Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: June 23, 2020
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Source: Library
Genre: Young Adult / Historical / United States / Colonial & Revolutionary Periods
Veronica Rossi's Rebel Spy is a historical reimagining of
the story behind Agent 355—a New York society girl and spy for George
Washington during the Revolutionary War. This story takes place between August
1776 and July 1980. Story locations include the Grand Bahamas and 18th century
New York City. Frannie Tasker is a water baby and island girl from the Grand
Bahamas. After the death of her parents, she is left with her alcoholic stepdad
Sewel who makes a living by having her dive old shipwrecks looking for exploits
to capitalize on.
One day, in his inebriated state, Sewel attempts to touch
Frannie differently and expects her to be his obedient wife. But she has other
ideas. In a moment of opportunity, discovers the shipwreck of the Paladin.
Among the shipwrecked is a girl named Emmeline Coates. Frannie now Emmeline, is
rescued by the HMS Ambrosia crew which is traveling to war torn New York City.
There she meets Asa Lane who is an American patriot. When she meets Asa, he's
willing to teach her the ways of a lady, though he clearly loves her ways as
they come.
Right as romance is blossoming, Asa is ripped from her
side but has left big, lingering impressions on her. Insecure about her future
in New York City, she is filled with Asa's convictions politically and in
secret holds on to them in her heart. As her life as Miss Coates takes shape in
New York City among the high society, it is those same convictions that turn
her a Rebel Spy among all the Loyalists around her. New York City is the center
of the British attempt to squash the American Revolution. What better place to
be for a spy, than in New York City where all the major players are located and
working for George Washington's Culper spy ring?
She knows she is risking everything, especially as she is
being courted by a British officer, Lieutenant Duncan, but her sense of
patriotic duty is too much, and soon she finds the smoking gun, so to say, that
will aide General Washington, and the whole movement. If she is caught, there
is no second chances. She'll be hung as a traitor. The real identity of
Revolutionary War Agent 355 remains a mystery to historians. We know that women
played all sorts of roles in the Revolutionary war as they did in other major
conflicts up to and including the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. Rossi uses actual
spies such as Robert Townsend, Elizabeth Burgin and Anna Strong to tell her
story.
My main impression of author Veronica Rossi is that she
spent years researching this story to make it realistic. She did just that. She
did a fantastic job of shedding light on what life was possibly like for the
spy who was considered the lowest of the low, especially if you were a woman.
She does a fantastic job of wanting to know more about Francesca and her alter
ego Emmeline who is so much more than Francesca ever was. There is stark
reality in this book as well. The British are the most notorious jailers in
modern history. They literally shoved thousands of men onto ships where they
ended up dying. 12,000 men died in Wallabout Bay onboard ships used as jails.
Whether reality or fiction, Emmeline ends up on one of the
ships below where the story ends. Nope. I don't know if agent 355 lived or
died, neither do historians. I wish I did. I wish someone could dig deeper and
find out if Anna Strong was 355, or some other woman. This woman needs to have
her place in history celebrated.
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Chapter 1
Wrecker
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.
“Francisca,” he said, in the same gravelly voice he used with the goats and the swine.
I
set my spade down and shaded my eyes as I looked up. With the afternoon
sun over his shoulders, I couldn’t see his face—only that he was
already swaying. “Yes, sir?”
“Storm’s
coming in fast, and the currents is swirling round ValparaÃso wreck.”
He said it Val-prizo. Not how Mama said it, the right way, like our
Spanish forebears. “Get your diving trousers on and don’t make me wait,
else you’ll be swimming out there, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
He
leaned over and spat tobacco so close to me I could almost taste it.
Then he turned down the beach trail, grunting with every step he took on
his foot with the missing toes.
I
tugged my gardening apron off and hurried home, eagerness and dread
tumbling in my stomach. I loved diving wrecks more than anything, but it
meant spending time alone with Sewel.
Pushing
through the door, I stopped to breathe in the last traces of Mama’s
scent—a mix of sweet coconut and the sour sweat that had come when she’d
taken to bed for good. My gaze went to the empty mattress, then to the
dirty pots stacked by the basin and the sand dusting the planks beneath
my feet. I’d always taken pride in this house. It was made of salvaged
ship’s timbers, puzzled together with pine logs I’d helped cut down
myself. At night, with whisper of the surf drifting in, it felt like
living inside a great conch shell. But since losing Mama, nothing felt
the same.
Kneeling
before the trunk, I found the trousers and shirt I used for diving and
changed into them, leaving my jumper and sweaty shift where they fell.
Then I sprinted to the beach, my stride long and smooth without
petticoats slowing me.
As
I came through the trees, I saw thick clouds bunching on the horizon
and whispered a quick prayer they’d stay there. In West End, two things
that never stayed away long enough were hurricanes and hunger.
Sewel
had already gotten the wherry past the breakers. Two other boats bobbed
out there as well—our usual wrecking crew. Also every inhabitant on our
island. Jonah Baines and his boys were pressed together in their little
red skiff, three heads of equal height gleaming like polished copper.
