Chains (26 page)

Christmas,
Momma's voice reminded.
Keep Christmas.

For the second time on the very same day, tears threatened. I rubbed them away and vowed not to cry again. 'Twas a nuisance.

I found myself studying the loaf of bread on the table. A sharp knife showed up in my hand and the loaf was soon cut into fat slices. A chipped crockery bowl appeared from the pantry, alongside the butter and eggs and milk and the sugar loaf and the nutmeg grater and the small amber flask.

I baked me a maple syrup bread pudding in the Rhode Island style.

While it cooked, I cleaned myself up good and proper. I thought about stealing a piece of Madam's rose-scented soap, but that would have made me smell like her. I preferred to smell like strong lye. I washed my arms and legs and the
back of my neck and my ears and my face and I dried myself with a soft, clean rag. I frowned as I stepped back into my clothes. I'd grown some and they didn't fit proper. I'd let out the seams of the bodice as much as I could and taken out the hem of the skirt. Much more growing and I'd look a right scandal.

But I wouldn't think on that now. I was trying to make a Christmas.

I pulled on my dry stockings and stepped into my new shoes even though they rubbed fierce on the popped blisters. I put the bowl of bread pudding into a basket, tied on my cloak, and wound up my hands in rags to keep the frost from biting.

I walked out the back door. It was not yet midnight, so in truth, 'twas still the day I could call my own. I set my path westward to the burned-over district, to Canvastown.

The line where September's fire had stopped was sharp cut. First a house with no damage, next a house still bearing black streaks of soot and smoke, then a field of ruin, with makeshift hovels crafted from tent, brick, and scorched timbers. Rats nibbled on frozen garbage heaps. The smell of the fire still lingered, tainted with the smell of filth and decay.

But in the bleakness, there were spots of hope. A wreath was stuck on the front of a tent. Children's clothes hung from a clothesline, stiff with ice, but still sweet-looking. A butter churn stood watch over a neat stack of fresh-split wood. Smoke swirled slow from the top of a chimney, dipped at the roof line, then rose up to the stars.

I lifted my face to the sky and for the first time in much too long, I prayed. I prayed as hard as I could, without words or shapes or fancy talking. I just prayed. When I was done, I felt cleaner than I had after my bath.

I walked on until I found a hut built against a lone brick
wall. From inside came sounds of a family, the poppa's low rumble, the momma's bright laugh, and giggling children who had been allowed to stay up much too late and who did not want to fall asleep.

I greeted them through the piece of canvas that served as their front door. The hovel fell silent, then the canvas was pushed aside and the father stepped out, a musket in his hand. His wife came right behind him, though he told her to stay inside.

It took some convincing to explain my mission, but I spoke polite and firm and held out the bread pudding, and the children snuck out in their nightclothes and just about dove into the bowl. The mother took the basket and said “Thank you” and then “Thank you, again,” and then “Thank you most, most kindly,” and they went back inside.

I hummed a carol as I walked away, finally feeling at peace.

IN THE ARMY AT PRESENT, MERIT IS MEASURED
ONLY BY RANK. THOSE WHO ARE HIGH IN RANK ARE
CLEVER FELLOWS. THE LOW ARE SMALL FOLKS–
AND THOSE WHO HAVE NONE AT ALL, LIKE US, ARE POOR
DEVILS–WE ARE NOBODYS. WE HAVE NOTHING.
–SAMUEL TENNY WRITING TO HIS FRIEND PETER TURNER,
ABOUT HIS FRUSTRATION WITH THE PRIVILEGES OF OFFICERS

Two days later Sarah had me go with her to the fish market. Her back was hurting her fierce, and I was to carry the cod and halibut needed for a fish chowder. The market was crowded with folk whose cupboards had been cleaned out by the Christmas feasting, and Sarah muttered rude things. Her growing discomfort had put her in a constant temper.

The cod was easy enough to purchase, but stall after stall turned up no halibut. Sarah insisted that haddock or catfish would not do, so we marched on. The air was thick with the cries of the stall owners promising the juiciest fish, the freshest fish, and fish fit for the King himself.

