'Older than you,' said Daltoons. 'And I've fought in several battles besides.'
'That's why they have you as an errand boy?'
'Ask your friend Jake about the Herstraw business,' said Daltoons, his cheeks beginning to shade. 'See who helped him on that mission.'
'I have already saved his life two or three times,' insisted Alison.
Their path took them right past a redcoat stronghold, the tavern owned by the notorious back-stabbing Tory, William Hermann. Several of the patrons were standing at the doorway as Daltoons and Alison passed.
“ Hey, ya cowards, ya,” said a corporal. He reached his arm out towards Daltoons, who shrugged him aside and kept moving. “Yer the damned dogs we’re getting killed for.”
“ Go to hell,” said Alison as the drunk reached out toward her.
His hand brushed across her chest before she could duck away. She responded with a bold and bright slap across his cheek.
The redcoat fell back in amazement. “Hey now,” he called out, “there’s something unnatural about the lad.”
His attempt to explore further ended in a high-pitched screech as Alison kneed him in the groin. The yelp had the effect of rallying his fellows, drunken as they were, and Alison found herself facing five or six large grenadiers recently returned from King’s Bridge, where they had had their noses bruised by a small but efficient American raiding party.
“ We’ll teach ya some manners, brat,” said one. “Come in here with us.”
Alison curled her fists as one of the men reached out to grab her. In the next instant, she was yanked backwards by Daltoons.
“ We meant no harm,” he said. “The rebels have recently killed out father, and my sister is mad at the world. She is only dressed this way so we could avoid their guard in Westchester was we came toward the city. Please excuse us.”
The redcoats might not have accepted his apology, save for the fact that the young lieutenant accented it with a fully cocked pistol. He pulled back his coat and revealed that he had not one but two more on reserve.
Drawing a weapon on British soldiers on a city street was punishable in any number of ways, but the soldiers could not seem to cite the proper regulation prohibiting the offense. Daltoons hooked Alison by the arm, nudged her a few steps backwards, and then yanked her along as he bolted up the street.
When he realized the only things pursuing them were a few half-hearted oaths, he stopped.
“ You could have gotten us killed or worse,” he told Alison before releasing her.
“ I won’t be insulted by any British pig.”
Daltoons was seized by a sudden fury and slapped her.
She slapped him back. And yet, immediately after the impulse, regret flooded into her eyes.
The lieutenant didn’t notice it.
“ You have a lot to learn,” he said, storming towards Miss Tennison’s. Allison followed, silent and somewhat chastened, if not wholly repentant.
The reader is no doubt familiar with the exploits of Mrs. Robert Murray, whose strategic introduction of tea and crumpets to the British leaders as their troops advanced up Manhattan Island in the fall of 1776 allowed George Washington to escape their clutches. Though not as famous, surely Miss Tennison had served the Cause nearly as well. The refreshments this simple dressmaker serves are not intended for British officers, however, but for their women, and it is through their gossip that many an English plan has found its way back to General Washington. Her biscuits, sweet as they may seem, are worse poison than bitter arsenic as far as the British war effort is concerned.
Nonetheless, some of Miss Tennison’s habits might be said to be over-fastidious. It is not merely the insistence that her finely prepared clothes be worn a certain way, or that the biscuits she serves be taken from the dish in a specific order. The old spinster also demands that her guests begin their visit by speaking to her cat, who must be addressed as Master Prickle. His health should be asked after, then his plans for the day. Anyone who does not follow this elaborate protocol is likely to be ushered from the house without pause.
Daltoons, already in a sour mood, bowed when Miss Tennison let him in. He then introduced, or attempted to introduce, Alison as a friend in need of a new dress.
“ No, no, my dear young Mark, you have not greeted Master Prickle yet,” insisted the spinster, pointing to the cat.
“ A little light on cream, is she?” whispered Alison as Daltoons completed his mandatory ceremony. The cat did not bother waking from his nap to acknowledge the inquiries.
“ Excuse me, dear,” asked Miss Tennison. “Did you want cream?”
“ If you please,” answered Alison, rolling her eyes for Daltoons.
The old woman nodded approvingly. “Master Prickle was mentioning the same thing to me, a moment before you arrived.”
“ We have need of a dress for Alison,” said Daltoons. “She needs a new disguise.”
“ I have a dress that would flatter you,” said Miss Tennison. “My fitting room is right in the next room, behind the curtain.”
Alison took her arm and walked with her a few steps towards the door. “Master Prickle advised me to proceed in breeches and a shirt, as if I were a boy. He says it is a safer disguise in a city full of soldiers.”
“ Yes, yes,” nodded Miss Tennison thoughtfully. “I am sure he is right. Yes. He is quite clever.”
“ He is indeed,” said Daltoons sarcastically behind her.
“ You’re not following us, are you?” Alison asked.
“ Why not?” If you want to dress as a boy, then I don’t see why I can’t.”
She pulled the curtain across his face.
After their escape, Jake and van Clynne made their way to an infirmary near Delancy’s Square, where Culper had planned a rendezvous. The bottom portion of the hospital was filled with actual cases, including a few British soldiers who could not be properly accommodated at the camp facilities, and in all likelihood would never recover. The top was completely take over by the Sons of Liberty, who feted their rescued fellows with a hearty porridge and a few tasty pints. Van Clynne took one step from the stairs and immediately fell in with this group, anxious to quench his deep thirst.
Jake, meanwhile, sought out Culper, who as closeted with Robert Anthony, his rescued spy. Culper’s office was an old storeroom, lined by long, shallow shelves. On one side various pans and jars sat waiting for use; on the other were blankets and bed linens. Culper had taken a piece of rough pine to use as a desk, and propped it against the shelf with the help of an old, narrow barrel that seemed to have been used to make cheese at one time. Perhaps that accounted for the smell of the room, whose paint blistered and hung in large flakes from the woodwork.
“
Robert, this is our friend, Mr. Gibbs,” said Culper as Jake entered. “He is seeking Howe’s destination.”
“
You look nothing like your description,” said Robert Anthony, shaking the agent’s hand.
“
I have been trying a new diet of late,” said Jake. “What do you know of Howe’s plans?”
“
I was suspected before I could search General Clinton’s office,” said the spy dejectedly. “And there was no talk about Howe at all — except to call him an ass.”
“
No word of his destination?”
“
None,” Anthony said, “though perhaps they were merely being careful. The guard had been tripled. I believe I was suspected from the moment I joined his staff.”
“
Yes,” said Culper. “I fear we have a traitor somewhere among us.”
