One more chapter after this! I hope you've all enjoyed the story thus far. The final chapter will be posted on Tuesday as per usual. See you all then!
Chapter Sixteen | The Mark of a Man
Robert feels as though he walks on eggshells the entire day. The anticipation of his nightly plans sets his nerves on edge during the midmorning rush. The stress has an effect on his usual collected demeanor despite his efforts to keep as calm as he's able and not draw unwanted attention to himself. Allowing his inner doubts to show would only make Rivington question him, and now that Margot has left, he cannot excuse his nerves on any fanciful whimsy therein. If she was here, he might be able to claim otherwise, but not even Rivington would believe such a pretense in lieu of her absence. Robert is the sort of man who rarely allows distraction to misplace thought, especially of the female variety.
Thankfully, he manages to hold his nerves at bay to at least remain true to character, though it would be a lie to claim that it is an effortless task. Despite knowing that such a feeling is only a creation born of fear and self-doubt, he feels as though he is being watched all through the day. Even when he takes lunch in his room so as to ensure that his immediate necessities are packed away for his nightly ride, he ends up doing more pacing than eating. So great are his worries that he may be held up in York City indefinitely that the food tastes like ash on his tongue. If all goes to plan then he will be on his way to Oyster Bay that very night, where he will regroup and plan his next move in this great game of chess. If it does not, then only God knows what will become of him. At best, he will live out his days in a cell; at worst, those days will be shortened by way of the noose and Margot will be none the wiser to it. Indeed, it is the thought of her that only increases his concerns. For the first time in his adult life, he has another to worry after besides his own father.
That she is now his wife, at least between themselves and God, certainly changes the game. As the hour of his fate grows nearer and dusk begins to fall upon the city, Robert can think of little else but her. With his plan already strategized out, his every thought is magnetized with worry that something will go wrong and she will be left to wonder at the final outcome of his life. He attempts to distract himself with memories of last night in hopes that it will provide a calming ambiance to his nerves, but even the recollection of the staggering pleasure she had introduced him to does little to assuage his fears, for it only makes him wonder if such pleasure will ever be shared between them again.
This dourness of thought hardly helps him conduct his business as Rivington's Corner grows rowdy with late-night guests. It ought to be mentioned, however, that Robert Townsend is quite good at pretending that his nerves are only frustrations bred entirely from said rowdiness, and so no one appears to find his increasingly restless demeanor terribly strange. He sets his shoulders against the jarring anticipation that plucks at him and carries about pouring drinks and doing his usual rounds, but hardly finds comfort in the familiar routine. The knowledge that only a handful of hours hence he will be charging from the city as fast as his horse will take him dampens his mood in ways that he cannot outwardly express, for doing so would only cast him in suspicion.
If he had been told a year ago that he would so suddenly forsake the life that he had spent the majority of his adulthood crafting with little more than the spare coin in his pocket, he would have never believed it. The toiling years spent creating a successful business for himself in this great city has been the crowning jewel of his accomplishments. To abandon it all so quickly on a whim of fate, without knowing for certain what will become of him – indeed, without knowing whether he will even survive it – is certainly not something that the Robert Townsend of old would have considered doing for even a moment. But he is a changed man now, and a better one for it in all the ways that matter. No longer does he linger upon indecision. It is do or die, now. Freedom or oppression. Liberty or death.
The crescendo is at hand, you see, in these fair colonies. Perhaps if fortune is kind, it will culminate into a New World devoid of the injustices inflicted upon it from an empire who knows not how life is truly lived so far from its mother country. If it is not, then this world will burn into a tempest of retributory ire. The British Empire does not take this uprising lightly, though they do perhaps underestimate the force that bolsters it.
The men who fight for this burgeoning country do not do so for coin or patronage. They are not forced to draw arms nor are they misled by whimsical notions that the fight will be easily won. But to not fight, to not do anything at all – to let themselves be overrun by the quartering of armed troops in times of peace; to be bled dry by ever-increasing taxes imposed upon them without the consent of their legislatures; to have maritime trade cut off blindly and without reason; to have His Majesty's Assent to Laws disregarded and purposefully obstructed; to have their legislatures suspended and their judicial representation dissolved; indeed, to be made into a people entirely dependent upon a king whose character is marked by every act which may define a tyrant – would that not be far worse?
Mankind is more disposed to suffer while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. This is not a revolution thoughtlessly entered into, nor is it a fight for freedom in itself. Rather, it is a fight for the reconstruction of the world as it ought to be, and that is a force that is not readily dispersed. Nor indeed is it a fight to be won in its entirety here in the year of 1781, for it will take many more years before humanity truly shakes off the irons of its oppressors once and for all.
