The Tory Widow (18 page)

Truly, the distress she'd suffered since Jack had rode off was a revelation to her. When he had ignored her reasoned entreaties and went on his merry way, she'd said good riddance, and now she so regretted the angry words uttered in bidding Jack farewell. She underestimated how much she had come to care for Jack Hampton, and the thought of him injured or dead was an awful ache tied tight about her heart that could not be loosed.
If Jack returns . . .
Anne gave her head a vigorous shake.
When
Jack returned, she would somehow let him know how much she cared.

Anne shooed Sally and her brother inside to swing the door shut and lock the bolts. “Quite the spectacle, you two—and on the Sabbath to boot . . .”

They gathered together in the kitchenhouse, and while Sally mixed up a batch of currant scones, David enjoyed several cups of coffee and recounted his most recent exploits training troops stationed on Brooklyn Heights.

“How long can you stay this time?” Sally asked him.

“Two days at most—I'm here with Colonel Livingston for a staff meeting at headquarters.”

“Do you think, David,” Anne questioned, “that there still might be a chance for peace?”

David shook his head. “Surely you are sensible that we have rebelled against our King and declared ourselves a sovereign state? Britain will not stand idly by and allow her richest colonies leave her dominion without a fight. War is inevitable, Annie, and I wish you would give up your fanciful hopes for peace, and go stay with Father in Peekskill . . .”

Once again, there began a brash knocking at the front of the shop. Sally shot Anne a hopeful glance as she ran to undo the latches. The front door slammed open and a powder-wigged, lace-cuffed and cravated Walter Quakenbos barreled past Sally, brandishing his walking stick in his fist, shouting like a madman. “Damn if they didn't do it!”

“What on God's green earth!” Anne and David ran out to meet Quakenbos under the peach tree.

“Forgive me, Widow Merrick.” The baker sat down at the table, breathing heavy. “I hurried across town to bring you the good news . . .” Whisking off his wig, he used it to fan his red face, raising a powdery cloud. “They did it—they broke the blockade.”

“Who broke the blockade?” David's question went unanswered.

Anne asked, “How do you know this?”

“I saw it!” Quakenbos took a gulp from the glass of cider Sally pressed into his hand. “I saw the ships—the
Rose
and a well-scorched
Phoenix
, heading out into the bay to rejoin the fleet.”

Anne sat down next to Quakenbos. The sudden image of a well-scorched Jack Hampton floating facedown in the Hudson caused her knees to go to jelly. “Did you see them . . . speak with them . . . Jack and Titus?”

“Hampton?” David scowled. “And Titus? What's Hampton to do with Titus? What's this all about, Anne?”

Before she could form a response, a lumpy canvas bag came sailing over the garden wall, hitting Walter Quakenbos square on his shaven pate. The peach tree began to tremble, and peaches rained down in a thumpety-thump as Jack and Titus used a low-slung limb to pull up and straddle the wall.

“Lord in heaven!” Anne jumped to her feet.

Sally clapped and squealed.

“The Heroes of the Hudson!” Quakenbos shouted.

“Just what are you raggedy thieves up to?” David demanded.

Jack smoothed a hand over his hair gone wild for lack of ribbon or string. “And a good morning to you, Captain!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Anne.” Concern rippled Titus's forehead like a washboard. “Being Sunday, we figured the front door would be bolted . . .”

“Pay my brother no mind, Titus.” Anne encouraged them down with a wave. “We've been worried sick for you both.”

The pair hit the ground on bare feet, filthy and hatless in muddy shirttails and knee breeches. Sally pointed in alarm to the sleeve covering Titus's left arm, saturated with blood.

Jack said, “Titus caught a ball . . .”

“Looks worse than it is,” Titus assured. “Lodged in the meat, not the bone.”

“I dug the slug out and he's fit as a fiddle now, aren't you, Titus?”

“Shoes!” the baker quacked, peering inside the sack.

“Wet shoes,” Jack said.

“Giving us blisters,” Titus added.

