The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr

by Susan Holloway Scott

  But as I scrambled for the shawl, Colonel Burr caught it first, easily gathering it into one hand. Silently he handed it back to me, but as he did he was staring, as was the sailor behind him.

  When the wind had pulled away the kerchief, it had also pulled away the handful of pins that had held the heavy coil of my hair to the back of my head. Now my hair was free and unbound and tossing in the wind. These American men had likely never seen an Indian woman’s hair like mine, and I could only imagine how it must look to them: an exotic curiosity, a seductive excess. I felt ashamed for them to see it, as ashamed as if they’d caught me in my shift alone. I had so few things that were my own. My unbound hair was my own private glory, and for my husband’s delight, not theirs.

  But Colonel Burr continued to stare even as he offered my shawl back to me.

  I stepped away from him, struggling to gather my hair. Still he stood waiting with the shawl in his hand until I’d twisted my hair into an untidy knot at the back of my head.

  “Mrs. Emmons,” he said gallantly, holding the shawl out to me.

  I flushed. No gentleman had ever addressed me like that, a small, complicated kindness. My gaze downcast, I swiftly took the shawl from his hand and wrapped it over my head and shoulders.

  I should have thanked him then. I should have waited for his permission to leave his presence, and I should have stood meekly before him until he’d given it.

  I did none of these things. Instead, I fled back down the companionway to where the other women were sleeping, and I did not look back. Once again I lay down on my pallet, my knees curled to my chest. I closed my eyes and wrapped my fingers tightly around the little necklace that Lucas had made for me. But my heart beat too fast and my jumbled thoughts still raced, and no matter how I tried, I could not sleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  The North River

  September 1778

  Our voyage to the City of New York was a brief one, only five days of fair, easy weather. Beyond helping Mistress and Miss DeVisme tidy their hair and clothes, I’d little to do except sit on the deck to the aft with the other slaves, and keep from the way of the sailors and our masters.

  I might have been idle, but I’d never seen Mistress toil as hard at beguiling the Tory gentlemen in the party. She ignored Colonel Burr and Major Edwards, who purposefully kept apart from her, most likely by agreed design. Instead, she devoted herself to Mr. Smith and Mr. Colden. She coaxed; she teased; she fluttered; she laughed at jests that were not amusing and never would be. She scattered witticisms in both English and French, and she always made sure to keep a hand lightly touching the nearest male: not seductively, but to reinforce her own dainty helplessness, and how much she required his manly strength.

  It was all a farce, of course. Although she was slight in stature, I knew Mistress to be stronger, more cunning, and more resolute than all these men combined. I also wondered how much longer she could sustain this game before the stress grew too great and she’d be wracked with one of her fearful headaches. At the Hermitage her guests departed, but here she could not avoid their company from the earliest hour of the day to far into the night, and the next morning after that. As I watched her parading up and down the narrow deck, or commanding Captain Redman’s dining table as if it were her own, I could see her becoming more brittle, more fragile, and I knew only sheer will kept her acting her role.

  How long would it be before I’d be the one who’d have to put her to bed, to mix her remedies and clean up her vomit as she wept from the pain?

  “How your mistress goes on!” whispered Mag, the youngest of Mr. Smith’s slaves and the closest to me in age, too. We were sitting cross-legged together on the deck, which was a fine place to be. We felt the warmth of the late-summer sun, but were shielded from the breeze and the spray from the water by the sloop’s tall sides. Beside us her mother, Martha, sat dozing, her head wrapped tightly in a bright red cloth and nodding and swaying like an oversized blossom.

  We’d an excellent view of Mistress walking with Mr. Colden, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. He was an older gentleman in a snuff-colored wig, so much older that he doubtless judged Mistress to be young and fresh, and was therefore flattered by her attention. She wore a black chip hat with a flat, wide brim tipped cunningly over one eye and whose daggered red-striped ribbons danced like pennants in the breeze. Her petticoats swung gently with every step, lifting just enough with the breeze that her pink slippers and green stockings were visible beneath them.