This is merely the initial spark; the original flame that sets the fire which will one day consume the tyrants yet cast within shadow; the uprising of mankind that will stir many future hearts to fight for true freedom as it has never been had. And for all men rich or poor, this fire of humanity will rise to its crescendoing finality and take up this flame once more – this initial spark that drives forth a song of broken chains and retributory justice – and the flame will grow until all shadows have been alighted; their illumination used against them.
But here, and now, the spark is yet being fanned, and it is a curious thing that by the end of the night, Robert seems to have rediscovered some errant resolution of character. Perhaps it is such dark thoughts that in fact cultivates this determination within him, for by the time the doors of Rivington's Corner close and the last of the customers is ushered out, a steely purpose sets in upon him. The wait had been a torturous thing to endure, but now that the hour is finally at hand, his nerves fall unexpectedly away, and he now thinks of little but ensuring that his plan continues without error. His life and his future, perhaps even the war itself, depends upon it.
"…Are you still working?" Rivington asks, sounding faintly surprised when he sees Robert standing in front of the shelf that houses their bottled madeira and sherry. The man had been finishing up some work with the printing presses, no doubt double-checking the articles for the morning paper. With half of his presses currently in use by His Majesty's Royal Army, Rivington had spent much of the day indisposed with ensuring that his usual pamphlets are prepared and ready to be delivered come sunrise. His absence had been both a blessing and a curse, and also the reason why Robert had decided to ply himself with more work rather than head upstairs to his room. If his plan is to succeed, then he needs to know precisely when Rivington takes his leave of the coffee house.
Robert doesn't look over his shoulder when he hears Rivington enter the main room, nor when he is posed this question. Instead, he stares down at the paper he is currently marking and calmly responds, "Just taking inventory."
For all intents and purposes, this is exactly what he's doing, though certainly in a far more offhanded manner than he normally would. He has been standing here for some time now waiting for this very moment, for he wishes Rivington to believe him to be yet hard at work and unwilling to retreat until his daily duties are finished with. This approach is not peculiar in the least; Robert always makes a point in ensuring that all his responsibilities are completed in full before the end of his workday, so it doesn't strike Rivington as terribly odd. Still, the man pauses as if he is struck with some sort of unconscious abnormality in the situation at hand, which only makes Robert stare down at the paper all the harder with bated breath.
After a moment, however, Rivington merely says, "Well, lock up before you retire," and walks around the counter to collect his banyan. Robert finally turns to send him a nod over his shoulder before returning to his work, maintaining a casual sense of purpose despite the hour. He hears Rivington let out a yawn as he strides to the stairs and holds his breath as he listens to the man ascend them. Once retired for the night, Rivington rarely leaves his room until morning.
The moment he hears the faint sound of a door shutting on the second floor, Robert springs to action. He tucks his notepad and pencil into his vest and quietly retreats around the counter to where the door of the basement resides. His heart has never hammered so loudly in all his life as he descends the dark stairs. He forces his nerves back and lights several candles, casting the printing room aglow. Then, setting his jaw resolutely, he begins to work.
His first order of business is to dispense of the codebooks that have already been printed. He skims one beforehand to get the gist of what he must do, then collects the stack of pages and tucks them into the woodstove across the way. His hands shake just so as he watches them begin to curl from the heat, feeling the finality of his actions now more than ever, but his back is already turning before they begin to go up in flame. He does not have time to ensure that they catch properly. He must now alter the typeset – a tedious process that must be repeated again and again so that each page attributes a different meaning to each signal.
It is a grand plan of his, for it will utterly scatter the Royal Navy and ensure that their signals are confused and the consistency of their orders are muddled. When one ships signals to another to open fire, the ship being signaled to will read it as an order to retreat. When one ship signals to the other to follow them down current to regroup, the other will presume that they wish to sail closer for another attack. This alteration of the codebook could very well be the end of the Royal Army's naval power, at least for the battles being had in the near future. It will scatter them to the wind and make it impossible to create a unified front. It is also a dreadfully exhausting task.
Hercules Mulligan had warned him of this just yesterday when Robert had gone to visit his tailor shop on Queen Street, but Robert had brushed the warning aside. He had been under no disillusion that this undertaking would be easy, but as the hours begin to blend together and the candles gradually burn down, it becomes clear that he has far more work ahead of him than even he had expected. To make the task faster, he begins to make smaller alterations that will still bring about the desired confusion with slightly less effort on his part. Still, he ends up working well into the night, all too aware of the approaching dawn.
