by Kit Sergeant
Meg dropped her hand and wrinkled her nose as Mercy waved the flask at her. Meg took it from her and, tilting her head back, took a giant swallow. Immediately she began to cough. “It burns.”
“Yes, but do you feel better about marrying Coghlan?”
“No.”
“Just wait,” Mercy said.
A few more sips from Mercy’s flask and Meg was able to enter the carriage that was to take her to her doom.
The alcohol had begun to wear off when the organist played his opening notes and Captain Moncrieffe had to practically drag his daughter down the aisle. Each step Meg made felt more like a march to her condemnation. John Coghlan must have been partaking in the whiskey himself that morning, Meg mused as she met him at the altar. He stank of the alcohol and his eyes were rimmed with red. Throughout the ceremony, he swayed slightly in his place.
Meg tuned out the Reverend’s sermon; her only thoughts were concentrated on how much she hated her soon-to-be husband. He wore a gray coat with wide lace undersleeves. The flounces that extended from his collar to his belt gave the illusion that he was even fatter. The entire look was not unlike that of a white breasted pigeon, save for the scowl that never left his face. Finally, Reverend Auchmuty’s voice boomed over the congregation as he pronounced them husband and wife.
They were the last couple to be married by the man. Three days after the ceremony, Auchmuty died. Meg decided it was due to the part he played in the vile union of her and John Coghlan. Perhaps if she had been able to follow her heart and marry Aaron Burr, the great Reverend would have still been among the living.
Chapter XXV
Elizabeth
March 1777
Elizabeth was restocking the shelves with coffee when Caleb Brewster, accompanied by a rather handsome man, dashed in. “Dame Grant is dead.”
Robert, standing behind the counter, frowned at his friend. “There is a lady present.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Brewster said, pulling off his hat as he bowed. “But the lady is precisely why we’re here.” He turned to the man beside him, who was dressed in a blue and buff uniform. “Mrs. Burgin, this is Benjamin Tallmadge, newly appointed Major of the Second Continental Light Dragoons by Washington himself. We grew up in Setauket together.”
Elizabeth turned to get Robert’s reaction to Brewster’s introduction of the rebel officer, but Robert merely nodded.
Tallmadge bowed toward Elizabeth.
She curtsied back. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look quite familiar.”
“Yes, ma’am. We met on the skiff to the Jersey. My brother, William, died aboard.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened at her sides as she recalled that day.
“I was sorry to hear about your husband,” Tallmadge continued. “In fact, I come in regard to the prison ships.” He looked around the store. “Is there somewhere we can talk that is a bit more private?”
“We can go up to my apartment,” Elizabeth replied, gesturing at the stairs.
Tallmadge nodded as Robert bent down and grabbed his keys. He went to the door of the shop and locked it.
“This is about Mrs. Burgin, Rob,” Brewster said. “It doesn’t necessarily concern you.”
Robert flipped the sign to the ‘closed’ side. “That may be, but I don’t want you to manipulate Mrs. Burgin into something without her being fully aware of the danger.”
“What is this all about?” Elizabeth asked when they were comfortably settled around the dining room table. She’d sent Abby on a walk to drop off doughnuts at the Underhills’.
Tallmadge, seated at the head of the table, spread out his hands. “With the passing of Dame Grant, we are in need of a woman to help deliver supplies to the prison ships.”
Elizabeth blew out her breath before replying, “And you are asking me.”
From across the table, Robert told her that she could say no. “It’s a dangerous endeavor.”
Ignoring him, Elizabeth asked Tallmadge, “How would it work?”
Brewster leaned forward. “Once a week or so, we would climb into my whaleboat and I would row you and Higday across the East River to Wallabout Bay. Some of the more accommodating guards lower the gangway when they see us coming and we load it from the water. You would never even have to go aboard. And we’ll pay you.”
“It’s a meager sum, straight from the funds of the Continental Army,” Tallmadge added quickly.