  As Mag and I watched, Mr. Colden said something that made Mistress lift her chin and smile winningly, and give his arm an extra small pat as a reward.

  “What would your master say to that?” Mag asked. “He’s riskin’ his life in the war, an’ she’s playin’ a whore with old Master Colden.”

  “Hush, hush,” I said, bending my head over the stocking I was knitting. “Don’t let her overhear you saying such things.”

  “It’s truth, an’ you know it,” Mag said. In her arms she was holding her baby, a handsome small fellow named Little Simon, and rocking him gently with the rhythm of the waves. “No man, white nor black, wants his woman doin’ that with ’nother man.”

  I sighed, squinting into the sun. “It’s been years now since she saw Colonel Prevost.”

  “No excuse,” Mag said promptly. “He’s her man, an’ she’s his woman. She can’t go givin’ herself to any other.”

  “It’s on her conscience, not mine,” I said, but I doubted Mag even heard me.

  “You know my Simon’s ’bout the strongest man ever seen in Dutchess County,” she said, wiggling her knuckle against Little Simon’s gums for him to suck. “No one else comes close. Why, there was a wagon run up on ’nother man’s leg by accident, an’ he’s lying there screaming like death. Driver’s afraid t’make that horse go up or down, an’ hurt that man more. My Simon came running over, an’ he lifts that old wagon up right off that man, like it weighs same as a feather. Saved that man’s leg, an’ I ’spect his life, too.”

  I was only half-listening by now, having heard this story of Big Simon and the wagon at least three times before on our voyage. I was glad I had my knitting, to keep my impatience from showing. Thus far Martha, who seemed to know only a few words of English, had said almost nothing, while Mag had prattled on about Big and Little Simon, and how sorry she was to be forced to leave friends behind at her master’s house and farm in New Paltz. When—or if—Mistress asked me if I’d any intelligence to offer, I’d disappoint her.

  I looked down at Little Simon, wrapped loosely with a patched blanket and cradled in Mag’s arms and against her aproned lap. She’d seated herself on the deck so he’d be shadowed from the sun by her body, and he was as peacefully asleep as a babe could be, one tiny fist curled against his cheek.

  Because of the turns my life had taken, I’d no experience with infants or mothering. I never tired of watching Little Simon, his plump limbs twitching in his sleep, his full pouting lips, his velvety brown cheeks, and the luxurious sweep of his black lashes. I watched him, and felt the dull ache of longing for what I didn’t have. I longed to bear Lucas’s child and hold him like this, to feel and give this kind of mother’s love, and make my own child feel snug and safe against whatever the world might try to do.

  That was why Lucas was fighting, and why this war was so important: so our children would be born free, and belong only to us.

  “I needs tell someone,” Mag was saying, her voice low and excited. “You’re quiet, Mary. I can tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” I said absently.

  Quickly Mag glanced toward her mother to make sure she still slept. “Soon as we get to the City o’ New York, I’m to look for Big Simon. He sent word that he’ll come for me, me an’ Little Simon and Mama, too, soon as his regiment’s finished in Jersey.”

  That caught my attention. “He’s a soldier?”

  “His Majesty’s soldier,” she said, smiling with pride. “He’s no rebel, not my Simon.” />
  I thought of how glad I was now that I’d never mentioned Lucas to her.

  “What regiment is he with?” I asked.

  “The Seventh Royal Foot,” she said. “Cap’n MacLaren. Big Simon sent word to me that they’s been ordered to board a ship for cruising up an’ down the coast o’ Jersey to hunt privateers an’ burn their vessels an’ towns.”

  I made myself pause as I knitted three more stitches, slipping them from one needle to the next. “How long do you think they’d be there?”

  “I ’spect ’til they have the task done, and them rebels is done, too,” she said. “Then Big Simon’s coming for me, me and Little Simon and Mama, an’ His Majesty will make me free.”

  I frowned. “His Majesty can’t do that. You don’t belong to the king. You belong to your master.”

  “So did Big Simon,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But when he heard His Majesty’d free any man-slave who’d join his army, why, Big Simon ran from Master, him an’ two others. Now he’s a free man, an’ soon as he finds me in New York, he’ll help me run, too, an’ His Majesty’ll make me free like him.”

