November 18, 1777
In the bright afternoon sunlight, Peter stood at the Whitehall Slip, as the ferry shook off its moorings and, with sails raised, carried the young shipbuilding apprentice back to Staten Island. With one hand in his coat, relieved by the feel of the documents safely tucked inside his waistcoat, Peter smiled and waved to no one in particular. A patrol of soldiers in scarlet and buff snaked through the thinning crowd, dispersing those who lingered. Safely onboard, his fears having never quite abated, the young man now blended inconspicuously among the other passengers.
Peter felt for the young man. He had put himself in jeopardy for the sake of his beloved master, whose frequent crossings between the two islands sooner or later were bound to raise suspicions among the occupying forces. The young man’s loyalty to both master and country seemed rare in one so young. Although he professed his willingness to give his life for the success of the Cause, he appeared nonetheless nervous, sweating profusely and shaking. Peter put an arm around the lad’s shoulders and drew him close.
“Just smile and nod your head,” he’d said. “All will be well.”
Peter wondered if he had been aware of the man who shadowed them since the onset of their tryst. The young man said nothing of his fears, and Peter did all in his experience to quell his anxiety. He took him to the Merchants Coffee House, where they openly discussed a proposal for an addition to Charles Reade’s fleet of merchant ships. He made the transfer of papers as simple as possible, and as unobtrusive. To the untrained eye, they were simply two men transacting business—the same as most anyone who patronized the place—exchanging ideas in writing, as well as a packet of papers that had been prepared in advance.
Whether the shadowy figure had been put off by their subterfuge, Peter could not be certain. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw him, lurking among the burned out buildings and piles of rubble along Whitehall Street. If not for his large, shiny brass shoe buckles, he might have been any one of the vagrants inhabiting the ‘canvas town’ that encompassed most of the West Ward since the fire. Peter made his way from the slip and up Whitehall toward his carriage. The man did not follow.
Having given orders to Mr. Schoonhoeven to meet him in two hours in front of Moore and Kekr’s shop, Peter continued on foot toward the bowling green. Along the way, melting snow collected in muddy puddles. Packs of wild dogs gathered to drink, only to scatter at the approach of rare coach-and-four or a lumbering wagon hastening to and from the ferry slip. Children danced and splashed to the admonitions of their mothers. Harried passers-by dodged snowballs hurled from behind piles of rubble by churlish lads who vanished into the ruins at the first sight of scarlet coats marching smartly from the garrison at Fort George.
To the drone of pipes and the beat of tabors, the king’s men assembled for maneuvers on the soggy grass of the green. A large crowd had gathered around the iron fence skirting the square—some cheering, some with awe-struck children on their shoulders—while street vendors hawked their wares and fleet-fingered urchins darted among the assembly in search of a promising pocket.
Peter forced a path through the throng. Neither the sounds of the crowd nor the crisp volleys of musket shot would divert his thoughts or stay his progress. He smiled, partly with a sense of accomplishment that the transfer had gone smoothly and that the man in the buckled shoes appeared nowhere to be seen. He also smiled with the anticipation of redressing a wrong. Anne would be happily surprised!
The sun hung low over the painted brick buildings, when Peter emerged from Moore and Kekr’s, his purse considerably lightened. The young shop boy stumbled behind him onto the street, his arms and hands burdened with parcels neatly wrapped in paper and bound with twine. Anne would surely forgive him when he presented her with the red cloak she so admired. And the new shoes…not to mention the two gowns of fine wool and the two petticoats he had commissioned.
Having instructed the boy to set down the packages just in front of the store, Peter tossed him a shilling. The boy gaped at the coin in his fist before running back inside.
Time dragged on as he waited for his carriage. He was eager to be home. Perhaps Anne had returned, having finally cast off the burden of her self-imposed penance. How much better life would be for them both, now that she had put the past and her absurd notions behind her.
The sun had nearly set over the rooftops. Passersby quickened their steps and shop keepers began locking up for the night. He had never known Mr. Schoonhoeven to be late. Shielding his eyes against the last glaring light, he scrutinized doorways and alley ways, the windows along the street. A tightening in his gut and a shiver of awareness sharpened his senses.
A clatter of horses’ hooves and the rattle of wheels drew his attention back to the street.