“But I hear the East River is filled with smugglers,” Elizabeth replied. She did not necessarily need the money, not with Robert running the store, but was intrigued by the opportunity to help her country.
“Brewster knows those waters better than anyone,” Tallmadge told her. “You will be safe.”
From across the table, Caleb Brewster winked at her.
Elizabeth thought again of the sight of her formerly proud husband, reduced to skin and bones before dying a lonely death aboard the Jersey. “I’ll do it,” she said finally.
Caleb’s face broke into a wide smile. “Your country thanks you for your service, ma’am.”
“I just have one final question,” Elizabeth continued. “How did Dame Grant die?”
Brewster and Tallmadge exchanged a quick glance. “It was the pox.”
“You have been inoculated, haven’t you?” Robert asked Elizabeth.
She shook her head.
Robert opened his mouth to say something, but Tallmadge held up his hand. “I can get access to the best surgeon in the army. She will be fine.”
Elizabeth frowned. “I once brought up the idea of inoculating all of us, my children included, to Jonathan, but he refused, saying that it is God’s will to take his subjects off the Earth when he wants.”
This time all three men exchanged looks. “I suppose it is your decision to make now.” Robert said.
Elizabeth considered that conversation so long ago, recalling Jonathan’s argument. “Is there not a risk of actually contacting the disease through the inoculation?”
Tallmadge nodded. “Inoculation means that you are infecting yourself with the actual disease, although a weakened form of it. There is a chance that you could develop a full-blown case of the pox. But we’ve all been through it. Waiting to contract it the natural way is basically just waiting for a death sentence. Inoculation will protect you from that.”
Elizabeth looked at Robert. “What do you think, Mr. Townsend?”
Robert seemed a bit taken aback at Elizabeth’s asking for his advice. “Some people suspect that the British are infecting slaves with the pox and sending them out into cities like Philadelphia. Even if that’s untrue, we do know that pox is affecting both armies. All you need is to come in contact with one infected soldier to be exposed.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “I think, for the safety of your children and yourself, inoculation is the best solution.”
Elizabeth turned toward Tallmadge. “Who is this surgeon you speak of?”
Dr. Charles McKnight was a well-kept man with a high forehead and kind brown eyes. He reassured Elizabeth’s fears that she was consciously endangering her family by telling her that he would use what he termed, “cowpox,” a milder form of the disease, instead of the typical method of using pustules taken from an infected patient. Elizabeth decided to inoculate Abby, Johnny, and Catherine, but not Georgie, as he was still too young. Mary Underhill took him into her boardinghouse while Elizabeth recovered.
From his bag, Dr. McKnight took out a small vial and dumped the contents onto a rag.
“Is that the cowpox?” Elizabeth asked. A few little black specks were scattered on the rag.
“Yes,” Dr. McKnight replied. “These are the remains of blisters I scraped from a milkmaid’s hand. She recovered quite quickly.”
Elizabeth shuddered as the doctor took out what appeared to be a sewing needle.
“I grew up in a farming community in New Jersey,” he said as he poked at the spots. “It’s well known that maids who develop cowpox do not get infected with smallpox. I believe there is s
omething in these scabs that prevents that, much like a person who had smallpox once will not get it again. Hence the reason for inoculation.” He peered at Elizabeth, a scalpel now in his hand. “You are nervous?”
“Yes, of course. I did not realize you were going to rub someone else’s scabs on me.”
“Not to worry,” he said, his scalpel moving closer to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth recoiled and pulled her arm away from him.
Dr. McKnight set the scalpel down on a nearby table. “Mrs. Burgin, as an army doctor, I’m going to tell you the biggest threat to our military is not the British. It is smallpox. I’ve inoculated hundreds of soldiers with no problems, but thousands more will die because of the disease. This is the best protection I can offer you, as well as your children. Now, for all of your sakes, let me do my work.”
When Elizabeth didn’t move, Dr. McKnight stated that he could spare some laudanum. “It will put you more at ease. I try to only use it for emergencies, but, as you seem of a nervous constitution, I’d be willing to give you a dose.”
