The Messenger (34 page)

“How do thee know this?”

“I have visited them. Every week I have visited them.”

“But thee must know that it was not right to help them. The consequence of their actions was that they committed themselves to the rebels’ care. What else was to be done?” He sounded as if he truly wanted to know. “I thought . . . I thought they all needed to learn a lesson. I thought that . . . surely I didn’t know. . .”

“I said what I meant. I’m sure the elders will have no choice but to counsel the Meeting to disown me. Especially when thee tell them I’ve been visiting the jail every week for five months now.”

“But if they had been told what was happening . . . If thee tell them. Explain, maybe . . .” Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

“I’m leaving the Meeting. They don’t even have to disown me.”

“Thee can’t just leave. Not over this. They didn’t understand. No one understood.”

“It’s not because of the Yearly Meeting. It’s not because no one would visit. It’s because none of thee truly wanted to know.”

Polly was waiting for me at the top of the stair. She handed me a handkerchief.

I dabbed at my tears.

“Did you . . . leave your church?”

“I suppose I did.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll see the error of his ways soon. My own papa always does.”

I feared my father wasn’t much like hers.

Her face had brightened. “If you aren’t going to that church of yours anymore, does that mean you don’t have to obey all those rules?”

“I . . . don’t know.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The thought of not belonging to the Meeting was still so strange and new.

“Here. Come with me.” She drew me down the hall and into her room. She flung up the lid of her trunk and pulled out the amaranth-colored gown, thrusting it into my arms. “You can have it.”

“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“Truly. Take it. It’s last year’s color anyway. I don’t want it anymore.”

“I don’t know that I can—”

“Oh! I just realized. You can go to the theater with me now!”

“I don’t think I want to.”

“And you can dance!” She clapped her hands. “This is going to be so diverting. To catch you up on all the years you’ve missed!”

“I thank thee for thy interest in me. But my thoughts on those things haven’t changed. I’m still the same person I was. Only . . . different.” I was no longer part of a Meeting. I was alone.

She patted my arm. “Don’t worry. Children are supposed to rebel against their parents. It’s how we get what we want. Don’t feel badly about it. Enjoy it.” She pushed a set of bracelets past her wrist, checked her reflection in her hand mirror, and then flitted out the door, off on one of her endless excursions.

She was so insensible. And so young. And there was so much she did not comprehend. I only hoped that one day she would. Then she would realize that there was no enjoyment in this rebellion against everything my parents knew and were. There was only sadness.

Jeremiah

“I need your help, Bartholomew.” He was perched beside me that Monday evening at the well. We were eating supper together.

“That’s what you pay me for, isn’t it?”

“This has nothing to do with our agreement.” And considering all that Fanny had been through, I wasn’t quite sure I should be involving him in my plans. But I didn’t have any other choice. “It could be very dangerous.”

He didn’t look impressed.

“It has to do with the soldiers.”

That caught his interest. “Those lobsterbacks? Which ones?”

“Over at the barracks.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to filch forty-eight of their uniforms and forty-eight pairs of shoes.”

“Without being hanged for it? What’s Fanny going to do if I end up dead?”

“I told you it was dangerous. But you wouldn’t have to do it alone. You couldn’t. You’d need some of your friends from the alley to help you.”

“They think I’ve gotten too good for them since we came here.”

“I’ll pay them. I’ll pay you too. Extra. Half now and half when it’s done.”

“They’d probably do it for nothing. Just for spite. Those lobsterbacks are mean as the devil.”

“Next Monday there’s going to be a big party upriver.”

“That messy-chanza?”

I nodded. “All the officers are going to attend. From the afternoon when it starts until it ends the next morning.”

“All the rats are going to be away from the nest.”

“That’s right.”

“Still doesn’t mean the soldiers won’t be in their barracks.”

“Long about one of the clock, General Washington is going to make all the soldiers in the city rush for the lines.”

He smiled. “Something like an attack? Is that what you’re saying? The patriots are finally coming out of their camp?”

“Not a full attack. Just a disturbance. But when that happens, what do you think those soldiers at the barracks will do?”

“They’d report to the lines. And leave those barracks wide open and empty.”

“Exactly. So, do you think you can get me those coats and shoes?”

“With a bit of help.”

“I’d need you to collect them that night and then run them as quickly as possible to the wheelwright’s yard at the corner of Walnut and Sixth Street.”

“Why?”

“There will be a group of men there waiting for you.”

He sent me a sly glance. “You’re going to break some of those prisoners out of the jail, aren’t you?”

He was too smart for his own good. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because there’s no one supposed to wear a uniform but those soldiers. And the only reason someone else would wear one is to pretend like they were one. So the only reason you’d need forty-eight of them is if there was a group of men that—”

“Yes. I’m going to break some of those prisoners out.” Although if he had seen through my plan so easily, the whole escape might be in danger of being discovered. Especially if a group of street urchins was going to come into it.

