The Tory Widow (17 page)

Anne joined in the conjecture. “Well then, I'd set fire to those ships moored out on the Tappan Zee—naught but three ships, but they've strangled our trade and supply and do far more harm than the fleet out on the bay.”

“You know, she's got something there.” Jack hitched his chair to move closer to Titus. “It wouldn't take much to wreak a bit of havoc on the Tappan Zee . . . a pair of fireboats, launched upriver—ride the current—sneak up and burn both the
Phoenix
and the
Rose
to the waterline.”

“I'm game.” Titus gripped the finial ends on the chairback. “Daring and doing beats worrying and waiting any day.”

Jack slapped his friend on the back. “Then let's do it!”

“D'ye hear, Annie?” Sally jeered. “They're ready to take on His Majesty's Royal Navy.”

“Fully armed with a bottle of rum and two Continentals . . .” Anne added with a shake of her head.

Jack and Titus ignored the women and put their heads together to hatch a daredevil scheme, making quick work of the rum. With inebriated enthusiasm, they went next door to roust Quakenbos the baker, and tap him for the lend of his big gelding and the funds required to complete their mission.

Anne's futile efforts to persuade the men to wait and reconsider their plan in the sober light of day fell on drunken ears. Unable to dissuade the obstinate pair from their course, and sure she'd find them both on her doorstep come morning, Anne bid the men good-bye and good riddance. Titus and Jack set forth in the dark, riding double, trotting north on Queen Street, toward the Bowery Lane.

When drowsy Titus slipped his seat and tumbled off onto the road just before reaching the King's Bridge, the fellows decided to take advantage of a convenient hayrick and catch a few hours of sleep. At daybreak they woke, discovering neither had bothered to hobble the baker's horse, and they'd lost their mount. Horseless and hungover, but still determined in their quest, they begged two cups of coffee, cheese and a loaf of bread from a kind Dutch farmwife and set off on foot. By noontime they'd reached the town of Sleepy Hollow, on the shore of the Tappan Zee, a few miles north of Tarrytown.

In Sleepy Hollow, Jack reunited with an old friend and Liberty Boy he'd apprenticed with at Parker's Press, a fellow by the name of Joe Bass. Joe helped them locate a pair of decrepit but somewhat seaworthy ships suitable to the purpose—a rickety single-masted sloop and an ancient two-masted schooner. Excited by the fireboat strategy, Bass volunteered to captain the schooner, and he enlisted four local Patriots to bolster the crew.

After purchasing the necessary incendiary supplies, they moved the two ships to anchor at a point two miles upriver from the British convoy. The rest of the long, hot day was spent fashioning the ships into floating bombs.

Yards of old canvas were ripped into strips, saturated in turpentine spirits and draped over the sails and rigging. The local boys set to work assembling foot-long bundles of straw as thick as a man's leg and dipped in molten pitch. The decks of both ships were carpeted with these combustible faggots, leaving a narrow path of exposed decking stretching from stem to stern. Along these paths Jack traced a thick stream of gunpowder leading up to a dozen small kegs filled with flammable pine tar.

Off in the distance, the bell from the old Dutch church in Sleepy Hollow tolled eleven o'clock, and two fireships bobbed on the current, ready for duty.

The men gathered together on the deck of the schooner. Preparing the ships was a thirsty business on a warm August evening. Joe Bass combined a bottle of rum with a bottle of peachy, and concocted a fine punch with which to drink to a fair night's work and the success of their mission.

“To Liberty and the United States!” they toasted, in a knock of wooden cups.

The assault required stealth and surprise to succeed, and fortune smiled further upon their endeavor—a heavy cloud cover masked a good amount of light from a waxing moon.

“Pass me the blacking.” Jack scooped up a handful of lard and soot mixed in a tin pail. Stripped down to britches and bare feet, he blacked his torso, arms and face. Other than Titus, who was roundly envied for requiring no additional blacking, the rest of the crew followed suit. Joe Bass went so far as to smear a quantity over his crewmate's head, to dull his blond hair.

“Your fuckin' towhead shines brighter than a spermaceti candle.”