Moses Wiggins and his daughter Mercy floated closer to shore, Mercy
waving when she saw me.
I
smiled and waved back as I broke the first waves with my feet. Then I
dove, and all I could hear was the ocean’s singing, the bubbles and
waves as they rose up and blended with my breaths. With every kick and
stroke I felt a little stronger. By the time I reached the wherry, I’d
shed some of my sadness and felt halfway to being me again.
I grabbed the gunwale to pull myself in.
Sewel’s hand came down on my wrist. “Molasses would’ve got here first, Francisca.”
“Yes, sir.”
He
didn’t let go. I knew better than to meet his bleary eyes, so I kicked
in place and stared at the red feather on his new round-brim hat. The
very day Mama went in the ground, Sewel had sailed for Nassau, returning
only that morning. While I’d poured my tears into her pillow, he’d gone
hat shopping.
At
last he let me go. I climbed aboard and checked that my shirt covered me
in the right places, though there wasn’t much to cover. Then I squeezed
the water from my braids.
Sewel
turned to speak to Mr. Baines, making his voice loud enough so Moses
Wiggins could hear as well. Moses and Mercy were runaways and Sewel
never spoke to them direct. “Tide’s an iron hook today. Best we run past
Memory Rock, then veer north.”
With
that, the men got to raising the sails and setting a course, except
Moses, who had no sail and had to row his way out there.
Soon
as we got underway, Sewel unstoppered a bottle of rum and leaned back,
resting his arm on the tiller. I could see the silvery letter M branded
on the brawn of his thumb. It was Mercy who told me what that letter
stood for—manslayer—but I knew what it meant long before I learned the
word for it.
I
turned fore and trailed my fingers through the water. With the waves
rippling and my dark braid hanging over my shoulder, I could almost
imagine it was Mama’s face staring back at me instead of mine. Fathoms
below, an angelfish spooked and disappeared into a bed of whip seaweed.
Over on the Baines boat, the boys starting singing songs about Captain
Teach and the good days of pirating gone by, when earning your daily
bread was as easy as taking it from someone else, while Sewel and Mr.
Baines called back and forth about the war with the rebellious American
colonies.
Wrecking
was how we earned our daily bread. We helped ships that had run up on
sandbars or reefs as they cruised through the Bahama Channel—sandbars
and reefs we knew better than anyone. If the ship couldn’t be kedged
back to deep water, we hauled away the cargo for a share. In rarer
times, when the ship was a total loss and sank, we dove for its sunken
spoils, sometimes uncovering them for years after the wreck itself.
I
dove for sunken spoils. Sewel never did the diving because of his
missing toes, he claimed, which made no sense to me. Fish swam, didn’t
they?
Sewel had
told me once how he’d lost them on a burning merchant ship when a fiery
yard fell and smashed half his foot. He’d nearly been killed that day,
he’d said, but God looked out for drunks, fools, and sailors. God
must’ve loved Sewel fierce ’cause he was all three.
Like
he was peering into my disloyal thoughts, Sewel stretched out his leg
and ran his foot against my shin, the thick scars scratching me like
bark.
I pulled away, my heart jumping in my chest.
Sewel shook his head at me. Then he tipped the bottle back and drank.
By
the time we got to the ValparaÃso, the empty bottle rattled round the
bottom of the wherry and thunder rumbled in the distance. The tide was
so high that only the tip of the old wreck’s mainmast stuck out, like a
cross staked right in the sea.
“Less
go, Francisca,” Sewel slurred. He tossed the anchor overboard and spat
at the sea to bring us luck. “We en’t got much time.”
I
checked the rope belting my trousers. The sea flashed like pewter, dull
and dark. I always felt a little dizzy when I couldn’t see to the
bottom, not knowing what awaited me down there.
“Get
diving.” Sewel pulled off his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead. The
rum had brought the blood into his eyes. “And best not disappoint. I
en’t got a drop of patience today, understand?”
Anger rose inside me like smoke. “Yes, sir.”
Over
on the Baines boat, Owen and Daniel Baines shoved each other and
laughed as they dove in. Mercy and Moses were already in the water, and
their tiny boat ran up and down the swells empty. I sucked in a few
breaths, readying my lungs, a feeling of strength and daring filling me.
“Sewel, sir?” I
said, looking over my shoulder. “I was just wonderin’…you gonna have any
patience tomorrow?” He lunged across the wherry to grab me, but I leapt
into the air—and crashed into freedom.
Kicking hard, I swam to Mercy.
“You ought not provoke him, Frannie,” she said as I reached her. “You can’t say things like that no more.”
Mercy
was thirteen—two years younger than me, but ten years smarter. I’d
waited years for a friend in West End. When I’d finally gotten one, I’d
gotten the best one.
“I
guess I have to stop breathing, then.” She didn’t laugh, so I said, “He
won’t remember. He finished a whole bottle of kill-devil on the way
here.”
“What if he does remember?” Our knees bumped as we treaded water. “You’re his daughter now, Frannie. His alone.”
