Lady 355: The Enclave Series, #2

This book is a work of fiction. Historical figures are represented as accurately as possible, though their thoughts, speech, and writings are the creation of the author. Any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020, 2024. All rights reserved. Any reproduction of the contents of this book in any form or on any media without the permission of the copyright holder is forbidden.

AI tools were used to generate cover and interior images which were then modified and composited by the author.

Portrait of Benjamin Tallmadge courtesy of New York Public Library Digital Collections (public domain)

Second Edition

February 2024

eBook ISBN 978-1-959480-14-3

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-959480-15-0

Case Laminate ISBN 978-1-959480-16-7

Hardcover ISBN 978-1-959480-17-4

CROW Books and its crow-and-book logo are imprints of CROW-IP, LLC, all rights reserved.

To Emily, the bravest person I have ever met.

And

To Carol, my biggest fan.

PREFACE

This edition of Lady 355: Mother of Freedom, which was published previously under the author name Rob Johnson, is a significant revision of that story. Elements have been added and refined so it fits better in the overall arc of The Enclave Series.

As with the previous book in the series, The Templar Lance, I’ve included several historical figures in the narrative. I’ve done my best to represent these characters as historically accurately as possible. Of course, any specific thoughts, statements, conversations, and writings by those figures are completely made up by me. I have strived, though, to represent them through those fictional elements as accurately as possible.

The core mystery at the heart of the story, namely who was Agent 355, is, in fact, very real. And hers and the rest of the Culper Ring’s influence on the course of the American Revolutionary War cannot be overstated. My fictionalization of their exploits is presented in the spirit of celebrating them.

As always, thank you, Faithful Readers, for spending your precious time with my characters and their compelling story.

Faithfully,

R.A. (Rob) Johnson

Pennsylvania, U.S.A.

January 2024

THE ENCLAVE TIMELINE

PROLOGUE

In 1118 AD, nine French knights set off for the Holy Land, ostensibly to protect Christian pilgrims visiting the holy sites there. Curiously, the King of Jerusalem, Baldwin II, gave them lodgings in the legendary underground stables of King Solomon on the Temple Mount. This led to them taking the name The Poor Knights of Jerusalem and the Temple of Solomon—soon to be known throughout the world as the Knights Templar.

Little is known of their activities during the first nine years of their residency, and there is no evidence that they ever sortied out to protect any of the many pilgrims coming and going. Yet, after these years of anonymity, their leaders suddenly rushed back to Rome and were granted an audience with Pope Honorius II, who immediately consecrated their group as the Catholic Church’s first order of warrior monks. Subsequent popes granted more and more power to this secretive order until they became more powerful than any king in Europe.

Studying their history, several interesting questions arise. For example, what were those knights doing in Jerusalem for nine years? What event caused them to report back to the Pope, precipitating the birth of the most powerful international organization other than the church itself? And why did subsequent popes let them anoint their own priests, cross borders of kingdoms without interference, and amass lands and wealth beyond measure?

Clearly, those nine knights came into possession of some knowledge or relic that the Church was determined to either protect or hide. Given the absolute secrecy of the Templars and their rituals—which eventually led to their downfall—it is apparent that they discovered something that the Church would do almost anything to keep secret.

What that most valuable secret in Christendom was—or is—has been the subject of much speculation over the intervening centuries, but the truth ultimately became known only to one man, himself not much more than a boy, to whom it was entrusted in extremis as Jerusalem fell to Saladin’s army.

Through the mysterious power of that secret, that man remained forever young and, in turn, founded his own clandestine group known simply as The Enclave. That new order had a very different purpose from its progenitor. Tasked with learning and keeping the world’s secrets, The Enclave has survived and thrived to the present day.

In an isolated area of rural Pennsylvania lies the village at the heart of The Enclave, where its founder and Grand Master still keeps those secrets, including the one that started it all. Father Dan, a brilliant, but naïve priest, was thrust into that Enclave to minister to its residents, continue his linguistic research, and discover those long-held secrets for himself. When he unraveled them and plumbed their meaning, his faith was shaken to its core.

As he will also come to discover, The Enclave and its archives contain many, many more mysteries to be solved. What follows is the story behind one of those mysteries.

PART I

Sarah Harkin

Autumn 1772

Nestled in the wilds of Colonial Pennsylvania, about twenty miles northwest of Philadelphia, lay the settlement known as The Enclave. Established before Pennsylvania Colony itself, its isolation afforded it an autonomy and independence unknown to the British subjects who were beginning to encroach on its boundaries.

