The Tory Widow (33 page)

Oh, dear Lord, please, please let that be the reason for this long, awful silence
. For the heinous alternatives sidling into her head, nipping and nibbling at her best hopes and wishes, were much too horrible to contemplate.

Anne closed her eyes. Reaching into her pocket she wrapped her fingers around the cast-iron token Jack had given her at the Bowling Green, the rough, ragged edge biting into her skin a comfort.

Anne blinked open her eyes and studied the display of china and silver on the tray, and added an additional cup and saucer to it. Forcing a smile on her face, she carried the service over to Blankenship's table.

“I hope you don't mind, gentlemen, if I join you for morning tea . . .”

The three soldiers scrambled to their feet, and Lieutenant Wemyss offered a chair to Anne, draping his jacket over his arm. “I couldn't think of a more delightful way to start the day, Mrs. Merrick, but I am off to find a tailor.” He showed Anne a huge rent in the seam under the right sleeve of his regimental coat.

“I recommend Mulligan's—at the sign of the Thimble and Shears on Queen Street.” Anne smoothed her skirts under as she sat. “An Irishman, but he does excellent work for a very fair price. Make sure you mention my name.”

“Aye, Wemyss—” Stuart teased. “Have the tailor put a few gussets in your breeches as well. I swear you've gained at least two stone in the time we've been quartered above the Crown and Quill.”

Good-natured Wemyss gave his growing middle a pat as he headed toward the door. “Evidence of my penchant for Miss Sally and her sumptuous shortbread.”

Once Wemyss disappeared out the door, Stuart excused himself. Mumbling something about lending Sally “a helping hand,” he made a beeline for the back of the shop.

“My men are both smitten with your maid.” Blankenship dropped a lump of sugar into the tea Anne poured for him. “In this contest, I predict Stuart will prevail—he is the more cunning of the two.”

“I would not wager on it.” Anne watched Sally going about her business clearing tables and collecting coins, offering Stuart nothing other than the coldest of cold shoulders.

“I'm glad to have a moment alone with you, Anne, there is something I want to ask.” Edward Blankenship had taken to falling into the familiar when they spoke privately. “I was wondering if you would be willing to accompany me to the ball being held for the King's birthday, a little more than a week from today? There will be music and merrymaking . . .”

“I would be most happy to attend, Edward. Thank you for inviting me.” Anne beamed.

“Wonderful! It is predicted by some to be the last grand event for the summer . . .”

“The last . . . but why? Is the army leaving?” Eyes wide, Anne touched a finger to her lips. “Don't tell me the city's to be abandoned to the rebels once again!”

“Poor Anne.” Blankenship leaned forward. Reaching across the table, he took hold of her hand. “I wish you wouldn't worry so. What can I do to assure you there are no plans to abandon the city?”

“You are a great comfort to me, Edward.” Anne shifted forward in her chair. “It is so wearisome—the uncertainty—I only wish General Howe would put an end to this war.”

“The end is in sight.” Edward's voice dropped. “To your ears alone I can tell this—General Clinton is on his way from London after being knighted by the King, and he has been assigned to a post here in New York City. I'm certain he will present plans to Howe and we will soon move against the rebels—at last.”

Anne put on a pout and gave his hand a squeeze. “Are you so anxious to leave us, Captain?”

“It's just I'm afraid our army is becoming a bit too fat and happy in New York. And though I am most anxious to crush this rebellion once and for all, I always regret having to leave you, dearest Anne, as I must now.” Blankenship brought Anne's hand up and brushed her fingers to his lips. “Off to headquarters with me.” He rose to don his jacket and headgear, the glaring death's-head on his helmet's crown lending his boyish good looks a level of fierceness. “Good day to you, Mrs. Merrick.”

“Good day, Captain.”

Anne gathered all the dirty cups and teaspoons onto the tray and carried it back to the kitchenhouse. “Do you have any laundry ready for the line, Sal?”

“Aye.” Sally smiled. “There's a full basket ready near the cistern.”