Before dousing the ship lights, Joe and Titus each made certain to light the end on a yard-length of match cord, the long, slow-burning fuses being the only fire allowed on board. Leaving Bass and his boys on the schooner with handshakes and shouts of “Good Luck!” and “Fare Well!” Jack and Titus hopped over the side to man the oars on the sloop.

Anchors lifted and with oars slapping in time to the
ching-ching
of the crickets' chirp, the sloop towed the schooner straight out, about fifty yards before drawing in oars and disconnecting. Jack and Titus sat on the back bench, the rudder between them. Turning south, the fireships coasted silent on the current carrying them toward the British squadron.

Jack shifted forward to sit on the very edge of his seat, gripping tight the tiller. The rough, dry oak, weathered by countless seasons, bit into his palm, giving traction to a hand slippery with lard and sweat. It seemed a bit of a farce—steering the rudder on a night so dark he couldn't even make out the prow of his own boat—but the tiller in his hand at least fostered the illusion of being in control.

Floating through the pitch-black with only the smidge of light cast by the glowing tip of the match cord Titus cupped in his hand caused an eerie unease to tickle up Jack's backbone. He leaned toward his friend and whispered, “Darker than the depths of a papist priest's arsehole . . .”

Titus had to bite on his fist to keep from laughing out loud, and after a moment, he whispered back, “I'll just have to take your word on that . . .”

Jack stifled his snicker, and shot Titus an elbow to his ribs.

Deprivation of sight excited all other senses, and Jack became acutely aware of every sound—the breeze filling the canvas, rigging thumping against the mast, the ancient ship's tired creaks and groans echoing through the hollow hull as water pushed them along. Jack scrubbed his bare feet on the decking, pining for solid ground, and it occurred to him then that he was not one for boats. Regretting his decision to limit his consumption of rum punch to just one cupful, a song came to mind, and he began to sing softly under his breath.

“Shhhsh!”
Titus gave him a shove to the shoulder.

It was hard to gauge how far they had traveled. Jack began to worry that they had somehow sailed past the British ships, when the canvas belled with new wind, and lightning flashed behind the clouds, illuminating, for the briefest instance, the mass of naval vessels, dead ahead.

“D' you see that?” he rasped.

Titus answered by slipping the sloop's anchor over the side to slow their approach. A moment later they heard the reciprocating plop ahead and to their right—Joe Bass dropping anchor on his schooner.

Jack stared ahead at the patch of black where he thought he'd seen the British ships riding at anchor. A single chime rang out from one of the frigates, followed by a voice calling, “All's well!”

“To your left,” Titus said, so soft in his ear Jack had a hard time hearing it over his heart hammering in his chest. He gave the rudder a pull and Titus put an oar into the water. Slowly, quietly, they skimmed toward the call.

A loud thump and bump followed by the scraping squeal of wood and iron raised a series of shouts. The area to their right was suddenly hissing and alight with flames leaping up the sails of the schooner in a grapple with the squadron's bomb ketch.

The conflagration cast a brilliant light on the entire scene—and their sloop was no more than ten yards away from the
Phoenix
. The alarm was raised and
Phoenix
beat to quarters.

Titus swung the anchor aboard, yelling, “Take an oar!”

They rowed like mad to put distance between themselves and the inferno overwhelming the bomb ketch, maneuvering the sloop into
Phoenix
's shadow.

Titus shouted, “Fasten the lines!”

They scrambled with grappling hooks to secure their fireship to the frigate. The
Rose
unleashed a sharp cannonade, and the
Phoenix
, a flurry of musket fire. One iron ball crashed into their hull. Another cut the mast in two.

Ducking and dodging as small shot whizzed by, thunking into wood, dinging off iron fittings and buzzing into the water, they tangled hooks into the rigging along the prow of the
Phoenix
, and pulled the sloop tight to the frigate.

“Fire!”
Jack shouted, and Titus touched the glowing end of the match cord to the gray stream of gunpowder.

For moment they stood transfixed, watching the powder burst into a smoky, sizzling serpent, setting the pitched straw and oily canvas alight as it snaked along the deck—the flames leaping up to catch fire to the tarred hull and rigging of the
Phoenix
.