“Sit down . . . sit down.” Anne's face ached for the smile she sported. Restraining the urge to kiss him welcome, she took Jack by the hand. “Come sit.”

Jack and Titus sat to share the bench across from Quakenbos and David. Anne brought a pitcher of cider and Sally set a pot of jam and a plateful of fresh-baked scones on the table. Quakenbos filled everyone's tankard, and called for a toast. “To the Heroes of the Hudson!”

“No heroes here . . .” Titus said, helping himself to a scone. “Just tired and hungry is all we are.”

David groaned. “Will someone please tell me what this is all about?”

Anne began the tale, with interjections from Sally and the baker. Titus picked up the story, telling of their adventure from the point when they'd set off on horseback.

“We gave it our best effort,” Jack finished. “The bomb ketch Joe Bass mistook for the
Rose
burned to the waterline, but the
Phoenix
managed to disengage from our fiery sloop. In the time it took us to swim to the riverbank, they'd doused the flames, and we struck out on the long road home.” Jack popped the last bite from his third scone into his mouth. “All in all, just as you predicted, Annie, a right dismal failure.”

Anne sat beside him. “Then you don't know?”

“Know what?”

“The
Phoenix
and the
Rose
have rejoined the fleet, man,” Quakenbos said. “The blockade is broken.”

Goggle-eyed, Titus choked out, “What?!”

Jack pulled stunned Titus into a headlock and knuckle-scrubbed his close-cropped hair. Titus jerked free, and the pair shoved and punched each other in elation. “Can you believe it? We broke the blockade!”

“The two of you have struck terror into the very heart of the Royal Navy.” David stood and raised his tankard. “Cheers to the Heroes of the Hudson!”

While everyone joined in the toast, and without glancing her way, Jack reached a bold hand under the table to give Anne's knee a squeeze. Rather than brush him away, she slipped her hand over his.

“You know, Hampton . . .” Resting one boot on the bench, David leaned forward, his face so suddenly serious, Anne was certain her brother was aware of the brazen goings-on beneath the table. “This fireboat escapade is the perfect example of the type of stratagem I've been trying to persuade my colonel to . . .” Without completing his thought, David performed an abrupt about-face. He marched into the kitchen, and returned wearing his tricorn, buckling on sword and scabbard.

“You two are coming with me.”

 

 

JACK shifted his weight to his right foot, distracted by the big blister chafed into his left heel by wet shoe leather. He sped through the fifth telling of the fireship escapade, anxious to be out the door and out of his shoes.

“. . . after Titus touched fuse to powder, we stayed aboard to assure a good blaze—Titus snatched me by the arm, I snatched up our gear, and it was into the river with us. In the time it took for us to swim ashore, the
Phoenix
managed to cut loose from our sloop. From the riverbank, we could see them douse the fire, and so we took to the road.”

In soggy shoes and dirty shirts Jack and Titus stood alongside David Peabody, his commanding officer and an aide-de-camp. They faced a large table draped with a crisp linen sheet and scattered with papers, maps, instruments and writing materials. The cavernous office on the second floor of the City Hall building featured a tall pair of arched windows in the Palladian style, and the room's spartan furnishings were arranged to offer the Commander in Chief a fine view down Wall Street to Trinity Church and the Hudson beyond. General Washington sat in a spindle-back chair behind the table, considering Jack 's recounting without a word, availing himself of the view with impassive blue-gray eyes.

Bent over a small writing desk in the corner, a stocky black man in a stark white wig marked diligently in a ledger, leaving Jack to wonder on what he was writing. But for the quill scratchings, everyone waited in silence for the general to react. At last, leaning back in his chair, large hands resting light on the armrests, he asked, “Your occupation, Mr. Hampton?”

“Printer, sir.” Jack straightened his shoulders to stand a bit taller, hands clasped behind his back. “Journeymen—both of us.”

The answer raised an eyebrow. Washington nodded to Titus. “This man is your slave?”

Titus and Jack exchanged quick, amused grins.

