The Messenger (30 page)

Hannah

It was sixth day, the sky was clear, and there was a pleasant breeze. It was a fine giving day and yet Polly was crying as she entered the bedroom.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s General Howe. He’s decided to send men out into the countryside. And Major Lindley’s to go with them.”

I wondered if Jeremiah had heard about this. “I’m sure he’s not leaving for good.”

“It’s just that Father finally agreed to let me attend a play. There aren’t many more left this season, and Major Lindley was going to take me. But now we can’t go!”

“I’m sure it wasn’t meant for thy inconvenience.”

“No. But given the chance, Father might change his mind. I hope they kill all those rebels! They’re ruining all the fun.”

That was a sentiment with which I could do nothing but disagree. “Kill all those rebels? My brother among them?” Someone ought to feel sorry for his death. Someone ought to be shamed by it.

A flush lit her cheeks. “Not him. I meant . . . the others. I don’t see why they don’t just give up.”

“Because they’ll be treated the same way as the prisoners at the new jail. Mocked for being colonials. Despised for having dared to resist the king. They can’t give up.” And I knew it now more than ever.

“They won’t win. They can’t. Not against the King’s army.”

To that I had nothing to say, because I feared the very same thing. I didn’t see how they could win, but could quite vividly imagine many ways for them to lose. “I just wish . . .” There were no words for what I wished. I wished for a new earth, a place where people did not destroy themselves through violence. And I wished for a new heaven, one from which God would deign to speak.

“Anyone can see how this will end. And I wish it just would!” She slid a glance toward me. “Without any more people having to suffer.”

Without any more people having to suffer.

All of the prisoners in Walnut Street Jail suffered, though not all of them had died. Why had Robert had to die? And why hadn’t I told Jeremiah? I’d almost done it. I’d almost written it on the note I’d placed in
Aeneid
.

So why hadn’t I?

That was the puzzle.

The memory of Jeremiah’s comfort that night down in the cellar had kept me calm through many a storm. The thought of his presence made me feel safe in this world where I feared I would never feel safe again. So why had I not told him?

Perhaps because of exactly those things.

I’d woken from the fever quite certain that he was sitting right beside me. When I’d discovered he was not there, when I’d cried, Mother and Father had assumed it had been for joy at being alive. I hadn’t told them it was out of distress. I’d been so sure of his presence that his absence felt like being . . . abandoned.

The fever had changed everything.

If he knew Robert were dead, he might force me from the plan altogether. The prisoners knew the date and time. There wasn’t anything complicated about it. They would either be finished with the tunnel on the night of the Meschianza and they would escape . . . or they would not.

But I could not allow Jeremiah to dismiss me. There was too much left undone and too much that was still unresolved in my heart. And until I arrived at some sort of solution, I would not be set aside.

During dinner that afternoon, Davy came into the dining room, walked up to Uncle, and held out a silver tray. Uncle took an envelope from it and then set it on the table beside his plate and continued eating.

Polly’s face was a tempest of emotions. Finally she put down her fork and her knife and pushed away her plate. “Aren’t you going to open it, Father?”

He looked at her over the rim of his goblet. “Later. After we’re done with dinner.”

“But it might be something important.”

“Even important things can wait for cook’s pudding.”

Polly began to say more but was silenced by a look from her mother. She poked at her food in a desultory manner for the rest of the meal, sliding dark looks at her father as she did so.

After the dessert had been served—and eaten—and after the table had been cleared, Uncle took up the envelope. He bowed it back and forth between his hands.

Polly watched with impatience clearly written upon her face.

Finally he asked Davy to bring him a knife. After prying off the wax seal and opening the envelope, he pulled a card from it. He read it and then frowned, turning it over and then back again.

“What does it say?” Polly nearly shrieked the question.

“It’s an invitation.”

“To what?”

“Tsk.” Aunt Rebekah admonished her with a glance. “ ’Tis none of your business, Daughter, I’m sure. And in any case, ’tisn’t proper to conduct business at dinner.”

“It’s not business. Papa said it was an invitation.”

“Which is none of your business.” She said the words with a smile that brooked no reply.

“I don’t see why Papa wouldn’t speak of it.” Polly was complaining as we climbed the stair that night to bed. She’d been disagreeable all afternoon.

“If it wasn’t meant for thee . . . ?”

“It was.” She was both definite and firm in her opinion.

“How can thee know it?”

“It was from Major Lindley. An invitation to his Meschianza. That fete for General Howe.”

“But how can thee be so certain?”

“He told me he was going to send it. And Peggy Shippen received her invitation this morning. If Papa didn’t tell me, it’s because he hasn’t decided yet whether I should go. I’m going to have to make him understand that it’s imperative.”

Polly launched her campaign the next morning as we were all sitting in the parlor with our handiwork. “Did you know that Major Lindley is the third cousin to the Earl of Warwick?”

Aunt Rebekah looked up from her work. “Is he, dear?”

“His family has a country seat in Wiltshire.”

