The Tory Widow (6 page)

Jack slipped the knife back into his boot. “I just can't abide a fellow like that . . . only in it for the mayhem he can cause and the free grog he can swill.” He picked up the broken book just flung to the floor and handed it to Anne, its loose binding strings and pages dangling at a distressing angle from between the cover boards, like the broken wing of a bird.

A soft “Oh!” pushed from Anne's lungs as she cradled the damaged book on open palms. More stunned than frightened by the wanton destruction, she opened the book and turned past its torn frontispiece to the title page—
The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe
by Daniel Defoe. Shoulders slumped, she squeezed her eyes tight to contain a rush of tears.

“A beautiful edition, this.” Jack took the book from her hands and examined the damage. “
Crusoe
—one of my favorites. You know, Fletcher's Bindery on Wall Street . . . they can mend it for you good as new. Tell 'em Hampton sent you.”

Anne swiped her tears away, and tilted her head back to meet Jack square in the eye. “Why are you in it with them?”

“What do you mean?”

“That man Blount—in it for the grog you said. Quakenbos there . . .” Anne flipped a thumb to the baker sitting across from Sears. “He's had his eye on my shop since the day Mr. Merrick died—he is sure to prosper by my being run out of town. And Sears—well, everyone knows he's plain power mad. Why're you in it?”

“Fair question.” Hampton cocked his head, a half smile crinkling the corners of his eyes a bit. “A few months ago I would have answered you with much rabble-rousing zeal—something dramatic like,
‘For I prefer Liberty to wearing shackles and licking the hand of a Tyrant, madam!'
”

Overhearing Jack's loud pronouncement, Quakenbos thumped the tabletop with a beefy fist and uttered a “Hear! Hear!”

Jack lowered his tone. “But there's more to it now. Much more.” He shifted his weight and twin furrows creased the spot just above the bridge of his nose. “We are at war. Blood has been shed, and our countrymen are dying. I do all I can for our cause—wholly in it, heart, mind and soul, for I will not have our men perish for naught.”

Face-to-face with Jack's pure conviction, her cynicism began to dissipate, lifting like a misling fog on a sunny day. The man's sincere expression reminded Anne of her brother, David, and of herself, so long ago when she once felt strong for the American cause. Anne bent to gather the books from the floor to hide the sudden shame coloring her cheeks.

“Let me help . . .” Jack joined her, rattling off the titles as he gathered an armful of books. “
Tristram Shandy
,
Gulliver
,
Don Quixote
,
Tom Jones
,
Pamela . . .
a very fine selection.”

“I ordered this stock after Merrick died,” Anne said with some pride. She took up a rag, giving the embossed covers and gilt edges a good swipe before shelving each book. “My husband—he would not tolerate a novel in his Stationery.”

“Husband . . .” Jack said with a shake of his head as he set a stack of books on the countertop. “I thought he was your father.”

Anne glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

“Merrick . . . the day the Stamp Act was repealed . . .” Jack clarified. “Truly, I thought him your father.”

“You remember that day?”

“Everyone remembers that day. You remember it as well.”

Anne nodded. “That I do, sir, for every woman remembers her wedding day.”

“Wedding day?” Jack winced and groaned. “My deepest apologies, Mrs. Merrick—I was filled with brash and more than a few pints and . . .”

“Never mind . . .” Anne was amused by his fluster. “T'was a lifetime ago.”

Jack handed Anne another book, and she wiped it clean, basking in his genuine smile, once again allowing it to comfort her on a day of despair.

Sally strolled back in with the two militiamen trailing behind, each of them munching on a raisin scone. She winked at Anne and waggled her brows. Anne looked up at Jack, a good head taller than she, and caught him admiring the view down the front of her blouse.

Titus and the six militiamen came clattering down the stairs. One of the men announced, “We din't find no Tory contraband anywhere up there, cap'n.”

“Alright then, it's off to the pub with us.” Sears stood, brushing pie crumbs from his coat. “Let's get going, boys.”

