Death often arrives unannounced, even in the midst of war. On the 26th day of February, 1777, I stood in the doorway of Chandler's Mercantile, having just placed a large order of goods for the tavern kitchen. I took a moment that sunny morning to enjoy the view down the Raritan River. A graceful line of sloops, flying the British Union Jack, headed toward Raritan Landing a mile upriver. With a boom, a cannonball hurtled into the water a few feet ahead of the lead ship. A thirty-two pounder I assessed, knowledge I would never have possessed just a few months earlier. That was before the War for Independence from England arrived at our doorsteps, before New Brunswick, New Jersey, was an occupied town, and before Raritan Tavern, where I was tavernmistress, overflowed with young British officers clamoring for food and lodging. A sailor in the lead sloop, standing in the bow sounding the fathoms, was drenched when the first cannonball hit the water. He continued measuring the depth of the shallow river, in spite of frequent, anxious glances at the tree-covered heights on his right. He had not long to wait. A second and then a third cannon were fired in rapid succession, one ball hitting the single mast of his ship, the spar and the furled sail plummeting to the deck with a mighty crash, burying the sailor beneath. Chaos ensued as shipmates tried to save him and the little sloop.

      I stared in horrified fascination as the war opened its deadly maw directly in front of me.

      “Best come away from the door, Mistress Abigail, in case their aim gets bad,” Mr. Chandler said, coming to stand next to me, his pudgy arm reaching around my shoulders to draw me back inside the store. But he, too, was caught in the savage pageant playing out before us. “How many cannon do you suppose they have on the bank up there?” he asked.

      I followed his gaze and listened, counting the seconds between the thunder that rent the air. “They're firing every ten to fifteen seconds, so if they can reload in a minute, it would have to be five or six.”

      “It's a wonder they got up on that ridge without the redcoats knowing,” he said.

      We watched as, one after another, the sloops were fired upon. Several began to sink, unable to move out of the range of the cannon. The last four or five in line turned to retreat downriver from whence they had come.

      “Have you no supplies on those ships?” I asked, wondering at Mr. Chandler's calm.

      “No. They’re carrying British goods sent west from Amboy: flour, tea, salted meat and fish. Looks like the redcoats' stew will be thin for a little while.”

      The British Army had chased George Washington and his ragged Continental Army up the island of Manhattan, over the Hudson River, and through the Colony of New Jersey for the preceeding six months. During his flight westward, General Washington, tired but unbowed, had been a most welcome guest at Raritan Tavern one night last December. The next morning he continued toward Pennsylvania where he ensconced himself, his army, and all the available boats on the far side of the Delaware River, visible but unreachable by the British. General William Howe, the British commander, left a small force of Hessian mercenaries in Trenton, on the Jersey side of the Delaware, to keep an eye on what he assumed was the defeated rebel army. Hieing back to New Brunswick, he established his army’s winter cantonment, a day’s ride from either New York or Philadelphia, and alongside the Raritan River for salutary water transport. Much to the surprise of the British, the Americans attacked Trenton on Christmas night, 1776, and Princeton on the first of January, successfully routing the best army in the world and sending the remnants scurrying to the safety of New Brunswick.

      Sixteen thousand troops, English, Scots, and Hessians, were now wintering in the area about New Brunswick. They outnumbered our town's population by ten to one and it took massive stores to feed so many. While some of the food was foraged from the countryside, much of it was brought from England to the ports of New York and Amboy and then transferred to shallow hulled sloops that could reach New Brunswick, upriver.

      Raritan Tavern was fortunate that the owner, my uncle, Samuel Holt, had a prospering farm which supplied a large part of our needs. Because our cook was considered the best in the area, word had spread that Samuel's farm was not to be raided, thereby ensuring that British officers would continue to enjoy our fine table. While provisioning was always a concern to me, our own stew would be hearty tonight. I assuaged my guilt from treating the enemy so well because it allowed me to maintain control of the tavern and, on occasion, to obtain tidbits of information valuable to the American patriots.

      The skirmish I witnessed was brief, though deadly. Five sloops were sinking and three sailors seemed to be killed with many injured, and likely to die of their wounds. Cannonballs and falling masts wreak havoc on the human body.