“Do they?” Aunt embroidered on for several minutes while Polly fairly boiled with impatience. Finally, Aunt looked over at Polly and smiled. “I’m sure it can’t be nearly as lovely as the Fairmonts’ country home down near Germantown. Or the Mortons’.”

The Fairmont and Morton sons had joined the Queen’s Rangers just that autumn.

“It’s an
ancestral
home.” Polly spoke the words through her teeth.

“Perhaps when the major retires out of the military, he’ll finally be able to return to it. Life as an officer is not as genteel as it might seem.” She set down her work, directing her full attention to her daughter. “It’s not all picnics and plays and dancing.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of military men.”

“I haven’t.”

Aunt took her work back up. “Good.”

It was plain to me that neither of them believed the other. Polly suddenly uttered a cry and popped her finger into her mouth.

“What’s come over you, child? Where’s your thimble?”

She shrugged.

“If your head is in the clouds now, how am I ever going to get any work out of you once I tell you that you’ve been invited to that fete the officers are all carrying on about?” Her eyes were on her handiwork, though she shot a glance at her daughter in between stitches.

“And . . . ?”

“And . . . your father and I have decided that you may go.”

Polly leaped to her feet with a cry, letting her embroidery go flying. “Oh! Oh! I must . . . I must . . . go to the mantua-maker! For a new gown!”

“That’s the best part about it. And the thing which convinced your father to accept. The gown is to be provided.”

Mother and I exchanged a look. It sounded strange in the way of customs to accept such a gift from a man to whom one was not wed.

Jeremiah

I sat in my bedroom Monday morning, staring at the message the egg-girl had passed me.

Army expected to leave soon. All prisoners to be placed on ships. Expand plans to include more men.

So . . . John hadn’t been lying. The British were planning to leave and they were going to place the prisoners on ships. Poor wretched souls. If jail meant risk of life, prison ships were an immediate death sentence. No one ever left them except in shrouds. Of course General Washington wanted to expand the escape plans. But the prisoners were confined to cells; it wasn’t as if we could just invite more people to come along. It wasn’t worth risking the integrity of the plan in order to include more men. At this point it was doubtful whether any would escape at all.

The more I thought about it, the more only one solution seemed possible. I could not, in good conscience, reply in the negative without at least trying, though I was not even sure, in fact, that I wanted my idea to work. If it did, then I would be risking everything I had come to hold dear.

I surprised Hannah on Saturday by meeting her in the middle of the street and walking alongside her as if we had chanced upon each other while walking in the same direction. The slave that accompanied her fell back to trail us.

She looked at me askance. “Is there something wrong?”

“I have to ask you something, and I want you to say no.”

“Do thee fear that I will say yes?”

Yes. I did fear it. But duty required me to ask in spite of my personal sentiments. “I need you to bribe the guard at the jail.”

Her eyes widened. Her face paled. “No.”

I closed my eyes in relief. Now I could say that I asked, could say that I tried. And in truth, it could not be accomplished. Though why I was worrying so much about telling the truth, I had no idea.

“Why?”

My eyes snapped open. “Why what?”

“Why do thee want me to bribe the guard?”

“We’ve heard the men are to be placed on ships. Soon. General Washington wants more of them to be able to escape. The only way to do that is to convince the guard to open up the cells. Let more men than just Robert’s escape.”

“But it’s not clear yet that any
will
be able to escape.”

“I know it.”

She was silent for several steps. “They’re to be placed on ships?”

“Aye.” I did not like the things I saw taking shape behind her eyes. “But—”

“And thee think the guard can be bribed.”

“It’s very dangerous. Too dangerous! Because if he can’t . . .” If he couldn’t, then he would turn Hannah over to General Howe. And if Hannah was betrayed, then it was only a matter of time before she’d tell them the whole entire truth. I knew her; she could not—would not—lie. “Forget I asked.”

“I’ll do it.” Her eyes had gone so dark that I could not see into the depths of them, and her face had nearly gone white.

Dash it all! “I told you to say no!”

“I’m saying yes.”

“You can’t say yes. I wouldn’t have asked you if I thought you’d say yes.”

“Thee asked me because thee could not bear to tell the general no. And thee knew it was the right thing to do. If thee are going to start telling the truth, thee must start with thyself.”

“Say no.”

“I can say nothing other than yes. And thee would do the same, Jeremiah. For those men, thee would do the same.”

I reached out toward her but then stopped myself. I had no right. I had no right to ask of her any of the things that I had. “I don’t want you to do it.”

“I have to.”

“God help us, Hannah, I never meant to get you killed.”

“Thee wish me to do it this day?”

I wished her to do it not at all.

“We are very nearly there.”

She was right. She was always right. I’d brought along some coin just in case. I slipped a purse into her basket along with a message. “There’s ten shillings in there. Promise him ten more.”

“And when he asks for the rest?”

“Tell him that he’ll not get it until after the escape.”

She nodded. Squared her shoulders. “I must go.” She turned and walked away, head held high. And it was all I could do not to call her back to me.

