I wanted to thank you personally.” General George Washington stood from behind the desk in his tent and extended his hand.
Washington’s senior aide, Captain Alexander Hamilton, stood quietly off to one side of the desk. Nicknamed “the Little Lion” because of his lean muscles and outstanding intelligence, Hamilton was in his early twenties with reddish-brown hair and deep-blue, almost violet eyes. Birch had seen the ladies swarming around him at dinner parties, and even men found his geniality compelling.
Captain Birch Meredith gripped the general’s hand. “No need for thanks, sir. I did my duty only.” The general appeared tired, and no wonder. The past months had been grueling. Birch had ridden hard through the night, and he had a feeling it would be hours before he was allowed to seek his bed. Though he was twenty-five to his general’s forty-four, Birch knew he had to look as exhausted as his commander.
The general indicated a seat. “You are the finest spy I have, Captain. Without your timely intervention last month, the assassination attempt might have succeeded. For that, I thank you. But your new duties will be even more arduous.” He pushed a piece of paper across the table to Birch.
Birch tightened his jaw. Nothing was too arduous if it meant paying the British back for killing his brother. He would die for the privilege of purging his country of them. He picked the paper up and perused it. It was the drawing of an odd contraption. He had no notion of what it could be.
“This could win the war for us, Captain. But we need to get it into position. That is where you come in.”
Birch frowned. “Sir?”
Hamilton stepped closer and stabbed a finger on the paper. “This is a drawing of the Turtle, David Bushnell’s craft meant to detonate gunpowder underwater. We mean to test it on the HMS Eagle, General Howe’s own flagship. The Eagle rests near Manhattan’s South Ferry this night. Bushnell has readied the Turtle for a test tomorrow night. After the Eagle is destroyed, I want you to transport the Turtle to a safe place until we have further need of it.”
Birch had heard of this David Bushnell. “Yes, sir.”
“Your expression betrays you, Captain. You think this balderdash, do you not?” The general smiled. “We shall use whatever means we have at our disposal to defeat the enemy.”
Birch chose his words with care. “I cannot see how this will work, General. It looks an awkward, cumbersome thing.” He turned the paper the other way. He could make neither heads nor tails of it.
Washington sighed. “We can only try. The British harass us at every turn in New York. I would wish we had more loyal citizens in that region. Spies abound, but we trust our success to Providence. We have right on our side, Captain. Never forget that.” He paused and stared at his paper. “After the Turtle is safely to her harbor, you are to go back to New York. Major Tallmadge has a vital shipment of arms to send to Massachusetts, but the British patrol the waters around New York like sharks.”
At last a chance to really engage the enemy. Secretly, of course. He smiled in satisfaction, and Washington shook his head.
“I use your bitterness and hatred now, Captain, but someday you must throw off that animosity you bear. I say this for your own sake.” He dismissed Birch with a wave of his hand.
Birch gladly escaped the closeness of the tent with its foul-smelling oil lanterns and hurried through the dark night to the ship’s tender. He could see the faint outline of the Temptation in the moonlight as she rocked on her moorings just offshore. Her cargo, hidden in a secret hull, would already have been safely delivered to the Continental Army, and Birch breathed a sigh of relief.
He rowed the boat with swift strokes, his muscles used to the motion. The oars dipped nearly silent in the gentle waves. After climbing the rope ladder, he left his crew to lift and secure the ship’s boat to the side and hurried to his cabin. Only his first mate and bosun knew of his activities on behalf of the revolution. He carried just enough goods to British troops to maintain his cover as a British privateer.
His bosun was placing a tray with a bowl of stew on the desk when Birch entered his cabin.
“Smells good, Turley.” Birch threw his hat onto the bunk, then poured water over his hands from the tin pitcher on a stand near the door. “I could eat a bear.”
“Only fish stew tonight, Cap’n.” A slight, spare man of about forty, Turley never smiled.