My
throat cinched up like a belt. For weeks I’d been avoiding that very
truth, hiding in my memories of Mama instead, but Mercy was right. Sewel
loved to torment me, but when I’d lost my patience before, Mama had
been there to stand between us. Without her, I had no idea how I’d
survive. “Don’t worry, Mercy. I en’t afraid of that birdbrain,” I said,
sinking my voice to a drawl, like Sewel’s.
Her eyes slid to him. “Birds are smarter than that man. If he was a bird, he’d fly backward.”
I grinned. “Probably barking, too.”
We clasped our hands together and drew three deep breaths. Then we let go and dove.
I
kicked down, plunging fathom by fathom, the hush of the sea seeping
into my mind and my muscles. By the time I touched the slippery wood
ribs of the ValparaÃso, the boats were just blurry shadows on the
surface. With the pestering drag of the tide, I knew I wouldn’t have
much time for searching, but there was no use moaning about it. I ran my
hand along the hull, kicking to the seabed; then I rummaged through the
sand for whatever felt solid, and pushed off.
I
knew as I kicked up I had nothing good. Bits of coral and shells, only.
Most of the ValparaÃso’s treasures were long gone, but a big storm like
this might uncover overlooked finds, like shoe buckles or spoons or
even coins. Tesoros del tiempo, Mama had called them. Treasures brought
by time.
“Well?” Sewel said as I broke the surface. He’d moved over to Mr. Baines’s boat, and they were sharing a fresh bottle.
“Nothing, sir.” I held up my empty hands to show him, then dove before he could holler at me.
A
few more searches turned up a rusted hammer, a few nails. Everything
slick with the grit and spit of the sea. Nothing worth an egg.
I
moved on and began to search the ship itself, swimming through its
hatches and twisting through the hold as I peered into silty crates and
reached inside murky hogsheads. Soon my mind opened and spun into
daydreams, turning the nail that grabbed at my shirttails into a
cutpurse, the eel peering from inside a barrel into a demon. Every inch
of this ship had told me a story at one time or another, from the
ballast bricks, which had surely once made castles, to the rope tied to
the prow, which drifted like a string in search of its missing kite.
Mama
used to say that some daydreamers built castles in the sky, but I built
my castillos en el mar. I knew of no better place to open my mind than
fathoms below.
After
an hour or so, Mercy and I met behind her papa’s boat. My eyes burned
from the salt and my legs and arms felt heavy as bricks.
“I found plenty of sand.” I waited for her to say she’d found plenty of salt water. Mercy and I never found nothing.
“We have to get out, Frannie. Look.”
I blinked my pickled eyes and followed her gaze to the black clouds. “You think it’s a hurricane?”
“Not the storm. Look.” She pointed just beyond the ValparaÃso, where the sea’s surface rippled.
My breath caught as a great fin sliced up.
Shark. Biggest one I’d ever seen. Long as the wherry and near as wide.
We’d swum near sharks plenty of times, but never one this excited, pushing so high at times I could see its gills.
“Mercy, come on,” Moses said, reaching down to help her into the boat.
I
didn’t waste a second; I swam for the wherry, fear turning me into an
arrow. In seconds, I reached it and heaved myself aboard, landing with a
thud.
Sewel snored
away like a beast, his big body slumped into the curve of the wherry’s
stern. Trembling with tiredness and fear, I hauled up the anchor and set
it inside the well. The shark still circled nearby, and every rumble of
thunder shook the air in my lungs. I grabbed the lines to raise the
sail, more than ready to get home.
“Did I say it was time to leave?”
My every muscle tensed. I let go of the line and turned. “No, sir.”
Sewel pulled out of his slump. “Sit.”
I found myself sinking onto the thwart and grabbing the wood beneath me to keep steady.
He
picked his hat up from the well where it’d fallen, and took his time
brushing the water and sand away before setting it back on his head.
“It’s past time we discuss how things are gonna be now, with your mama
gone.” He rubbed his chin and stared at me, heedless of the lightning
bolts slicing across sky. “You are an oddity, Francisca,” he said. “An
aberration. You have no fortune, nor any beauty. You have no gentleness
in your heart, nor a wisp of feminine softness. What you do have is a
terrible temper and an odious lack of refinement. Added to the disgrace
of having a fallen woman for a mother, you got no chance of ever luring
an upright man to take you for a wife. So I have decided that I will
save you. I will make the sacrifice, in your mama’s memory, and take you
as mine. En’t nothing wrong with it, as we en’t blood, and I’m nearer
in age to you than I was to her, so…” He lifted his shoulders. “En’t
nothing wrong nor unnatural with it.”
A
warm sickness pushed into my throat and I felt myself falling back.
Plunging into a cloud of silence. There was no logic, no sense to his
words, but I’d expected this. I’d seen this coming. For months, since
Mama had taken to bed, I’d seen hints in his eyes and how they followed
me. I’d felt it in his hands, which had found me at any excuse. I’d been
dreading this—but I still felt shock. I still couldn’t understand it.
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