“No,” she replied, taking a deep breath. “I’d rather you save it for the soldiers who truly need it.” With that, she held out her arm. Dr. McKnight used the scalpel to lightly scrape skin off of her forearm and then swabbed the needle with the cowpox into the scratches. He did the same to her other arm and then to the children and Abby.
“I will visit you each morning to make sure you are recovering well,” he told Elizabeth as he packed up his medical bag. She felt queasy, but whether it was from the pox taking its hold or just nerves, Elizabeth was not sure.
After a simple meal of salted meat, Abby and the children went to bed early that evening, but Elizabeth wanted to keep busy. Feeling too weak to do any chores, she curled up in a chair to read Thomas Paine’s newest pamphlet, The American Crisis. She agreed wholeheartedly with the opening words: “These are the times that try men’s souls.” As well as women’s souls, she added to herself.
Someone knocked at the door. Fearing that it would be a British soldier, Elizabeth walked slowly to the hallway. “There’s pox in this house,” she called.
“I know. It’s me, Robert Townsend.”
Puzzled, Elizabeth opened the door.
“Good evening, Mrs. Burgin.” He held up a plate covered with a kitchen rag. “I had my housekeeper make you some sweet cakes. I thought that you might not have eaten much supper.”
As if on cue, Elizabeth could feel her stomach growl. “Thank you. And, seeing as we are business partners, you may call me Elizabeth.”
“And I, Robert.”
Elizabeth opened the door wider. “Come in, Robert. That is, if you think it safe.”
He stepped over the threshold and headed into the kitchen. “My father had us all inoculated when we were younger.”
Elizabeth settled into a chair as Robert poked at the fire. In a minute, he had it sparking fiercely, warming up the cool room. He put the plate with the cakes next to the fire and then sat down across from her. “Have you much of a fever?”
“No.” Elizabeth touched her forehead. “I don’t think so. But there are these.” She held out her hand. A few light pink spots had formed between her thumb and forefinger.
Robert took her hand in his and examined them. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. At least we know that the inoculation has taken its hold,” he said, releasing her. His hands had been warm and soft.
Elizabeth felt a bit light-headed. To compensate, she asked Robert to tell her more about his family. “I’ve met the handsome William,” she said with a smirk. “And I’ve heard about your sister, Sally, but what are your parents like?”
“My father, Samuel, is a merchant as well.”
Elizabeth nodded. That much she knew. “But what of his political leanings? Brewster mentioned that Sally was in favor of the rebel army. What of your father?”
Robert’s face became even more guarded. “He was a Whig, but was forced to swear allegiance to the Crown. I took the oath as well.”
Elizabeth bit back a cutting remark about the King’s tyranny as she studied Robert. He stared over her shoulder at the fire, avoiding her eyes. There had been a bitter tone in his voice when he spoke of the oath, and it occurred again to Elizabeth that there was something that Robert was not telling her. “And William?”
Robert chortled. “William’s loyalties lie where the money is.” He stood to retrieve the cakes, correctly guessing which cabinet the plates were stored in. He sat back down, handing Elizabeth a plated cake. “Now that you know more about my family, tell me a bit about you. Where did you grow up?”
Elizabeth took a hesitant bite of sweet cake. It was warm and filling. “In New York City. My father shopped at Jonathan’s store. When Father’s eyes started failing, he would bring me to help purchase his goods. That’s when Jonathan made his marriage proposal. Father was only too pleased to have someone willing to take me in before he left this earth.”
Robert swept a crumb off the table into his hand. “I worry about my own father. I think taking the oath was hard for him. He is very much a Patriot but unable to declare it.”
“Why?” Elizabeth took her last bite of cake.
Robert stacked the two plates on top of each other and pushed them toward the edge of the table. “Politically, he doesn’t want to alienate his customers but mostly, I suppose, because he is a Quaker. He’s not supposed to fight.” Robert finally met her eyes and Elizabeth realized he was not just talking about his father.