The more he works, the less fearful he becomes. Indeed, there is a calmness to the printing room and the methodical process soon becomes almost second nature. For a man who values routines and finds great comfort in them, this only imbues within him a certain resolve to work until the job is done to its entirety. He could not say how many times he rearranges the signal typesets, loads the press with paper and the rollers with ink, and hangs each paper on the line to dry. All he knows is that the room is full to bursting with newly-printed codebooks by the time his work is quite unexpectedly interrupted by the one man who Robert had thought would be fast asleep by now.
James Rivington appears in the doorway with a frustrated, " – turn down the bloody stove – " The grumble seems to be directed at no one in particular. In fact, when Rivington lifts his eyes, he appears surprised that the room is not as empty as he expected it to be, nor indeed does he appear to expect the sight of Robert standing in the center of it, as frozen as a statue.
Rivington's eyes crease with a sort of frustrated confusion. In a tone that suggests he is both tired and grumpy, a poor combination to be certain, he asks, "What the devil are you doing?"
Robert says not a word as Rivington eyes the lines of drying pages hanging above their heads. His heart gives a tremulous lurch when he watches him reach up to pluck one down. The calm, methodical progress he has made since beginning this undertaking now drops away like pebbles falling into the sea. He thinks, for a moment, that Rivington means to burn the page in his hand as he draws it close to a candle. When the man only casts his gaze over its contents, however, the rumpled vexation that quickly overcomes it makes Robert almost wish he had.
"No…no, no, no, these are all wrong," Rivington mumbles, pacing to the other side of the room. His head is shaking as he studies the signals. It hardly surprises Robert that the man can tell immediately that they have been mixed up. He'd spent the better part of the day first editing the contents of the codebook and then printing a large stack of copies for the Navy. Copies that are surely at least partly to blame for his being here to begin with, come to think on it. If Robert hadn't stuffed the stove with so much kindling, the temperature probably wouldn't have climbed so high and disturbed Rivington's sleep. How he hadn't even felt the heat of the room is testament enough to the single-minded focus funneled into his task. Any awareness of such temporal discomfort had been quickly swept aside. He must finish this sordid undertaking before morning and be on his way down Long Island before Rivington wakes up.
The crucial timing of his plan had been the lynchpin for which held everything else together. Now that it appears to have broken, Robert has little idea of what to do. He stands there in rattled silence, heart pounding, hands sweating, staring at Rivington with sharp eyes as if he thinks he will be immediately betrayed – and why would he not be? He is a rebel in a city of loyalists. Of course Rivington would alert the authorities and have him arrested. If Robert was in his shoes back during the years in which he had owned his boarding house across the city, he might have even done the exact same thing.
With a perplexed frown tugging at his mouth, Rivington looks up at him and shakily demands, "How did you even know that I was – " Then he breaks himself off, appearing to come to his own conclusion as to how Robert was made aware of the codebooks' existence. His voice is shuttered with grave understanding as he weakly lowers himself into a nearby chair and murmurs, "…You knew Saunders. Father-in-law to Mulligan…"
The room is as silent as a grave, and yet the silence seems so loud that it thrums against Robert's eardrums. It feels as though his senses are overloaded. The crackling of the fire is like thunder, and the dim candlelight is akin to a blinding sun. He feels both vigorous and feeble all at once; a combination that only serves to exhaust him all the more, especially when Rivington slowly lifts his eyes to stare peerlessly at him and, lip curled, accuses, "…You're a spy."
Such an accusation is not to be taken lightly. Robert's instinctual reaction is to deny it altogether, but he knows that such a denial would only further incriminate him. His fate seems to hang on a fine thread. For the first time he can recall, words utterly fail him. When Rivington opens his mouth to further accuse him, though, he seems to regain some strength, though barely.
"You – "
"You will forgo your threats," Robert cuts in, voice sharp and possessing a quality of tenacious force that the rest of his body cannot claim to have. Rivington stares at him as he straightens his shoulders and lowly warns, "If you expose me, I will make public everything I have done here for years. You'll be a punchline…if the British don't classify you as a co-conspirator first."
Rivington has never looked upon him with such distaste. His fingers clench tighter around the page that he is still holding in his lap. His lip curls a touch more as he says, "They'll never believe you."
