Chains (12 page)

“Dear God protect us,” Madam prayed. “How much do they know? Wait one moment.”

I took the steps two at a time and was near the top when Madam stepped into the hall and pointed at me.

“Forget the fan, girl. We need firewood for the library,” she said sternly. “Now.”

Lockton and Madam were exchanging heated words across his desk by the time I bought in an armload of wood and a few coals from the kitchen in the copper coal carrier. They seemed not to notice as I walked in.

“You are abandoning me?” Madam asked.

“You'll be safer here.” Lockton dumped a folio of papers on his desk and rooted through the mess. “Aunt Seymour isn't leaving, and we have credit with all the merchants.”

“Your aunt despises me,” Madam said. “You must stay to defend our name and honor.”

I arranged the wood so that it would not catch quickly, set the hot coals underneath it, leaned forward, and blew gently.

“I am guilty, Anne. They won't give me a parole this time. But as soon as the rebels are driven out, I shall return.”

“What if they arrest me?” Madam asked. “Let me go with you.”

“You must stay to keep them from stealing all that we own.”

Madam picked the blue china snuff jar off the desk and flung it against the wall. It shattered and left a mark on the plaster. “I will not!” she shouted. “I will not be left at the mercy of our enemies while you slink away!”

Despite my best intentions, the kindling wood caught hold of a spark and burst into flame.

Master Lockton crossed the room to pick up the keys that had been hidden in the jar. He placed them in his pocket, then, without warning, hit Madam with all the force in
his arm. She flew into the bookcase, causing several books to tumble to the ground. I almost reached for her but was afraid to anger Lockton any further.

“I command you to stay here, Anne. This is your duty and you will obey me.” He turned to me. “The fire is satisfactory. Leave us.”

“Yessir.”

As I closed the door, Madam started in again, begging him to take her with him, or at least to let her know where he was going.

A carpenter soon arrived and nailed the master into a large crate marked CHEESE. As the final boards were being put into place, Lockton told Madam that he would first head north, then to Dr. van Buskirk's house in Bergen County.

Three men loaded the heavy crate onto a cart driven by a man I had never seen before.

Becky tended to Madam's battle wounds with ointment and medicinal wine. I offered to fetch Lady Seymour, but in truth, I planned to run the news of Lockton's escape to the rebels as fast as I could. Madam insisted we all stay in the house with the doors and windows locked. She passed the night burning packets of papers in the fire and demanding gallons of tea and fresh biscuits.

When the soldiers arrived at dawn to arrest the master, his business papers were all ash and the crate of “cheese” was long gone. The angry soldiers tore through the library but found nothing, save for the shards of the snuff jar. These they stomped under their boots before they departed.

Becky went to market and left me to clean the mess. She returned with a freshly killed hen and a basket full of
beet greens. Before Becky could remove her bonnet, Madam shuffled into the kitchen.

“What news?” Madam demanded. Her red eyes perched above dark rings from a sleepless night. A livid purple welt had raised on the left side of her face where Lockton had struck her. Most of the bruises on her arms and shoulders were hid under her gown, but she walked stiff and sore as an old crone.

Becky gave her the gossip from the market stalls. Conspirators who plotted against the American cause had been arrested all over the city and in several close-by villages. The mayor, two doctors, a shoemaker, a tailor, a chandler, a gunsmith, a drummer, and a fifer were all charged with treason and a host of other offenses.

“How did they uncover the plot?” Madam asked.

I picked up the beheaded chicken and carried it to a basin. I held it by the feet so the last of the blood could drain out before I plucked it.

Becky hung her hat on its hook and pinned on her apron. “One of the conspirators flapped his mouth and the story poured out. Hickey, his name is, a tall Irishman who served in General Washington's Life Guards.”

“Did anyone mention Master Lockton?”

“Only that he was one of them that got away, ma'am. They caught one feller trying to cross the East River. Couldn't row hard enough against the tide. The master is well out of harm's way.”

“Which is more than I can say about myself,” Madam muttered, gingerly rubbing the violet bruises on her wrist.

