Chains (11 page)

There!

From the farthest reach of the drawer I pulled out a single sheet, folded once. I held it up to the light and quickly read; it was a list of names, with the mayor's at the bottom. He had titled it “Committee to Preserve the King's Peace.”

I tucked the paper in my pocket, tied it tight, and slipped it under the waistband of my skirt where it could not be seen. I closed and relocked the drawer, then carefully returned the keys to their hiding place.

I tiptoed back through the house and slipped outside, quiet as a ghost.

The air was hot and dripping, as if the city were wrapped in a wool blanket just pulled from a boiling pot. I made my way along the streets seen only by cats, rats, and a slave hurrying by with a bundle on her head. Since she carried a lantern, and no doubt had a pass from her master, she was allowed to be out walking after dark.

I was not.

The woman said nothing as she passed by me but started singing the second verse of “Yankee Doodle” in a strong voice, which I thought curious indeed.

I listened close to the words.
“Father and I went down to camp, Along with Captain Gooding; And there we saw the men and boys, As thick as hasty pudding….”

She was sending me a message.

I dove behind a log barricade just as two soldiers turned the corner, talking intently to each other and sweeping the street with their eyes. I said a quick prayer of thanks to the singing woman for her help.

When the echoes of the soldiers' boots had vanished, I moved on, staying away from the lights of the sentry fires, passing under the dark shadow of King George's statue in the Bowling Green, and hurrying to my destination.

*   *   *

The Battery was the fort at the southern tip of the island, with high walls and cannons that pointed over the water to discourage enemies. It was headquarters of the Patriot army in New York. Even if General Washington was elsewhere, here I could find an officer who would understand the value of the list.

I marched past the rows of tents set up on the grounds outside of the fort, trying very hard to ignore the men and boys who stared as I walked by. As I neared the gate, a sentry stepped out and blocked my way. “Do you have a pass, girl?”

I swallowed hard and tried to remember the name of the colonel who worked with Master Bellingham.
Fagen, Jaden, McReadan …

“Well?” A few other soldiers drinking coffee outside of their tents had stopped talking to observe.

“Please, sir,” I said, polite and firm. “I've come with an urgent message for …”
Regan!
“For Colonel Regan, sir.”

“Tell me, and I'll see that he gets it.”

“I cannot,” I said. “I must deliver it to him personally, sir.”

“Who's your master?”

Telling a lie would not benefit me. “A Loyalist, sir, who would beat me bloody if he knew I was here.”

He looked me over and yawned. “Come on, then. I could do with a walk to keep me awake.”

I followed him inside, past a room of men sleeping on the floor, along a hall to a small room where a low fire smoldered in the hearth, a chair drawn up before it. The moonlight had broke free of the clouds again and lay in gray pools beneath the windows. A table stood by the door, where a heavy-set man scratched away on a piece of paper, his work lit by a half-dozen candle stubs that would soon burn out.

The soldier drew himself up to his full height. “This girl has a message, sir. Claims it must be delivered in person.”

The man lifted a hand in the air and continued with what he was writing. I tried to make out what it was, but his scribble was dreadful bad. Finally, he laid down his quill, moved his spectacles high on his nose, and peered through them at me.

“What is it?” he rasped. His voice sounded raw, like it had been run against a grater. An onion poultice was tied around his neck.

I dropped in a polite curtsy. “I have information for Colonel Regan.”

“Who sent you? Who is your master?”

“I cannot say.”

“Then who will vouch for you?”

“Ah, I vouch for myself, sir. I am new in the city and know only a boy named Curzon.”

One caterpillar eyebrow lifted above the glasses as he recognized the name. “Bellingham's Curzon?” He coughed loudly and sprayed drops of spittle on the page. “He's all bluster.” He dipped his quill in the ink pot and continued to write. “Take her away, sergeant. I am too busy for this.”

My escort grabbed hold of my arm. “Come now.”

I tried to break free. “Please hear me out.” I shook my arm and twisted. “They want to kill him.”