Anne hitched the laundry basket onto one hip, and carried it up the two long flights of stairs to the garret. Sitting on the windowsill in Sally's room, facing the street, Anne pinned the wet laundry to the clothesline strung across the lane between the two buildings—two white petticoats, one red petticoat, followed by three more white petticoats. The wooden pulleys squeaked a merry tune as she tugged on the line, centering the petticoat array over the lane—the signal to her unknown accomplice, indicating she had intelligence to deliver.

TRAVELING with the current, Jack and Titus moved fast, sculling tight to the Manhattan shore, careful to keep cover within the deepening shadows cast by the setting sun. A lone night heron barked a call as they streamed past, adding a noisy voice to the rhythmic
ching-chinging
crickets and katydid buzz.

No matter the type of craft, or time of day, Jack was never at ease when riding on water, and manning the oars of a broad-beamed pettiauger conveying fifty barrels of contraband along a waterway patrolled by the Royal Navy put a definite edge on a pleasant spring evening.

Jack paused in his rowing, and pointed. “Just ahead there . . .”

Titus drew in his oars and took up the tiller. With a keen eye and a deft touch, he knifed the sharp end of the boat through a barely discernable and very narrow defile in a barrier of tumbled mica-flecked stones. The natural divide sheltered a rocky river edging, where two dark figures hovered near a laden flatboat beached in the shadow of steep, craggy cliffs.

“Watch and ward now . . .” Jack muttered over his shoulder, tugging an oar from the lock.

Titus let loose the tiller, and pulled a pair of pistols free from the red sash tied around his waist, his face settling into a fearsome scowl.

Jack used an oar to pole the boat through the shallow water, running it aground on the riverbank in a crunch of wood to gravel. Jumping over the side, he secured a line to a jutting stone.

As the figures moved from the shadows, Titus leveled his pistols, clacking back the hammers, and Jack zinged his knife from his boot.

Two large, broad men in loose oilcloth jackets and patched-over canvas trousers stepped into the dwindling twilight. The shorter of the two missed several teeth in his grin, and sported a brown-and-white-striped quail feather in his wooly knit cap. Tucking a stout oaken cudgel back into his belt, he approached with arms outstretched. “Titus! M' heart's broken, you black bastard! It's me—Dodd!”

A permanent squint in the taller man's left eye put a surly twist to his square face. He slung the short-barreled blunderbuss in his hands to his shoulder, and called in a familiar rasp, sounding as if his throat'd been scoured with lye, “Sheath that stinger, Hampton! Dontcha recognize your ol' friend Tully?”

Jack and Titus relaxed, put by their weapons, and greeted the smugglers with smiles, handshakes and pats on the back. Tully was a Liberty Boy, bred from the days of the Stamp Act, and Jack recognized Dodd as one of the men who huddled near the dartboard at the Cup and Quill, often trounced by Titus.

“Can't be too careful doing business these days, eh?” Jack gave Tully's blunderbuss a tap.

Tully laughed. “When we come out light on details, we're heavy with ammunition.”

“Aye, that—especially with the bloodybacks as close as a wet cunt to a whore's arse.” Feather bobbing, Dodd nodded to the pettiauger. “Best get to it. What've ye brought us, lads?”

Titus whisked back the tarpaulin covering their cargo. “Thirty barrels of beef, and twenty of wheaten flour, ten barrels of pickled cabbage.”

“Meat and flour? I dunno . . .” Dodd scrubbed his bristly chin. “Cabbage? I s'pose we can take it all off your hands . . . me and Tully being friends to the cause and all . . .”

“Quit shitting through your teeth, Dodd,” Titus warned.

Jack bristled. “We know full well meat and flour are going for eight times the price in the city. You'd best make a fair reckoning here, Dodd . . . for the cause and all.”

Aggrieved, Dodd put a hand to his heart, a practiced, pained expression furrowing his forehead. “Jack . . . Titus . . .”

“Ah, now . . .” Tully stepped in. “Doddsy just can't help himself, Jack—drawn to the swindle like a pig to mud, he is. O' course we'll make a fair trade. Our stock for yours.” Tully waved them over to the flatboat piled high with goods draped in old sailcloth. They gathered around as Tully pulled the cover away.

“We picked and chose our goods with the cause in mind,” Dodd offered, in appeasement.

