Daughter of Freedom

The office of the Provost Marshal reflected the taste of man who knew both money and torture.  Kitty Cartwright stood in front of the wide stone hearth that bisected the length of the back wall of the room. Beneath her feet the rich fur of a bear skin rug tickled her bare toes, the warmth of the fire made her forget for a moment the cold demeanor of the man she had come to service.

She had arrived at her usual time, and like always he made her wait until he was finished with his daily counts of supplies and prisoners.  She collapsed on the leather chaise closest to the fire, the noise drew his attention. She smiled and ran her fingers along the low neckline of her dress. He gave her a flat stare and then returned his attentions to the papers in front of him.

The smile dropped from her face and she lay back against the smooth leather, her arms stretched above her head.  She watched the shadows play on the ceiling.  Her eyes trailed the perimeter of the room. They stopped when they reached the row of manacles that hung high on the wall flanking the door. She dropped her gaze to the distinct line of paint that ran the length of the room and marked area approximately three feet out from the wall on the floor.  Behind the line the floor was bare wooden planks. Many marred with darks stains, the blood of those who had been unlucky enough to be put before the marshal himself. She flexed her fingers and feet as the memory of her first visit to the room. The pain had lingered for days in her feet and shoulders. Not quite tall enough to reach the restraints without standing on tiptoe, she had been almost thankful when he had finally taken her. His powerful thrusts had temporarily supported her weight.

A knock at the door disrupted her thoughts. The marshal yelled “Enter,” in obvious irritation and Kitty sat up to see who had dared interrupt the marshal Cunningham.

A dark skinned man entered the room. Half a dozen nooses draped loosely around his neck, the long lengths of the ropes coiled around his body. He snapped to attention and bowed to the marshal.

“Sergeant Skinner, you had better have good cause for this interruption,” Cunningham said but did not look up from his desk. “ I have not had the pleasure of whipping a man in days, and you will do just a fine as any rebel.”

The sergeant rested a hand on one of the knots near his neck and smiled at Kitty, his white teeth in great contrast to his dark skin. She shivered. He was cut from the same cloth as the marshal, not a conscience between them. Skinner approached the desk and delivered a message in hurried whispers, too low for Kitty to hear.

The marshal abruptly stood. “Bring them in, but for god sake keep them behind the line and off the rug.” He moved from behind the desk and took up a wide stance at the center of the room.

Kitty stood, and moved towards the door. “I will wait for you upstairs,” she said, curtsying low and bending to retrieve her shoes.

Cunnigham reached out and pulled her up by her long dark hair. He kissed her mouth and pulled her hard against him. “You will stay put,” he said and nuzzled her neck, “I may be in need of you as soon as I am done.” Kitty dared to meet is eyes and nodded.  He had not bound her again since the first visit, but she knew better than to test him. He released her and she returned to the chaise, her heart pounding in her chest.

The door to office opened and Skinner reentered. Two men trailed behind him, bound and connected by a rope the Sergeant held tightly in his grip.

Cunningham crossed his arms and watched as Skinner pressed the men against the wall.  “And who have we here Mr. Skinner. I thought you said you were bringing me two enemy spies, all I see are a couple of mangy dogs.”

One of the prisoners spit at the marshal. His face was promptly struck by the sergeant’s elbow. The man’s nose exploded in a mess of coppery blood. Kitty pulled her legs into her chest and looked away.

Her movement caught Skinner’s attention and his breath hissed through his teeth as he laughed.  “Caught ‘em along with half a dozen others in a whaleboat off the north shore.  Sent the others to the sugar house, but these two had papers on ‘em, thought you might wanna see ‘em.”

“Show me the papers,” Cunningham said and held out his hand.

From his pocket Skinner pulled several sheets of folded paper.  The marshal took the sheets to his desk. He adjusted the wick of the oil lamp and bent to read. A laugh rumbled from deep in his chest. The same amused hiss erupted from Sergeant Skinner.  The marshal returned to his previous position, then grabbed the sergeant, his hands around the man’s throat.

