The Messenger (5 page)

Hannah

I was sitting in the Meeting House on the women’s side, facing the presiding and recording clerks. I used to think that I might one day join their number. I used to strain to listen with my inner ear to hear the voice of God. But I did not know anything anymore, at least not with any sort of certainty.

I could not—
must not
—speak of the thoughts that daily passed through my mind. That was why I was sitting, lips pressed together, in the middle of the assembly. Even if the Spirit of God himself should move me, I dared not speak. To speak of my thoughts and to advocate for visiting the prisoners might bring disownment.

No Friend would shun me; my family would not abandon me. It was not those things that I feared. It was not the way of Friends to refuse to acknowledge each other, but it
was
their way to stand apart from one they considered too worldly. And they would point out to any who wondered that though I came from a Quaker family, though I might be beloved by many Friends, they did not consider me one of their own. And what would I be without my faith? Where could I turn in these perilous days if not to those who believed as I did?

In the hush of the silence I uncurled the fists on my lap, stretched out my fingers, and then curled them up once more. To my right, Betsy Evans’ eyes were closed, her lips moving in soundless prayer. To my left, old Anne Clifton had fallen asleep again. And from the men’s side came the sonorous sounds of a snore.

Falling asleep hadn’t used to be a problem in the early days of the rebellion. Back then, Meetings had gone on for hours. There had been no end to the words from God. But our Meeting had been silent for months now. Not even God himself had anything to say about the occupation. About the fences that had been torn down for firewood or the andirons that had been stolen from citizens’ hearths. God seemed not to care about the families who had been turned out of their homes by the British, nor for the city’s maidens that sacrificed their morality nightly for the gift of a soldier’s shillings.

Everywhere I looked, everything I learned only added to the sense that there were grave injustices being heaped upon our land. And that Friends, too easily persuaded to silence, allowed them to continue. What if we were not only called to maintain peace but also to defend it?

What if we’d all been wrong? What if men were called to fight for what they believed in? “If—”

Beside me old Anne started and woke. On the other side of me, Betsy’s eyes had flown open. And now they were both staring at me.

Had I . . . had I spoken aloud? I clapped a hand to my mouth.

“Friend Sunderland?” The presiding clerk was looking at me with much interest.

I shook my head.

He frowned. Raised a brow. “
If
 . . . ?”

When I stood, it was only because I did not wish to embarrass myself any further. “I only wish that God would send a word. If God would only say a word . . .” I sat down just as fast as I could. That’s what came from daydreaming: a testimony that was no testimony, a word without meaning. A wish.

From behind me there was a shifting among the pews. From the men’s side came a cough and then the telltale shuffle of feet against the floor. Miracle of miracles, someone was standing to speak!

Old Andrew Chandler looked round at all of us. “God speaks to His children in diverse ways all the time. If we do not hear, it is because we do not listen.”

The words struck me like a slap to the face.

I
was
listening. I was doing nothing
but
listening! I was trying to ignore all those outrageous thoughts that swirled inside my head and instead listen to the voice of God.

The rest of the Meeting passed in silence. I woke old Anne when it was over. Then I took Betsy’s arm as we walked out the door, thinking that if she saw me leave Meeting with my friend, Mother would not worry if I took a bit longer to return home. In that case I could use the extra minutes to pass by the jail. And a few minutes more to stop and call on one of our invalid Friends. That way if Mother asked, I would not be lying if I told her I had been making calls. In the plural.

I stopped to warn her, pulling up my cloak to shelter my face from the rain. “I should like to call on Elizabeth Dynham before dinner.”

“Then perhaps thee can pass on this letter from our dear Friends in Virginia. I know she’ll want news of them.”

I took the letter from her and put it into my pocket.

“When she’s done with it, then thee can return it to the Hopkinses on thy way past.”

Nodding, I tied my cloak beneath my chin.

“Maybe thee should take Sally with thee.”

My ten-year-old sister looked up at me, sending silent pleas my way through gray eyes that looked so much like my beloved brother’s. Normally I would have welcomed the company, but if I took my sister into my care, then I couldn’t stop by the jail. “In this cold? She’s so meager! She’ll catch her death.”

As Sally’s eyes began to tear and her chin to tremble, I regretted my choice of words. I wanted nothing more than to assure her of my affection, but I could not do it. If she came, it would ruin everything. Mother nodded slowly. “I suppose thee have reason. Only do not linger.”

Do not linger.

I could do nothing but linger after I left Betsy at her house and continued on to press the letter into Elizabeth Dynham’s hands. She read it—aloud—from her bed, then passed it to the others who had called and were now standing in her bedroom beside me. Each of them read it in turn and then everyone discussed it and reread it. By the time I left Friend Dynham’s and returned the letter to the Hopkinses, the time for dinner had long passed. Raindrops had been swept away by a relentless wind, and the sun had begun its winter-precipitated decline in the sky.

Up ahead was the King’s Arms Tavern. Its windows spilled light; from its door came raucous laughter. I decided to pass to the other side of the street, fearing to come upon any of the soldiers who frequented the place. I had not wanted company to hinder my calls during the day, but I would not have minded some at that moment. I hurried up the four blocks to the jail, knowing I ought not be walking unescorted. But as I arrived at the corner, I realized I was not alone.

