TO OUTWIT THEM ALL

One

New York City, July 1779

Another rat, black as ink, scuttled past my foot and off to the shadows beyond the prisoners’ cots. I flinched as I sponged Lieutenant Christopher Martin’s forehead.

The high fever had finally lost its hold on him. “Pardon the rats, Miss Floyd.”

I determined to make light of the situation. “How are any of you expected to recover when you’re forced to share these fine accommodations with the former tenants?”

He glanced toward the cold stone wall where water seeped in from the previous night’s rain and vermin managed to come and go. “They must wonder what became of their old victuals.”

The cramped room in Rhinelander’s Sugar House—now a prison for Continental soldiers—had forever lost its sweetness. Long empty of sugar and molasses, the odor of disease and urine permeated the air, burning my eyes.

I stood to fetch the pitcher of murky water and poured a bit more into the basin. In this room, where I wiped brows and held cups to parched lips, prisoners were deemed the fittest and thought least likely to succumb to their illnesses. If they recovered and were exchanged or paroled, would they go back to their regiments? Or would they recognize the futility of fighting a war they could never hope to win?

Returning to the lieutenant’s cot, I studied his face in the dim light from the barred window near the ceiling. “With your fever down, your cheeks no longer match that neckerchief you insist on wearing.”

He fingered the red scarf bearing the image of George Washington, the hope of the Patriots—or treasonous rebels, depending which side one took. Pride shone in his eyes. “They’d have to kill me for it, Miss Floyd.”

I had little interest in their General. Despite the British military’s takeover of our Long Island farm three years ago, I saw no reason to wage war over some of the colonists’ desire for independence. Apart from Uncle William serving in the Continental Congress and signing that Declaration three years ago, most of the Floyd family remained loyal to the Crown.

My mother and twelve-year-old brother were the exceptions. They sided with the Patriots yet were careful to keep their views to themselves. I remained far more interested in adjusting to my new life in the city than in politics or the rumors regarding when Britain would put an end to the war.

“Please, shall we drop the formalities?” I seated myself on the stool again. “You may call me Betty, for mercy’s sake.” I’d been at his side during the worst of the dysentery. That seemed enough reason to warrant his using my Christian name.

“Thank you, Miss Betty. And call me Christopher.” He shifted toward me and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d be a dead man if not for you.”

I dropped the excuse of a sponge in the basin of water I held in my lap. “You can thank me by getting well. No doubt they’ll require your cot for another poor fellow soon, so my guess is they’ll release you.” I hoped that would be the case, for his sake, even if it meant saying goodbye.

He reached for my deformed left hand, the hand that caused most to recoil. My instinct was to pull away, yet there was a sincerity in his touch that made me hesitate.

He wrapped his fingers around mine—the two that Providence had seen fit to give me. “If they do release me, may I write to you? Unless there’s another—”

The guard near the doorway, Mr. Crankshaw, rapped a large stick against the stone wall. “You there.” He pointed his stick at the lieutenant. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself.”

As if such things meant anything to him. Crankshaw was with the Loyalist militia and new to the prison, but not to me. What a shame to see such a disgusting man in charge of these unfortunate souls.

Curious eyes turned our way, followed by the usual crude remarks. I’d grown accustomed to their language, along with the rats. Neither bothered me as much as the sense of entrapment that gripped me behind the prison walls, even though I could walk out the door any time I chose.

Crankshaw rapped the wall again. “Quiet, you fools. I can have the lot o’ you whipped, and don’t think I won’t.”

I rose in haste, sending the basin to the stone floor, the water trickling away in every direction. As I bent to retrieve it and grab a rag, I spoke to Christopher in a muffled voice. “He is rather loud, but I’d venture to say he’s harmless.”

“I heard he was demoted,” he whispered back. “We call him The Crow. He thinks it his duty to squawk at us.”

I set the basin and sponge under Christopher’s cot beside his shoes, which had more holes than leather. Governor Tryon’s raiders had captured him and twelve other men in New Haven earlier in the summer. By the time he and his fellow soldiers were transported all the way to New York, dysentery had grabbed hold. Only half had recovered, including Christopher.

What if I consented to him writing to me—the daughter of a Long Island Tory landowner corresponding with a rebel Connecticut blacksmith? Mail was regularly searched, and any hint of spying on either side was cause for trouble.

I straightened. “It’s nearly time for me to leave. Try to rest. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

He raised a brow, wanting an answer. He was certainly more of a gentleman than many a Loyalist. What harm would there be in a friendly letter?

Crankshaw turned his back to swear at two men bickering over a dropped chunk of bread.

I leaned close to the lieutenant again and whispered. “In case you’re paroled before I return, you may post a letter in care of my cousin, Robert Townsend. He has a shop near the wharf—Oakham and Townsend.”

Christopher’s eyes glistened. “I hope to write soon, Betty.”

My mother’s small frame darkened the doorway. A frown crossed her face as she tied her hat ribbon—a good indication of how difficult her work had been in the next room, where she nursed the occupants about to leave this world within days, if not hours.

I weaved my way between cots toward the door. Perhaps some cakes would cheer these men, if I could find a way to sneak them in. And an extra one for Christopher.

Crankshaw gave my mother a curt nod. Below his right eye twitched a telltale black mark of syphilis. “Why do you trouble yourselves here on such a fine day, ladies? Surely, you must have better things to do.”

“We are making ourselves useful, sir,” I said, stepping toward him. “What else can one do during this ridiculous war?”