      Bidding Mr. Chandler farewell for the second time, I walked up Albany Street, passing knots of people watching the death throes of the ships. A cluster of foot soldiers from the Black Watch regiment had long since stopped firing their rifles, the distance to the patriot battery on the east side of the Raritan River being prohibitive. Three young officers waved men to row out to the sinking ships to rescue sailors and cargo. Further up the cobbled street, a clump of older officers muttered softly among themselves, every face knotted in anger. Nearby, a flock of young maids from the Indian Queen Tavern whispered and giggled to themselves, their eyes on the young soldiers rather than the sinking sloops. Dr. Henry Dillon stood in front of his office and winked solemnly as I passed by, his patriotic enthusiasm circumspect.

      Raritan Tavern was three blocks west of the river, at the corner of Albany and Nielsen Streets. Standing in the middle of the intersecting streets was my daughter Elizabeth, or Beth as she preferred to be called. She rushed over to me, face flushed with excitement, her blue eyes alight. Her light brown hair, several shades lighter than mine, was gathered with a ribbon at the nape of her neck and hung down her back, her mob cap precariously perched on the top of her head. She was bouncing up and down, but I knew not if it was from the customary enthusiasm of a fifteen year old or from the cold, as she had thrown only a knit shawl over her blue calico dress. Beth was accompanied by my steward, John.

      “Oh, Mother,” Beth said. “What did you see? John wouldn't let me go any farther down the street, and I can hardly see anything from here. How many ships are there? Is anyone hurt? Was the Mercantile damaged? What did Mr. Chandler do?”

      Putting my arm around my daughter, I noticed again how she had grown, reaching almost my height of five feet and three inches. “Come, let's go inside. You're shivering and the excitement is over.”

      “But Mother, I saw almost nothing. I was too far away because . . .”

      “Because John was keeping you from harm, and has my thanks for doing so.”

      Leading them to the side gate, I promised to tell all I had seen and heard as soon as we were in the warming kitchen. Once I passed through the tall wood gate, a sense of calm draped itself about me. I felt sheltered, however briefly, from the tumult and ragged emotions of the town. Relishing the peace, I paused, while Beth and John hurried inside to warm themselves.

      From where I stood in the cobbled yard, the rear of the tavern was to my right, with the kitchen, bakery and laundry to my left. The second floor of this work building provided rooms for some of the female servants while the male servants lived above the adjacent stables and carriage house. Directly in front of me was the ballroom wing of the tavern, Uncle Samuel's dream made manifest. All together, Raritan Tavern took up a quarter of the block, a sizable and prosperous establishment.

      Opening the back door of the tavern, I entered the warming kitchen, where food was kept hot before serving. The constant threat of fire dictated that the cooking kitchen and bakery be separated from the tavern proper. The warming kitchen also served as the family center of our establishment. Matty, Raritan Tavern's esteemed cook and my friend, held out a steaming mug of coffee in her black hand.

      “Just made this pot fresh, Mistress. I knowed you'd want a cup when you got back from Mr. Chandler's. Didn't expect you'd have to dodge cannonballs to get it.”

      I sipped the flavorful brew, enjoying the presence of my family, absent only Samuel, my infamous uncle. Matty and John, their soft East Indies accents revealing their island births, had been part of my family since their freedom had been purchased by a group of Princeton Quakers when I was a child. After working for my parents, they had chosen to accompany me when I married Jared Lawrence. Eight years had passed since they followed Beth and me to Raritan Tavern after my husband and two-year-old son, Matthew, had died of a fever. Uncle Samuel had broken his leg and needed help running the tavern. Or so I was told. More likely it was a conspiracy between Uncle Samuel and his brother, my father, to distract me from the morass of grief into which I was sunk. A year or so later, aided by the loving and pestering of Beth, Matty, and John I had regained my sense of equanimity. Samuel named me tavernmistress and retired to his farm to make revolutionary mischief.