“There must be something he can do.” Elizabeth, too, was not necessarily speaking of Samuel Townsend.
Robert stood. “I think what you are doing is very brave. It’s not every woman who would willingly infect herself and her family with a dangerous disease in order to help American prisoners.”
He had changed the subject again. This time Elizabeth fed him a genuinely warm smile. “Thank you, Robert. And thank you for the cake. The children will be excited to have some after breakfast.”
After she let Robert out, Elizabeth went back to the fire to check the spots on her hand. They had spread further, and were now past her wrist and up her arm. She realized then, if she died, the sacrifice she had made in order to help her country would remain unknown. Not unknown, she reminded herself. There were three men with knowledge of what she had been willing to do: Caleb Brewster, Benjamin Tallmadge, and Robert Townsend.
Chapter XXVI
Meg
March 1777
The few guests at the wedding—mostly men from Captain Moncrieffe’s unit—and Mercy had retired to the Moncrieffe’s townhouse after the ceremony. Coghlan did not own a house in the city. He had been quartered with a Loyalist family on the west side, but would be moving temporarily into Meg’s room before most likely being commanded to relocate in the spring. That time could not come soon enough for Meg.
That night Coghlan took his liberties as Meg’s husband. She lay still on the pink coverlet as he ripped off her wedding attire. When it came time for him to enter her, he did so forcefully, causing Meg to cry out. She fought back the urge to fight him and reminded herself that he was her husband now.
“You are still a virgin,” he muttered more to himself than to Meg. By the way he slurred his words and the smell of alcohol on him, Meg knew he was still drunk. Consequently, he did not last long and when he spent himself, he climbed off of her, rolled over, and went to sleep.
Emotionally exhausted, Meg could still not enter the bliss of sleep, the area between her legs throbbed so painfully. Even with one candle she could already see bruises forming on her upper thighs where her new husband had grabbed her. She wiped away a lone tear and then laid back, staring at the chintz curtains, cursing her fate, the final words she had spoken to Aaron ringing through her head. Because she was a woman, she indeed would never be free. Both her father and John Coghlan were as tyrannical as the Whigs all thought King George was. For the first time since the war started, Meg sympathized with the rebel cause. If th
ey could someday emancipate America and renounce the King, maybe perhaps she could share in a slice of that victory, as she would never be able to relinquish either her father or Coghlan’s hold on her.
Coghlan seemed somewhat cheerful the next morning. Mercy took the opportunity to ask him about the possibility of visiting his troop’s encampment as she and Meg ate breakfast with him in the kitchen.
“Whatever for?” Coghlan asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Meg dropped her eyes, trying to avoid out her husband’s sneer. That evil voice only brought back the pain of last night.
“I wanted to complain about the confiscation of some of my personal property,” Mercy told him.
“It’s all for the best cause,” Coghlan replied.
“Yes, but I feel that since my late husband was a loyal soldier to His Majesty, they could have at least spared me my carriage.”
Coghlan shrugged. “Why did you not bring this up last autumn at his social gathering?”
Meg, though only half-listening to the conversation, was thinking the same thing.
Meg saw Mercy wave her hand out of the corner of her eye. “I did not want to mix business with pleasure. And I thought that I could forgive His Majesty’s soldiers, but now the Moncrieffe’s carriage is in disrepair and we have no respectable way to get about town.”
“I can see to it that you will have an audience with General Howe but I don’t think that going to the encampment is the wisest way to go about it. It’s a dangerous place for a woman.”
“Meg will come with me.” Mercy said.
Meg finally looked up. “Why?”
“To keep me safe,” Mercy chirped.
Coghlan began to laugh. “Two women in an encampment is even worse than one!”
The next morning Coghlan declared that General Howe would be at the shipyard near the wharf. He walked the ladies outside and pointed toward the east side of the island. “I informed his aide-de-camp that some women wanted to speak to him.” He narrowed his eyes at Meg. “I did not offer that one of them was my wife.”
