THE DISTRESS OF THE PRISONERS CANNOT BE
COMMUNICATED IN WORDS. TWENTY OR THIRTY DIE EVERY
DAY; THEY LIE IN HEAPS UNBURIED; WHAT NUMBERS OF MY
COUNTRYMEN HAVE DIED BY COLD AND HUNGER, PERISHED
FOR WANT OF THE COMMON NECESSARIES OF LIFE! I HAVE
SEEN IT! THIS, SIR, IS THE BOASTED BRITISH CLEMENCY!
–LETTER WRITTEN FROM NEW YORK DESCRIBING
PRISONERS CAPTURED AT FORT WASHINGTON
Lady seymour regained her strength by the day. I was no longer allowed to spend warm hours in her bedchamber. She took her breakfast and dinner alone but joined the rest of the company for supper each night. Madam was saddened by her husband’s aunt’s return to health.
The next week passed in a kitchenstorm of flour and sugar, for Christmas was fast approaching. Madam’s list of required delicacies was endless: gingerbread, pies of brandied peaches and preserved cherries and mincemeat, macaroons, blancmange, Jordan almonds, sugar candy, as many kinds of cake as there were fingers on both hands. I was the dogsbody in charge of keeping the oven stoked with wood and the ashes cleared out, fetching forgotten ingredients from the market, and beating eggs, ten at a time, till my arm was near to fall off.
Two of the soldierwives got into a terrible squabble the day the woodpile froze. Hannah told Mary it was her turn to fetch home the buckets from the Tea Water Pump and Mary said, no, ’twas Hannah’s turn. Back and forth they went, the words getting hotter as their tempers grew shorter.
“I went yesterday,” Mary said loudly as she poured boiling water into a basin. “You know that for a fact because you told me my nose was the color of a cherry when I came in.”
Hannah shook her head as she scrubbed the floor. “No, no, no, that was two days ago. Yesterday I slipped on the ice and fell on my backside. Near broke my tailbone, I did. Could barely come up the steps this morning.”
“Yer a lying codface, you are,” Mary said.
Hannah threw the brush in the bucket and water splashed on the floor. “Who you calling a liar?”
Sarah, the bosslady, came through the door just as Mary rounded the table, her hands balled up into fists. Sarah was getting close to her time and had a bit of a temper herself. She slammed the door so hard the whole house shook. “Shut yer gobs!” she shouted. “I’ll report the pair of you to the colonel if you don’t straighten up. There’ll be no more brawling or caterwauling in this kitchen.”
“But—,” they both said.
Sarah leveled such a glare at the pair of them I thought their hair would catch fire. And I suddenly saw a way clear to my own purposes.
“Begging pardon, Miss Sarah, ma’am,” I said meekly.
“What do you want?” she said, her eyes still on the other women.
“I can fetch the tea water,” I volunteered.
Mary shook her head back and forth. “Oh, no, she won’t. She’ll tarry at the shops to get out of her own chores. Make one of the men do it, I say.”
“I’m the first one awake to build up the fires,” I explained. “The shops are still closed then. I’ll dash up to the pump and be back before the sun comes up.”
Sarah gave me a suspicious look. “Why would you take on extra work, special with it being so cold and dark in the morning?”
“I was raised in the country, miss. Too much time inside makes me feel poorly. I like walking in the fresh air, even if it is cold.”
’Twas mostly a lie, but the Tea Water Pump was right close to the prison. Fetching water would give me a chance to check on Curzon every day.
Hannah picked up her scrub brush and knelt on the floor again. “Let her go, I say. Saves us the trouble of freezing our tails off.” She dipped the brush in the bucket. “Don’t know what possessed me to follow my Jimmy to this godforsaken colony.”
The next morning found me headed up island long before the sun rose. When I knocked on the guardhouse door of the prison, it was opened by a soldier I’d never seen before, a short man with black hair, sky blue eyes, and a scowl.
“You can’t come in,” he said after I explained my errand. “Regulations been changed.”
“Tell her ’bout the windows,” called another soldier warming himself by the fire.
