The Messenger (25 page)

How could he be fine when just last week he was lying on the ground? I could, perhaps, believe that he was better. But to think he’d recovered enough to dig? “He’s in there?” I eyed the place in the floor where I knew the gaping mouth of the tunnel to be concealed. A whip of fear lashed at my stomach.

William Addison spit into the straw. “He’s certainly not out here. Now. Be off with you before any suspect what we’re about.”

I emptied my basket. Holding back one of the rolls, I placed it into his hands. “For Robert.”

He nodded, eyes sliding away from mine.

Jeremiah

I’d seen Hannah pass by on her way back from the jail and she was not carrying her basket. The slave woman was. I waited until she had passed by and then went out to the bookseller’s.

“
Aeneid
. If you please.”

He gave me a keen once-over before moving to take the book from the shelf. He set it down on the sun-splashed counter in front of me and then crossed his arms and stood there. Waiting.

I glanced up at him and then I opened the book, flipped through the pages. Tried to be discreet. There was . . . nothing. I went through it once more, but came to no different conclusion. There was no message. Shutting up the book, I slid it toward the bookseller. Put my hat on my head and left. Why had Hannah—?

“Jeremiah Jones!” A breathless voice made me turn.

Hannah was gesturing to me from the side of the building.

Casting a glance behind to see if any had noticed, I joined her. She took my hand and pulled me back into the far reaches of the afternoon’s shadows.

“An arranged meeting? Isn’t this against your beliefs?”

“The prisoners are deliberately being starved.”

Prisoners weren’t known to have the best of luck or the most genteel of treatment. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw the provost dump a ladle filled with broth onto the floor. He might have wasted it all if I hadn’t been there. If I hadn’t taken the kettle from him, I’m sure he would have left the cell with it.”

She’d taken it from him? I couldn’t quite imagine . . . I frowned as I tried to conjure up the sight. Gave up. “Can you prove it?”

“I saw it. The prisoners saw it. Anyone in that jail will tell thee what goes on. It’s no secret!”

“No one will believe the prisoners. And the guards won’t talk for cause of their jobs. That means it’s your word against theirs. And you aren’t a reliable witness because your brother’s a rebel.”

“What are thee trying to say? That nothing can be done?”

“I’m only saying that there’s no proof.”

Her eyes spit sparks at me. “Then what about this? What he doesn’t waste, he sells.”

“Sells?”

“Aye. He sells the prisoners’ food for his own gain.”

“I might just be able to do something about that.”

But what? What could I do about the jail’s provost selling food for gain? The British wouldn’t care. It wasn’t their food to begin with. They hadn’t bought it; the patriots had supplied it. They’d probably shake the provost’s hand and give him a medal for a job well done. There were more ways than bullets to kill someone; starving the men took less effort than feeding them.

I nearly rubbed a hole through the counter as I cleaned it, so fixed was I on the prisoners’ plight. It wasn’t just. But in a time of war, who cared about justice?

I did.

And so did Hannah.

But we were only two in a city filled with pleasure-loving officers and the Loyalist families who were trying to impress them.

They didn’t care about justice.

What did they care about? They cared about . . . diversion. Amusement. They cared about themselves. The provost was a perfect example. Too many people in this city were set on taking advantage of everyone else. Where there was war, there was corruption and bribery and vice of every kind.

So to fix a problem of graft, I must look not for the honest man but for the dishonest man. I wanted a selfish man. A man that would view the situation at the jail as an opportunity to enrich himself. I didn’t want that man to take the food for himself, of course. I just wanted him to have self-interest enough to stop the provost.

That meant I needed the general . . . or someone on his staff.

I went to speak to John Lindley that very afternoon. I’d decided if I approached him at his office at headquarters, he might be more inclined to take the information seriously.

“The prisoners? Who cares about the prisoners? If they were dim-witted enough to get captured, then who should care how much they suffer? I don’t have to tell you what war’s like.”

“But the provost is deliberately starving them. I’m not talking about unintentional neglect; I’m speaking of undeserved cruelty.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Miss Sunderland. She observed the provost when she visited her brother.”