  Lucas had told me that the British had promised freedom to any man who ran away from his master to enlist, but he didn’t trust them to keep their word. I’d never heard of a black woman earning her way in such a fashion, either, not once. We weren’t of any use to His Majesty in fighting his war.

  “Don’t you worry that your master would post a reward and hunt you down?” I asked, remembering how Mistress had threatened me, as she’d done with Mark and Sary. “They’ve so many ways to find—”

  “No, no,” Mag interrupted, raising her chin with defiance. “Master couldn’t find Big Simon when he ran. He won’t find us, either, not in all o’ New York. That’s why he brung only us women with him. He didn’t think we run away like men would.”

  She leaned closer, over her sleeping baby. “Come wit’ us, Mary,” she whispered with fresh urgency. “You don’t owe anything to that whore-mistress of yours. We could all run together, an’ then His Majesty will free you, too.”

  “What happens if the Americans win the war?” I asked. “Then you’ll be a traitor, and a runaway.”

  “They won’t win,” she said firmly. “Rebel scum! God save the king!”

  I sighed, and looked back to my knitting. I refused to quarrel with her over something as vague and foolish as this. I knew we were close in age, and she already a mother, too. Yet in that moment I felt infinitely older, and with a wider view of the world and all its flaws and sorrows than she could ever know.

  “It’s kind of you to offer to share your lot with me,” I said carefully. “But I believe I’ll trust to whichever side wins this war to treat me fairly.”

  Mag made a scornful small puff of contempt, holding Little Simon more tightly to her breast.

  “Then you’re a fool an’ a coward, Mary,” she declared soundly. “Don’t you know you can’t get nothing in this world by sittin’ where you are, without liftin’ a finger to help your own self?”

  With more muttering to herself, she clambered to her feet so fast that Little Simon began to cry. That woke her mother as well, and the three of them bustled off across the deck and down the companionway, with enough outrage to them that everyone else on the deck turned to look with curiosity, too.

  I returned to my handwork, trying to pretend that none of this had affected me. Being the center of an outburst like Mag’s made me uncomfortable, and I hated having Mistress and the others watch as if our every word and action were some low, coarse drollery for their entertainment.

  As if to prove it, Mistress came over to me.

  “A squabble among the biddy hens, Mary?” she asked archly.

  I rose, and curtseyed. “No, Mistress,” I said evenly. “No squabble.”

  Beside her, Mr. Colden laughed. “Well, now, to my eye, that was a great deal of cackle and cluck-cluck over nothing.”

  Mistress laughed, too, while my face grew hot. But since I remained silent, there was no further sport to be made at my expense, and they moved along and left me. With a sigh, I sat again, when one more shadow fell across me.

  “Is all well with you, Mary Emmons?”

  I looked up to see Colonel Burr gazing down upon me. His hat was pulled low over his forehead against the wind, as it had been the entire voyage, but now through some trick of the afternoon sun on the water, his face was clearly lit from beneath. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a sympathy in his eyes that I hadn’t expected, as if he understood how difficult the last quarter hour had been for me.

  Again I began to rise to my feet to curtsey, but he put his palm up to signal me to stay as I was.

  “Continue with your work, Mary,” he said, his voice low so that no one else heard him. “I’ve no wish to disturb you. But it will doubtless please you to know that according to Captain Redman, we’ll reach the landing specified by our truce by sunset, and there bid our guests farewell.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, and smiled. Most days, I learned what would come next when it occurred; Mistress seldom thought it necessary to tell us anything. But it was not only the fact that Colonel Burr had told me, but that he’d done it immediately after he’d witnessed Mag’s outburst. He’d intended to ease my distress, a small thing, but one that meant much to me.

