Chapter Twenty-Eight

The prison boat floated in the distant water, as massive and buoyant as a dead sperm whale. From the skiff, Griffin squinted through the mist at his target, just able to make out the bulky form.

A persistent charge of tension kept his mouth dry, the only thing to remain so in the wet morning. Driving rain had given way to a constant drizzle while low, bleak clouds hugged the horizon. Wisps of fog danced over the water.

Pinter and Munro, soldiers on loan from the Continental Army, rowed beneath a canvas tarp draped over their heads in a half-hearted effort to keep their “borrowed” British uniforms dry. They’d taken the uniforms just before dawn, leaving the swearing Captain Sprewell and his two subordinates trussed up like Christmas geese to cool their ill humors in a cellar some few blocks from the wharf.

“Miserable weather,” snarled Pinter.

Griffin nodded. It had taken one complete day to draw the last details of his plan together. With help from the soldiers and two selfless patriots who believed cocking things up for the redcoats a special treat, the game was in play. Nervous anticipation fluttered in his chest as they cut through the gray waters toward the floating jail. Despite the best of plans, unexpected obstacles could, and usually did, occur. The slightest mishap, a recognition, a suspicion, any unforeseen factor could take them all down, even see them killed.

“How’d you ever talk Washington into this cockamamie plan?” Munro, a natural athlete, dipped the oar smoothly back into the water, showing no signs of strain from the repetitive effort.

“The General wants Fitzhugh for his engineering skills.” When Griffin had mentioned his intention to free Lily’s father during his visit earlier in the week, Washington accepted the opportunity without hesitation. Game to see the scientist’s knowledge put to good use, the general spared no resources for the operation. Anything to the help the Army, he’d opined.

Nearing the prison ship, Griffin flinched at a horrid odor.

“Smells like rotting carcasses,” muttered Munro with disgust.

“I hear the Redcoats toss the dead over the side,” said Pinter.

Wincing, Griffin resisted the urge to scour the water’s surface for bodies. “Let’s do our business and not add to their numbers.” He joined in their joyless chuckle.

For the rest of their ride, the only sounds heard were the clank of the oarlock and the splatter of drops on the boat’s wooden surface. Griffin fingered the loaded pistol, kept dry inside his coat. The weight of another pistol dragged on the leather belt at his waist. With each man lost in his own anxious thoughts, no one spoke until a sentry shouted ahoy from the prison ship. Munro answered the call. Within minutes, they shored up alongside the former sixty-gun naval vessel.

Heart pumping faster than normal, Griffin swept the rain cape off one shoulder and went first off the slender launch. Munro and Pinter, playing his trusted guards, followed.

A British soldier, musket slung over his shoulder by a strap, saluted Griffin as the senior officer so identified by the fine material and deep scarlet of his officer’s coat. With this, he also wore pristine white breeches, damp now, and an ivory periwig bound with a black ribbon.

“I’m Sergeant Tuck.” Another man bustled toward them where they stood on the main deck, his fingers working the buttons of his gaping vest.

“Captain Goodwill,” Griffin replied, appreciating the sick humor in his false name. In hindsight, he hoped it wouldn’t give Tuck a reason to question it.

“Haven’t seen you lot before.” Tuck didn’t bother to hide his suspicious study of the three strangers who stood before him. “What happened to Sprewell?”

“New assignment.” Thanks to a British informant, Griffin had precise information about prison dispatch, right down to the daily order agenda. If only Sprewell remained undiscovered until Fitzhugh and Lily were safe outside the city. From a pocket, he withdrew the fake orders drawn up the night before by one of Washington’s best artists. He flashed the parchment before Tuck.

“Pardon me saying so, sir.” Tuck clamped the note between greedy fingers. “We didn’t expect you so early.”

The pronouncement appeared obvious. A day-old beard sprouted across the man’s chin and a bit of egg clung to his shirt.

Griffin harrumphed as though displeased. “A soldier is prepared for any and all changes.”

“So it seems,” Tuck agreed, appearing none too certain. Rocking on his feet, he read the order and studied General Clinton’s signature so long Griffin’s anxiety rose at the anticipated trouble.

In a superior manner, Griffin thrust out his chin and purposely gazed the length of the man with a censorious air until the fellow squirmed.

“Right.”

His cheeks reddened with embarrassment, Tuck returned the paper and Griffin folded it and tucked it inside his coat.

A flick of a wrist by the sergeant dispatched several guards below to retrieve the prisoner. “A spot of tea while you wait, sir?”

The notion of ingesting anything prepared on this slagheap almost made Griffin gag. He clasped his lapel with a tight fist, appearing stern and authoritative. “Fitzhugh is expected before the judge by nine. Another time, perhaps.”

“Yes, another time. Well, if you’ll come this way.” Tuck stomped away.

Moments later, after the obligatory forms had been signed, Griffin left the sergeant’s quarters, followed by Tuck. Munro and Pinter joined them near the main mast. A bedraggled man, unrecognizable behind the scraggly beard and hair, was shoved forward, hands tied before him with rope.