As the men shuffled into ranks, buttoning jackets, pulling on hats and rewinding woolen mufflers against the winter chill, a warm wave of relief wafted over Anne. She issued a silent vow to never, never again be lured by crown silver into another such precarious position.

Jack and Anne bent together to gather the last few scattered books. It caught Anne's eye first and Jack followed her gaze—a lone surviving freshly printed folio, hiding in the shadow cast by the bookcase, one corner caught under the edge of the skirting board.

Anne reached for it, but Jack was far too quick. He snatched up the sheet and straightened, holding the page to the light. At that moment his expression reminded Anne of the time she had fed her trusting little Jemmy a dose of bitters—sheer surprise turning to utter betrayal and in an instant, shifting to the vehement anger hooding Jack's eyes and sending the muscles at his clenched jaw a-twitch.

Anne grasped his forearm and whispered, “I'm no Tory . . . I swear to you, I'm not!”

Jack swiped his thumb over the damp ink, smearing the word “Reasonable” illegible. Jerking from her grip, he stumbled back a step and held the page aloft. “Isaac! Have a look—”

Sears strode over and read the sheet in Jack 's hand.

“Well, well, well . . . so the indignant widow is not so innocent.” Sears smirked with such pleasure. “Alright, boys, the pints will have to wait. Go and work up a thirst—have at the Tory's press.”

With a whoop and a holler, the militiamen ran to the back of the shop. Three dockworkers in thick-soled hobnail boots kicked and kicked at the press's wooden frame until it splintered. They pulled and wrenched the pieces apart, sending the imposing stone to the floor with a crash. There was a mad scramble for the machined parts, as they would fetch a good price for anyone lucky enough to wrangle one free.

Sally and Titus pulled Anne away. Urging her up the stairs, they could not get her to progress beyond the first three steps. Gripping the banister tight, she stood frozen and watched the broken bits of her press march out the front door.

Sears yelled out, “Don't leave the type behind, boys.”

A sandy-haired apprentice produced a tin whistle and tooted a crude “Yankee Doodle” as the cases of worn type were carried out the door. Quakenbos and Sears fell in at the rear and Sears waved his tricorn in salute. “The Sons of Liberty thank you, Widow Merrick! Tory type makes for the best musket balls.”

And they were gone. The door hung open, banging against the wall in time to the fading “Yankee Doodle,” while the evil wind once again whipped through her shop. Anne stumbled from her perch on the stairs, agog at the militia's swift ferocity and the sudden silence of its departure. She pushed the door shut and saw Jack Hampton's hat on the trestle table. She grabbed the hat and looked to where Hampton stood lingering near the back window, intent on comparing a few bits of type spilled from the carted-away type cases, to the damning folio he'd laid out on the compositor's table.

Anne dodged Titus and ran back, tossing the tricorn onto the floor. “I hope you're happy. My press is in ruins; my types are all gone . . .”

“All gone? I don't think so . . .” Turning slowly on his heel, Jack studied the perimeter walls.

“I'll have you leave my shop at once, sir.”

Titus came and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Anne, you go on upstairs with Sally now. I'll see this fellow to the door.”

“No need for that,” Jack said, folding the page into quarters. “Fine work this, very fine—my compliments to you both.” He slipped the paper into his coat pocket and squatted down for his hat. He rose eyeing the floorboards, quickly traversing the space between himself and the supply cabinet in three long strides.

“Your work is done here, sir,” Anne said, scurrying after him. “I would have you leave.”

Jack paid her no mind. He traced the toe of his boot along the raw scrape marks in the floor. Grasping the edge of the cabinet, he angled it a few inches away from the wall, enough to peer behind and see the hidden closet door.

Anne lurched forward and pulled him back by the arm. “Haven't you done enough?”

Jack shrugged her off, looking behind the cabinet. “It seems I haven't.”

Anne's voice grew shrill. “Just go . . . Why can't you just go? I've been punished enough . . .”