Before dawn I had made the trip to the Tea Water Pump, but I had not dared visit the prison or Captain Morse's tavern. I
was still confuddled about what to do. My thoughts wandered. I did not realize that Sarah had moved ahead of me in the crowd until a great shout went up. An oyster seller's cart had overturned in front of the carp stall, and the two men were hollering at each other. The crowd halted and I had no place to turn. Sarah's white cloth cap bobbed away in the distance as I looked for a path out of the crowd, but bodies pushed in from all sides to watch the two men arguing.

When a hand grabbed my arm, I gasped.

“Apologies, Just Sal,” Captain Morse said as he released me. His eyes were tired, but his cheeks were flushed.

My mouth gaped open like that of a fish breathing its last. I shook my head. He couldn't talk to me in view of all! There was no mistaking what he was, dressed in that brown-and-white coat. I turned first one way, then the other, but bodies were packed around me tight as could be.

Morse kept his eyes on the arguing men but leaned his face close enough to mine that I could hear him whisper, “We must talk.”

Sarah had realized I was no longer with her. Her cap stopped, then slowly started back toward us. Her husband was a British gunner. If she saw me talking to a rebel officer …

“Go away,” I muttered.

“I have news for my men.”

The oyster seller picked up a carp and shook it in the other man's face. The crowd laughed. Sarah plowed toward me.

“I beg you,” Morse whispered. “Please.”

Soldiers appeared on the edge of the crowd to restore order.

“Come up to the tavern.”

“Yes, yes,” I told the captain. “I'll come this afternoon. Now go away!”

The crowd melted under the eyes of the armed soldiers. The carp seller was explaining the ruckus to a sergeant while the oyster seller reloaded his cart. Sarah kicked oysters out of her way as she approached.

“Where in the name of all that's holy did you get to?” she asked.

“I was trapped in the crowd,” I said. “I called but you could not hear me.”

She grunted and handed me a small fish with glassy eyes. “This will have to do. Halibut is rare as hen's teeth today.”

I settled it in the basket atop the fat cod and followed Sarah as she headed away from the market. We walked in silence for a few blocks, her concentrating on her huffing and puffing, me trying to figure if I dared go up to the tavern. The sky promised more snow. How long would Dibdin wait before reclaiming Curzon's hat and blanket?

We crossed the street. “Miss Sarah, ma'am?” I asked, sweet as honey.

“What is it?”

I chose my words with care. “Has Madam Lockton said anything about me, in your hearing?”

She tilted her head a bit as she looked at me. “Aye, this morn, matter of fact. Said you wasn't allowed to go to that blasted water pump. Said I should send one of the other girls, even tho' the sun not be up at that time of day, even tho' the streets be covered in ice.”

Sarah reached for my elbow as we trod upon a slick patch of cobblestones.

“But I like getting out,” I said. “And I don't mind the chore.”

We reached a stretch where ashes had been thrown onto
the ice and the going was safer. “I don't answer to her,” Sarah said as she released my arm. “I answer to the King's army. I'd be right pleased if you kept fetching the water. Makes my life easier.”

She stopped and put her hands on her back, breathing heavily. Her baby belly was so big she could have loaded it in a wheelbarrow and pushed it in front of her. She caught me studying her and gave a quick smile.

“The babe will come soon,” she said.

“It'll be a joyous day,” I said. “I'll keep getting the water, but …”

“But what?”

“Could you please not tell Madam?”

Sarah stretched to one side and winced. “What she don't know won't hurt her. It's not like she's up at that hour anyways.”

After the midday meal, I contrived to overturn the pitcher that held the tea water, dumping it on the floor.

“Clumsy dolt,” Hannah scolded as I knelt to clean the floor with rags.

“Don't be looking at me to trudge up there and get more for Her High Mightiness,” Mary said from her chair by the window. She squinted and sewed another stitch. “I've got to hem these breeches before the light fades.”

“I'll run up and fetch it,” I said. “Double-time, I promise.”

Sarah gave me a good hard stare, sensing she did not have the entire picture before her.

“It's your neck,” she finally said. “Mind she don't see you leave.”

*   *   *

I near ran up to the Golden Hill Tavern, my raw blisters hurting with every step. Captain Morse was idling on the porch, smoking a pipe. He disappeared inside when he saw me and was waiting in the alley when I reached it.