“The regulations permit civilians to deliver food and sundry provisions.”
“But not firewood,” added the man at the hearth, yawning.
“But not firewood,” repeated the first man. “There will be regular patrols round the perimeter of the building to ensure that civilians do not tarry overlong in conversation with the prisoners.”
“And we’ll be checking on the grub you give ’em,” said his companion.
“Guards will inspect all civilian donations,” the first man said formally. “If you deliver contraband items, you will be imprisoned yourself.”
I shivered once. “Are scones and jam contraband?”
“Not yet.”
Back outside, I walked around the front of the building, trying to figure where Curzon’s cell lay. Some prisoners were already awake, their hands and arms wrapped in rags sticking through the bars of the window.
Curzon’s cell lay to the back of the building. I rounded the corner and stopped. This was where the burial pits were dug. The pits were just a little smaller than the cells, dug down the height of a grown man. One of them had already been filled with bodies and covered again with dark mud. Two lay open and empty, sprinkled with snow like sugar on a cake. I did not know how many bodies would fit in each.
I shivered again and pulled my cloak tight, then turned my back to the graves and counted the windows, two, three, four, until I came to the window I hoped led to Curzon’s cell. The eastern sky had brightened enough for me to see all around, but the inside of the prison was dark.
I stepped up to the building. The bottom of the window was just above the top of my head. I stood on tiptoe and stretched my hands up to the bars. “Hello?” I called in a hushed voice. “Curzon? Anyone?”
The nasty fellow who had tried to steal my bucket on my first visit, Dibdin, leaned his face against the bars. He had a blanket around his shoulders and Curzon’s hat upon his head. “Won’t let you in no more, eh?”
“They changed the rules. Can you fetch my brother, please? Sir?”
“He’s sleepin’.”
I wanted to pull the bars apart, snatch the hat from his head, and thrash him with my fists and shoes, but that was impossible. I forced honey into my voice, and a humble tone. “Well, then, may I please speak to your sergeant?”
“Sarge is dead.” He turned his head and spat. “I’m in charge now. I’ll take the victuals you brought.”
I started to reach into the bucket to hand the scones through the bars, but stopped. “How do I know my brother’s not dead, too? Wake him up, please.”
Dibdin opened his mouth but closed it without a word. His hunger was stronger than his temper, it seemed. He turned to someone in the cell. “Get the black boy over here.”
A moment later, Curzon appeared at the window. He was shaking so badly he could barely stand, his eyes half-closed, teeth chattering. He had no blanket around him and there were puke stains on the front of his shirt. His gold earring was missing, too.
“Curzon! Curzon!” I hissed. “What ails you? What can I do?”
He did not hear me, or could not. He was insensible of his own name and where he was.
Dibdin joined Curzon at the window. “Terrible, ain’t it, how fevers and pox tear through this place?”
There was hollow laughter in the cell.
“Give him his hat back,” I said. “And a blanket. Is he getting his rations?”
He did not answer me. That was an answer in itself. The prison was not a place of shared hardship anymore; it was a hole of desperation.
“You bloody beast,” I swore. “How dare you let him starve?” The words flew out of my mouth without pause.
“Who are you to reprimand me, girl?” he snarled, putting his face up to the bars.
His breath stank of rotting teeth, and snot pooled at the edge of his nostrils. “He’s a slave. He will not be treated same as free men.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “But you can remedy that,” he said. “With ease.”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “How so?”
Curzon was seized by a fit of coughing so violent I feared his ribs would crack. He choked on his spittle and fought for breath, then finally relaxed back into his stupor, leaning against the window.
Dibdin glanced back at the other men in the cell before continuing. “Our Captain Morse is on parole, lodged at the Golden Hill Tavern, we hear. Go there, tell him the men have fever and pox. One of our lads, Bridgebane, has a father in Piscataway with money and influence. If the captain can get word to him, Bridgebane’s father could arrange for a proper physician to attend us here.”
Curzon coughed again and moaned. Sweat glistened on his forehead.