Maintaining that autonomy was critical to The Enclave’s underlying purpose—learning and keeping the world’s secrets, a mission shared by many outposts of The Enclave Order spread across the Western world, of which the small village in Penn’s Woods was the hub.

Born into that secretive group was a girl whose adventures and accomplishments would forever change the history of the world. This is her story.

Chapter 1

Fidget

Sarah Harkin stood in the back corner of the classroom facing the row of pegs that, come winter, would be full of the children’s heavy coats. That early in the school year, though, only the girls’ mobcaps and the boys’ felt hats hung there.

Standing still was not in Sarah’s nature. She would rather have been outside running through the cornfields and climbing the trees in the apple orchard, but Mrs. Withers knew that. So instead, there she stood, staring at the teacher’s cap and shawl hanging in front of her nose. Seething and imagining the pranks she could play on the Widow Withers, she shifted from foot to foot.

Stop fidgeting, Child! Mrs. Withers snapped the willow switch against the top of her desk.

Sarah froze while some of the other children snickered under their breath. She didn’t want to feel that across her backside again. One thrashing didn’t deserve a note home to her parents, but two certainly would. And her father’s response to yet another report about her behavior would be far worse than three whacks with the willow branch from that old bat.

She told herself to hold still. Hold still!

Concentrating on keeping her feet flat on the floor, the tension built inside her like a devil on her shoulder, commanding her to move. Her hands, taking over for her feet, curled into fists until her knuckles were white.

Tonight, though. Tonight will be a good time to tell everyone about the Widow Withers’s secret. She won’t be so high and mighty when everyone knows what Sarah knows about her.

Everyone seemed to have secrets in the small village known simply as The Enclave, and Sarah knew most of them. Creeping about at night, listening at windows to whispered prayers and murmured confessions, Sarah risked more than the Widow Withers’s willow switch. Getting caught would mean anything from a day in the stocks to banishment from The Enclave. That would be after a thorough beating by her Da.

Still, it would be worth the risk to know the gossips will be wagging their tongues over afternoon tea.

Chapter 2

Punishments

Sarah’s stomach growled as she lay in bed recounting the evening’s events. The damnable old witch Withers had sent a note home, anyway, despite Sarah willing herself to be still and avoid causing any more disturbances in class.

That wasn’t fair. Jimmy got the switch yesterday without getting a note.

But, deep down, Sarah knew two things. Mrs. Withers hated her, though she didn’t know why, and Jimmy was a nice quiet boy, though slow to learn his lessons.

She couldn’t be mad at Jimmy, not really. He was two years older, but still asked her to help him with his recitations. Though her one-room school spanned several grades, Sarah’s love of reading and numbers had her way ahead of even the oldest children in the class.

Why couldn’t they just let her read what she wanted? The primers her peers struggled with were childishly easy for her. Witch Withers couldn’t read French or Latin herself, so she didn’t want Sarah to show her up. When Sarah quoted Shakespeare from the folio in the village library, the teacher tsked and stood her in the corner again. Who knew the ‘epee’ in the play didn’t refer to a sword?

Having a library in such a small village was quite unusual, but Abraham, The Enclave’s Elder—who barely looked older than Sarah, and way younger than her father—insisted on keeping it up to date with the latest books published in Paris, London, and New York. It’s shelves were open to all, and Sarah spent many hours lost in the stories it contained. If she was also hiding from her father’s wrath, so be it.

She came straight home after classes, since there was no sense in putting off the inevitable. She had to present the note to her father, David, for him to sign, then she would return it to Mrs. Withers tomorrow. Sarah took the time until he returned from the fields to elicit some sympathy from her mother. They both knew what her father’s reaction would be, as did Mrs. Withers.

Once, Sarah forged his mark on a note, but Mrs. Withers had seen it enough times by then to know it was fake. The punishment for that was double. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. So, when he strode in the kitchen door, she handed the note to him with her head hanging. 

He didn’t bother reading it before said, Another one?

Although Sarah couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze, she heard the rage behind just those two words. The next ones she expected, though they were menacingly quiet.

Go to the shed.

Turning quickly for the door, she strode across the small yard to the toolshed at the back of the Harkin property. The shed, which had once been her hiding place and fantasy palace when she was a small child, was now, in her mind, a dungeon.