“Fitzhugh?” Griffin’s shock gave way to anger at the pathetic state of the starving bag of bones shivering in front of him. An accused individual, particularly one not yet tried nor found guilty of a crime, deserved better treatment.

An oily head nodded.

“See the prisoner secured in the boat.”

Munro and Pinter hustled the captive over the side.

“Keep up the good work, Tuck.” Straight-faced, Griffin followed his men from the ship. Only when his feet hit the bottom boards of the launch did he expel a huge breath of relief.

“Take us away, men.” He signaled to Munro and Pinter. The oars dipped into water. The path to freedom lay within their reach, and just when his mind began to rest easy, a desperate voice from above shouted, “Stop!”

Griffin’s heart dropped to his knees. Munro and Pinter faltered and watched him with alarm while their tightly gripped oars paused over the choppy water. He motioned them to continue. The skiff swayed away from the ship’s hull.

“Halt,” Tuck shrieked. His head and upper body jutted over the railing. Deep lines etched his distressed features. “I say, Captain Goodwill. We’ve two dead men on board, fresh as clover. Would you take them to shore for burial?”

Griffin blanched. What rotten luck to transport the dead. Fresh as clover? In a pig’s ass. Hidden behind his back, he fluttered his hand, urging the men to paddle faster. “Not today, Tuck. We’re full up with bodies.” Live bodies.

Tuck scrunched his face and frowned with unhappiness. If no other conveyance delivered him of the bodies, there was always the water.

Griffin allowed only a brief moment of satisfaction as they floated away. There was still much to do and danger ahead. To get safely past the guards on the pier posed a challenge. In addition, Lily and her father needed to be quietly hustled from the city. The risks were great.

Ashen and grizzled, their prize loot sat on the forward thwart, his shoulders hunched against the cool mist. Griffin could scarce recognize his old tutor. Nor did the man seem to recall him, either.

“What’s going on here?” Fitzhugh asked. “What judge am I to see?”

“George Washington, if you’re lucky.” Griffin dug out a knife and sliced through the rope at the man’s wrists.

“Where are you taking me?”

Griffin reached beneath the seat, tugged out a cape and flung it around the man’s hunched shoulders. “A place ten miles outside the city. You’ll be safe there.”

“Why me? There are so many other suffering men, no doubt more deserving than I.”

“Consider it a kindness for an old tutor.”

Fitzhugh cocked his head, studying Griffin with great intensity. “Fairfax? No. Not Fairfax. It’s Faraday.”

“In the flesh.” He smiled, pleased to be remembered.

Just like in the old days, the tutor wagged a finger of disapproval. “Because of you, I kept finding garter snakes in my study for a week.”

Griffin raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “How was I to guess the snake was about to give birth?”

The man compressed his lips, as if angry, yet couldn’t hide the humorous twinkle Griffin had often seen as a boy. “You’d be the younger one, the lanky lad who always got into trouble. I see you haven’t changed much, though you’re a good foot or two taller.”

Henry stuck out his hand, grinning, and Griffin clasped the fellow’s hardy thanks.

“You took quite a risk, young man. I never thought to leave the prison ship in such a manner. Thought I’d be taken out, feet first, and dead.” His chuckle ended with a raspy cough. “What devilish trickery to ply such a ruse. Then again, you have the heart of a jokester. I knew your imagination would serve you well.”

The praise released a gush of warmth through Griffin’s icy bones. “All for a good cause. The Continental Army could use your skills.”

Fitzhugh arched a brow. “I’m not military.”

“The Army needs your expertise to reconfigure a rifle design.”

“It’s true I have an interest in all things mechanical, but so do other scientists.” The man scrunched his filthy brow. “Is there more you’re not telling me?”

“Simply this. I told Lily I would help you.”

“What?” His worried gaze darted left and right. “Tell me she isn’t involved in this risky affair?”

“She’s in the dark about our escapade. It seemed safest to keep her uninformed. Later today, I’ll bring her to you.”

Fitzhugh’s knobby fingers gripped the edges of his cape, pulling it tight across his shoulders. “Thank God.” He sucked in a few breaths, not speaking, as he appeared to think. “Lily’s been in England for years. How did you learn she arrived in New York?”

“It’s a story best left for a night as you warm near the hearth.”

“I see.”

Griffin doubted the man could ever imagine what had transpired between him and his daughter.

“Until you’re safe outside the city, say nothing.”

Fitzhugh nodded. Griffin trusted he would cooperate without argument. The possibility of freedom was the best of motivators.

Fifty yards from the pier, the rain picked up. Despite the tightly woven cape, water saturated the wool of Griffin’s military coat and trickled down his neck. His shirt clung to his skin. Drops of water dripped off the tapered end of his three-cornered hat. Sweat mixed with rain. As they approached land, he imagined Sprewell, escaped and furious, a gun cocked, waiting for them at the dock. Though an unlikely scenario, it filled him with dread.

He checked his pocket watch. Every action of his plan had been coordinated to the minute. “Slow it down, men.”

In tandem, the rowers eased off the pace. Alert to any suspicious activity, nobody spoke as the boat slid into the pier.