“And the doctor would see to my brother,” I said.
Dibdin hesitated, then gave a nod. “Aye.”
“And he gets a blanket and food.”
Dibdin said something to a man I couldn’t see. A blanket appeared on Curzon’s shoulders. Curzon clutched it around himself.
“And his hat.” My voice was ice.
Dibdin removed the hat and placed it on Curzon’s head. “Lay him down,” he instructed. “On the rushes, not the bare floor.”
Someone helped Curzon away from the window.
I had no choice.
I handed the jam-covered burnt scones up to the window. Dibdin stuck the first one in his mouth, then passed the others to the men who suddenly crowded the window.
“If he dies, you’ll not see me again,” I warned.
“Understood,” he said.
I found Captain Morse carrying out rubbish for the tavern keeper. He was a well-fed man wearing the brown coat trimmed with white that signified he was a prisoner of war. There was a big gap between his front teeth, but they looked clean enough.
He joined me in the shadows of the alley and listened as I quickly explained my mission.
“I’ll try to get word to Bridgebane’s family tonight. It is against all the laws of war to treat prisoners so badly.” He paced angrily. “How often can you stop here?”
“Every morning.”
“Good. Tell Dibdin I’ll see what I can do to ease their suffering, though I fear it will not be enough.”
“My brother is among the prisoners,” I said. “He’s ill. Can you … ?”
“Can I see to it that he is given his share of whatever Bridgebane provides? I surely will. Your brother was calm and brave during the final battle. He’s a true soldier.”
The crow of a rooster interrupted him. The sun was fighting through the leaden clouds.
I picked up the buckets. “I have to hurry.”
He nodded. “Thank you for your help … my apologies, but I do not know your name.”
“I am called Sal.”
“Do you carry a last name as well, Sal?”
I hesitated. According to Madam, my surname was Lockton, but it tasted foul in my mouth. I shook my head.
He smiled. “Just Sal, then. Good day to you, Just Sal.”
Lucky for me the overcast morn caused the other servants to sleep past their normal time. By the time Hannah and Mary staggered up from the cellar, I had the porridge bubbling and the tea steeping.
I could not eat nor drink a thing for my belly was tied up with fear. My thoughts chased round and round my brainpan. I could not visit the prison daily. I was sure to be caught and punished. But I had to visit the prison daily. Curzon’s life depended on it. But someone would see me and was sure to remember the mark on my face. Word would get back to Madam, and she would tell Colonel Hawkins and he would set someone to follow me and Captain Morse would be flogged for passing on messages and the prisoners in Curzon’s cell would all be hung and buried in the pit.
When I thought what they might do to me, I ran to the necessary and had me a good puking. But the next day, I made my way up there again—food for the prisoners, water for the Locktons, and every once in a while, a message to the gap-toothed man in the brown coat at the Golden Hill Tavern.
A few nights later, there was a terrible hullabaloo between Madam and the master when he announced at supper that he was planning to travel on the next ship to London. He would carry messages to Parliament, conduct his own business, and likely return to New York by the summer.
Madam was not pleased. First she argued that he ought not go, then she argued yes, he should go, and he should take her with him. When he refused, she threw a goblet in the fireplace and carried on so loudly that the Master and Colonel Hawkins finally called for the carriage and left for a tavern.
Madam dosed herself with strong wine after that and went to bed.
That night the temperatures fell so far below freezing that the biggest fire could not keep away the chill. I moved my pallet as close to the hearth as I dared and sat with all my clothes, my cloak, and my blanket wrapped around me. ’Twas so cold, I could not sleep. General Washington and his men were holed up in Morristown. Folks said they were in desperate need of stockings and food. I could scarce credit how hungry men with frozen feet could win a war. They were fools to even try.
I waited as the clock first chimed eleven times, then twelve, watching the firelight and trying not to ponder. When I got up to add wood to the fire, my feet wandered themselves to the pantry, and my hands pulled the loose board there. Under the board were some sheets of newsprint I had saved, the lead piece from the statue of King George, my seeds, and the book given me by the stationer. I carried the book to my warm pallet and quietly untied the twine and removed the paper wrapping.