Jack set his hat on his head and made an abrupt about-face back to the compositor's table. He grabbed up the wire bale handle on the tin pissbucket, marched straight for the bookcase and splashed the stale urine over the fine volumes, tossing the empty bucket to land with a spin and clatter at speechless Anne's feet.

“That is your punishment, madam. Be grateful I don't call the boys back to give you the tarring and feathering you so richly deserve.” He answered her openmouthed astonishment with a stern admonition. “I will have my eye on you.”

Jack Hampton hiked up his collar and stormed out the door.

CHAPTER THREE

THOMAS PAINE,
Common Sense

 

 

 

 

 

T
HE new day candled at the edge of the horizon. Through a dewy haze, soft dawn illuminated church spires and gabled rooftops, inching in to color the docks and quays, and light the dirt lanes between storehouses, taverns, shops and homes. A crisp, clean breeze bespoke a fine, clear day—welcome change after a long spell of rain. With spade on shoulder, Jack Hampton slogged through the sucking mud, glad to see the early-morning streets alive with like-minded men on the move.

The Continental Army had been massing on the island for weeks—almost fourteen thousand soldiers arrived to defend the city. Jack was among the New Yorkers who were glad to hear General Washington would soon be setting up his headquarters at #1 Broad Way.

A month before, British General Howe woke in Boston to find rebel cannons mounted on Dorchester Heights, and he withdrew his forces and evacuated the town. Attention turned south, for it was clear as glass to anyone who could read a map—the Redcoats needed to take New York City.

Unfortunately, Jack's beloved hometown provided the perfect base from which to quell a widespread rebellion. The quality of her protected harbor was unsurpassed, and the mouth of the Hudson provided as excellent an access to the north as the Atlantic did to the south. British warships menacing the bay gave proof of intent to take New York and nothing could be done to drive them away. Unopposed by naval force, the
Asia
alone with her sixty-four guns could pound the city to a fine powder in a matter of hours.

While Patriot soldiers marched into town, the civilian population headed out. The daily influx and exodus clogged Broad Way all the way to the Post Road. Docks sat empty. Trade idled. Shops closed. Normal living turned absolutely topsy-turvy.

Jack was proud to be one of the staunch New Yorkers who stayed put and supported the effort to fortify the city against invasion. But many Tories remained as well—those who held quiet hope for reconciliation, and to Jack 's utter dismay and disgust, those active collaborators who supported the monarchy. It galled him when the Provincial Congress did nothing to put a stop to the Loyalists who provided food and fresh water to the British warships lurking off Bedloe's Island. Like a pack of well-fed wolves, the
Asia
, the
Mercury
, the
Phoenix
and the
Duchess of Gordon
cruised the bay at will, presaging certain perdition.

Jack turned off Duke Street and headed for the sign of the Cup and Quill. Just as he arrived, Sally unbolted the door and opened the shop for business. Jack Hampton filed in along with the ready crowd of eager customers, grabbing his regular seat to the left of the door that Sally had propped open with a tin of lead slugs. Before immersing himself in the latest issue of the
Philadelphia Gazette
he'd stuffed into his coat pocket, Jack perused the day's collection of customers.

Farmers and tradesmen from every colony volunteered for service, and lacking uniforms, many served their stint dressed in their everyday garb. It was easy enough to identify the origins of the two men in fringed hunting shirts and leather leggings. Propping their long rifles against the wall, the pair of backcountry Virginians doffed battered felt hats and settled in at the far corner table. A group of uniformed soldiers sat at the table across from Jack 's.

New Englanders
.

It was difficult to keep track of the sundry uniform types sported by some of the colonial companies. Such a hodgepodge affair, this Continental Army—nigh on impossible to tell officer from enlisted man save for bits of colored cloth General Washington ordered worn on shoulders, or ruffled into cockades and sewn onto hats. Sporting bright ribband sashes worn across the chest, the highest-ranking officers were the easiest to identify.

The young fellows sitting across from Jack—enlisted men, all—wore matching striped waistcoats, blue jackets and round felt hats. Jack caught the eye of one. “Where do you boys hail from?”