Opening the door to the low-roofed building, Sarah stepped into the space dimly lit by a single dirt-caked window. She left the door open so she could hear her father’s approach—and prepared herself mentally for the ordeal to come.

She looked at the two loops of hemp rope hanging from a rafter just above eye level. With mounting terror, she reached up above her head and put a hand through each of the loops. A mantra started in her head.

I will not break. I will not cry out. I will become a stone statue that can’t feel pain. I will not break. I will not cry out. I will become…

Her father’s heavy tread on the step froze her defiant thoughts and melted her strengthening resolve.

Taking down the leather strap that had once been the reins of a horse’s bridle, he said, When are you going to learn discipline, child?

Folding the strap in half and holding the two ends with his right hand, he continued, Why can’t you be like the other children, eh?

The question distracted her enough that the strike of the strap on her backside came as a surprise.

She let out a faint grunt as her father continued, Learn your household lessens from your mother.

Another strike landed, but she was prepared for it that time.

I will not break. I will not cry out. I will become a statue that can’t feel pain.

Find a young man who will put up with your nonsense.  Whack. Or one who has a strong right arm. Whack. And become a good wife, Whack, like your mother. Whack.

I will not break. I will not cry out—

Realizing that Sarah had not made a sound after her initial grunt, David snarled and raised his aim. Crack. This blow landed across the small of Sarah’s back.

She gasped, but clenched her teeth tighter. Crack. The well-aimed blow landed in the same strip of flesh. A whimper escaped Sarah’s lips.

What’s that you say? Crack.

Her mantra failed her, and Sarah cried out with wordless anguish. It’s about time, David said with a satisfied note in his voice. And one for good measure. CRACK.

Her spirit momentarily broken, Sarah broke down into uncontrollable sobs.

No dinner for you. Get to your bed.

David hung the strap back on its hook and left Sarah hanging limply as the rough hemp bit into her wrists.

Chapter 3

Late Night Escapade

The European-Americans would not learn of the Native-Americans who lived a thousand miles or more to the west for several decades. Among those aboriginal tribes of the great open plains, prestige was earned by counting coup—sneaking close enough to one’s rival, enemy or friend, to strike him with a coup stick adorned with beads and feathers. Doing so transferred the victim’s honor to the victor.

Putting one over on a rival is a universal theme, though. Among The Enclave’s children, they recognized Sarah as the best of her age at the Stealth Game, their equivalent of counting coup.

She started by drawing mustaches in charcoal on the faces of her friends while they slept. Charcoal progressed to painting her rivals, which resulted in much scrubbing and painfully scoured cheeks. But, it was because of the night after her the latest beating at the hands of her father that The Enclave’s elders finally put a stop to her childish pranks.

That night, Sarah lay awake in the bedroom she shared with her younger sister, Jen. When she heard the rhythmic breathing of Jen and the whiskey-fueled, wall-rattling snores of her father, she slipped out of bed and tucked her nightgown into a pair of her brother’s work pants. From under her bed, where it was firmly tied to the bedframe, she dropped the free end of a knotted rope out the bedside open window.

Relying on many nights’ experience, she quietly descended the rope, crept through the village, and slipped past the night watch into the surrounding farmland. Out of sight of the village’s houses, she ran with abandon from field to field, reveling in the freedom of being alone and unobserved.

Her frolicking had a more sinister purpose than just a ramble in the dark, however. As she passed from field to field, she uprooted one scarecrow after another from their watchful positions. When she had five of the constructs of straw, burlap, and ribbons, she tied them together beneath their arms with a length of twine and slid her head and shoulder through the loop. With the scarecrows, which were taller than she was, thus strapped to her back, she returned to the village. Slipping through the shadow of one house into that of its neighbor, she reached The Enclave’s headquarters building.

The headquarters housed meeting rooms, offices, various storage rooms, and The Enclave library on the first floor. The second floor was occupied by Elder Abraham’s office and apartment.

Abraham was the leader of The Enclave, whose settlement predated even the Pennsylvania colony which surrounded it. Sarah knew from previous midnight excursions that the ground floor doors and windows were kept soundly locked at night. But she also knew that Abraham opened the upstairs windows on warm nights to let the breezes in.

As she quietly hid in the bushes that bordered the yard behind the building, she knew her timing had been perfect. A three-quarters gibbous moon was just rising above the ridgeline to the east. Its pre-rising glow on the horizon had afforded her acute eyesight all the light she needed while stealing the scarecrows and slinking through the village.