“That will be something to see!”

“I don’t expect you to stay around to see it. I expect you to deliver the uniforms and shoes and then leave. Just as fast as you can.” I counted ten shillings into his palm. And then watched him disappear into the night the way he used to. I was sending him back to the very alleys I’d rescued him from.

Forty-eight uniforms. Forty-eight pairs of shoes. Were the prisoners really so destitute as that? Because if any one of them got caught, it meant the lives of three women and a handful of boys.

God help us all.

That night I sat down to write my message to William Addison.

Plans fixed. Uniforms to be issued at blacksmith’s yard. Once attired, proceed directly to lines.

If he were half the soldier he was rumored to be, then he would be able to divine what he was to do. They would have to be swift. I didn’t know how long the diversion would last and it was possible that it could be overrun. In that case, time would be of the essence. There would be none to spare for those who could not dress themselves; those who were too sick to walk would have to be left behind. The date was set. The plan was fixed. It would be up to them now. The prisoners’ fate rested in their own hands.

The next morning I put on the hat with the reprehensible feather and took myself down to the market. But as long as I looked, and I could not circle the market forever, there was no blue cart. And no egg-girl. Least not the one I was acquainted with. I bought eggs from another girl just in case any of the guards had become familiar with my habits.

I had to let the patriots know the prisoners would be wearing the wrong uniforms. But if there was any other way to get a message to General Washington, I didn’t know of it. So I did the only other thing I could think to do: I paid a visit to the tailor.

He looked up as I came through the door. “Mr. Jones.” His smile wasn’t quite so welcoming as it might have been. “I hadn’t expected to see you so soon.” His glance was darting between his apprentice and me.

“I came to ask about that blue suit. You said your suppliers for the fabric were the best, though it would have to come by cart. Through the countryside.”

His brows peaked, though he quickly tugged them back down. He turned to the apprentice. “I need some of that brocade from up in the attic.”

“The brocade we put up there just yesterday?”

“The very same.”

The apprentice looked none too happy about the prospect, although he complied.

“What is it?” The tailor hissed the words once the apprentice had left. “And be quick about it.”

“The egg-girl wasn’t at market.”

“Those who pass through the lines can’t always be depended upon.”

“Then who is your alternate? I’ve a message that must be passed without delay.”

He shook his head. “There isn’t one.”

“No one? But . . . what did you expect to do if the egg-girl ever failed to show?”

He shrugged. “She never did.”

“So what am I to do?”

“I’ve not the first idea.”

“You have to do
something
!”

He took a measure from his pocket as we heard the boy clatter down the stair. “It’s you, son, who has to do something. Remember, I’ve nothing to do with it anymore. Though if you’re passing a note, you might want to include that there’s been quite a bit of mention of New York City lately.”

I left the tailor’s shop with a desperate need to strike at something.

I had a message but no messenger. Information that needed to be delivered but no means to deliver it. Surely Hercules had never faced a more daunting task.

Who did I know that could pass through the British lines and then come back again? And what reason would someone have for doing such a thing? The farmers did so, of course. That’s why the use of the egg-girl had been ingenious. But something must have gone wrong for her. I could not assume that she would ever return. By next week this business would be done and I could go back to just being the owner of the King’s Arms. But the prisoners still needed to escape.

I took deliveries of foodstuffs from the countryside all the time. And from the ships that sailed into the harbor. But my suppliers’ only loyalty was to my gold coin. They were businessmen with no appreciation for politics or causes. I could ask one of them to deliver my message for a fee. But then I might become a commodity that they could sell to the British and for a much higher price.

There was no solution to my problem.

Only a message which sat in my pocket. Undelivered.

I went back to the market the next day, hoping against hope. To my surprise and very great delight, the egg-girl was there. It was difficult to restrain myself from going straight to her cart, but I took the time to look at shallots and dandelion greens. Considered some leeks and some peas. Made arrangements to have a not too battered-looking ham hock delivered to the tavern. My circuitous wanderings finally led me to her. “Have you any quails’ eggs? I have a great hunger for them.”

“I’ve lost my quail.”

“You’ve lost . . . ?” What was it that she was trying to tell me?

She met my gaze with great reluctance.

“You’ve lost your quail. How does one lose a quail?”

“Someone wrung his—
her
neck.”

God help us all. “And you don’t have access to another.”

“No.”

“Are you looking for any other to replace it?”

“No.”

Then she was out of it now as well. Just like the tailor. “She didn’t leave any extra eggs, did she? Before she was killed?”

“No.” She whispered. “He . . . she . . . didn’t.”

“I deeply regret your loss.”

She swiped at an onslaught of tears with the corner of her apron. I dug past the note to the coins I carried in my pocket and offered her the amount I would have paid for the eggs. And then some.

The tailor was out. The egg-girl was out. But someone still had to pass through the lines to deliver the message. Hannah and I were the only ones left.