I could hardly sleep the next days for want of news. It was Monday again before I saw her walking down Walnut Street the same way she had dozens of Mondays before. As she passed by, I saw her head turn, the slightest of movements. Caught her gaze.

She stopped. And at the same time, I started toward her.

She began to walk once more.

I lengthened my stride in order to reach her. “Wait. Stop!”

A wiser man—a smarter one, in any case—wouldn’t have said anything. Wouldn’t have given any sign of notice at all. But I could not keep myself from reaching out toward her. I needed to know that she was truly well. That she hadn’t been betrayed to Howe. And there was something I needed to say to her as well.

She stopped, though she gave the impression of wanting to hop away, like some bird sitting on the thinnest of branches.

The Negro woman who always accompanied her had stopped as well. And she was giving me no little warning from her wrath-filled dark eyes.

“If it’s about thy message, I delivered it. And I secured an arrangement about the other matter.” She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her scents of lavender and lemon balm. And read the anxiety in her eyes. “The guard is in agreement.”

“It’s not about the message.” It was about . . . me.

“Then what is it?” She was looking past me, down the street. And then she turned and looked up it, toward the jail. “I must not be seen speaking with thee.”

“You’re right.” I took her by the elbow and pulled her toward the tavern.

“But I can’t just—!”

“The easier you come, the less people will notice.”

“I’m forbidden to—”

“Who gives a horse feather about your father and his proprieties! He’s left his son to rot in that jail, and you’re worried about disobeying him?”

She’d gone so pale I was frightened she would swoon. Apparently the slave woman was too, for she took hold of Hannah’s other elbow. “Let’s . . .” I couldn’t take her into the tavern, much as she needed a restorative of whiskey. “Help me take her around to the kitchen.”

By the time we reached it, color had begun to come back into her face. But still she leaned on me.

“Fanny!”

Bartholomew’s sister turned from the fire where she was stirring a kettle. “Mr. Jones?”

“Bring me a bottle of whiskey!”

The slave woman had pulled a stool away from the heat of the fire, but even as she pushed her down into it, Hannah was brushing her hands away, trying to stand up.

Fanny had returned. “Is it for—?” She held it out in the direction of Hannah.

I nodded, gesturing for her to serve it.

At Fanny’s approach, Hannah looked up, ceasing her struggles with the slave woman. Her eyes grew wide as she looked at Fanny and then she dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

“Was that . . . Fanny Pruitt?”

The slave woman wrung out a cloth and laid it across Hannah’s forehead. I’d had Bartholomew help me take Hannah upstairs, where we’d placed her in my bed. The boy was standing, even now, over by the door, biting at his lip.

“Is it the fever?” I asked the slave woman because she was the only person who seemed to know what to do with her. Hannah had been pale before she’d fainted, but now she looked flushed. “Has it returned?”

Hannah’s eyes sought mine. “Was that Fanny?”

I nodded.

She closed her eyes. Though she made no sound, tears began to slide down her cheeks.

“You know Fanny?”

She nodded as her chin crumpled.

“But how do you know her?”

“My—” Her words broke off into a wail.

The slave woman knelt down and gathered Hannah to her chest.

“How does she know her?” The Pruitts weren’t Quakers and they hadn’t been nearly grand enough to mix with people like the Sunderlands. “Where did they meet?”

The slave woman glared at me. “Why does it matter where she know her? Don’t you know how the heart sound when it breaks?” She patted Hannah’s head as it lay against her shoulder.

“I didn’t—I mean—” I didn’t understand anything. At all.

Eventually Hannah stopped crying and the woman stopped clucking. Sometime during all the turmoil, Bartholomew had fled. I wished I could follow him. But it was my fault Hannah was here in the first place. And there was still a mystery to be solved.

Hannah sat up, used the cloth to clean away the remnants of her tears, and then pushed away from the bed. “Thank thee, Jeremiah. Thee have been very kind to me.” She nodded, not quite meeting my eyes as she walked toward the door.

Wait just a—! “But how do you know her?”

She cast a glance in my direction which promptly fell toward the floor. “My father used to employ her.”

Her father . . . used to . . . “And then, when she was discovered to be with child, he turned her out.”

Her gaze crept up to meet mine. “Yes.”

“Did you know her mother was dying?”

“No.”

“Do you know how she and her brother have survived these past months?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea at all what it’s like to live in squalor, at the pleasure of the British Army? And be turned out of your hovel of a home simply because your mother has died? Because someone needs your house for firewood?”

“No! But I know that my brother—” She bit the end off her sentence. Seemed to swallow it.

“Your brother what?”

She didn’t want to answer me. I could tell by the fury that clouded her eyes. But finally, she did. “Fanny was the reason my brother joined the patriots. And Fanny . . .” Her chin had begun to tremble once more. “
Fanny
 . . .” She stopped speaking. Took in a deep breath. “Fanny is the reason I supported him.”

“The same Fanny that your father deemed too dissolute to employ?”