The Tory Widow by Christine Blevins

Author:Christine Blevins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-02-26T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

We fight neither for revenge nor conquest; neither from

pride nor passion; we are not insulting the world with our fleets

and armies, not ravaging the globe for plunder. Beneath the shade

of our own vines are we attacked; in our own houses, and on our

own lands, is the violence committed against us.

THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense

Saturday, September 14, 1776

Midmorning at the Sign of the Cup and Quill

A doleful harbinger, the wool-stuffed mattress thump, thump, thumped, from step to step to step as Anne dragged it down the stairs. “Like moving a dead body,” she complained, tugging the unwieldy thing the last few yards across the floor.

“I dinna think it’ll fit.” Sally eyed the mattress as she finagled the sugar chest into the storage closet beneath the stairs. “There is not a square inch to spare in here.”

The women managed to squash the mattress in nonetheless. Sally put her weight against the door so Anne could thread a padlock through the hasp and lock it with the corresponding key on her ring. They pushed the big cabinet back into its spot, concealing the door’s existence.

“If we’re lucky,” Sally said, wiping her hands on her apron, “the lobsterbacks willna think to look behind the cabinet.”

“If we’re lucky,” Anne said, “Washington won’t order the whole city put to the torch, as they say he is wont to do, rather than leave it for the British.”

Sally sighed. “I’ll put a lock on the kitchen door anyway, for whatever good it might do.”

Anne spun in a slow circle on one heel, going over the checklist in her mind. All linens and valuable furnishings were stowed under lock and key. All the doors and shutters were latched secure. The pushcart and two rucksacks were packed and waiting by the front door.

“I suppose we’re ready.” Anne flopped down in a chair, scrunching her nose upon viewing her shoes poking out from her hems.

It was a fifteen-mile trek on the Post Road to cross over to the mainland by King’s Bridge. Boats willing to take passengers upriver were few and far between these days, and they might well have to foot the additional thirty-five miles all the way to Peekskill. Anne packed her pretty French heels away, and borrowed a sensible pair of brown shoes from Sally—low flat heels with squared toes, secured with a wide strap and buckle.

“Blech!”

Sally tossed their straw hats on the tabletop, and pulled up a chair. “The baker’s boy just popped his head over the fence. Quakenbos will be by within the hour to fetch us along.”

Anne nodded. “Then we will have to bid farewell to the Cup and Quill . . .”

The days since the army’s retreat from Long Island had whipped by faster than a hurricane wind. The coffeehouse had been filled to capacity morning, noon and night with vanquished, exhausted soldiers in need of a hot meal, and some respite from defeat and the wet weather. Anne and Sally flung open the doors to all comers, and without charge offered cups of chicory coffee and liberty tea, bowlfuls of porridge and heartfelt smiles.

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