I pulled with all my might and lost my footing. Both the sergeant and me stumbled against the table. The ink bottle overturned and poured across the table and papers. The sick man jumped up with a mighty curse and several ugly statements about my character.

“They want to kill the general!” I finally pulled free of the sergeant's grasp. “I have proof.”

The man was concerned only with rescuing his papers from the spreading pool of ink. “Sergeant, remove this bird-wit!”

“Do not touch her.” The commanding voice came from the center of the room.

The sergeant stood at attention. The man with inky hands did too, swallowing hard and wincing at the pain in his throat. A figure rose from the high-backed chair that stood in front of the hearth. He wore the dark blue coat of an officer, with buttons and buckles that reflected the firelight. His features stayed in the shadows, but I could see a book in his left hand, his finger marking the page.

“Leave us,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

“As you wish, Colonel Regan, sir,” said the man whose clothes were stained blue by the papers he clutched to his chest.

When the door was pulled behind them, Colonel Regan returned to his seat. “Come here,” he told me. “Show me what you've brought and tell your story, but keep your voice low. The walls have ears.”

“Yes, sir.” My voice strangulated a bit.

The colonel tugged at his coat as he sat down. He was not wearing a wig as did most gentlemen. His own hair was dark, pulled back into a neat queue, and tied with string. His eyes were sunk deep into his face, with dark hollows underneath them.

“Well?” He set the book on his lap, finger still marking the place he left off reading.

I weighed my words before I spoke. “I am in a position to trade with you, sir.”

“What kind of trade?”

“My sister and I were wrongfully taken from Rhode Island. I mean to get us back there.”

“You want passage home in exchange for what you know.”

“Yes,” I said, lifting my chin a little. “Sir.”

He nodded gravely. “If your information is as useful as you think it is, I shall personally look into your case, miss.”

That was far from a berth on a swift ship, but I had little choice.

“They plan to kill General Washington.”

He closed the book, set it on the floor, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Tell me all.”

I handed him the list and quickly told him everything I knew. He interrupted a few times with questions and had me repeat the mayor's words. Then he bade me to wait by the dying fire as he left the room, and soon reappeared with four other men, all clearly dragged from their beds. I was fighting to stay awake myself, but I repeated the story to the larger assembly.

A quarrel began instantly, the arguments flying across the room.

“How do we know Lockton didn't send her with a false story?”

“That's just a list of names. Anyone could have written it.”

“I know the mayor's handwriting. And those are dyed-in-the-wool Loyalists, every one.”

“I don't believe they've turned a Life Guard. Those men are the finest we have. This is nonsense and I'm going back to bed.”

“Her story confirms what we've heard from other sources.” This from Colonel Regan. He explained that several spies had brought him the same rumor earlier in the day. He walked to the hearth and looked at the glowing embers. “All that remains is to decide what to do with the information. Who has the list?”

A man wearing his uniform coat over his nightshirt waved the paper in the air.

“Return it to the girl.”

“Why on earth would we do that?” he asked.

“I want her to plant it back where she found it. 'Tis best they believe their plan is still secret. That improves our chances of rounding them up.”

The man handed the list back to me. I thought for a moment about tossing it on the fire, for it suddenly seemed frightful dangerous, but I folded it back in my pocket.

“Do you think you'll be able to return it to his desk?” Colonel Regan asked me.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“If you hear anything else, anything at all, you come and find me, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” I hesitated. “And you'll soon help my sister and me get home.”

His eyes darted to his companions, then back to me. “I shall do what is in my power,” he promised.

“Thank you, sir.”

“She'll need the code to get back into camp,” said the man in the nightshirt. “The new regulations go out at dawn.”

“Agreed.” Colonel Regan bent down so that his face was level with mine. “Do not tell this to another soul, on pain of death. Do you swear?”

“I swear,” I whispered.

“The code is ‘ad astra.' Repeat it, please.”

“Adastra?” I had never heard such a word, but then again, I'd never before spoken a code.

“Two words: ‘ad astra.' It's Latin; it means ‘to the stars.' Will you be able to remember it?”