The British Army supervised all activity at the wharf, so it was no surprise when several dock hands and a couple of armed lobsterbacks greeted their arrival. Pinter tossed a line and one of the dockworkers tied it around a pylon. Munro and Pinter climbed out first and assisted the bedraggled scientist.

Before Griffin could clamber from the launch, a cataclysmic explosion rocked the market square adjacent to the pier. Bricks, lumber, mortar shot high in the air. People screamed and scuttled, dodging the debris that rained down with a clatter on the wet cobblestones.

“Bloody hell!” The excited soldier waved his arm at a thick plume of smoke, black as charcoal. It spiraled upwards and stained the dreary horizon. “The blasted rebels blew up the Guard House.”

Curious people, dazed and frightened, spilled out of nearby lodgings and businesses. Griffin smiled at the hordes and chaos. As he planned, the British soldiers raced to the burning building at the corner, too shocked and as yet, unaware of Fitzhugh’s escape. The sound of gunshots popped somewhere down a nearby street and added to the pandemonium.

Griffin sprang from the boat, landing with sure, graceful feet upon the pier. His shoulders heaved. Blood raced through his veins. “Hurry, hurry,” he urged under his breath though with all the cacophony, only those next to him could hear. “Act sharp.”

Across the dock and past the market stalls they bounded, four men seemingly caught up in the excitement and fear of attack. At a side street, away from the clamor, they split up as arranged earlier. Pinter went one way. As Griffin, Munro and Fitzhugh took the opposite direction, another bomb detonated and spewed a mushroom-shaped column of smoke at the city’s western edge.

“Is the city under siege?” Fitzhugh cried.

“In a manner of speaking.” Griffin paused and cocked his ear. “There should be one more about…” Before he could say now, another boom, louder than thunder, rocked the heavens. “Ah, there it is.” He flashed a brash smile. “Come along, men.”

Off they sped, heads down, as though rushing to escape the persistent drizzle or the imminent invasion of the enemy. Another block to go. At this point, he might have relaxed as the mission was almost over. Instead, his instincts stirred. The hair at the back of his neck prickled. He hunched his shoulders in protection. An icy drop slipped beneath his shirt and he shivered.

“Halt!”

The sight of a British soldier, musket directed at him made his heart race. He considered making a run, but worried about the safety of the older man and Munro.

“Halt! I say.”

The British soldier stepped farther from the building’s doorway. Griffin nudged Fitzhugh behind him.

“I’m Captain Goodwill. What’s the meaning of this?” On purpose, Griffin threw back his shoulders and lengthened his spine, creating more height. For good measure, he sneered.

The soldier licked his lips while his gaze darted side to side. “We’re to stop everyone. If you’ll come this way, sir.” With the end of his rifle, he gestured toward the entrance of the building. “I’ll need to see your papers.”

“See here,” Griffin complained with firm authority. “I’m a senior officer.”

“I see, sir, but the orders come from the commanding officer himself.” The poor fellow looked like he was going to be sick. “Something to do with a mishmash with Captain Sprewell this morning.”

Griffin ground his teeth irritated by the quick discovery of the British captain. They would have to move faster if they hoped to squire Fitzhugh and Lily out of the city safely. He affected a noisy, tiresome sigh and said with an edge to his voice, “Don’t be an idiot. I have orders to take this man to the magistrate general.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But orders…” The uncomfortable soldier glanced around as if he might sight a reinforcement or two, somebody to buck up his nerve.

With not a second to lose, Griffin angled his hand inside his coat. Seeing no other way, he aimed the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The blast rattled his eardrums and tore into the young soldier. The man recoiled. He staggered backwards, his face mottled with confusion, and dropped to his knees. As he slumped to the ground, the musket fell from his hand and clattered against the wooden pavers.

Munro already had the prisoner halfway down the block. Griffin caught up in seconds, breathing fast, sweating and unable to dwell upon the fallen soldier in the press to see Fitzhugh to safety. They made one last turn into a street empty of any life. Close on Munro’s footsteps, he shoved Fitzhugh into a stable and closed the door quietly behind them.

Three horses, saddled and with provisions, stood hitched to a rail. “Quick.” He thrust a bundle of clean, dry clothes at Fitzhugh.

Griffin threw off the hat and cape and stripped out of the uniform. Dressed in a minute, he wore the homespun clothes of a preacher and a broad-rimmed black hat pulled down over his face. Munro did the same. They stuffed the British uniforms under a bale of hay.

“The street’s empty.” Munro yanked his head back inside the barn and flung open the doors. “Hurry. I’ll close up.”

“This is where we part company,” Griffin said to Fitzhugh. “Munro will see to your safe passage. I’ll bring Lily along before nightfall.” He mounted his horse, about to leave, when Fitzhugh stopped him.

“One question, Mr. Faraday.”

Griffin nodded tersely.

“Do you have feelings for her?”

His heart sputtered at the unexpected question. This was hardly the time or place. He blew out a breath, uncertain how to answer given all the complexities of his bizarre arrangement with the man’s daughter. He dragged a hand over his damp face. “Last I heard she was betrothed to Lord Warwick.”