During the American Revolution, General George Washington employed a ring of spies in and around New York City, the headquarters for the British war effort in North America. These spies identified themselves in their letters by code numbers. One was known as “355,” which stood for “lady.”
To date, her true identity remains unknown.
The waves have rolled upon me,
the billows are repeatedly broken over me,
yet I am not sunk down.
—Mercy Otis Warren
New York Harbor
July 1780
I’d swum with deadly sharks and stolen from deadlier men. I’d survived hurricanes, war, and even love—but I didn’t know if I’d survive this.
I pulled myself off the floorboards, my legs shaking as I stood. The cabin spun around me. I drew a deep breath to steady myself, smelling pine tar and bilgewater, tensing as the door swung open.
Two redcoats hurried inside. One carried shears; the other, a length of rope. They were big men, filling the cabin with their bright regimentals and shocked stares. They obviously hadn’t expected to find a young lady in a torn silk gown, bleeding from a head wound.
“We have orders to cut your hair,” said the one with the rope. He cleared his throat and raised the rope higher. “If you resist, I shall be forced to use this.”
I swallowed thickly. I had an idea what this meant. “I won’t resist.” I stepped forward. “Go ahead. Cut it.”
The man with the shears hesitated, then gathered my hair in a clumsy swipe and sliced. My long locks came away in his hand. He blinked at them like he was confused, then tossed them down and carried on hastily, cutting so close at times he nicked my scalp and left my eyes watering.
As my dark curls tumbled to the floor, years of dance assemblies and fine dinners flashed before my eyes. I shut them and imagined I was feeling Mama’s gentle hands on me instead of this stranger’s. Mama, singing in Spanish as she teased out my tangles with the patience of an entire ocean.
What would she think of this? I’d promised her I’d find a safe, respectable life—and done the exact opposite.
“Why?” whispered the man with the rope. I opened my eyes. The candle on the floor guttered and popped, making his shadow writhe behind him. He licked his lips. “Why are you here? Are you—are you a spy?”
“Shut up, Wilcox,” said the other one. Then he glanced at me like he wanted to know, too.
“Tell me where I’m being sent and I’ll answer.” I already thought I knew, but I needed to be sure.
They shared a look.
“Go on, Wilcox,” said the one with the shears. “Tell her.”
“You tell her, Bradley.”
Bradley lowered the shears and exhaled, his breath sour with the smell of tobacco. “There’s whispers amongst the men you’re going to the Jersey prison hulk.”
My knees nearly crumpled beneath me. Prison. I’d guessed right. But even worse—the Jersey. Where men were sent to die. Where no women were sent at all. I’d be the first one. The only one.
“Your turn,” Bradley said, impatient for my answer.
“No. I’m not a spy,” I lied, though I could’ve told the truth. I’d been caught; the worst had already happened. But I didn’t owe these men anything. Certainly not what I valued most. “This is all just a misunderstanding,” I added, and in spite of everything, I felt a smile tug at my lips.
Bradley snorted.
Snip went the shears.
When he was done, I ran my hand over my scalp, learning a part of myself for the first time. I felt sharper. Honed. I could feel the air around me the same way I used to feel the ocean when I dove.
The marine with the rope—Wilcox—stepped outside and came back with a bundle of folded clothing.
“You’re to change into these.” He set the bundle on the berth, then turned away. Bradley went to stand beside him.
I stared at their backs for a moment, letting a wave of fear pass. Hands trembling, I unlaced my gown and petticoats and let them slip off. My stays laced in back, though.
“I need help,” I said.
“I’ll go get—”
“No.” I knew who they’d bring and I couldn’t bear to see him again. I went to Bradley, turning my back to him. “Cut the laces.”
“Lord forgive me,” he muttered. Then he sliced a path up my spine.
The pressure of the stays gave way and my lungs eased fully open. I stepped away and tossed them on the berth, then pulled my shift over my head. As it billowed to my feet, gooseflesh rippled over me and I had the strange realization this was my first time bare in the presence of a man. That it was two men and nothing at all how I’d hoped it would be.
I pulled on the shirt and trousers, the ozenbrig material rough as a cat’s tongue. Such a part of my past—and now my future. There were leather shoes as well, dirty and worn, but a decent fit.
“I’m ready,” I said. Another lie, but a strange calm had befallen me. I felt as quiet inside as winter. I was trapped—but freed from decisions. From calculations and lies. All I could do now was continue.
The men turned.
Bradley shook his head. “There’s no being ready for where you’re going.”
“Miss…” Wilcox’s brow pinched with distress. “Whatever you may have done to find yourself here, surely it can be undone?”
I thought of Townsend and the intelligence I’d given him. “I hope not.”
I’d given up everything for it.
I had given my very life.
West End, Grand Bahama Island
August 1776
The last time I ever went wrecking was August of my fifteenth year. I was still just a wild girl then, living in West End, not a thought in my head about war yet, nor about spying. My mind was only on Mama.
She’d passed on to heaven only a week earlier, but in my imagination, she was still breathing. Still singing to herself as she stirred the pepper pot soup. Still telling me stories about her girlhood days in España as she worked a comb through my sea-brined hair.
When Sewel came to fetch me to go wrecking—Sewel was Mama’s husband, not my real papa—he found me in the garden pulling weeds and daydreaming of the great castle in Baiona that Mama used to run through barefoot when she was my age.