Tully recited the inventory. “Forty-five casks of black powder, nine dozen rose blankets, ten cases of port wine and”—prying up the lid on a wooden crate, he displayed row upon row of flints knapped to size for musket or rifle, packed in sawdust—“a thousand Brandon black gunflints.”

“A very good trade, Tully.” Titus plucked a handful of flints from the case and deposited them into his pocket.

“We don't have room enough for the wine, but we'll take the rest.” Jacked unfurled one of the big woolen blankets. “Good quality this—thieved from British military stores?”

“Ah, now, Jack,
thieved
is a bit harsh.” Tully grinned, his squinty eye squashed to a crease. “
Diverted
is the more accurate term.”

Dodd chuckled. “Aye, mate—that's what we are—
die-verters
.”

Tully drew his wooden-handled lading hook from his belt. “Let's get to work, lads.”

They propped a pair of long, thick planks against the prow, forming a ramp of sorts leading to dry land. Plying their stevedore hooks with practiced expertise, Tully and Dodd hefted the heavy barrels of beef and flour onto the ramp. Jack and Titus rolled the barrels down into a neat stack on the beach.

Once the craft was emptied of its cargo, they rolled the gunpowder casks up the plank ramp for Tully and Dodd to arrange with a mind for weight and balance.

Jack dumped two bales of blankets inside the boat. “So, Tully, how are you faring under Redcoat rule?”

“Plenty of work for the likes of us at least.” Tully swiveled a cask into position. “British shipping backed up at every pier—coming in faster than we can unload 'em . . .”

“Aye. The docks are fair groaning with trade goods and military stores—more tea and sugar than anyone knows what to do with—”

“Good opportunities for you boys, eh?” Titus winked.

“Getting rough, the diverting business,” Dodd said. “Ye can't fart on the docks these days but for having Cunningham's nose hard up your arse.”

“Tory bugger,” Tully added.

Titus heaved a crate of flints into the boat, and shoved it under the cross thwart near the tiller. “Who's Cunningham?”

“The provost marshall . . .” Dodd said. “And a nasty piece of work, he is, too.”

“Mean and nasty,” Tully added.

Dodd hefted a cask of powder into position and fit it snug between two others. “Y'know Molly? Over at Mother Babcock's? Well, she told me the bastard wields a one-inch prick . . .”

“Must be some truth to it,” Tully affirmed. “I heard Suzy say the bastard's shot pouch was longer than the barrel of his gun.”

Titus dropped the last of the blankets into the boat. “Make any man mean—havin' a little bitty prick . . .”

“I don't know about that . . .” Jack threw his arm around Titus. “After all, you're a nice enough fellow . . .”

Dodd and Tully laughed, and Titus pushed his friend off, shaking a finger in his face. “Not a joking matter, Jack . . .”

“Ah, lads, all jests aside, this provost will hang you as soon as look at you. Hates rebels with a fury, and his gallows is doing a brisk business by it.” Tully leaned against the gunwale, finagling his lading hook down the back of his collar, giving himself a good scratch. “You know this fella Cunningham, Jack—from a tar and feather couple years back—the spitting snake of a Tory who wouldn't damn the King even after we beat the living shite from him—”

“
No!
That bollocks is the provost?”

“One and the same.” Tully buried his hook into a bale of blankets and tossed it toward the bow. “The city's much changed.”

Once all the cargo was transferred, packed tight and secured, Jack and Titus sat down on a flat rock by the water's edge and shared a supper of smoked fish, biscuit and cheese with the smugglers before getting under way.

“Doddsy—why don't you go and fetch a couple of them bottles, and we can have a sip of port after our meal like the fancy folk do.” As soon as Dodd was out of earshot, Tully grabbed Jack by the arm, his raspy voice low and slow in his ear. “Stitch says there's a delivery waiting at the orchard—over three and up six.”

Jack nodded just as Dodd returned with two bottles and a tin of “diverted” almond comfits. The men waited out the last scraps of twilight, watching the stars pop onto a night sky clear of clouds, passing bottles and sweetmeats and catching up on the news.

Dodd piped up. “D'ye hear, Titus? The Redcoats captured Sam Fraunces in New Jersey, and put him back in his tavern to cook and pull pints for 'em.”