The Tory Widow (7 page)

“Massachusetts. And you?”

Jack leaned back, tipping the two front legs of his chair from the floor. “New York City, brother.”

The young soldier grinned easy, admiring Sally's rear end as she circled their table distributing wooden mugs and plates. “A native son! Not many of you around. We're told this is the place for the finest coffee in all of New York City.”

Jack laughed, examining the inside of the empty mug Sally had set before him. “I'd say this is just about the
only
coffee in all of New York City.”

Anne Merrick sidestepped through the open back door, balancing a tray of baked goods on each hip. She slipped the trays onto the stationery counter, which had been pushed to the back of the shop. Since the day the Liberty Boys had relieved Mrs. Merrick of her printing press, the entire length of the first floor was devoted to serving comestibles. The rebel occupation proved an enormous boon to the Tory widow's business, and she did not want for customers.

True to his word, Jack Hampton kept his eye on Anne Merrick, making it a habit to take coffee in her shop at least once a day. He had to admit a grudging admiration for her resilience. Even the most steadfast Tories fled the town once visited by the Liberty Boys. But not Mrs. Merrick—she simply swept up the mess, repainted her shingle to read LIBERTY COFFEEHOUSE and reopened for business.

She came in from the kitchen, hefting a steaming coffeepot onto the countertop. For a wife who had not seemed overly fond of her departed husband, Jack had never seen the woman dress in anything other than mourning-wear. Today the widow wore a gauze kerchief tucked about the square neckline of a plain gray gown. Her skirt was protected by a brilliant white apron, its crisp starched bow at the small of her back being the only adornment added to her Quakerlike simplicity. A frilled mobcap covered her chestnut hair, framing her flushed face with a pretty ruffle.

Contrary to her mistress, the Scottish servant girl favored cheerful patterns and colors. Sally brightened the shop in her green skirt and blue-checked apron; her riotous red hair was tied back with a matching checked head scarf.

Crisscrossing the room, Mrs. Merrick carried a tray and Sally handled the coffeepot. Together they visited each customer, filling mugs and this day offering a selection of raisin scones and corn muffins. As usual, Jack 's table was the last stop on their route.

“Good morning, Mr. Hampton!” The women greeted him in unison and together dipped a silly, florid curtsy.

“Good morning, ladies,” he answered, equally jovial.

“Coffee today, Mr. Hampton?” Sally asked with a grin.

“Please . . .” Jack offered up his mug, and as usual she poured him the dregs from the bottom of the pot—a bitter sludge of grounds mixed with eggshells—coffee so thick he could easily get his spoon to stand upright in it.

Widow Merrick tipped her tray, which was empty save for a lone raisin scone. “Can I tempt you today, Mr. Hampton?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Merrick—I think the scone.”

“Good choice.” Mrs. Merrick plucked up the scone and placed it on his plate. “Sally baked this one special for you.”

Sally peered into his mug with some concern. “Och! The coffee seems a bit on the strong side this morning. Shall I brang ye a lump of sugar and a wee bumper of cream, Mr. Hampton?”

“No need, Sally, this coffee is perfect.” Jack pushed his spoon through the muck in his cup. No amount of cream would salvage this brew, and at any rate, as he knew from past experience, any cream brought to him would be curdled, and the lump of sugar would more than likely be a lump of salt.

“Well then”—Anne Merrick smiled—“enjoy!”

Jack was subjected once again to the ridiculous tandem curtsy before they left him to stand at the back of the shop, arms akimbo, watching his every move.

Jack eyed the scone on his plate. Sprinkled with a generous amount of brown sugar and baked to crusty golden perfection, it looked delicious. The regular customers always raved about the quality of the fare produced in the widow's kitchen. He broke the scone in two to expose a soft, crumbly interior, loaded with plump black beetle bugs. Jack pushed the tainted scone and coffee aside. Sally and Anne scampered back to the kitchenhouse, giggling.

