Free The Flight of Sarah Battle by Alix Nathan Page B

man called Baldwyn said and laughed. They all laughed: Pyke, the oldest, Hadfield with the scars over his eye, down his cheek, Harley the young one. Slapped their thighs in merriment. Newton would have caught them all on a page, with their oddities, looking conspiratorial.
    â€˜Is he honest?’ asked the one called Coke.
    â€˜Well, he’s no Iago.’
    â€˜I should hope not. But can you trust him?’
    â€˜Can you trust a man that foolish, that silly? He’s taken minutes enough times. He’d play the buffoon, only he hasn’t the wit.’ They laughed again. Left as soon as the government spy Nodder appeared with his threadbare moustache.
    Foolish, silly? Buffoon? It isn’t the Wintrige she knows. The man to whom she’s married. But the day takes over; she can puzzle no more about it.
    He’s out when she returns. Dripping wax on his papers she rummages. What does she hope to find: a message in a woman’s hand, a diary of assignations? There are books and books of minutes: once he’d actually been president of his division, now he’s secretary. She reads the endless names, dates, subscriptions, sums of cash paid out to wives and children, which taverns for the next meeting; all in his tiny, neat, sloping letters. The life of the Corresponding Society about which he’d been so reticent is exposed: harassed by Blackheath Hundreds; justices terrified the landlord, moved to Angel, High Street; considered the best means of defending the several imprisoned Citizens; experienced a very narrow escape from the Bow Street Runners; adjourned at three o’clock in the morning; appointed as delegates Jas. Wintrige, Joseph Young.
    There are those starry, overwrought phrases: Infant Seed of Liberty ; Hydra of Despotism; Strong Arm of Aristocracy; Yours with Civic Affection.
    And then a sealed letter addressed to R. Ford. Which goes the next day.
    That night they coincide, unusually.
    â€˜Who is R. Ford?’
    â€˜Ho, ho! Been spying on me, have you?’
    â€˜I saw a letter, yes. Is it a man or a woman?’
    â€˜A woman ? Why should you think that? You, with your apple cheeks!’ He pinches them hard. ‘It’s for the Society. Our new strategy. We shall demand a meeting with the Duke of Portland. Don’t trouble yourself with thinking. You couldn’t understand.’
    He shouts his loud laugh, mirthless, and his eyes slide away into their shadows.
    She finds out nothing about the other woman. Yet their marriage is also nothing. Has almost always been nothing. Rare meetings. Pared-down questions; opaque answers from the edge of the mattress.
    *
    Winter sets hard. Yesterday’s horse-dung is frosted. House martins, swifts have long flown the city. Carrion crows stalk the streets.
    Tom Cranch comes often to Battle’s. Stands at the bar, drinks, waits to hear treasonous tones, she assumes. Yet men are cautious now; he can’t have much to report. His own speech is enthusiastic. She listens. He has a good disguise if he’s a government spy. He tells her about America.
    â€˜There’s wilderness with bears and wolves, eagles and catamounts. But the wild men have made peace. Americans honour wise Indians, you know. They’ve even made a saint of one, St Tammany.
    â€˜Philadelphia is built to a rational scheme with straight roads and plenty of space to make the city healthy. In truth, it is a new-created world.’
    â€˜All built on the backs of slaves. Deny it if you can, whoever you are.’ A bystander, listening in.
    â€˜Thomas Cranch, printer, bookseller, Berwick Street. In fact, sir, Pennsylvania abolished slavery in 1780.’
    â€˜Don’t you believe it.’ The man stomps off.
    Tom Cranch is not fazed. He describes a future where property is unimportant, where everyone votes for members of parliament and no one starves. She has to remind herself that he’s a spy and is trying to trap her.
    She looks forward to