"Hey, Townsend," a voice came, "splash s'me ale!"
I walk out of the counter and stroll directly towards the table with lax officers trying to create an illusion of power and strength. I do respect them – I just don't get why they stopped by a tavern considering the fact their, shall we say, quaffing ability leaves a lot to be desired. All of them are ready to imbibe alcohol for days on end, but in this case they'd be lambasted by someone who really wields power. By Simcoe, for example. I've heard he's been transferred here for some violent performance back there in Setauket. I wish it wasn't related to Woodhull, woe be to him.
"What a ditty," a salubrious stout man guffawed, "Did that harlot hear it? Townsend, have a glass of – whatever you have there – with us! Stone's a bunch of stories to tell, you'll sure enjoy them. Do you know the one about a slut brandishing her pass in front of a—"
"I'm afraid, I do not," I smile as politely as I can, "Sorry, gentlemen – my work is not to be put aside."
I withstood a siege but there's another to be surmounted. Listening to their stultifying narrations, staring at officers dilly dallying in the town isn't as exhausting as pretending: I am split between my beliefs and this realm of war, between my duty and my faith. They all see a Quaker in a plain cassock, and they don't even have a slightest thought there's a human being behind it. They watch a bartender doing his work, they squint, they roar in amusement bandying railleries, sick jokes and ribaldries – but they never suspect a patriot, a devotee who loves his country but has to compromise with his conscience by doing things that lead straight to the gallows. They don't even expect to bump into a sepulchral inner world – the world in ruins; they don't even know there's a riled citizen, a downtrodden person with individuality, with dreams and proclivities – what's worse, that's par for the course. They don't placate the victims – they throw newer and newer cannonballs thick and fast planning to impoverish us, to abolish us, to emaciate us. And to prevent that, I have to be this 'man in town'. I have to help Washington through Tallamadge, through Woodhull, through God knows who else. Because God, whoever He is, no matter how merciful He is, won't come down to earth to inflict His comeuppance. He's miserably forceless against violence, manslaughter and senseless massacre people start over a trifle.
"A reconnoiter, you say? Who could that be?"
"You don't say, you sly fox! André wouldn't do that. More like an attempt to vaunt."
"Gallows. They're all gonna be hang'd. All—"
"He says, 'gallows'. Preposterous! Just like Major André—"
"Poor girls. They'll miss 'im dearly!"
"Yeah, for a couple of days."
"Weeks! He was a picture perfect example in our upstanding decent society, if you ask me."
"—and his adversary. His resilience—"
"If I were him, I'd definitely hit the bottle!"
"You are already binging alcohol, Jameson. Townsend will scape up a fortune if you keep going, jungen Werther… that's the name, isn't it?"
I can't listen to the cacophony anymore; I am done with this, I want to wash my hands of it, but that would mean to betray my own self. This dull routine has eventually gained some sense – when Woodhull appeared at the threshold of the hotel, I was damn sure I would give him away. But at the same time, I did understand him. I did fathom his desire to supply the Continental Army with the information they so desperately need. This is not about Washington, Tallmadge, or Woodhull himself – this is about freedom.
"—good for him. Townsend, have a look at this," this assiduous editor calls me and demonstrates a newspaper. "What a nice trick it's gonna be," he smiles as wide as his mouth lets him. "Imagine: the garrison deflects Washington's attention, he tosses his troops at the frontline, but the main forces will be concentrated in a different place. An amazing, brilliant, splendid plan! Down the hatch, boy," he raised his mug. "Down the hatch, to the King and to his fine officers."
"What a nice trap for Washington," I say as indifferently as I can, "Do they already know the whereabouts or tactics?"
"Not yet. Ah, you're a far cry from a soldier, boy," he laughs and pats my shoulder, "that's all a stratagem. A ploy. But mind you," he leans in closer, "He'll reveal his plans. He'll reveal. We have Arnold now; he is aware of the juxtaposition. We'll ream the continentals out. They'll barely resist, if at all."
This makes me even more cautious, and I try to memorize all the details he's pouring out on me. I have to sneak back into my room and write them all down – but unfortunately, the day's busier than I thought initially.
"I'd have some ale, if you please," I hear a high, nervous voice with demanding notes in the tone. "I know you have the best in town."
Hard to accept, but my blood's running cold. Simcoe. This place is no longer a bolt-hole – lies is something he feels immediately, and, mind over matter, I have to conceal any emotion he might distinguish. My disguise of a law-abiding citizen will not work anyway – but can make up a certain image. God help me.
"Mr. Townsend," Simcoe squeezes out a dry smile, "glad to see you here. This is a little bit boorish of me to ask, but have you heard anything about a spy? You see a dime a dozen of people every day. That must be a low-key person. Someone ordinary. Someone unnoticeable. A… grey man."
His eyes are penetrating me. Although he is collected and calm, I can almost physically feel his slimy orbs upon me.
"Of course I have," I subtly nod. "I have heard rumors."
He is waiting for the answer. Slightly raises his eyebrows. Go on.
"They say there's a woman behind it."
"A woman? How so?"
He's staring at me so intently that I am almost losing my ability to speak. The worst thing ever is to be under his command: if he is as atrocious as is reported, he might burst out any moment.
"Yes, a woman, captain." I take a mug and rub it with a towel – just to hide nervousness. "She… had a particular… occupation. She was a fancy woman, or something like that."
"A prostitute?"
"I suppose so."
"Her name? Address? Anything?"
"I am a bartender, captain, not a detective."
He is aware that I am lying – but says or does nothing. Why? What are his ulterior motives? How many gutsy moves am I allowed to make before he goes off the deep end?
"Thank you, Mr. Townsend. I will consider it thoroughly – and it better be true, otherwise I'll have even more questions to you: I am certain you have a few more things to share with me."
His voice doesn't even ride up a notch – it's singsong, balancing on the same note. It drills my brain; it engraves a heads-up inside my mind: I have to cease it, at least for a while, to get all ducks in a row and finally find a compromise between my duty, faith – and the goal I am striving to achieve. I will fear no evil – but the circumstances are stronger than me, and I have to sequester myself in order to maintain the image of the bartender everybody accepts.