“I am a free man, General, sir,” Titus uttered his first words since crossing the threshold of the Continental headquarters. “Jack and me are colleagues and companions.”

“Good friends,” Jack added.

“Good friends . . .” Washington repeated, the flash of a closed-mouth smile altering his sober countenance for an instant. “Tell me, Mr. Hampton, by this experience, if you were to put forth another effort of this sort, what would you do differently?”

Exhausted, filthy, hungry and having spent the past two hours moving up the chain of command, retelling his story over and over, Jack scratched the three-day stubble on his chin, at a loss for words. “What would I do differently . . .”

“We ought to have paid more mind to the weather . . .” Titus offered. “A stronger wind would have wrought the damage we were hoping for.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “True . . . though dark enough to allow a stealthy approach, the night didn't offer any wind to fan the flames up into the sails. With a good wind, the crew on the
Phoenix
would have been hard-pressed to put out a fire.”

“An astute assessment—” Washington spoke to Jack, as if Titus didn't even exist. “Our Continental Army could make use of a brave Patriot such as yourself. I hope you might consider joining our ranks, Mr. Hampton.”

Irked that the man's slave-owning fears kept good men like Titus Gilmore from bolstering the American ranks, Jack snapped, “I'm afraid me and Titus just aren't suited to army life—both of us being dark men . . .” Glancing over his shoulder to see the pained look on Anne's brother's face, Jack took a breath and tried to temper his response. “Nevertheless, we're in this thing whole heart, sir. We do what we can to fight for our cause—the belief that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights . . .”

“Hampton!” David Peabody took a step forward. “That's enough . . .”

Jack paid him no heed. “. . . that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of . . .”

“Captain Peabody, Mr. Hampton . . .” The general curtailed David's remonstration and Jack's recitation with a firm tone and an upraised palm. “Although I am aware of the content of the Declaration,” he said with a nod to Jack as he turned to David, “I still appreciate the honest and heartfelt viewpoint of our Patriot citizens.” Washington called, “Billy—”

The man in the corner laid down his pen, came over and set a bulbous pair of leather pouches onto the desktop. After muttering some instruction into the general's ear, Billy took a position immediately to his left. Astride or afoot, the general's body servant was never far from his side. Always dressed in blue and buff livery to match his master's well-tailored uniform, the slave Billy Lee was almost as famous as Washington himself.

The general rose to his feet and came around his desk. Jack knew Washington for a tall man, but having only seen him on horseback, he was surprised to be bested in height by at least two inches. Washington handed one of the heavy pouches to Jack.

“A small emolument in gratitude for your brave and most valuable service.” After passing the other pouch to Titus, the Commander in Chief shook them both by the hand, and they were dismissed.

Running harum-scarum down the wide stairway, leaping the steps three at a time, they tore out of City Hall to skitter around the corner of the building, where they stopped to kick off wet shoes and evaluate the content of their reward.

“Silver!” Titus exclaimed upon opening his pouch.

Jack counted quickly. “Fifty Spanish dollars!”

“He gave me forty!” Titus beamed, wide-eyed. “Forty dollars!”

“That's not right.” Jack moved five coins from his pouch into Titus's. “Fair is fair.” He then added three more. “And there's what I owe from darts.” Jack threw an arm around Titus's broad shoulders. “Now let's go celebrate.”

“Phew!”
Titus shoved Jack away. “You stink worse than the inside of my musty ol' shoe.”

“Well, you're no sweet perfume yourself. Tell you what—” Jack said. “Let's go home and wash up. I'll meet you at the Commons in an hour, and then we can treat ourselves to the best supper offered at Montagne's!”

“Fried oysters.” Titus grinned. “And a thick, juicy beefsteak . . .”

“Gravy and Irish potatoes . . .”

“Wash it all down with a bottle of the finest Madeira!”

“A bottle for me, and a bottle for you.” Jack raised his pouch to his ear with a shake, the silver jingling a happy song. “As you well know—us being colleagues and companions—money is no object.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THOMAS PAINE,
Common Sense