Now, though, she needed extra illumination to navigate her way through the interior of the building. The quickly rising bright moon on the cloudless night would provide more than enough light.

In the few minutes it took for the moon to expose itself fully, Sarah surveyed the open space that lay between her hiding place and the back of the headquarters building. The yard was often used for holiday and birthday celebrations, or just as an outdoor gathering place for the community to enjoy a musical concert or theatrical. In the dim light, she saw the dozen or so long tables with matching benches stored close to the headquarters’ low back porch.

One table in particular drew her attention. It still sat where she had staged it while a member of the cleaning crew after the previous festivities. The table sat just to the side of the porch roof’s gable end. As was customary, the table’s benches sat stacked on top of the table, making a perfect platform from which she could pull herself up onto the roof.

Slipping out of her hiding place, Sarah first made her way to the gate in the back fence and made sure her escape route was unlocked. The gate let out onto a path that wound its way behind the buildings on this side of the street, allowing her a hidden path back to her house, where the knotted rope she had used to descend from her bedroom was waiting for her return—an easy climb back to her bedroom window.

With a last check to make sure she wasn’t observed, Sarah crossed to the strategically placed table. Once there, she unslung the bundle of scarecrows from her back, leaving them tied together, and lifted them onto the topmost bench. Opening the loop which had served as a sling, she tied the free end to her belt.

Having thus prepared her cargo to be hoisted up, she climbed onto the table, then onto the benches stacked atop one another. Her outstretched fingers were still about six inches below the framing of the roof’s open end, but from a squatting position, she easily jumped high enough for her hands to grip the end truss’s bottom chord.

In one continuing motion, she lightly hauled herself to the next handhold, the truss’s web member, and brought her feet up to her first handhold. She had deliberately started her climb close to the roof’s peak, so the gap between the horizontal bottom chord and the slanted roof was large enough to hold her crouching form.

There she rested a moment and listened for any reaction to the whisper-soft rustle of her climb. Hearing nothing but her light breathing, Sarah leaned out to grip the wood-shingled roof just above her head. This was the trickiest part of her climb, but she swung her legs out and up onto the roof with ease. The bundle of scarecrows she quickly hauled up beside her.

Five windows overlooked the porch roof. Sarah could see the reflection of the now fully risen moon in the glass of the window closest to where she crouched. By reconnoitering while volunteering for the headquarters cleaning crew, she had learned that the window before her opened into a guest bedroom that was currently unoccupied.

From that ingress point, she only had to sneak two doors down the hallway to reach Abraham’s apartment. Although she had never been in the apartment proper, by pacing along the exterior wall while ostensibly cleaning up, she was confident she knew its size, if not exactly its layout.

No one had noticed that she had unlatched this window during her cleaning of the bedroom earlier in the day, nor that she had oiled the sash to ensure its smooth travel within the frame.

Silently sliding the window open, she slipped in and pulled the bundle of scarecrows in after her. Careful to avoid any contact with walls or doors that would make any noise to betray her passage, Sarah slipped through the bedroom doorway and made her way down the hall with the scarecrows under her arm.

Being over a century old, the building’s hardwood plank flooring could emit various squeaks and pops, announcing the presence of a casual visitor. Sarah was a very careful visitor, however, and she had scouted the many spots that could emit telltale squeaks during her cleaning sessions. Using that mental map, she traversed the hall without a single sound.

A silent sigh of relief escaped her lips when she discovered that Abraham’s apartment door was latched, but not locked. Her lock picking skills were still amateurish at best, learned by taking apart a door lock liberated from a maintenance storage room. By figuring out its mechanism, she had worked out how to defeat it, but her opportunities for practicing those skills had been scant.

While kneeling outside the apartment door, Sarah pulled a piece of river reed and a small phial of oil—another item she had lifted from the maintenance shed—from a pocket of the work pants she wore. Using the reed as a straw, she drew up a small amount of the oil, then blew it into the gap below the door latch’s thumb lever. She drew up another squirt of oil from the phial and slowly depressed the thumb lever just enough to where she could feel the resistance of the latch. Holding the lever in that position, she blew the second bit of oil into the gap above the lever.

While giving the oil a few seconds to infiltrate the latch mechanism, Sarah noted the door did not hang flush against the stop. Visualizing the latch’s hidden side inside the apartment, she