He caught his breath at the sight of his own conveyance approaching at an easy pace, and yet the horses gleamed with sweat and steamed in the cold air, as if they had been driven hard over a distance. He reached into his coat pocket for the small pistol he carried. His heart pounded in his ears rendering him deaf to the commerce around him. At first he was oblivious to the sound of his name above the cries of the man hawking fresh water from the Tea Water Pump wagon. Then, all at once, he realized that Mr. Schoonhoeven did not occupy his customary perch. The man driving his horses was none other than Rene LeClair.
Something had gone very wrong.
As the vehicle rolled to a stop before him, Peter relaxed his hold on the pistol and furrowed his brow. “Where is Schoonhoeven?”
LeClair set the brake and leaped down. “He’s dead.”
He might have been punched in the stomach. “What…?”
“Along with the man who followed you from the ferry. The man with the brass shoe buckles.” LeClair began gathering up the parcels and stowing them on the foot plate at the back of the vehicle.
Peter set his jaw and breathed deeply. He tried to remember. To whom had he mentioned anything not related to his ‘business affairs’? Except Axtel and company, there was no one with whom he had been even remotely familiar. Except for Mr. Schoonhoeven…. He swallowed hard as he helped LeClair secure the packages with twine. “What of Johannes?”
“Mr. Buckles cut his throat, but not before Schoonhoeven cut him. Both were dead before I got to them. No saying what was behind this.”
“It could have been a robbery.”
“There was nothing on either man.”
“It might have been something personal.”
“We can’t take chances. We must assume the worst.” LeClair laid a hand on Peter’s arm. “You must leave the city.”
“The house…?”
“I just came from there.” He flashed Peter a somber look. “We left nothing. Now get in and think fast. You’ll have to explain yourself to your wife.”
“Anne…?”
“I found her at the house.”
“Did she—?”
“She was unsuccessful. Now she has suspicions…and she’s in a bad temper.”
Peter paced off his rising anxiousness. He pounded a fist into his open palm. “I thought we’d manage to avoid this.” He shot LeClair a half smile. “When did you learn to drive a coach?”
“I didn’t.”
He slapped LeClair on the shoulder. “Where would I be without you?”
“Next time, we might not be so lucky.”
* * *
The ride up the Broad Way, past an occasional lighted street lamp, had progressed in tension-ridden silence. Seated beside him, her attention fixed on anything but him, Anne gnashed her teeth and swore under her breath. More than once, he started to speak, only to have her snap at him, “Do not try to explain! Everything you said was a lie.” Her eyes glistened in the darkness.
After a long, uncomfortable interval of waiting under a cloudy night sky in a narrow street by the wharves, a man led them from the carriage with their packages and effects into a warehouse near Dye’s Dock. LeClair drove away to call upon a friend and dispose of the coach and horses. Once inside, by the light of a single candle, the man led them without a word down a creaking flight of stairs into a dank basement.
From there, the sounds of enterprise, on the street and on the wharf, had ceased with the fall of night. The silence grew heavy, heightened by a sporadic trickle of water splashing from the ceiling into puddles on the earthen floor. Only the feeble flame, cast by a solitary candle on a stack of empty crates against the wall, permeated a darkness made denser by boards covering the street level casements.
Sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, his head bent over folded hands, Peter watched the light flicker on the wall while the sound of Anne’s disquiet filled the stillness.
Pale in the darkness, she paced in and out of the light, her hands clasped tight before her face. From time to time, she smothered a sigh, but as the minutes passed, marked off by a measure of dripping water, she said nothing in response to his confession.
He had explained as much as he dared. Yes, everything he had told her about the house was true. He fully expected it to be theirs to keep when the British were driven from New York. He never expected his assignment to end this way. The plan had been too perfect. He played his part well. Perhaps he was a bit too extravagant with Mr. Reade’s money. And yes, Charles Reade had been one of his ‘benefactors,’ the rest of the money was confiscated from wealthy Loyalists near White Plains. He’d also the money he received from the sale of the Hessian horses and saddles—for which he received a good price. And yes, he passed himself off as a merchant and man about town in order to gain the confidence of a certain circle of influential Tory bastards. And now he was a fugitive who needed to return to the army with the vital information he gathered. He no longer trusted anyone, including his usual couriers.
His one regret was that he had put her in danger. He was only too grateful that she was at the house when LeClair arrived in the carriage to clean up what remained behind.