  He’d been right, too. We did dock soon after the sun had set. A small contingent of disinterested British soldiers and their lieutenant greeted us, and curt pleasantries were exchanged between him and Colonel Burr as our passengers disembarked and their belongings were unloaded from the sloop into waiting wagons. Mag did not bid me farewell, nor did I her. I wished her only the best, however. Her main sin was innocence, muddled with an overabundance of optimism and inexperience. I prayed that Big Simon found her and their sweet babe, and that they’d make a long life together after the war was done, but the odds of that happiness would not be in their favor. For that matter, the odds weren’t agreeable for Lucas and me, either.

  I also saw Colonel Burr, Major Edwards, and the British lieutenant purposefully ignore the sizable amount of new cargo that was loaded onto the sloop. By the conventions of the flag of truce, Captain Redman was permitted to take on nothing beyond provisions for his return voyage. Anything else carried across the enemies’ lines was considered smuggling and forbidden, yet clearly neither party cared overmuch about enforcing the law.

  I thought of the luxurious goods—the sugar, spices, coffee, and wine—from England and France that had continued to appear at the Hermitage throughout the war. Officers and rich folk would always have their necessities, while poor soldiers like Lucas and his fellows in the field did without.

  In a more just world, using a flag of truce while smuggling would be immediately reported and punished. But not in this war, and not among white people, either. And so, with Caesar beside me, I watched from the rail as this cargo was loaded into the hold beneath us, and together we idly guessed what each crate or cask might hold. By the time Mistress and the others had returned aboard after dining at a tavern, I’d put aside my conscience and conveniently forgotten everything I’d witnessed, exactly as she would have wished.

  On the following day, I found time while I helped her dress to tell her what I’d learned from Mag about the British ship, stationed in the city of New York, hunting for American privateers along the Jersey coast.

  “Most excellent, Mary, most excellent indeed!” she exclaimed. “You are certain of this?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Mag had no reason to lie.”

  “Would that the rest of the world was the same,” she said. “Did she say when the troops were expected to depart?”

  I shook my head. “Not by exact date, Mistress, but she spoke as if it would be soon. Before winter.”

  “That would make perfect sense,” she said, musing. “One cannot send troops ashore in a snowstorm. I shall share the information with Colonel Burr directly, and write to General Washington himself t
he moment we are returned to land.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” I smiled, for her satisfaction and my own. “I hope it will help His Excellency and his soldiers.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will do that,” she said. “It could also save ships, and property.”

  I nodded, pleased with what I’d done. But Mistress was already thinking of other matters.

  “Do you wish to know the most interesting item that I learned?” she said. “That a gift from Queen Marie Antoinette intended for Mrs. Washington was seized from a French ship! Mr. Colden could not speak of it enough, as if intercepting gifts between ladies were the height of wartime accomplishment.”

  “Truly, Mistress?” I said.

  “Oh, there were a few other more useful morsels,” she said, waving her hand airily. “But I’m most pleased with you, Mary. You listened; you observed; you remembered—all the perfect attributes for gathering delicate information.”

  With her palms, she smoothed the front of her bodice, fiddling with one of the pins as she spoke.

  “I was also pleased by how well you comported yourself on this sloop,” she said, “even when provoked by that other young jade. I saw it. We all did. Yet your response was exactly right, an honor to my household.”

  She smiled so warmly at me I could almost pretend she meant it.

  “In fact, I believe you deserve a reward,” she continued. “What would please you? An ell or two of linsey-woolsey for a new petticoat? A length of pretty ribbon to freshen your cap, or a string of glass beads?”

  What I’d done was for the American cause, not for a cheap magpie gift. But if she was offering gifts, then I instantly knew what I wanted.

  “If you please, Mistress,” I said. “I should prefer paper for writing.”

  “For writing?” she repeated, incredulous. “That is what you wish? Paper for writing?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said. “That’s what I wish.”

  It was. In my eagerness to write as well as read, I’d cut turkey feathers into makeshift pens, and mixed my own ink from ground berries and candle soot. The only paper I had for practicing my penmanship, however, was the scraps Mistress had discarded and I’d retrieved. Not only did I cover every empty space with my writing, but I also used her letters as a kind of primer for penmanship, carefully copying her elegant letters and looped swirls until they became my own. No one would mistake my efforts for a lady’s hand, but I was proud of how I’d taught myself through practice alone.