“You ignorant bastard,” the marshal raged, “you illiterate imbecile, the paper is nothing more than a letter from one of these sniveling rebels to his mother.”  He released his grip and turned his seething anger on the two prisoners against the wall.  He punched the first in the gut and the man doubled over I pain, pulling his partner over as the rope grew taunt. 

The soldier whose nose still ran thick with blood kicked out and caught the marshal’s knee. Cunningham buckled and fell to the floor. Kitty covered her ears and tucked her head, at the sound of the beating that followed.  She heard the dull thud of a body falling to the floor and dared a peek.

In the flickering firelight the faces of the two rebels glistened with blood. They had been forced to their knees. Cunningham stood over them, his shoulders heaved as he fought to catch his breath, spent from exertion. 

“Take them,” he commanded, “Go to the sugar house and get the others and meet me at the gallows. I think I agree with your original assessment Sergeant.” He kicked again at the two men on the floor, a groan followed. “We do not feed or house spies in his majesty’s prison, we string them up like the traitors they are.”

For a third time, the sound of hissing laughter filled the room. Skinner yanked the rope that still bound the two me and half dragged them out into the corridor.

The marshal closed the door behind them and turned.  For a moment Kitty could have sworn he had forgotten she was even in the room.  He stared at her, his lips twitched and she knew he could she was afraid. The man fed off his ability to terrify those around him, she had learned the only way to calm the beast was to show no fear.

She stood and held his gaze. Her hands pulled free the first ribbon that tied together the front of her gown. She pressed her shoulders back and undid another and another until the gown slipped to the floor. Now clad only in a thin shift, she lifted the simple garment over her head.  She could see some of the fire go out of his eyes.

He was the first to look away. He crossed to his desk, crumbled the papers Skinner had brought tossed them in the waste bin. From the top drawer, he removed his whip. He dropped the length of it to the floor, the fine tip slithered across the floor as he approached her.

Kitty swallowed but held her ground. She could hear the soft squeak of the leather as he tightened his hold on the handle. He trailed the hard polished grip along her jawline. She prayed he could not feel or hear the heart that thundered in her chest. She dared lean in and kiss his lips.  A dark smile slowly spread across his face.

“I have some further business to attend to. You will wait for me upstairs. Do you understand?” His voice was low; she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.  She nodded and he turned and followed the Sergeant out the door. Kitty listened until the sound of his heavy footsteps faded, then collapsed on the chaise.



She reached for her shift and gown and redressed. She crossed to the desk, quickly pulled the crumbled paper from the bin and spread them out on the desk. In the bottom right corner she found the small set of wavy lines she knew would be there. She folded the letter and tucked them into a pocket. She passed through the door and out into the corridor and towards the front of the building. Her hand rested on the hard brass knob of the Provost door when she felt the tip of a pistol at her back.

“And where are you off to?” came a voice behind her.

Relief flooded through her as she recognized the voice of one of the young British officers who often stood guard at night. She turned to face him.  His face bore the faded coloring of a bruise. She reached out and gentle touched the discoloration.

“The marshal has gone out, but he will be back. He has gone to a hanging,” she saw his eyes widen. It seemed he too understood what it was to suffer the wrath of the man who ran the provost.  She leaned in, inches from his face. “I need a bit of something to help me survive him, sir, a little something to dull the pain.”

The young officer holstered his weapon “I have several bottles of rum in my room I would be willing to share…for a price, “ he suggested, his hands resting on her hips.  She kissed his cheek.

“And if the provost should return early and find us?” she asked and placed another kiss on his ear. “Do you think any amount of rum could dull the pain then?” She felt the man stiffen and then release her. “A friend runs a tavern just a short distance from here,” she said. “I will return shortly.”

He nodded and stepped back that she might open the door. She gave him a smile then walked out onto the darkened street.