“She’s still going to visit him? After all this time?”

I shrugged, though what I really wanted to do was knock that smug, pompous look off his face.

“So, she says she saw Captain Cunningham doing what?”

“Spoiling a kettle filled with broth. In a room filled with hungry prisoners.”

“But her brother’s one of them. You know she’d say anything in order to help him.”

“If truth be told, it’s not the cruelty that concerns me. It’s her claim that the provost is selling the jail’s food. At a profit.”

“Selling it, eh?”

“I don’t care whether you believe it or not. I care that Miss Sunderland actually thinks I can do something about it.”

“You’re truly besotted by her, aren’t you?” He examined me as if I were some lesser species of man.

“Please. You’ve got to give me something to say to her. Something that will make her think I’ve mentioned her concerns to the right person.”

“If you think so highly of her . . .” He shot a glance up at me before taking up his quill. “I’ll mention it. I don’t care what the provost is doing with their food, but if he’s selling it to line his own pockets, that should come to the attention of General Howe. Might even be he’d reward a staff officer for information like that.”

I had to fight to keep from smiling. Because that’s what I had counted on: John’s finely tuned sense of self-aggrandizement.

Hannah

I had the dream every night the next week. So on seventh day I approached the jail with fear and trembling. Though I desperately hoped that I would see Robert sitting against the wall, I did not see him at all.

“Where is he?” I asked the question of William Addison as I knelt beside him to unpack my basket. I hid my nose in my shoulder as I did so, trying to keep that dreadful smell from my nostrils. Spring’s warmth had done more than just melt the snow; it had released new and noxious odors in the jail.

His eyes slid away from mine as he inclined his chin, same as before, toward the tunnel.

“But can thee not get him? Can I not speak to him?”

He shook his head. “Not now. ’Tisn’t safe. Not with the guard walking about. Night is when we change out men.”

“But I cannot come at night.”

“Leave a message. I’ll give it to him.”

I could have, but I didn’t want to leave a message with this rebel. I didn’t trust him. I wanted to speak with Robert. I wanted to look him in the eyes and know how he was feeling, understand what he was thinking. “When I come next week, could thee arrange it so I can see him?”

He looked at me with such an odd expression. “I’ll try. Do you have a message for me?”

For him? I’d been so worried about Robert that I had forgotten my reason for being there. I shook my head.

“Nothing? They’re so set on us escaping, you’d think they’d bother to keep us informed now and then.”

“Do thee have any messages for them?” I’d never passed a message back the other way, to Jeremiah Jones, but he must have some way to get information to General Washington.

Indecision was etched into William Addison’s frown. “It’d be nice to know what’s out there, above the tunnel. And nice to know which way we’re digging.”

“Thee would have to dig west, wouldn’t thee? Or thee might end up in the cemetery.”

“And we might end there still, in spite of all this work. Two more died during the week. In any case, perhaps you
could
pass a message. It’s fine to tell us to dig west for fifty-three feet, but I’ve no way to tell which direction we’re headed.”

I held out an arm toward the west. It did not seem that difficult.

“Aye. But you’ve no idea what it’s like down there. How a man can get turned around. We could be digging toward the provost’s own house and I’d never know it.”

I’d thought nothing at all of the actual digging of the tunnel. “How far have thee dug?”

“Twenty feet.” He said it as if it was a great accomplishment.

“But thee’ve not yet accomplished the half!”

He shrugged. “You think you could do better?”

“What’s taking so long?”

“
You
want to try to dig through clay? Fifty-some feet of it? And then scoop the dirt into a hat and drag it back through the tunnel into the room?”

“They bring the dirt back here?”

“What else is there to do with it? It has to go somewhere.”

“But . . . where is it?” I hadn’t noticed any kind of pile.

“You’re standing on it.”

“I’m—but—”

“I figure we’ve raised the floor over two inches since we started.”

“And they bring it out in a hat?”

“Nothing else here to use.”

“Take this.” I thrust the basket at him.