Among the many dreadful things he'd been served since becoming a regular at the Liberty Coffeehouse were scones burnt to a charcoal crisp, muffins sprinkled with mouse droppings, cakes frosted with dung and puddings drenched in what smelled like horse piss. The clever women contrived to couple the friendliest, most charming service with the meanest, most rotten fare. The most insidious being the servings where the food seemed perfect and he could discern nothing amiss—steaming coffee, rich cream, sweet sugar, lovely baked goods. Suspecting the food might be laced or injected with some undetectable poison or emetic, Jack could do nothing other than pay for the wonderful fare left uneaten on his plate. Those were the days when the laughter coming from the kitchen was the loudest.

Anne began to clear tables, and Sally began another round, pouring coffee and serving scones and muffins to the new customers. Jack flipped opened his newspaper to catch up on the latest news from Philadelphia.

A breathless boy came in off the street. He pulled the widow to the side, and after a short but excited exchange, Mrs. Merrick slipped him a coin from her pocket and sent him on his way with a pat on the head. She ran up the stairs untying her apron strings and was soon on her way back down with a black wool shawl thrown around her shoulders and a shallow-crowned straw hat pinned to her mobcap, its black ribbons tied in a bow beneath her chin. Calling, “Mind the shop, Sally!” she sped out the door.

Jack folded his paper, tossed a few coins on the table and slipped out as well.

 

 

ANNE darted up Whitehall toward Broad Way. The city's refuse collection, which had been erratic even during the best of times, became negligible with the coming of Washington's army. Anne gave wide berth to the pigs snuffling through piles of rubbish and puddles of stagnant water. She slowed her pace at the Bowling Green to skirt a crowd gathering around an effigy dangling from a mock gallows, and she stopped to read the label attached to the straw-stuffed figure.

Adding drama to the display, the gilded equestrian statue of King George dressed in Roman toga and laurel leaf crown loomed from beyond the iron fence surrounding the green. The Liberty Boys had truly honed their craft.

A day did not pass without some poor Loyalist being hauled out by a mob, pelted with brickbats and run from town—often astraddle a rail. The crier had even taken to tolling the names of accused Tories along with the hour. No longer able to depend on wealth or influence for protection, many avowed Loyalists—the Royal Governor included—fled for their lives, taking sanctuary aboard one of the four British warships menacing the harbor.

Shading her eyes, Anne took a few steps toward the waterfront and scanned the bay. She could just make out the bright pennants and Union Jacks fluttering from the masts poking up through the morning mist. That pretty sight drove the bulk of the populace from the city.

A newsboy pressed a broadside into Anne's hand. She read it quickly—an offer of reward for information on any “traitor” associating with Royal Governor Tryon and his “nest of sycophants.”

By far the most valuable commodity supplied to the British Navy was the information being passed along by Loyalist supporters—accurate reports on Patriot troop numbers and placements, fortifications and armaments. Anne eyed the effigy and noted the fierce anger bubbling among those gathered.
Dangerous work, Loyalism.
She crumpled the paper in her fist and dropped it into the gutter.

By repainting her shingle Anne acquired instant Patriot status. In times so ridiculous and volatile, she was quickly learning to roll with the swell and chart an ever-changing course to maintain her own independence. On this day she embarked on a quest for things sweet.

With invasion literally on the horizon, trade disrupted and an army encamped, Anne competed for hard-to-come-by but oh-so-necessary commodities like sugar and coffee. The boy from Van Cortlandt's Sugar House brought word of a rare shipment arrived from the West Indies. If Anne intended to get her hands on a share before the limited stock was depleted, she could not spare the time to make a patriotic show by joining the brewing mob at the Bowling Green. She continued on her excursion up Broad Way.

The cobbled main thoroughfare was daily clogged with the confused hubbub of fleeing citizenry, soldiers on the move and enough beasts, overloaded carts, and heavy artillery to create a daily writhing quagmire rivaling Dante's fifth circle of hell. Anne kept a hand on her hat to keep it from being knocked to the ground as she melded in with the throng.

Overnight, her hometown had become an armed camp. Lacking warships and armament, the Patriot army had no other choice but to transform New York City into an advantageous battleground. Trenches were being dug and redoubts thrown up. Martial law was imposed in full effect—complete with a set curfew, sentries posted and passwords issued.

