The best thing that could be said about Mary Andrews was that she was unremarkable.
Her face was bland, her brown hair often pulled severely back under a linen cap, and her hazel eyes were downcast in a display of servitude. If you glimpsed her in a crowd and tried to find her later, you wouldn't be able to recall her face. And even if you thought you did, they were a hundred other girls who would fit her features. At least in Philadelphia there was, here in Setauket there were at least three. In Philadelphia she had worn pretty silk dresses, pretending to be a quiet society girl flirting with British officers, until Tallmadge had decided she would be better used elsewhere since the British had withdrawn. Setauket meant serviceable cotton dresses, no more whalebone stays, merely light cotton. It was much more preferable, and cotton faded from the mind more quickly than silk, even if it was printed.
Being unremarkable was truly the best thing for a spy.
Recently reassigned, she had "found" work in the home of Major Hewlett. No man noticed a maid straightening papers, or walking in to deliver a bottle of claret. Maids were invisible, and even less trouble when they were "illiterate". All she had to do was fake a bit of humiliation when Hewlett had shown her a list of supplies he wanted in his kitchen, and get the butler to read them off to her. And who would notice a scrap of paper placed under a rock on the shore. After all, everyone knew the Major preferred his clams to be fresh.
Today though, there was a note waiting for her, a knotted piece of driftwood the signal to look under a nearby rock for the note. Well, more accurately it was a letter with a few random numbers written on the side, as if the writer had re-used a piece of paper. It was rather boring, a letter from a whaling captain to his relative in Setauket. The only way to make sense was to follow the numbers. She read the third, twenty-fourth, forty-second, and fiftieth word in the letter.
Wood Hull Boy Safe.
She'd known the boy, Abraham, had been harboring quite a few patriotic tendencies, despite his Loyalist father. Being friends with Caleb Brewster had paid off, and Tallmadge had another agent. She left her report, coded to hide the message of moving British troops, and dropped the letter from Tallmadge in the bay. Every wave drew it out a little farther, the ink washing away in the water. She hitched her skirts up above her ankles, picked up the basket she'd placed some clams in, and headed for the farms. Outside of the main town, it was farmhouses and forests.
Abe Woodhull owned a cabbage field, manned by himself and a couple of slaves. Said slaves were out tending to the cabbage, but she could spy Woodhull chopping wood near the main house. So she threw on a rather haughty look, like a lady's maid having to go down to the scullery, and marched over to him.
"Mister Woodhull, I require some cabbage for the Major's table." She kept her tone firm, and then thrust her head toward a storage barn. "Find me your best."
The farmer nodded, and she followed him to the barn. His voice was rather hurried, "I'm afraid there hasn't been much, we had a bit of disease in the crop this year."
"Could you get some through New York? The Major doesn't exactly care how legal everything is." Only a few knew of Woodhull's trip across the bay. She could see him start when she spoke, but he continued looking through the piles, occasionally shoving a head aside with his hand.
"I don't know what you mean." He mumbled, hands drifting away from his crop.
She cast a look back, his slaves were far afield and his wife inside. "I know Tallmadge brought you in. You keep going to New York, and with what I get from Hewlett, we might be able to get something."
Abe turned to look at her, his eyes wide. "You?"
"There's more than just me, all across the coast."
He held out a head of cabbage, rather small but free of the black rot that seemed present in most of his crop. "You keep to yours."
She placed it by the clams, that basket weighing on her arms. "And you to yours." The deal was struck, they'd stay to their own circles. A new agent would prove quite useful, moving in the rougher classes while she circled through the upper ones. In fact, Major Hewlett was planning a quick trip to York city to meet with the new General Clinton. Clinton hated to spend money on his parties, and so officers would bring along their own to help with the task of preparing entertainments. Clinton enjoyed that, especially since the offers would tell them that their staff was willing to work for room and board, out of loyalty to the crown. Of course Hewlett paid her a small wage, which she set aside mainly because there were few stores in town and she mainly made what she wore.
Her basket had worn a line into her arm when she arrived back at the house the Major had taken over. The butler gave here a furrowed brow as she walked in, sipping his tea. "Cabbage and clams?"
She replied with a smile. "My mother had a wonderful recipe for a clam chowder with cabbage."
"Make sure you make enough, Hewlett's having some of his officers over for dinner. That and we're eating what they leave." Thomas, the butler, grumbled as he set down his tea and returned to the Major's office to attend to him. That was nice bit of information, Hewlett tended to pull back their food allowance when his debts grew. He usually paid for a bit of the company's powder and shot, but she'd have to get a look at his papers to discover the real reason.
Her mind whirred as she set to work on the chowder.
Such is the life of a spy.