Robert hardly bats an eye at this, but it takes more strength than he could ever say to remain stoic and steadfast. He has, after all, come to see Rivington as something like a friend during his time here. The man is firstly a necessary evil and secondly a business partner, but it would be an outright lie to claim that he has not grown on him. To be looked upon with such apparent detestation shakes Robert's firm resolve just so, whilst at the same time only serving to bolster it, for he would very much like this conversation to be over and done with so as to remove himself from beneath the antipathetic gaze that is now being directed at him.
Mouth tight and eyes set into his hawkish stare, Robert responds, "…Well if there's one thing I learned during my time here, it's how to spread a lie."
The warning is real enough, for there is nothing a man will not do in the face of imminent danger. Such moments as these are where true strength can be found. When one is backed into a corner and unable to run, there is only one other thing to do.
Rivington scoffs out a humorless laugh. He holds his candlestick higher to peer at Robert with betrayed eyes, then asks, "Is that why you did it, then? To teach us sinners a lesson?"
Unlike times before, when Robert's Quaker roots had been brought up and good-naturedly poked at, this time there is a hint of true callousness to Rivington's voice. He stares at Robert with increasing ire. His shaky realizations seem to be catching up to him, ironed out and understood in a slightly calmer light now that he's had time to grapple with it all.
Robert lowers his eyes from Rivington's, exhausted even more now that the night seems to be catching up to him, too. He had not gotten much sleep the night before, and even the copious amount of coffee he had consumed throughout the day seems to be wearing off now. His resolve still burns through his veins like bright, hot fire, but his mind wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep – sleep, finally, and preferably with the woman he had recently given himself to beside him.
"…If I was a more pious Quaker, I would have stayed neutral," Robert responds, feeling that weariness brandish through his voice like slowly creeping vines.
Rivington seems to hear it. He falls into silence for several lengthy heartbeats, brows furrowing as he gazes upon Robert's dimly lit form across the printing room floor. In a voice that is now more tempered with confusion and betrayal than with distaste, he asks, "Then why?"
Why, indeed. He is but a merchant, and a self-made one at that. To become a spy is dangerous for any man, but Robert is far from a soldier. Before taking on such a mantle, he had never held a gun in his life. He had never lied so many times or built so many pretenses of character and intention. He would never have considered taking a woman to his bed without first ensuring that their union was legalized under God and law. There are a great many things he would never have done in the times before he met Abraham Woodhull. So why? It is a reasonable question, he supposes. Why would a man such as him decide to fight in a revolution such as this?
But that is the just the thing. This is not a war like any other, and if truth is to be had, then it ought to be said that very few soldiers in the Continental army are in fact soldiers. They are boys, farmhands, townsmen, merchants. Many have little technical skill beyond ploughing the land, and those who do have never wielded their education in such militaristic fashion. In essence, they are the very last faction of people to ever stand a chance against the greatest empire on earth. So why indeed?
"Those who sit on the picket fence are impaled by it," comes Robert's response.
The British have made key mistakes in this war. Their central power structure is not half as strong so far from home. They have gone through too many changes in leadership, handing off the reins of their army to men with minds too different to form a cohesive strategy. They have underestimated the spirit in these lands. Perhaps, even, they have underestimated Providence, that quiet force that is not as easily controlled or manipulated by the hands of men.
"I was here, and I could do something," Robert says, "and that's as much a reason as anyone ever needs."
This response is delivered with a certain cold logic that Rivington has become accustomed to during their business partnership. It is familiar to him, so much so that, coupled with the revelation of Robert's true purpose here, it makes Rivington's lip twist once more into distaste. The betrayal hits home all the stronger in the face of such rationale.
James Rivington stands up. His chair creaks through the silence like another clash of thunder, tempestuous and stormy. The thunder continues to roll as he strides with renewed purpose to one of the nearby tables, takes a sheaf of paper from the stack sitting atop it, and bends over to begin writing. The mystery of what, exactly, he's scripting is solved when he firmly says, "You will sign your interest in the partnership over to me – the price of my silence." He pauses to shoot Robert a brief look, then returns to the task at hand before straightening fully and finishing, "And then you'll run."
He eyes Robert with that firm countenance and waits. Robert, however, moves not a muscle, nor does he approach the desk to add his name to it. Instead, he stands stiff and unyielding in the center of the room for several moments before inquiring, "…What will you say of my departure?"
The question makes Rivington pause. He seems seconds away from scoffing, but instead he just shakes his head and responds, "I will make up a story," in a voice that hints at his own exhaustion.
