Abigail Jane Applegate--The Invisible Message

New York

1778

The British Occupation of New York

I sat before the fire, staring into the flickering flames. I could hear Father's quill pen scratching behind me on the rough paper. I got up and glanced over his shoulder. The fake message that I'd written in my own hand, addressed to an Aunt Mary, was there on the paper. In between the lines Father wrote swiftly with ink that slowly disappeared as he wrote it.

Invisible ink.

"When I'm done with this," Father started in the quietest of whispers, "you'll need to take it to the woman at the edge of town. If the dresses are out on the clothes line, then all's well. If there are men's work shirts out on the line, then that means that you've been followed. If there are trousers on the line, then that means that the soldiers are nearby. And if there are sheets..."

"Yes, Father?" I prodded in a whisper.

He hesitated and then glanced up at me. "Then, Abigail," he whispered, "you must run for your life and destroy the letter, for the British are at her house and know that somebody's coming. If they know that she's part of the ring, they'll suspect anybody coming near the house to also be part of the ring."

I nodded solemnly. "You can count on me, Father."

He smiled. "I know I can."

He finished the letter and then handed it to me. I stuck it in my skirt's hidden pocket and then walked out of the back room and back through the stable. Nathan was still pounding away on the blacksmith's anvil.

He stopped hammering as I walked past. "Abigail," he whispered.

I paused. "Yes?"

Nathan's brown eyes met mine. "Be careful, alright?"

"Aye," I nodded. "I will."

He smiled a wan smile, one which I shared. Both of us knew that if I was caught with the message, despite the fact that I was a young woman I would be hung for my deeds. For being a spy for the Patriots.

I started out along the street. I passed a troop of soldiers with my head down, but they didn't even pay attention to me. The thing about the British is that they would never think a woman smart enough to be a spy. That's why there were so many of us in the ring.

The Culper Ring.

I finally reached the border of New York. I spotted the house, just on the outskirts. I started towards it, looking for the line. My green eyes peered around the house, and that's when I saw something that made me gasp.

There wasn't white sheets hanging on the clothes line.

There wasn't anything.

I paused. What should I do? It couldn't be good if there were no sheets. But what if the woman had just been struck sick, or was too busy and had forgotten? I paused, my hand straying to the secret pocket.

"I've got to do it," I whispered.

I strode boldly forward towards the house.

But what would I find?

Spy--Chapter 1

My name is Abigail Jane Applegate, and I was ten years old when the British started taxing us horribly. And it's not fair. Mother has refused to buy tea anymore. Instead, we drink coffee, which isn't quite the same, but it has to do. It comes from our friend's plantation. And if coffee was taxed, then we'd go to water. I know it. My parents do not like the British. They would do anything to oppose them.

Last night, my father came home, his hat in his hands. I was just telling Betsey to get her hands off the table and Priscilla to stop trying to pull off little chunks of bread from the bread plate when the door burst open.

Mother, who'd just been bringing out a pot of stew, nearly fell over in surprise as Father burst into the house, a happy smile on his face. By the scared look on my mother's face, I knew that she had thought that my father was one of the British.

"Oh, Beth, you won't believe it!" he cried merrily.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"I just got news from... some friends of mine that something wonderful has happened," Father told her. He glanced over at us and then said, "Abigail, please get your sisters into your room, please. Thank you."

I sighed. "Come along, Betsey, Priscilla."

The girls bounded out of the room with me on their heels. They started up the stairs to their room, glad that they'd gotten out of hearing of the conversation that they, no doubt, thought was boring beyond belief. And me? I stayed behind, moving towards the door into the dining room again, pressing my ear to crack to ear my father's words.

"...and the Sons of Liberty have gone and dumped tea in the harbor!" Father was whispering excitedly. "The British are furious. It's got to be war!"

"I wouldn't be so sure," answered Mother.

"But don't you see?" Father whispered. "We've shown that we don't need the British, or their tea! Soon every man will be raising their arms against England!" His voice had risen into a happy cry.

"Lower your voice, William," Mother warned. "These walls have ears." She stared right through the crack where I was listening. "Abigail, please come in."

I sighed and opened the door. Mother was frowning but Father was smiling.

"Abigail, my lass," started Father, "you're about to witness something amazing in American history. Did you know that?"

"Yes," I whispered. "I do."

He smiled. "Are you ready?"

"I'm not quite sure," I answered truthfully. And I wasn't.

***

Five years later

1778

I hurried through the streets of New York, my eyes trained to the ground before me. Clutched in my hand, hidden under my shawl, was an important message that I needed to get to my father as soon as possible. 

I glanced up ahead and saw several British soldiers marching towards me. I glanced around and saw a woman peeking out of one of the doors.

"Girl," she whispered.

I quickly came over and slipped inside the house just as the soldiers turned down the street. Panting, I leaned against the wall, waiting for the soldiers to pass. I glanced over at the woman and saw her staring at me, her eyes scared.