She moved quickly down a block, then crossed the street and doubled back. From the alleys between the buildings she made her way to the office she sought and knocked on the door.

Robert Townsend opened his door just a crack. “You should not have come here,” he  snapped

“I brought you these,” she replied unaffected by his tone and produced the letters from her pocket.

He snatched them from her hand and she pushed the door open further. “Let me in, I need a drink and do not have much time. I have to get back before Cunningham returns.”

Townsend opened the papers and spread them on a small table. From the shelf behind him he took down a vial of blue colored liquid and a small brush. With a steady hand he brushed the liquid over the paper and watched the chemical reaction bloom. A secondary message appeared.

Kitty cleared her throat and he pointed to a cabinet on the far wall. Kitty helped herself to a bottle of sweet Caribbean rum. She didn’t bother with a glass, but drank directly from the bottle, swallowing half of the contents in one drink.

“The marshal is going to hang the men who brought this.”

Townsend looked up from the table. His eyes closed and he leaned on his hands. “How many?”

“Not sure,” she replied and brought the bottle to her mouth again . “I saw two, but Skinner said there were more, maybe five or six.”

Townsend shook his he and pounded his fist on the table. “There is not enough time to engage to save them.”

Kitty crossed and offered him the bottle. He resisted at first, then took it from her and took a long swig.

“They knew the risks, knew the penalties if they were caught. We all do,” she said and fixed her dark eyes on his face.  Townsend looked up at her and they stared at each other in silent acknowledgement.

She took back the dwindling bottle, and finished the contents. “Have you heard from Mary?” she asked wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Townsend returned his attention to the letter in front of him. “Yes, she came to see me this afternoon.”

“How is John?” she asked. Her voice faltered. For all of her bravado when faced with the provost or any of the other men she relied on to make a living, just the mention of her brother’s name was enough to crack her cold façade.

Townsend rubbed his eyes and sighed. “He is not well. His fever has returned and I for one am at a loss as to what to do. We will continue as we have been,” he sat down in the wooden chair next to the table. “Though I am not sure how much longer he can last.”

Kitty slammed the empty bottle on the table. “I agreed to risk my life and continue to visit what surely is the devil himself here in New York. I was promised, Robert. Get him out, get him out or I will do what I must to secure his release myself.”

Townsend grabbed her wrist. “Don’t threaten me madam, we are doing what we can. No one more than Mary wants to see him freed, but we have to be careful. If we push too hard we run the risk of drawing Cunningham’s attention. John knew the risks…knew the consequences,” he echoed.

Kitty flinched, and raised her free hand. He grabbed the other wrist. With her arms pinned behind her back he pulled her close. She pushed against him, her breath came in jagged heaves. She soon softened and rested her head on his shoulder. He released her wrists and gently stroked her hair, his arm around her waist.

“You know I would do anything for you, darling,” he whispered in her ear. “If I could give myself in exchange for John I would.  He lifted her chin and kissed her softly, he could taste the rum on her lips.

“I have to go,” she said and pulled away from him. “I cannot be gone long.” A single tear trailed down her cheek, he reached to wipe it away but she jerked from his touch.

“Tell Mary to do her best, I will send more money at the end of the week.” With that she let herself out, the chill of the evening air offset by the fire of alcohol that flowed in her blood. Her senses were beginning to blur. She did not bother to retrace her steps down the alley, but entered out on to the main street and crossed back to the Provost. She knocked on the door and the same young officer opened it. She pushed past him without a word and her way up the stairs to the Provost’s  private chambers.  She kicked off her shoes, undressed and climbed into his bed. Only then did she allow the tears that she had been fighting to escape. If she was lucky the Provost would be gone for several more hours. If she was very lucky he would be gone until dawn and unable to render any further damage that night. The rum and the tears made her eyelids heavy. She gave into sleep, her mind spinning with thoughts of her brother and of Robert Townsend.