If anyone could compose a feasible explanation for Robert's sudden and inexplicable disappearance, it is James Rivington. It is this and this alone that has Robert stepping forward to take up the pencil and sign his name to the hastily done up legal document. In truth, he can scarcely believe that his own threats to frame Rivington as the real spy had worked. Either James doesn't want to take any chances by having his name shrouded in suspicion or he is letting Robert go for reasons unknown to him – some sentimental decision made on the spot, perhaps, in remembrance of the time they had spent together as business partners. It seems almost silly to consider this a reason, though, especially considering the disapproval that grates through Rivington's gaze as he watches Robert sign everything over to him. Yes, it is far more likely that Rivington is merely taking advantage of the situation in the only way he can: by forcing Robert's hand with the promise of silence.
It feels like he's signing his life away, and in a manner of speaking, he is. Never before has such a simple act of scripting his name to a page contained within it such loaded consequences. Even whilst he was transferring his intelligence to the written word and sending it off to General Washington's camp, it had not felt so burdensome. Before, there was a layer of protection involved – the invisible ink, the alias of Culper Jr. – but now his own name flashes boldly at him from the paper, so familiar and yet so foreign. Robert Townsend. A name holds power, and he feels a measure of control stripped from his person when he writes it. He knew that walking away from his livelihood would be the result of tonight in some form or another, but it still manages to make his head spin. It's the directness of it all, he's sure. The fact that he is signing off his entire enterprise and the method in which he has made his living with just a simple swish of his hand. Rivington's heavy gaze only drives the feeling home.
For a long moment, Robert leans over the desk and stares down at his name without a word. The silence is laden with doubt. He considers for the briefest of seconds whether he ought to take this page and throw it into the woodstove – find another way around this latest obstacle, for surely there must be one. But then Margot's face flashes through his mind and he knows then that if another path is taken, the chances of seeing her again will be nigh impossible. At least this way he will be free to leave the city, albeit without livelihood.
This is just one of the repercussions of spywork. He knew it would be a possibility when he had agreed to Abraham's plan. It is a little thing to lose, in the grand scheme of things, but no less difficult for a self-made man such as him.
Clenching his jaw resolutely, Robert finally rises and turns. He hands the paper to Rivington without a word, and then turns abruptly to collect his waistcoat. He doesn't watch Rivington look down to ensure that everything is in order. He is eager to be rid of this place at long last, before other potential repercussions might be delay him further.
This is precisely why he is so surprised when, as his fingers are brushing against the plain black fabric of his coat, Rivington suddenly asks, "Aren't you going to finish?"
He freezes, heart skittering against his ribcage as he turns yet again. This time, when he looks at Rivington, the man's eyes are just as resolute as his own. Perhaps more.
"We've already made a hundred copies," Rivington says with no shortage of the perplexed frustration that had tempered his voice before. There is something else, though, that unfurls through the tone of his voice. It might be described as flippant resignation; an acceptance of a sort, though not happily given. As he steps towards Robert's frozen form, he lifts an eyebrow and drawls, "I'll be damned if I waste more paper."
Robert knows not what to say in response to this. He can only stand there, heart hammering and palms sweaty, watching Rivington with a bolt of flinty surprise spearing through his gaze. He's never been more speechless in all his life, especially when Rivington turns to collect the candlestick and moves to ascend the stairs.
"Turn the stove down when you're done," he says as he takes his leave. The sound of the door shutting behind him is yet another thunderclap that seems far louder and more treacherous than it really is.
At first, Robert merely stands there as if he's waiting for Rivington to return and tell him to get out once and for all. When this does not happen, however, and the silence begins to lengthen, a haphazard determination unfurls within him. It bolsters into his veins with a force that sends him reeling across the room to the printing press that he had been working with when Rivington had first interrupted him. The paper within has yet to be printed on. The rollers will need more ink. The work is nearly finished.
It would be a lie to claim that he easily returns to his task, for his mind is abuzz with grating fears that pluck at his hands even as he begins anew. The nerves make his fingers shake; he finds it difficult to carry on at first. What if Rivington had only told him to remain so that he would have more time to gather the authorities? What if he is to be trapped here in this city after all? Should he not abandon this mission of his now while there is yet time, before he well and truly forsakes everything in his life that holds true meaning?
But this is the mark of a man: one who remains unbent even in the face of hardship. Of lesser souls, they would surely give up, but a man knows when it is time to surrender and when he must forge on, even when the path ahead is dimly lit and shrouded with uncertainty. Robert Townsend is such a man.
He works into the night even as his doubts pluck at him. He works until there is no work left to be done. Then, when the first rays of morning are only just beginning to lighten the sky, he takes up his cloak and his hat, the small satchel of such things as he has left to his name, and leaves upon the dawn.