… RECEIVED INFORMATION THAT A MOST HORRID PLOT WAS ON FOOT BY THE VILE TORY'S OF THIS PLACE … TO ASSASSINATE … HIS EXCELLENCY, AND THE OTHER GENERAL OFFICERS–BLOW UP THE [GUNPOWDER] MAGAZINE, SPIKE THE CANNON, ETC…. HOPE THEY WILL RECEIVE THE PUNISHMENT DUE SUCH INFAMOUS WRETCHES. –JOURNAL OF SAMUEL B. WEBB, WASHINGTON'S AIDE-DE-CAMP

Shortly after the clock struck ten on Friday morning, thousands of boots echoed against the cobblestones of Broadway. Every soldier in New York was marching up island to attend the hanging of Thomas Hickey, the man who almost assassinated General George Washington.

Becky urged me to go. “There's nothing like a good hanging, is there?” She gave the face of the grandfather clock another swipe with the dust rag. “Keep an eye on your sister, though. Little ones disappear in big crowds.”

“What about Madam?” I asked.

“Nothing to worry about there, eh?” Becky pointed upstairs, where Madam lay atop the coverlet on her bed, asleep. She had stayed muddy in strong wine since Lockton fled the city.

The thought of a hanging turned my belly, but Colonel Regan would likely be there. Perhaps he would provide an escort for Ruth and me direct from the gallows to the wharf.

“Go on,” Becky said again. “It'll be good for you to get some air. Fetch a bucket of water home with you, mind. I wager Madam will wake with a thumping headache.”

Ruth and I found ourselves in a tide of people moving north. The wave spread out once it reached the Commons, where the prison, the barracks, and a large sugarhouse stood. Beyond the hills to the north lay the African Burial Ground and beyond that, the big pond called the Collect. This was the one spot in the city where twenty thousand folk could gather. I could scarce credit the number, but it was on everyone's lips.

Ruth watched the crowd with big eyes and shy smiles for strangers, but she did not release my hand and kept her doll baby clutched tight to her. I half expected to see vendors selling cinnamon water, boiled sweets, and currant cakes, and a conjure man who could juggle two balls and a stool. There were none in sight, but the air of high spirits made it feel like a fair day.

I took Ruth by the hand and led her around the back side of Bridewell Prison, toward the Tea Water Pump, where there were other slaves and servants gathered. I nodded polite and murmured my “Good day” to the old man we called Grandfather and the others who were familiar.

Ruth sat in the dust. I turned our bucket upside down, sat on it, pulled a length of string from my pocket, and wove it into a fanciful pattern around my fingers.

“Cratch-cradle!” Ruth said, clapping her hands. We lost ourselves in play, our fingers making Candles, Triangles, Diamonds, and the Manger.

Suddenly there came a rough shout from the center of the Commons. The crowd muttered, some folks craning their necks to see. Ruth giggled and held out her hands to me. She had made a complete mishmash of the string and could not untangle her fingers from the knot.

There came another shout, then the drummers started beating their snares. The noise crackled like lightning.

“Game's over,” I said to Ruth, freeing her hands and pulling her to her feet.

The crowd surrounding the Commons had swelled to include the entire army and every soul in the city except for Madam and Becky. I scanned the rows of officers lined up behind the gallows, looking for Colonel Regan. I could pick out General Washington astride his big gray horse at the center of the line. Next to him was the rather large figure of Colonel Knox and countless other officers I could not name. Colonel Regan was not to be seen, but he could have been rows to the back.
Blast.
I should have realized they would be in formation, not scattered amongst the common folk.

Another shouted order echoed off the stone front of the prison. Near one hundred soldiers stepped out of the ranks and snapped to attention. The bayonets fixed to the ends of their long muskets flashed in the sun.

The drummers continued beating, sweat trickling down their faces.

“Bet you never saw this out in the country,” a familiar voice said in my ear.

I whirled with a gasp.

Curzon laughed at my astonishment. “Miss me?” he asked.

“What are you doing here? Where have you been?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice low. “Much is afoot.”

He nodded his head toward the gallows. “So I see.”

I opened my mouth to ask the first of a thousand questions, but he quickly put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he warned.

Ruth put her arms in the air and grunted. She was tired of staring at the backsides of the people crowding around us.