      Matty and John had been my constant support. They picked me up when I stumbled, making me laugh when I thought to cry, and loved me without reservation. I had estimated that should I live to a hundred, I would never be able to repay them, and that was before December when the British arrived. For the past eleven weeks, since the occupying British army settled in to wait out the winter, every house, church and building in New Brunswick had been used to billet as many soldiers as was physically possible. Many patriot families left town fearing more for their own safety than for whatever ravages would be wreaked upon their abandoned homes. But, hearing stories of the spiteful and unwarranted destruction of property as the British army withdrew from other colonial towns, I decided to conceal my patriotic sentiments in an effort to protect my uncle’s enormous investment in Raritan Tavern. Matty and John agreed to remain with me, as did most of my servants.

      My ruminating ended when Matty spoke. “Amos asked me to give this to you,” she said, handing me a new puzzle.

      Amos Warren, the town blacksmith, was diabolically clever at creating these wrought iron games to torture the guests at the tavern. I felt a certain responsibility to solve each puzzle before handing on such addicting entertainment. Over the years, I had become proficient at finding their solutions and was eager to work on Amos's newest challenge.

      “What does he call this one?” I asked.

      “Traveler's Bane,” Matty said. “I thinks that's a mighty unlucky choice of names to be used in a tavern. I told Amos he should find a better name for it, but he said it were always called that.”

      I was already absorbed in the complicated, vaguely spiral-shaped puzzle, trying to remove the ring, and missed John's question.

      “Mistress Abigail, is this attack going to hurt our supplies?” he repeated.

      “Mr. Chandler didn't seem concerned, as none of the ships were his,” I said. “We still have ample vegetables in the root cellar at Samuel's farm and in the ice house here. We could use more meat, but for now we have enough. I'm not worrying yet.”

      I retrieved the coffeepot from the fire, refilled our cups, and sat contentedly sipping the nectar of the patriot gods.

      “I’m right glad we has enough coffee,” Matty said. “Having to ration it would be like the end of the Lord's good world.”

      “If those ships was all army supplies, them redcoats gonna be on short rations,” John said. “Wonder how soon they'll go out foraging again?”

      “I don't know, but certainly too soon for our beleaguered neighbors,” I said. “It's no wonder the farmers around here are furious; the British have taken most of what was stored for the winter. Even some spring seed.”

      “How's a family gonna survive without seed to plant?” Matty asked.

      “Or without their milk cow what was butchered, or their plowing horse what was taken?” John added. “Only good coming out of this is that a lot of loyal families is right angry at that king of theirs. The redcoats is pushing them into the patriots' open arms.”

      I left John and Matty and headed up the back stairs to check on the cleaning of the rooms on the second floor. Raritan Tavern had four large sleeping rooms, each of which could accommodate eight men. At the end of the hall there were four individual rooms for guests who were willing to pay for their privacy. Most women travelers stayed in the homes of friends or family, or else with New Brunswick widows who made their livelihood by opening their houses. On the rare occasions we did have a woman guest, she was always with her maid, and they were given a private room. Since December, when the British commanded the billeting of soldiers in all homes and buildings in New Brunswick, our four dormitories and the ballroom had been filled with officers of lower rank than those who could commandeer a room in a house, and of higher rank than those who lived, wet and very cold, in tents. We were granted the use of our private rooms for civilian or army travelers. I was grateful for the unexpected income, and thought it a fortuitous opportunity to spy on the King’s travelers.

      Ruth, the youngest of the housemaids, met me in the hall, mop and wooden bucket in hand.

      “Mistress Abigail,” she said. “I've finished all but the front room. They don't answer my knock. I know they arrived late last night, but they can't still be asleep, can they?”

      “I doubt it. Let me try to rouse them.” I grimaced, suspicious that these guests had left without settling their account. For all that the times were hard and uncertain, I rarely had trouble collecting monies owed the tavern, except for the British, of course. Our clientele were generally prosperous and honest, so unlike some of the other taverns in New Brunswick, I didn't regularly ask for payment in advance. This time it may have been a mistake. I had assumed that Mr. and Mrs. Lee would stay the day, as they had arrived so late the previous night.

      I knocked quietly on the stout oak door. No response. I knocked more loudly. Still no response. Finally I pounded on the door, irritated with people who leave without paying a fair night's rent, and even more irritated with myself for not being sufficiently prescient to have collected the money in advance.