I opened the cover. A fellow named Thomas Paine wrote the little book. He called it Common Sense.
Momma always said that common sense was far from common, that’s why it was so special when you found it. The first sentence in the book did not seem to contain any.
“Some writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have different origins. Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness …”
It took four readings to figure out the meaning, which I took to be that the life of folks is different than the world what rules over them. Paine sure did dance a long time with the notion before he said it.
I closed the book and longed for Robinson Crusoe, still stranded in the study where Colonel Hawkins was asleep. I dared not rescue him.
I opened the book again and attacked the next sentence.
Chapter XXXVIII
Tuesday, December 24–Wednesday, December 25, 1776
CHRISTMAS IS COME, HANG ON THE POT,
LET SPITS TURN ROUND, AND OVENS BE HOT;
BEEF, PORK, AND POULTRY, NOW PROVIDE
TO FEAST THY NEIGHBORS AT THIS TIDE;
THEN WASH ALL DOWN WITH GOOD WINE AND BEER,
AND SO WITH MIRTH CONCLUDE THE YEAR.
–ROYAL VIRGINIA ALMANAC
I spent the day before Christmas fighting a holly bush with a pair of scissors. Madam required its twigs and berries for her decorating schemes. My morning dash to the prison, pump, and tavern had gone wonderful fast. There were no new messages to pass from Curzon’s companions to Captain Morse, and the doctor secured by the rich Bridgebane family had delivered potions and bleedings to all, as promised. Curzon was spending most of his days sleeping, but he was not dead.
And it was Christmas Eve day.
The holly bits were tied with pine branches and set on the sills of the street-facing windows. Glass bowls of red berries were set on small tables in the drawing room, library, and the front parlor. Madam had two soldiers hang a ball of mistletoe in the front hall. This provided great merriment amongst the men and some blushing on the part of their wives.
I had never seen a house decorated with tree branches to celebrate the birth of the baby Jes
us, but it did pretty up the place. The best was when Madam told us to hang dried rosemary throughout; that cut right through the lingering stench of boots and belchings.
In keeping with tradition, I was to have Christmas Day free from work. I pondered hard on what I should do with so many hours for myself. Christmas at home had meant eating Momma’s bread pudding with maple syrup and nutmeg, and reading the Gospel of Matthew out loud whilst Ruth played in Momma’s lap. I was miles away from celebrating like that. I tried to bury the remembery, but it kept floating to the top of my mind like a cork in a stormy sea, and foolish tears spilled over.
I finally decided to treat myself to a long stroll through all of New York: from the waterfront north to Chambers Street, and a side-to-side wander from the East River to the North River, which some had taken to calling the Hudson. For one day, my legs would be my own, not at the beck and call of others.
On Christmas morning, Lady Seymour presented me with a new pair of black leather shoes that did not pinch any of my toes. Madam gave the soldierwives each a coin. She gave me nothing.
When we returned home from the service at St. Paul’s Chapel, Madam explained that my day off would begin as soon as I had finished serving the midday meal. Sarah had cooked it in advance: a sirloin of beef, smoked ham, onion pie, and a plum pudding for dessert. Master and Madam both filled up on the onion pie and hardly touched the fresh-baked bread. Lady Seymour ate enough for an undersized mouse.
I et porridge and beef for my Christmas dinner, a right curious combination but a tasty one.
As I cleared away the table, Madam informed me that my day off would begin after I brought in wood and washed up the dishes. Lady Seymour fired off a cannonblast of a glare at her, but Madam pretended not to notice, and the master kept his face planted in his newspaper. There had been heat rising between the two women for days. Madam was prepared to row the aunt to Charleston to get rid of her.
After the meal, the Master went to order the carriage to take them to some admiral’s house for eggnog. Lady Seymour said she was going to rest and required nothing of me. As the lady limped to her chamber and the master disappeared down the stairs, I picked up the tray that held the last of the dishes. Madam poured herself another cup of tea.