“Here,” he handed me a loaf of bread.

“You made me come up here for this?” I asked.

“Take it to Dibdin,” he said, fighting a smile. “There's a note baked inside.”

“A note?”

“It contains wondrous news.” He looked ready to jump out of his skin. “Washington has beaten them!”

“Sir?”

He clenched his fists and unclenched them. “On Christmas night the general led a surprise attack on Trenton. He beat the Hessians—killed a handful and took more than nine hundred prisoner.”

“Are you sure?” I thought someone told him a falsehood. The British officers I knew were confident the American army was fallen apart.

“Positively,” he said with a grin.

“But won't that make the British mad?” I asked.

“I truly hope so. I hope the King is so upset he jumps up and down on his crown. This war is not over, not by a long shot.”

I handed the bread back. “I'll tell them the news, but I cannot pass a note. That could land me in jail.”

He shoved the loaf back at me. “You are a serving girl delivering a tavern loaf to the starving prisoners. You don't know about the note.”

“But why is it necessary?”

“The men need to see my signature to know this is truth.
They have endured so much, Sal. Don't deprive them of this chance to celebrate. It will strengthen their spirits.”

I pulled up the hood of my cloak to hide my face as I approached the prison. The Commons was filled with drilling soldiers, much more than usual. Their officers barked commands with urgency, the men marched grim faced, swords flapping against their legs, rifles bouncing on their shoulders. Perhaps the captain's news was indeed the truth.

I hurried behind the building to the right window. I stood on tiptoe and squished the loaf through the bars.

Dibdin's face appeared at the window.

“There's a note inside,” I whispered. “Tear into it carefully.” I ran away before he could answer, willing my feet to move faster.

I had walked a block south when an enormous roar erupted from the prison—hundreds of throats cheering, hooting, hollering; hundreds of hands clapping and feet stomping with joy. The noise was such that folks stopped what they were doing and ran out of doors to stare.

The news spread from the prison as fast as it had spread from cell to cell: The rebels had attacked instead of running. The rebels had advanced instead of retreating. The rebels had won a battle.

Folks could scarce credit it.

IT IS WITH MUCH CONCERN THAT I AM TO INFORM
YOUR LORDSHIP THE UNFORTUNATE AND UNTIMELY
DEFEAT AT TRENTON HAS THROWN US FURTHER BACK,
THAN WAS AT FIRST APPREHENDED, FROM THE GREAT
ENCOURAGEMENT GIVEN TO THE REBELS.
–BRITISH GENERAL WILLIAM HOWE WRITING
TO LORD GEORGE GERMAIN, SECRETARY OF STATE
FOR AMERICAN COLONIES AFTER THE
AMERICAN VICTORY AT TRENTON

Just after the New Year came word of another shocking victory for the rebels, this one at Princeton in New Jersey. Washington's troops chased the British from the battlefield, killed a passel of them, and took a couple of hundred prisoners. Folks could scarce credit this, neither. Colonel Hawkins let out a roar in the study when the news was delivered and hit the unfortunate messenger on the head with a rolled-up map. Then he called for his horse and galloped off to headquarters.

Within a day, the British promised boiled peas and rice with butter twice a week for their American prisoners. But they still did not allow fires in the Bridewell cells. The men had to eat their meat raw. Their chamber pots froze solid at night.

The master's trip to London was moved up so that he could deliver news of the setbacks to the Parliament and King. Madam had finally accommodated herself to the notion of his voyage and had found a way to turn it to her advantage. Whilst we prepared Lockton's clothes for the journey, she wrote out long lists of items she wanted him to buy in England.

I kept to the kitchen and cellar and woodpile when she was awake, but made my trips up island each day before dawn, looking over my shoulder at every sound, choosing a different path daily. The constant worry et a hole in my belly. Curzon was stronger and told me not to fret, for he was not coughing up blood and his bowels were in fine working order. But he always asked me to come back on the morrow.

The day of the master's departure, I roused myself extra early on account of I feared Madam might do the same. I deposited stale rolls and burnt hunks of pork on the windowsill of Curzon's cell, then crossed the Commons on my way to the pump. There were a few folk out on their own early-morning errands, all bundled in cloaks and blanket coats and shawls and scarves wrapped high.