      The door opened when I depressed the latch. The room was dark, the curtains still being drawn over the windows. The fireplace gave forth neither light nor heat. And the room stank, the heavings of a drunk mingling with an indefinable smell that reminded me of a slaughterhouse. Strange. Striding toward the window to open the curtains, I tripped. I righted myself by grasping onto the bedstead, and with some preternatural awareness knew I had fallen over a corpse. My heart pounded so violently I placed my hand on my chest to protect it from imminent explosion. After a seeming eternity, I reached the window, flung open the curtains and when I had raised the sash to its highest level, found I could breathe again. Lightheaded, the blood drumming in my ears, my vision narrowing to a small circle, I sank down under the windowsill. I focused on breathing, deep breath, exhale, deep breath, exhale. Gradually, the world regained its usual shape. The roaring in my head was replaced by a guttural, wordless cry of distress; the animal instinct to mourn the passing of one of its kind. I was the one making the sound.

      A moment later, Ruth screamed. Her mop and bucket fell to the hallway floor, dirty water sloshing over the clean floorboards.

      I rose but was stopped in mid-stride by the man’s body sprawled in front of me. My thoughts arrived slowly and quite distinctly. I knew he was dead because of the profound stillness that surrounded him. Of course, there was also the sword that rose upright from where it impaled his chest, pinning him to the floor, like a skewer through a plump tomato.

      I could not bend my mind around what I saw, but rather, assumed I was in the middle of a dreadful dream from which I would waken at any second. But no awakening ended this malignant scene, no sunlight roused me to a more peaceful morning. Even though I was forced to acknowledge I was awake, I still could not comprehend what a dead man, with a sword through his chest, was doing in my tavern. From a great distance, muffled, I heard someone running up the stairs.

      “Oh, Lordy, help us,” John said, as he entered the room.

      With John’s arrival, the pace of life approached normal.

      Ruth cried softly, a little girl's cry, pitiful and afraid. I stepped over the corpse and walked to her putting my arm around her, protecting, consoling.

      John bent over the body, though there could be no question the man was well and truly dead. After a moment he rose. “I think we'd best get Dr. Dillon to declare him.”

      “We'll need Constable Gray, also,” I said, discovering I sounded quite normal.

      John nodded. I would have preferred that he had offered an alternative, even an improbable one, like burying the body in the stable or burning down the tavern. With no alternatives forthcoming, I sent him to escort Ruth to the kitchen and to find the Doctor and the Constable. I would stay with the body until he returned. I would have preferred to be anywhere else on earth at that moment.

      When John closed the door on his way out, a shiver ran down my back with such intensity I felt cold to my very marrow. I found myself taken aback at my reaction to this death, for it was not as though I had never seen a corpse. Death was not an experience removed from our lives any more than was birth, both happening at home as was natural. I had washed and shrouded the bodies of my husband and little son myself to prepare them for burial, my final loving duty. And yet here I sat on the ladderback chair next to the fireplace acting like a shocked child, staring at the man’s body, his cravat untied, his white shirt pulled out of his black pants, and one of his stockings sagging so it showed his calf. Whatever character his face had displayed in life was missing in death, leaving only grey flesh and dilated eyes staring dryly at the ceiling. His mouth sagged as if he would comment on this final indignity to his person. Most unsympathetically, I found him odious, a middle-aged man with stringy, grey hair and a paunch like a hillock at his exposed waist.

      Perhaps what had so disquieted me was the unexpectedness of finding a body in a room at Raritan Tavern. Since I was constantly mindful we were in the midst of a war, I would have expected to find a corpse at a military hospital or on a battlefield, not one in my own house. I knew the murdered man was but a guest, yet I felt personally violated, timorous and brittle.

      Gradually my feelings of shock diminished, my hands regained their warmth. As I waited interminably for John to return, curiosity crept in, the curiosity that had been known to overpower my common sense on more than one occasion. Who was this man? Why was he murdered? And why in my tavern? Just as I heard John and the Constable come down the hall, in a moment of crystalline clarity, I wondered aloud, “And where was the dead man's wife?”