His long, slightly jowly expression always reminded Birch of his father’s basset hound, Rolf. His expression grew bleak at the thought of Rolf’s devotion to his brother, Charles. “Send Mick in please. We shove off immediately.” He expected questions from Turley, but the older man simply offered a solemn nod and went to find the first mate.
Birch sighed and scarfed down his supper. The hot food revitalized him, and he pulled the strange drawing out of his pocket and stared at it again. What an odd little vessel. The morrow would tell if the thing would work.
The men crept through the marsh grass to the edge of the water. The lights of Manhattan glowed along the shore, but Birch knew the darkness would hide them. It would be dawn soon, so they must move with all haste. He motioned his men to bring their burden to the water.
They carried the Turtle, a round vessel made of two hulls that looked like giant tortoise shells. The two sides were held together with iron bands, and pitch sealed the juncture. One section had a hatch with small portholes the size of half dollars on it.
The group set their burden on the beach. Moving in silence, a short, stocky man slipped inside the hatch and another man locked him inside. Once he gave them a thumbs-up through the porthole, the men strapped a cask of gunpowder to the oak hull.
Birch turned to David Bushnell. “You’re sure the firing mechanism and clock are both operating properly?”
“I checked it myself.”
Birch returned his attention to the Turtle. Inside, Sergeant Ezra Lee stared at his controls. Bushnell explained the way the craft worked, and Birch could finally see how this vehicle might actually do all it was supposed to do. A smile crept across his face. This good old Yankee ingenuity should shock the British.
The Turtle could sink beneath the waves by taking on water in her ballast tanks, then move toward the target—underwater and undetected—by a propeller Sergeant Lee cranked from inside. Once in position, Lee would maneuver under Howe’s flagship and attach the explosive with a screw on top of the craft. Thirty minutes. Not long, but long enough, Birch hoped. That explosion would take Howe’s precious Eagle to the bottom of the Atlantic where it belonged.
Birch would pay all the coin in his coffers to see the look on Howe’s face when that ship exploded and sank. The only way it could be better would be if Major Montgomery were on board. On second thought, Birch hoped that was not the way it transpired.
He wanted to kill Montgomery with his own hands. Drowning was too good for him.
Bushnell slapped the side of the craft. “Get her in the water, men.”
The men waded into the water and dropped the craft. She floated a few moments, then began to sink beneath the gentle waves. Birch watched with bated breath. They only had a half hour before Lee would have to surface for air. The target was about an eighth of a mile out. At three knots an hour, Lee would be there in minutes. The Temptation was to push off farther out to sea and wait to pick up the Turtle. He motioned for the men to join him in the ship’s boat. They silently piled in, and the men rowed out to the ship.
Once aboard the Temptation Bushnell shook his head. “I hope he can operate her. Sergeant Lee had mere hours to train. I should have done it myself.”
“We had our orders. You were too valuable to risk.” Birch held a spyglass to his eye and tried to determine the location of the craft, but not a ripple betrayed her movement. He motioned for Mick to weigh anchor and shove off.
Minutes later the canvas above them caught the wind, and they sailed out into the dark water just as dawn colored the sky pink. Birch kept his spyglass trained on the HMS Eagle. Suddenly a shape bobbed to the surface. Sh
outs from the Eagle echoed distantly over the water.
“They’ve spotted her!” Birch shouted. “Ready your guns. We may need to go to her assistance.”
Bushnell leaned over the railing. “What is he doing? He should still be underwater. The fool! I should have made sure he was better trained.”
The Eagle gave pursuit, but the little craft was fast. Moments later a muffled roar shook the deck, and a great plume of water shot into the air halfway between the Eagle and the Turtle. Birch winced. They’d failed. Lee obviously had not planted the cask and was detonating it in an attempt to rattle the British and escape. The vibration knocked a crewman from the rigging, and even Birch had to grip the railing to keep his balance. Shrieks from shore and the Eagle carried to them, then the British ship backed away from its pursuit of the craft.
“Come on, come on,” Birch muttered. The Turtle seemed to approach at a glacial pace.
