Redcoat gaze around their living room, a sneer on his face. Sally angled her head, trying to see what it was about the plain Quaker house that seemed to offend him. He marched over to the fireplace and pulled the small musket that Caesar used to hunt waterfowl off the mantel.

  “Sir?” Robert asked as he entered the living room from the kitchen. Mother and Sally’s younger sister Phoebe stood just behind him.

  “No rebel should own such a weapon.” He rammed the stock against the floor again and again as Phoebe screamed. Mother reached around to push her hand up against Phoebe’s mouth. “Hush now, Daughter.”

  The gun destroyed, the Redcoat threw it down. Next, he stalked over to the other side of the living room and stood in front of a painting of the oldest Townsend boy, Solomon. Robert joined him, half-blocking the portrait from the Redcoat’s angry stare with his body. Robert’s lean form and dark mane contrasted with Solomon’s fair hair and stocky build. Sally wondered what the real Solomon would do if he were there, deciding that he’d probably do something stupid to get them all killed. On that matter, it was a good thing William, the next brother after Solomon, was absent that morning as well.

  For his part, Robert remained outwardly calm. “You would be pleased to be informed that my brother is supporting the British Island on the Glasgow,” he told the officer softly. “It is not within your power to wreak your vengeance on this painting of a fellow Loyalist.”

  Despite Robert’s reassurances of Solomon’s position, the Redcoat seemed inclined to reach for the portrait and treat it as he did the fowling gun. At that moment, Papa came down the stairs. “I am ready,” he announced.

  “Samuel?” Mother asked, glancing between the officer and Papa.