CHAPTER 13

September 14, 1781

New York, New York

Only my pregnancy, apparent five months after I boarded the Jersey, merited me a private cell with a window. Even then, bribes to Loring and Bayard’s threats to stage a riot were necessary to make the move happen before I actually gave birth. Since I moved into this closet-like chamber, I miss the company of my mess, those honorable men who kept me safe for those first long months, but the small circular porthole in my tiny room opens to allow me to feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. After days and weeks and months spent in rank captivity, largely below deck, I cannot imagine anything better. And neither can my baby, once little Robert arrives one terrifying night.

With his brown hair and matching eyes, so like his father’s in coloring, he resembles Robert in his nature as well. Serious and curious—with deep, penetrating gazes—he is a lovely gift in this horrendous place, even with the challenges of feeding him and keeping him clean. We spend many happy days alone in that minuscule cell, with only a hammock in one corner and a bucket in the other. We have our window, and we have each other. As we enjoy the simple pleasures of the sun’s warmth and the gentle spray of salt water from a rogue gust of wind—with the baby kicking gleefully—I only wish for my husband.

He is in hiding, his invisibility finally giving way. I hear the news through the men in my mess, who whisper the information they glean from Mrs. Burgin in the morning distribution of rations. I knew the British would eventually identify him once they found me and undertook their investigation.

Feeding the baby, who is healthy and robust despite our surroundings, drains the last vestiges of my energy each day. As he grows, I wane. Bayard and his men slip me extra food and water they can ill spare—the odd hard-boiled egg, an occasional half-rotten apple, even hard biscuits shaken free of the worms—and while the nourishment is welcome, I know I will only be able to sustain little Robert for so long. Pleas to Loring and his men to allow my baby to leave are met with derision and laughter; they’ll grant his freedom only in exchange for the names of my fellow spies, I am told. And even then, I know they will never let me or my baby go.

But I have a plan, one forged with Bayard’s guidance in the long, dark winter nights of my pregnancy. I began my preparations before I even left the hull, and I continue them now. Bit by bit, I tear strips of fabric from the many-layered petticoat under my lilac gown, knotting them into a makeshift rope. When it reaches the length that Bayard told me was necessary, I begin weaving a tiny hammock to attach to one end, all of which I keep hidden under my filthy skirt. And then I wait for the full moon, and the signal.

One September morning, Bayard whispers to me, “It is time,” with a squeeze of my hand. He alone knows how terrible and wonderful tonight will be. As the sun recedes on the horizon and my tiny cell darkens, I sing lullabies to my baby, asleep on my breast. I listen to his soft breathing and feel the lift of his chest. I want to savor every last sensation while I can.

Then I hear it, the sound of the oar in the water. Keeping little Robert close, I rise and peer out the window, down into the vast, dark ocean. In the light emitted from the moon, I see the outline of the rowboat and the silhouettes of two figures waiting directly below my cell.

I hesitate, tears streaming down my face. How can I part from my baby? Will he be safe as I lower him into Mrs. Burgin’s boat? But then I think, How can I not give him an opportunity at life—a life with his father, no less—knowing his slim chances of survival on board the Jersey?

Sobbing silently, I wrap my sleeping baby in the hammock I fashioned especially for him. I check the safety of its harness and the strength of the rope. Time is ticking away too fast, I know, and I must act with haste, but how can I say goodbye? Quickly, I think, or not at all. I kiss him one last time on his soft cheek, slide him through the porthole, and lower him down the side of the Jersey.

Praying that he will not cry and alert the guards, I watch as a figure stands up on the rowboat and reaches for him. He is safe, I think, as I watch the rowboat fade into the distance. And I am left with a crippling mix of relief and despair.

I slide down the wall and sit in a heap on the rough wooden floor. How will I survive the Jersey without him? His sweet smile, his solemn stare, his gentle breath. It is then that I realize, fully and completely for the first time, that I will not.

Reaching deep into my dress pocket, I slide out my wedding ring and think about the future reunion of both my darling Roberts, and this alone gives me peace. The image of my husband flashes through my mind and I smile, thinking on our stolen moments together, spent plotting the downfall of the British.

One particular conversation surfaces with special vividness, in which I lamented the invisibility of women, even when it assisted me in my work for the Culper Ring. How I long for true invisibility now, I think. With it, I would not need to rely on my work for the Revolution and on my child to liberate me from this hell by establishing a legacy for me after I am gone. Instead, I could pass specter-like through the walls of the Jersey directly into freedom—and only then, into history.