“I never forget a thing. Sir.”

AMONG ALL THE SPECIES AND DEGREES OF SLAVERY THAT HAVE EXCITED THE ATTENTION OF MANKIND … THERE IS PERHAPS NONE MORE PITIABLE THAN THAT OF THE ILL-SOOTED WIFE. SHE IS BOUND BY TIES FROM WHICH NOTHING BUT DEATH CAN RELEASE HER, AND WHATEVER HER SUFFERING AND HER WRONGS IS COMPELLED BY DELICACY AND A REGARD FOR PERSONAL REPUTATION … TO SUBMIT TO THEM IN SILENCE, AND CONCEAL THEM FROM OBSERVATION. –UNSIGNED COLONIAL-ERA LETTER

What with my busy night as a true spy, code word and all, and the heat in the upper gallery of Trinity Church, I fell sound asleep during the sermon the next morning. I woke when the people around me stood, so startled that I popped up from the pew and near toppled over the railing.

The next two days were long and hot as I awaited word from Colonel Regan. Master Lockton did not notice that his list of coconspirators was a little handworn; he was too busy visiting the mayor at his home in Flatbush and spending hours at his warehouse reviewing his accounts.

Madam took her meals upstairs. Only Becky was allowed
to serve her because of Madam's fear of the demons she claimed inhabited Ruth. Becky said Madam sat sighing by the window and shuffling a deck of playing cards over and over. We did not bother keeping Ruth away from the milk, of course. Instead, we kept one ear open for the thud of Madam's feet on the stairs. When she approached the kitchen, one of us would whisk Ruth down to the cellar.

Ruth understood none of this. She did not complain about the egg-sized lump on her head or anything else. After we finished our business in the privy each morning, I took her to check our mystery garden. The green shoots were two hands tall but gave no clue about their identity. It was perfect growing weather, especially for flowers and corn and strawberries. It was perfect weather for going home.

I practiced the code over and over until it felt like a prayer in my mouth.
Ad astra, ad astra, ad astra.
I was desperate to talk to Colonel Regan about our release from the city but dared not leave Ruth alone in the house with Madam Lockton. The thought of Madam putting Ruth up to auction was a constant torment, like bees darting in and out of my sight, daring me to swat at them.

The gossip from the market was fantastical. Becky brought back tales of sea monsters chasing the British fleet and a two-headed calf born outside Philadelphia that portended all manner of disaster. Folks were prickly and fearful. Loyalist shopkeepers had been tarred and feathered by angry mobs and their shops destroyed. Each day dawned hotter than the one before.

Ad astra, ad astra, ad astra.

*   *   *

Two mornings after my meeting with the colonel, a visitor pounded at the kitchen door. I was kneeling on the other side of it, polishing the lock with an oily rag and rottenstone. The noise near gave me apoplexy.

When I opened the door, I was shocked to see not a messenger, but the rotund figure of Mr. Goldbuttons. Instead of wearing a hat or coat, he had a long cloak draped over his head, and his wig sat askew.

He stormed past me toward the stairs. “Is your master still abed?” he shouted back at me.

“Yessir.”

Goldbuttons dropped his cloak on the floor and ran up the stairs as if his breeches were on fire. A moment later, Master Lockton bellowed like a stuck bull, then thudded heavily across the floor and yelled for Becky.

The plot to kill Washington had been uncovered.

I was sent to fetch Madam home, for she had gone to call on a friend. Goldbuttons had vanished by the time we returned. Madam hurried to the library and told me to fetch her ivory fan from her bedchamber for she was feeling faint from heat and excitement. As she opened the door, I caught glimpse of the master pacing frantically, his nightcap still on his head.

He looked up and saw us. “Thank heavens. There is much to do and no time. The worst has happened, Anne.”

I started up the stairs to fetch the fan, moving slow as possible to overhear their words.

“What is the meaning of this, Elihu?” Madam demanded.

“Listen carefully,” Lockton interrupted. “The rebels know. I've sent for a cart. We must burn my papers.”