The men crowded to the rail. They were all rooting for the strange little craft to make it to safety. Then the Turtle was alongside them, and his men hurried to haul her to the deck. Once she was out of the water, the Temptation lifted her sails and sped away before the British ships had time to muster their courage and follow.
Bushnell opened the hatch and helped Sergeant Lee out. “What happened, man?”
Lee was white with shock. “The screw on top of her that was supposed to secure the cask bumped on something. It was surely the iron bar between the rudder hinge and the stern. I couldn’t attach it to the ship.”
“Why didn’t you try again? You must have mishandled the ballast to come shooting up out of the water like that.” Bushnell turned to Birch. “I told you we should have waited!”
Birch saw Sergeant Lee’s shame and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll try again at a more opportune time. You’ve all done a good job here today. The British know we are not the ignorant colonials they think us. They shall wonder what new weapon of war we have.” He grinned. “The explosion will linger in their memories. That was smart thinking to cut it loose, Sergeant.”
Bushnell was mollified at the Turtle’s praise and smiled. “I will take her out next. Then you shall see what she is truly capable of. The British will turn tail and run.” He smiled and turned away to see to his pride and joy.
Birch strode back to his cabin. The men should not see his disappointment. He would have given his inheritance to see the HMS Eagle at the bottom of the sea. But the British would pay. And one man in particular. Major Hugh Montgomery.
SEPTEMBER 21, 1776
Galen strode the muddy streets with a satisfied grin on his face. New York still smoldered from the fires of yesterday, and the acrid odor stung his throat. The Americans had burned a quarter of the city, nearly six hundred homes. Howe had his answer to his appeal to establish a permanent union between England and America. Galen couldn’t be sorry for that answer. It suited his purposes very well this day.
He stopped outside the mansion General Howe had commandeered for his headquarters and knocked on the door. Quickly ushered into Montgomery’s office, he saluted to the man sitting at the desk. Major Montgomery looked as though he wore a perpetual frown.
“I did not expect you until next week, Galen.” Montgomery pushed his papers away and leaned back in his chair.
“I have news that could not wait, Major.” He had to force himself not to smile. “I bring you spies and arsonists taken in the woods.”
A fire smoldered in Montgomery’s eyes. “Quick work, Wright. They will hang at sundown.” He motioned to the chair. “Sit. Refreshments will be in shortly. Tell me all about catching the spies.”
Galen smiled and did as he was bid, with a few stretches of the truth. The major did not have to know that he had arranged for one of his men to be watching one particular private. At an opportune time John Thomas had been captured. He would hang with the others simply because he had made the mistake of marrying the woman Galen intended to have. He would have the satisfaction of explaining his fate to John.
The gibbet had been thrown together, but it would serve its purpose for the three spies lined up at its base. Galen smiled when he spotted John Thomas last in line. He’d planned it that way purposefully so the man who had taken his Hannah would suffer as he watched what would soon befall his own neck.
The sun was low in the sky when Galen pushed past the guards and stopped in front of John and surveyed him from head to toe. Hannah had chosen this man instead of him? Heavy jowled and aging, the man was nearly old enough to be her father.
The blood pounded in Galen’s ears, and he clenched his fists before he could calm himself enough to speak. “You will die today, John Thomas.”
John met his gaze. “I am no spy.”
“No, you’re not. Your crime is much more serious. You stole Hannah from me.”
John’s eyes widened. “You are Galen Wright, are you not?”
“She spoke of me?”
John narrowed his eyes. “Only that she was glad to escape your attentions.”
Heat roared up Galen’s neck to his face, and he wished for a knife to dispatch the man himself. He took several deep breaths, then stepped back. “You will die, and Hannah will be mine. She cannot escape her destiny.”
John’s color waned, but his gaze never left Galen’s. “I will not be able to protect her, but God will. You will not prevail.”
“God!” Galen sneered. “Where is God today, John? He’s unable to keep you from swinging on yon gibbet with your friends.”
John shrugged. “‘It is appointed unto man once to die.’ I do not fear death. Or you, Galen Wright. You can only destroy this aging body, but you can’t touch what really matters.”