Shouting,
“Jump!”
Titus grabbed Jack by the arm. Jack snatched up their gunnysack and they dove into the river.

 

 

GOING to breakfast, Anne paused at the top of the stairs. Sally was standing at the open front door, talking with Walter Quakenbos. Vexed by the sight of her neighbor, Anne took a step back, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation with the baker.
The old fool. He could plainly see Jack and Titus were worse for the drink, and yet he gave them money and a horse.

Sally made her farewells and rebolted the door.

“What did he want?” Anne called.

Sally startled. “Och . . . I didna see ye standin' there . . .” Without answering, Sally headed for the back door.

Anne skipped down the stairs and followed Sally into the kitchenhouse.

A steaming pot of coffee hung from a trammel chain over the fire. Sally sat on the hearthstone. Using a long pair of tongs, she arranged embers from the fire into a compact pile. “I'm making pancakes,” she said, centering a three-legged griddle over the coals.

The little kitchen was a bright and cheerful place. The sharply pitched ceiling was engineered with thick planks and supported by an exposed structure of sturdy rafters and beams long since aged to a smoky, dark patina. Running just beneath the sills of three diamond-paned windows, a long work surface stretched the length of the whitewashed wall, and a multigenerational accumulation of pottery, brassware and ironware was stored in cupboards below.

The opposite wall was taken up by the large brick fireplace. The raised hearthstone Sally rested on extended into the room a generous two feet. A massive pair of black andirons sat within an arched opening framed with a border of blue-and-white glazed tiles—each tile depicting a different scene featuring windmills, fishing boats and happy peasants wearing wide-brimmed hats, harvesting crops. Anne would often huddle together with Jemmy and Sally in the cozy kitchen on cold winter days with cups of sweet black tea, and buttery shortbread, concocting funny stories to go with each tile.

Anne clattered through a cupboard, fished out a wooden noggin and poured herself some coffee. “So tell me, what did ol' Quakenbos have to say at the break of day?”

Sally plopped a dollop of lard the size of a quail egg to sizzle on the hot iron. “Nothing of consequence. He'd been by the Bear Market yesterday and seen a man selling chicory root there. Knowing we've been stretching our coffee berries, he thought to let me know.”

“Chicory root?” Anne said, with a squint to one eye.

“Aye, chicory at the market . . .” Sally repeated, her voice a bit trembly as she ladled batter onto the griddle. “The market, the chicory . . . and the gelding's return . . .”

“What?”

Sally tossed the ladle into the bowl and looked up from her task, eyes brimming. “The gelding! The baker's bloody gelding! He's wandered home with nae rider. I didna want to add to your worry . . .”

“Oh.” Anne sank down to sit next to Sally, too stunned to admonish her for cursing like a longshoreman. “A riderless horse—that does not bode well, does it?”

“No, it doesna.”

A sudden loud and heavy pounding roused them both to their feet.

Anne brightened. “That's Jack now!”

Sally pushed the griddle off the coals, and they ran to the front of the shop. Fumbling with the bolts, Anne opened the door to find her brother banging on the oak frame with the pommel of his sword.

“David!” The women fell on him in relief with hugs and kisses.

“It's been weeks and weeks,” Sally sobbed into his jacket sleeve.

“Weeks and weeks,” David mocked with an added dose of melodrama. “Weeks and weeks . . . suffering so terribly . . .”

Sally looked up at him. “Ye suffered?”

“Of course I did.” David laughed. “There's not a decent scone or bannock to be had on the whole of Long Island.”

“Ye gomerel! So it's my scones ye missed?” Sally took a step back, swiping tears away with the back of her hand.

“Ah . . . you're my favorite redhead,” David cajoled, pulling Sally back into his arms. “And you know very well how I've missed you. Why, I fell asleep every night dreaming on your smile.”

Appeased by her beau's pretty poetry, Sally settled into his embrace.

Anne was reminded of the poignant letters she'd written home to wives and sweethearts as she watched the couple's happy reunion. Being loved and needed and missed went a long way in tempering a man's inherent reckless spirit.