No place for a widow on her own
. . . as her father was wont to remind Anne in letters admonishing her to return home to Peekskill. And she might well follow his advice, if it were not always coupled with the endorsement of some old friend or ancient widower in need of a wife.

In need of a slave or a whore, more like.
Anne repressed a shudder. It did not speak well for filial affection when she'd rather brave the perilous clime in an occupied and dangerous city than risk coming under her father's dominion. Her father was more than happy to profit by another “advantageous” match as the means to provide for her security.

Anne shuffled along the crowded sidewalk, bypassing a large gang of trench diggers. She made slow progress past the row of elegant mansions with doors and windows uncharacteristically thrown open to the dirt, clang and clatter of the street. Hundreds of the same men who toiled the day long mired in muck and mud now occupied these fine homes. The soldiers cooked their mess on hearths framed by ornate mantelpieces, and crowded the parquet floors every night to sleep lying shoulder-to-shoulder.

Anne shook her head in wonder at the instant ruin befallen these premium properties. The fear of having her own home commandeered for quartering soldiers fed her resolve to remain entrenched and in business. And though business at the Liberty Coffeehouse boomed like a mainsail filled with strong wind, Anne was careful to husband her resources and hoard her profits.
For fair winds do not forever blow . . .

At last reaching the picket fence delineating the graveyard at Trinity Church, she turned off crowded Broad Way and shifted pace to march a snappy quickstep. The breeze grew heavy with a cloying sweet smell, announcing the presence of sugar to one and all.

An imposing five-story stone building, Van Cortlandt's sugar refinery took up the corner of Thames and Lumber. Ahead, Anne could see two big men off-loading large barrels of unrefined muscovado sugar from an ox-drawn dray. One by one the barrels were rolled, rumbling down a ramp through the double doors leading to the lowest level.

Anne followed the caramel perfume up a flight of stairs and through the main door. Louder than intended, she cursed, “Adrat!” upon finding several customers already formed in a queue. Samuel Fraunces, the owner of the tavern where Titus kept his room, stood at its head. A pair of Continental Army officers and her neighbor, the baker, had also beaten her to the sugarhouse door.

“Good day, Widow Merrick.” Quakenbos tipped his hat.

Anne acknowledged the baker's greeting with a vague nod directed at the empty air to his left. She slipped her woolen shawl to drape over one arm, fanned her face with her fingers and waited her turn while watching the sugar boilers feeding charcoal to the fires beneath three steaming cauldrons.

Sugar making was a tricky business. The temperature must be carefully controlled—the cauldrons must be kept hot enough to liquefy the coarse brown muscovado sugar, but not so hot as to burn it. One of the sugarworkers stirred a quantity of sticky bull's blood into a ready batch, to bring impurities to the surface. He quickly skimmed the dross, and poured the sugar slush into cone-shaped vessels. As the sugar hardened, dark molasses drained down to drip out through an opening in the cone tip. A valuable by-product of the refining process, the molasses was collected in shallow pans.

When fully cured, the solid loaves of pure white sugar were drilled from the earthenware cones, wrapped in blue paper and sent to market. White sugar was expensive, and Anne only offered small nipped bits of it to her customers for a price. She was more interested in purchasing quantities of unrefined muscovado and molasses. These products held the rich flavor suited to Sally's recipes and a frugal price that suited Anne's pocketbook.

Fraunces, having completed his business, tipped his tricorn to her as he passed on his way out the door. “Mrs. Merrick . . . you are quick to take advantage of opportunity.”

“Well, I try to keep my hook cast these days—you never know when a fish will happen by.”

“Speaking of happening by . . .” Fraunces stepped in close, and spoke low. “Are you in need of coffee?”

“Always.”

He slipped his tricorn from his head to shield his mouth. “There is a small shipment of coffee berries at King's Wharf—the same Dutch trader who brought in this muscovado. I am on the prowl for rum, if you should hear of any . . .”

“I will surely let you know. Thank you, Mr. Fraunces.”