At last, she stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her breast. “My God, Peter! How could you?”
He forced a sheepish smile but made no attempt to answer.
“You lied to me! Shipping trade indeed!”
“I swear I never lied.”
“Half-truths, then!” She pushed away from the wall. “‘I’m finished here. I’m done with that!’ Why didn’t I see?”
“LeClair will find a way out of this.”
She looked at him in challenge. The candle flame shone in the mirror of her eyes. “You seem so assured.”
“I have the utmost confidence in LeClair. When he returns, we’ll ferry across the river into Paulus Hook. We’ll be safe in New Jersey.”
“And then…?”
He stood and regarded her, his mouth a taut line. “Didn’t you say in no uncertain terms that you wished to go to Philadelphia?”
“I never said I wished to go. I said I had to go.”
He paused for a long moment. “You know I can’t go with you.”
“You can’t come with me…?” she said with astonishing composure. “Or, more precisely, you won’t come.”
“I can’t.” He reached for her hand; she yanked it away. “I can’t go with you.”
“Why? So that you may continue to play at your little game of masquerade and intrigue, exposing yourself to danger? For what purpose? Have you no concern for my—”
“You are not the only one blessed with a cause!” He glared at her. “It would appear that we are each compelled to do as our conscience dictates.”
Steadily she met his gaze through the candle light. “And if you could come with me…?”
Her wide-eyed face betrayed her apprehension, as though she already knew his answer yet hoped against hope for the response she longed to hear. It could have been so simple to play along and accommodate her wishes and, for her sake, make promises he could never keep. For his own sake, he chose not to respond.
“Peter…?”
Again, the anger rose inside him. “You know it doesn’t matter! You’ve already made up your mind to go—with or without me. My word has no influence on you. Why should I—”
“Of course it matters! It matters a great deal!”
Fighting the urge to shake her, he took her by the shoulders. “Then for the love of God, end this ridiculous deception. Where will it take you? If, once you arrive at Philadelphia and learn he’s gone hence from there to…El Dorado, will you—”
“I will go!”
“And from El Dorado, you’ll travel to Atlantis and from there, you’ll arrange passage on a schooner to Utopia, or…why not, Anne? Perhaps you’ll discover he’s gone to the Devil!”
She spoke slowly. “I mean to find him!”
“Then go to Hell!” He tossed up his hands and paced away.
She followed him. “And when I return, where will I find you?”
“If you return!” He whirled to face her.
She stepped close, her eyes shimmering through tears that would not fall. “Where will you be? Or must I spend the rest of my days searching and searching for you as well, not knowing if you’re alive or dead?”
“Oh, Anne! What if you don’t find him?”
“I will find him.” She glanced down at her upturned palm. “Grace saw it in my hand.”
He clasped her hand and rolled it shut in his two. “I don’t want to know the future. This compulsion of yours with ghosts and curses and…I don’t want to lose you again!”
“Then come with me!”
“These irrational beliefs of yours…I sometimes feel they’re stronger than us and that….” He pressed her hand to his chest, his eyes fixed on hers with a fear that made him tremble. “Please, while there is still time for us, forget about him.”
“I can’t!”
“You’ll come with me. You’ll watch over me, see that I refrain from foolish—”
“I can’t! I would if I could, but I told you what the Rushes said. His heart….”
“And what of my heart?”
A pained look flickered over her face. “He’s ill!”
“I need you with me!”
“Time may be running short.”
“And you blame yourself for that as well! You hold yourself responsible for his suffering heart!”
“I am responsible!” She tried to pull her hand from his grip, but he held tight.
“Then go.” The light caressed his face, tight with tension. His heart strained against his chest. “It’s your choice.”
“I did not choose this!”
“Damn you! You have a choice! I want you to choose. Now!” His voice wavered as he added softly. “Your father or me.”
An anguished moan tore through her lips.
He pulled her close. “Choose! One or the other.”
“Don’t, Peter. Please, don’t force me. I’m damned either way.”
He shuddered at the sight of tears rolling down her cheeks in the candle glow. But he could not relent. “I must know where I stand.”
“I love you! I want to be with you.”
“Then make your choice!”
“I have no choice!”
Peter released her and slowly backed away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Anne closed her eyes. Neither of them moved. Only the drip-drop of water filled the long, anxious silence.