Galen clenched his jaw and stepped back. “Hang him.”
Hours later he returned to his boardinghouse with a sense of accomplishment. Things had gone exactly as planned. Hannah’s husband now swung from a gibbet until morning when his body would be cut down and thrown into a mass grave. Galen would make sure Hannah was notified promptly of her widowhood. Perhaps then she would welcome help when he offered it.
A smile eased across his face. His only regret was that John had refused to beg for his life and had talked only of God. Galen snorted. Typical colonial propaganda.
CHAPTER 4
Hannah, how do you bear this place day after day?” Lydia threw her hands out in an expansive gesture that encompassed the gray sea and even grayer sky. “I shall go quite mad, and I’ve only been here three weeks.”
Hannah sighed. What had she been thinking to invite Lydia to keep her company? She had forgotten her younger sister’s easy boredom and high spirits. There were no parties or people to keep her busy. Her mother-in-law had quickly shown her contempt, as had Olive, John’s spinster sister. Hannah was running out of ideas. They had gone for strolls along the beach every day, but that took up little time. She had her duties to the lighthouse to attend to as well as the usual drudgery in the house. Lydia had very little tolerance for either.
Before she could answer Lydia, she heard a cart rattle up the hill to the house. Relieved at the distraction, Hannah turned to see who would brave her mother-in-law’s displeasure by consorting with her. Her heart leapt at the sight of her brother-in-law. John was surely with Harlis. She darted her gaze around but saw no sign of her husband’s burly form. She hurried to greet Harlis. Lydia followed her.
“Hannah.” He gripped her hand.
What was that in his face? The breath left her lungs. She laid a hand to her throat. “Where is my husband, Harlis? Isn’t he with you?”
“Hannah.” He swallowed and his throat made a clicking noise. “I do not know how to tell you this.”
A terrible foreboding shook her. The mournful cry of a seagull overhead deepened her apprehension. “It cannot be.” She backed away from his agonized face. “You are mistaken!” The last word was a wail. Lydia took her hand and squeezed it. Hannah wanted to clap her hands over her ears and refuse to hear the terrible words on Harlis’s lips. r />
“I fear my brother is no more, Hannah. He was hanged in New York two weeks ago as a spy, one of those who set New York ablaze.” Harlis dropped his head.
Beside her, Lydia gasped at the starkness of the pronouncement, but Hannah felt nothing for long moments. John, a spy? The thought was ludicrous. Even more ludicrous was the thought that her John could be dead these two weeks and she didn’t know it, didn’t sense it in her soul.
“I do not know how we shall bear this blow,” Harlis said brokenly. “I must tell Mother and Olive.” He paused a moment and stared at her.
It must be real if he intended to tell his mother. Hannah whimpered. “You must be mistaken, Harlis. Did you see this hanging with your own eyes?” Desperately, she tried to hold on to her hope.
He shook his head. “I buried his body.” His words were low, but he held her gaze without flinching. “There is no mistake, Hannah. Do you think I would not recognize my own brother?”
It was true then. Harlis’s anxious face wavered, then everything went black.
OCTOBER 14, 1776
Widow. Hannah had thought the name would be hers someday, but not for many more years. Married one year and already alone. Except for Lydia who had been a comfort this past week.
“The weather is warmer today, Lydia. Shall we walk along the beach?”
Lydia’s face brightened at her sister’s invitation. “I am glad to see you coming out of your doldrums, Sister.” She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and followed Hannah to the door.
For a moment Hannah felt a twinge of guilt at Lydia’s careless remark. While it was true that the last few days had finally brought calmness to her soul, she still missed John’s solid presence and reassuring manner. He had always taken care of everything for her before he left, even to arranging for the lightkeeper’s yearly stipend of two hundred pounds to come to her. Now it all rested on her shoulders.
And John would not have wanted her to grieve long. He was a practical man, and an overwhelming love and passion had never been on either side of the marriage. He would want her to go on with her life, even to remarry someday. Although that thought was far from her mind.