When the sounds of the soldiers' stomping feet had left, she whispered, "Is it urgent?"

I nodded. "Thank you so much. May God bless you."

I quickly left the woman's house and continued down the street. I spotted the old stable, with the sounds of a blacksmith's hammer inside, and quickly went in. My father's apprentice, Nathan, was there, pounding away.

"Where's Father?" I queried.

He got the meaning. "He's in the back room."

My skirts swept around my legs as I walked over the old hay and came to the big wooden door in the back of the stable. I knocked three times and then kicked the door. It promptly opened. My father's worried face melted into relief when he saw me.

"I didn't think you'd make it with all of the soldiers marching around," he whispered. "Thank goodness you're alright."

My hand came out of my shawl. "Here's the message."

He nodded. "Thank you, Abigail. You're a true Patriot."

No. I was a spy.

I'm sorry I haven't written. So much has happened.

Dear Readers,

This is Abigail Jane Applegate. I'm sorry that I haven't written in what seems like ages to me. The war (Revolutionary War) is still raging around me. I feel the sadness of the people as more and more fall to the cause of freedom for this country.

I am currently living at my grandmother's plantation, and my father has gone off to war. It's not easy living here. My grandmother expects that we all have to be perfect ladies. But I do not want to be. I am considered to be the ugliest of my sisters, but I do not care. I just wish that I could get away from here... and from the war...

Thankfully, I manage to escape sometimes during the day. This is wonderful--when I can escape to the barns and hide in one of the lofts. Nobody finds me, and I can write one of these letters or write in my diary that is, mostly and sadly, empty, because I cannot bring myself to write of the tragedies of war.

I hear somebody calling me.

Sincerely,

Abigail Jane Applegate

* * *

Meanwhile, I (Storyteller/Katrina) found some awesome pics on Pinterest for ya'll. ;D

More About Me--Abigail Jane Applegate

Dear Readers,

My mother told me that I should tell you more about myself. I suppose 'tis a good idea. As you already know, my full name is Abigail Jane Applegate, and you know that I am of fourteen years of age and that I am tall and slender. 'Tis true, all of it.

My hair is long and brown, and my eyes of a peculiar brown flecked with several colors. My face is pale, such is the style for young ladies in my age. I also have a particular dislike of our mop caps that we always have to wear.

Yes, 'tis horrible, isn't it?

Our dresses can be horrible, too. Aye, they pull so much on you. At least since I'm so slender, that at home my mother does not make me wear a corset. I'm afraid that my sisters, Beth and Mary, have to wear them, though. They are not yet to the age of thirteen, and yet they are as plump of pigs.

Here is a sketch of my mother's best dress.

Looks like a horror, does it not? My mother tells me often that next year, it shall be mine.

That's Beth. She's giving me a strange look. It makes me feel strange as I sit here, writing at the table on the porch.

Isn't she adorable, though?

Anyway, I am going off on a bunny trail. Aye, my mother says that much to me.

I live in a beautiful town in Virginia. I have already showed you my house. (Go to the second post below.) Other than Beth (5) and Mary (8), I have two older brothers, too.

William has gone off and married a beautiful girl and lives now in Williamsburg. But thankfully John is still here with us. I do not think I would be able to feel sane if he wasn't. He is my best friend.

I admit it. I do not have many lady friends. In fact, I don't have any. My mother complains that it's because my face is plain. (John says that it isn't, bless his heart.)

I would say it's because I'm so quiet.

Really, if you were to meet me, you might think that I was bored or something.

That's me over there, by the way. I know that it looks like I have blonde hair, but, really, I have brown. It just sometimes looks like it's blonde. I really hope you don't agree with my mother that I'm plain. I really can't help it.

I am very simple. I like hard work and writing poems to myself. Some people would think that I am crazy, but I would love to go to a university some day, just like all of the boys. My mother says that I should be looking for a husband, not day-dreaming about some university. But get married? I cannot imagine it. John agrees with me and says that he could never imagine me, his beloved sister, married to someone.

So I guess that's all about me. I hope you enjoy the rest of my life.

My name is Abigail Jane Applegate.

Dear Readers,

My name is Abigail Jane Applegate. I am fourteen years of age, and to tall for my mother's taste. Aye, I am the tallest female in my family.

This is my beautiful house. We live in Virginia.

This is a copy of a document that I found in my father's office. He says that he got it from Philidelphia, so it must be very important.

My father's desk. 

This is my detailed sketch of the Liberty Bell.

'Tis gorgeous, isn't it? Aye, it is.

I hope to be writing more. I hope that you will enjoy my observations. My mother says that I am blessed to be able to write. "Aye," she will say to me, "when I was your age, I knew naught of a quill pen and bottle of ink." And now 'tis my pleasure to write.

Thank you. I hope you enjoy my letters.