A note of recognition, like a wispy cloud, crossed his fleshy face. “You should stick to the parties, Miss, and amuse the King’s officers.”

So, he recalled seeing me at the party. But did he remember the details of our brief encounter?

“You find me amusing, do you?” I patted his protruding, red-jacketed chest with my left hand, just to watch his eyes bulge.

Mother wore an air of authority Crankshaw lacked. She cleared her throat and drew herself to her full height. “If the army would provide a semblance of care for its prisoners, there would be less need for us to visit. As it is, these men are ill and far from their homes. And they are still British subjects. It’s the least we can do to bring food and give them a bit of comfort.” She turned on her heel.

I called back over my shoulder as I followed her out. “A pair of rat traps are sorely needed. Please see to it.”

Men hollered and applauded while Crankshaw banged his stick. I caught a glimpse of Christopher, his wide grin briefly lighting up the dismal room.

Pulling our skirts in, Mother and I stepped through refuse strewn along the short hall. We stopped to wash our hands in the bucket of water near the door, using our own cake of soap.

“At least someone remembered to go to the well,” Mother said. She carried the basket that we’d brought with us that morning, filled with what we could spare from the pantry and medicinal herbs from our struggling garden. We’d included the usual sausage as a bribe for the sentry on duty—a worthwhile expense.

Outside in the warm sunlight, we shook our hands dry, and I pushed my sleeves past my elbows as high as I dared. A deep breath of fresh summer air eased the sensation of captivity.

“We’re here a handful of hours each week, yet I feel as if I’m imprisoned each time,” I said. “I cannot imagine being unable to escape.”

“Indeed,” Mother said. “We are blessed to be able to come and go as we please.”

A driver turned his two workhorses into the side yard between the prison building and Mr. William Rhinelander’s home. They pulled the dead cart, as it was known, ready for the prison’s latest casualties.

Rather than look at it, I studied the weeds encroaching the path to the road. “Were there more today?”

Mother hastened down the path. “Eight died overnight. I spent all morning sewing them into their blankets.”

Two

I followed her across the road to where the tall oaks offered their shade, thinking of the eight men whose bodies would soon be tossed on the cart and driven to a burial pit beyond the city.

“The war seems so far away most of the time,” I said. “Yet here at the prison, I’m reminded of its reality.”

Mother slowed her pace. “Oh, ‘tis most assuredly real. If it were not so, we would still be on our farm.” She glanced in my direction. “Elizabeth, I appreciate your joining me on these visits. You’ve been most caring and patient.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “The men are so appreciative of anything I do, no matter how awkward I may be at doing it.”

“But must you be so contrary with the guards?” Her tone hinted at frustration.

“Me—contrary?” I side-stepped a mud puddle. “You’ve said yourself they must be put in their place when they deserve it. And that Crankshaw fellow deserves it.”

“What do you mean?” She lowered her voice but spat the words. “Has he acted inappropriately?”

Two officers heading our way tipped their hats as we turned the corner at Rose Street. One stared a bit too long, and I hid my left hand in the folds of my gown.

When they passed, I explained. “Do you remember the party that Celeste and I attended, honoring the new regiment taking up their duties in New York? Crankshaw came with other lower-level soldiers.”

Mother grunted. “Go on.”

“He asked me to dance a minuet, which was a surprise in itself because he doesn’t look as if he could dance at all. Then when he saw my hand, he was suddenly attacked with a fit of dreadful coughing. He hurried away, and I thought he might truly be choking. That is, until he and Celeste joined the other dancers on the floor.”

Mother normally kept her anger to herself, unless one of her children suffered ridicule. “How dare he?” She raised her basket skyward. “A miraculous recovery.”

“That wasn’t all. When the music ended, he reached for Celeste’s hands, appearing to count her fingers.”

Mother let out a growl. “Shameful.”

I clutched my apron, cringing at the memory. “And a minuet doesn’t involve touching hands at all.”

“Even so—”

“Thank heaven for Celeste. She marched off and left him standing in the center of the floor. He only embarrassed himself. No wonder he’s a lowly prison guard. I disregarded the whole incident, but I couldn’t resist reminding him of it today.”

After twenty-one years of being viewed as stupid, cursed, or contagious due to my deformity, I endeavored to not allow such slights to upset me, but there were times that called for a mild retort. Today had been one of those times.

“I’m thankful you have such a loyal friend in Celeste,” Mother said, “and you have every right to be angry. However, I’m afraid you’re too harsh with your words at times, my dear. It’s unbecoming a lady. And I do wish you would think carefully before attending the military’s social functions. The majority of those men are not to be trusted. Remember the way they treated us.”

I’d heard the same argument more times than I cared to count. “Of course, but please don’t concern yourself. The parties are quite entertaining, and the one advantage I can see to having nearly the entire British military residing under our noses. That was the only time when anyone acted less than gentlemanly.”

Mother cast me a look to say she doubted that was true, and she was correct. Men were seldom gentlemen at parties, most notably military men, and certainly not when the rum and champagne flowed freely.

We stepped around loose stones on the uneven walk and passed large ivy-covered brick homes, their entries framed with roses or determined daisies baking in the heat. Not many streets away across Broadway, a good part of the city still lay in ruins, due to the fire of three years ago that destroyed countless houses and shops.

It was an accepted fact that Washington’s army had set the fire as they escaped New York, avoiding a bloody standoff with General Howe’s men. Our street and its homes had remained beyond the reach of the fire’s path. I couldn’t imagine where else we would have gone