Free The Flight of Sarah Battle by Alix Nathan Page A

at all sorts o’ things is our Joseph,’ they say and laugh raucously. ‘Sandman Joe!’ they shout and slap him on the back. One of them begins to sing:
    He star’d a while then turned his quid,
    Why blast you, Sall, I loves you!
    And for to prove what I have said,
    This night I’ll soundly f…
    â€˜I’ve an urgent errand with Miss Dale,’ interrupts Joseph. Miss Dale? ‘We must hurry on.’
    â€˜Urgent.’ They wink at each other. Oh well, off you goes. We’ll give your greetins to ve lads and lasses, shall us, Joe?’
    â€˜Yes, of course.’
    â€˜Tell ’em you’ve urgent business vese days?’
    â€˜Tell them I’m busy, Jack. It’s the truth.’
    â€˜Vey’ll be sorry to ’ear it. George Quinton and Barnabas’ll be sorry.’
    â€˜And Charlotte. You know, ve one always talks about her sister shot and killed in ‘80.’
    â€˜We miss you, don’t we, Hugh? And Fanny, she’ll be a lot sorry, eh?’
    â€˜We must hurry on now.’ Joseph gives Lucy a small shove and walks her away. The men bawl out:
    His brawny hands, her bubbies prest,
    And roaring cried, white Sand O!

7
    One evening in Battle’s a man asks after James. Sarah knows spies sit in every coffee house and inn. James warns her to be careful what she says, though she’s hardly garrulous.
    â€˜Mrs Wintrige?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Do you know where your husband was this afternoon?’
    â€˜I have been here since six o’clock this morning.’ She heard a thrush sing from a roof ridge on the way. ‘He was surely at the Customs Office today as usual.’
    â€˜He was expected at a meeting this afternoon. He never came.’
    She pays no attention. Nowadays they close before nine. Staying open late causes suspicion.
    Two weeks later he comes again. She recognises his red neckerchief, his lively push through the press of men around the bar.
    â€˜Thomas Cranch, Mrs Wintrige. Enquiring about your husband again.’ He catches her eye. ‘I’m from the Society,’ he says quietly.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜He is ill, I hear. He sent us a letter today. He’s too ill to attend the meeting. Coughing blood. Can we be of help? Recommend a physician?’
    Leaning towards him to hear, their foreheads touch. She draws back hastily, sees surprise, pleasure hop across his face. He drinks porter. He is short, thickset, his black hair cropped, his movements energetic. Printer and bookseller, he tells her.
    â€˜British Tree of Liberty. 98 Berwick Street, Soho.’
    Or so he says. She warms to him despite herself.
    James slips into bed about midnight, undershirt smelling of anxiety.
    Half-asleep she asks: ‘Are you unwell?’
    â€˜No. Been at a meeting.’
    â€˜Have you coughed up blood?’
    No. Why do you ask?’
    She turns over. Shifts away.
    Stares into the dark with indignation: he has another woman.
    She fails to sleep. He snores. Perhaps several women. Whores.
    She’s in Battle’s at six, her father grumbling, a waiter late. She sets about seeing that fires are laid and lit under the coffee cauldron and in the fireplace where men toast their backsides, pat the dog, read aloud the latest news, hold forth. Checks that floors are swept, meat is prepared, onions sliced, clean glasses and coffee dishes lined in ranks.
    Another woman. The words embed. She was told of a common law wife before their marriage whom he left. She finds relief in the pattern.
    Later she remembers a conversation she once overheard. She knew the men. Knew they were radicals who drank at the Red Lion but dropped into Battle’s occasionally to test the mood, check on the opposition. They were reluctantly tolerated by Sam because they came so rarely, always paid and were discreet. They’d not been seen for some time.
    â€˜Wintrige,’ she’d heard.
    â€˜Our old friend Wintrige,’ the