I breakfasted and hurried to market for Mother. Happily, I had no papers to deliver for Father. Without further words to my stony-faced parents, I walked to number one Broadway. The city knew no grander building than the one known as the Archibald Kennedy house. A large two-story—plus attic—brick building, it was almost sixty feet wide at the street. On each of the two main floors were four big windows, all with shutters. The entryway was a massive white door reached by four stone steps, the door bracketed with stately wooden and fluted columns. The closer I came to this commanding structure, the more my resolution shrank. Did I really wish to commit myself to such an outrageous act—to be a spy? When I stood before the building and saw two tall British guards–one on each side of the front door, standing at fierce attention, bayoneted muskets in hand—I struggled to maintain my resolve. Even as I observed it all, other soldiers—they appeared to be officers—were entering and leaving the house.