He pushed it right back at me. “They’re sure to notice you’ve left it.”

“They won’t.” At least . . . I didn’t think they would. I hoped they wouldn’t. Anything that would ensure Robert’s escape was worth the risk.

When the guard came to get me, I walked behind him, trying to keep from him the fact that I had left my basket behind. And when I passed through the door, I went as swiftly as I could up the stair.

“Hey!”

I stopped, not daring to move.

“Hey, you. Miss!”

This is what had happened when Father was arrested. I’d been called back from following the others into the street. I’d almost been safe. My gorge rose in my throat as I turned, gripping the rail with a hand gone suddenly cold. “Aye?”

“About the basket you always come carrying.”

I was afraid even to breathe.

“I was thinking, when you come next time, could you put a roll in it for me? I’ve a hankering for some good bread.”

“A roll?”

“Along with the cheese.”

A roll and some cheese. I nearly sunk to the floor in relief.

I left the jail, collected Doll, and walked with her round the block, paying careful attention to the space around the southwest corner. What would happen if the tunnel didn’t come up at the right spot?

They might crawl up into the cemetery.

In the other direction?

They might find themselves in the middle of a stream.

If they managed to dig straight in the westerly direction, they would reach the other side of Sixth Street, and would end up in the fenced yard of a wheelwright. Well. That was quite clever. And it made me wonder who it was that lived there. I walked past the door, listening for any clues as to the inhabitants, but there was nothing. And the windows were too covered with grime to peer inside.

I spent the rest of the day trying to fix upon a way to help William Addison. There must be some way to determine whether they were digging in the right direction. I wondered if they could hear the rattle of carts and the clomping of horses on Sixth Street as they dug. That might be a help . . . but then it might sound just the same as Walnut Street. If they’d mistakenly turned in that direction, there would be no cover once they emerged. There had to be some other method of guidance. They needed something straight that would not bend itself to their efforts. A kind of inviolable guide.

But what could be placed at one end of the tunnel and remain unbending at the other end, across a distance of fifty-three feet? What else could I smuggle into the jail that would help to solve such a puzzle?

The question still pressed on my mind as I sat in Meeting the next day. My pondering had not provided me with any solution. The problem remained: A tunnel of fifty-three feet could be dug, but there was no way to guarantee where it might end. The effort might not produce the desired result, and if it did not, then all the work would be for naught. Robert could be arrested just as he came to escape.

Several points of business were conducted. A marriage was approved. A concern was put forth about the Friends in Virginia. Then worship began, and along with it the waiting and the silence.

I was glad that Jeremiah Jones no longer came to Meeting. I’d spent my time those two first days wondering what he must think of us. It changed things, made me look at our Meetings differently as I tried to see them through his eyes.

Please, God. There must be some way. Please show me how to help them dig straight.

I don’t know why I prayed. I expected no answer. Indeed, I had not received any answers to my petitions in many months.

Several minutes later, Betsy’s mother stood. I could feel a flare of expectation as heads turned in her direction. God was going to speak!

“Go ye therefore and be Children of Light, whose flame never fades, whose light always goes forth, shining in the darkness. Be Children of Light whose courage never wavers, whose light always goes straight from its source.” She stopped speaking for a moment as a look of befuddlement crossed her face. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it once more. “Unbending.” She sat down.

Children of Light.

What was God saying? Of course we were to be Children of Light. That’s what Friends had always been. It’s what George Fox had called us from the start.

No one else spoke. The Meeting ended some time later. But by that time I realized I’d been given an answer to my prayer.

I emptied my basket on my next visit to the jail, of onions and rolls and half of a chicken. And then I took from it one thing more. “This is for thee.” I held it out to William Addison.

He took it from me. “A candle.” Looked up at me. “So I can see more clearly this squalid mess we’re living in?”

“So thee can tell if the tunnel is straight.”

He looked a question at me.

“If thee set it at the entrance to the tunnel and thee can see it still at the end, then it must be straight. And if thee cannot see it, then thee will know the tunnel deviates in direction.”