Standing there in the darkest shadow cast by the building was Jeremiah Jones. I could tell by the odd way he held himself, as if he was trying to balance for his missing arm.

As I passed, he stepped away from the shadow, moving toward me.

When I hastened my step, he did the same.

I had no love for the man. Nor for any of those who spoke of Friends with derision and mockery in their voices. All those soldiers from the French and Indian troubles seemed to blame the Friends for it. It was people like him who had fanned the emotions of the mob that had killed my grandfather. And people like him who catered to the vices of those who had arrested my father. It was because of people like Jeremiah Jones that I understood what it meant to be a Friend. I had always associated the discovery of being something other than what everyone else was, with him or those like him. Those prosecutors of war and of hate.

He must have once been handsome, but the hostility and the sullenness that hung about him had hardened his features. I cast one last look at the jail and closed my lips around a sigh. It seemed indeed as if he was intent upon me. If only he could be pleasant.

“Miss Sunderland.”

“Jeremiah Jones.” I stopped and looked up at him. His eyes, reflecting the sun’s setting rays, were remarkably clear and disturbingly blue. Though the wind was cutting, he seemed impervious to the chill. His cravat was tied so loosely that it left his throat bared, and the worn brown coat he wore was unbuttoned. The wind teased hairs from his queue and tossed them about his head as we stood there.

“You’ll never be able to get in to see your brother without a pass from General Howe.”

“Aye, I know it. And I’ve already submitted my request.” That jail loomed before me so ominous. And it was so . . . wretched. If only I could free Robert from it! “I hope it will not take long to get one.”

“You might as well hope for the British to leave. And thank us on their way.”

It’s as I had thought, although it didn’t please me to hear it.

“But I might be able to help you.”

I felt my brow lift.

He bowed. “Aye. Me. Jeremiah Jones.”

I blushed. I could not help it. “ ’Tis not that I don’t believe thee.”

He straightened, cocked his head as he looked at me. “No. ’Tis more that you don’t like me.”

Gathering my skirts, I continued on my way.

“Wait. Stop. Please . . . I can help you. I know a major on Howe’s staff. He can get you a pass.”

“And why would thee help me?”

“Because I think that you might be able to help me in return.” He attempted to take me by the arm, just like those soldiers had attempted to take Father, and just like they had tried to take me. I wrested it from him, fear gripping my heart. I would go nowhere with any man!

He took a step back from me as he held up his hand. “I only thought it might not do to attract attention to ourselves.”

I glanced over at the sentry, who was staring back at me. Staring back at us. Against my better judgment I closed the distance between Jeremiah Jones and myself. “Perhaps we should keep walking. Thee were saying that thee might be able to help me?”

“I can get you permission to visit if you can pass a message to one of the prisoners while you’re inside.”

“A message.”

“Aye.”

“Communication with the prisoners is not allowed.” General’s Howe’s proclamation had made that quite clear. If I were caught . . . nausea rose to my throat as I remembered those rebel soldiers coming for Father. I trembled beneath the folds of my cloak as I remembered how they’d mistreated him. And then how they’d mistreated me.

“Perhaps it’s not, but have you always done as you’re told?”

I had, although in truth I had not always wanted to. But Father’s brief imprisonment had cured me of any temptation toward disobedience. The best course was to do what Friends had always done—to stay quiet and to stand back. “I must not do it. I’m disregarding my Meeting’s wishes even now. I’m to leave my brother, Robert, to learn from his choices. If I visit him, I could be disowned.”

“Ah. I see. You’re willing to risk something, but not everything.”

I felt my mouth drop open. Such a horrid man he was!

“How do you think your brother is faring? Do you think he’s hale and hearty? Do you think he sleeps well at night?”

A shiver came over me. And an aching, bone-chilling cold.

“Do you think he’s well fed?”

“No.” I knew that he was not. I felt his hunger just as keenly as I felt my own.

“I can help you. I can help you help him. All you have to do is deliver a message for me.”

Help him do something completely forbidden? As I looked at him, I saw such zeal, such determination in his eyes, it occurred to me that I might be mistaken. His intentions could be completely harmless. Perhaps he only wished to succor a relative or a friend . . . though there did not seem to be very many of those in this city. “What would the message say?”

His eyes darted down to his shoes before coming back to meet my gaze. “ ’Tis nothing but a simple greeting. To a friend.”

He was lying. I knew it as plainly as I knew anything. “ ’Tis a lie that thee speak.”

His lips crimped as he glared at me.

“If thee wish me to carry a message, I must know what it will say.”

He leveled a look at me. “It would be better—safer for you—if you did not know.”

“Do thee care so little for me that thee would ask me to risk everything for thy sake? ’Tis the very definition of selfishness.”

“There are over a hundred men in that jail, Miss Sunderland. Men just like your brother.”

“Hannah.”

He blinked. “Hannah?”

“Hannah. There is no need to ‘Miss’ me as if thee hope to gain some sort of favor by doing so. In the eyes of God all persons are equal.”