I shook my head. “You're too big to pick up.”

“No, she's not.” Before I could protest, Curzon tossed his ridiculous hat at me and lifted Ruth up to a perch on his left shoulder. She squealed with delight and a little fear and hung on to his neck so tightly he looked to choke.

I glanced at the red hat in my hands. A name was written on a scrap of fabric affixed to the crown—
James.

“James?” I wondered aloud. If he heard me, Curzon took no notice. His eyes raked the crowd, looking intently but giving no clue about what he sought.

I cupped a hand to my mouth and whispered in his ear. “When will they send for Ruth and me? Colonel Regan promised to help.”

“The world turns upside down every day.” He kept his eyes straight ahead and one hand on Ruth's back to hold her steady. “The time will come, you'll see.”

The drums beat faster. My heart sped up to match the rhythm.

The drums stopped.

“Here he comes!” someone called.

A guard marched Hickey out of the prison and across the yard to the gallows, his uniform dirty but buttoned. He kept his eyes on the steps that led up to the platform. He did not look at the rope that awaited him.

The crowd had recovered its voice and was screaming vile curses. Cabbages, rotten apples, and a dead cat were thrown in the direction of the traitor. He flinched as an egg sailed past his nose, but the men holding his elbows kept their backs straight and their boots marching forward.

Hickey was halted in front of the captain of the guard. The captain said something that we couldn't hear, then he pulled the sword from his scabbard, and sliced the epaulets off Hickey's shoulders. He folded them and placed them in his pocket, then brought the sword down in a sweep across the front of Hickey's chest, neatly slicing off the buttons from the traitor's coat. The buttons fell one by one into the dust.

Ruth stopped giggling.

A preacher stepped out of the crowd and approached Hickey, a Bible in his hand. The captain nodded curtly at the preacher and said something else to Hickey, again too low for us to hear. Hickey said nothing, but he had started to tremble. The captain spat on Hickey's boots, took one step back, and slid his sword home into the scabbard. The preacher murmured to Hickey and got no response, so took him by the hand and led him to the wooden stairs that led up to his fate.

“He's crying,” I said.

“Good,” Curzon said.

When he got to the top of the steps, Hickey turned around so the hangman could bind his wrists behind him. The drummers started beating their snares again, louder than before. The aide on horseback next to General Washington spoke, and the general leaned forward to hear better. He was by far the tallest man in sight. He agreed with whatever the aide said and patted his horse's neck. The animal tossed his mane and pawed at the ground.

The crowd had grown so loud that Ruth released Curzon's neck and covered her ears with her hands. She whimpered once. I held out my arms and she slid into them. I lowered her to the ground. She stood near on top of my shoes, grasped my apron, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

The hangman led Hickey to the center of the platform. He placed the knotted noose around Hickey's neck, tightened it, then helped him climb onto an upright barrel. The captain of the guard raised his hand. The drumming stopped.

The crowd fell still.

The captain of the guard unrolled a sheet of paper and read the charges in a loud voice. “Thomas Hickey, you have been court-martialed and found guilty of the capital crimes of mutiny and sedition, of holding a treacherous correspondence with, and receiving pay from, the enemy for the most horrid and detestable purposes, and you have been sentenced to hang from the neck until dead. You are a disgrace to your country.”

He rolled the paper back up. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

With that pronouncement, the hangman kicked the barrel away.

The crowd gasped.

I covered Ruth's eyes with my hands and closed my own.

SIR, WE HAVE BEEN TOO LONG DEAF. WE HAVE TOO LONG SHOWN OUR FORBEARANCE AND LONG-SUFFERING…. OUR THUNDERS MUST GO FORTH. AMERICA MUST BE CONQUERED. –ALEXANDER WEDDERBURN, SOLICITOR GENERAL OF ENGLAND, TO GEORGE III, KING OF ENGLAND

Most heartily we beseech thee with thy favor to behold our most gracious Sovereign Lord King George, and to replenish him with the grace of thy Holy Spirit”—the minister paused to draw breath—“and bless our gracious Queen Charlotte, their Royal Highnesses George Prince of Wales, the Princess Dowager of Wales, and all the Royal Family …”