The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  “Quite a handsome man…” Anne added, her eyes yet on the Captain. “Pleasing to the ear and to the eye.”

  “Oh, it’s clear yiv caught his eye, as well,” Sally said, with a waggle of her brow. “But best not let Jack know how charming and handsome your quarry is. Ye remember how he was the last time ye worked yer wiles on a Redcoat.”

  Sally’s mention of Jack caused Anne to turn from the sight of the handsome Captain, and in a voice sharper than intended, she said, “That was before Jack knew I was working for the cause.”

  “Still, I worry.” Sally placed a hand on Anne’s shoulder.

  Anne jerked away. “Don’t waste your worry. This Pepperell is a very likely source for us. Jack would know, as you should know, the only interest any British soldier holds for me is in the intelligence I might glean from him to aid our cause. Becoming one with the enemy is how you and I soldier, Sally.” Marching over to the barrow, Anne tugged a pair of tin pails free. “Let’s get a fire going. I’m going to fetch some water for a wash.”

  “Aye, Annie—make yourself pleasant, and I’ll commence baking,” Sally said. “Time for us t’ go a-soldiering.”

  Face washed, hair combed, and outfitted in a spotless apron, Anne Merrick marched up the road. The peddler’s case she wore suspended by straps on her back like a soldier’s knapsack bounced in time to her step and the cheerful tune she whistled.

  This day is bright with possibility.

  The business of gathering intelligence was an art—a complex combination of happenstance, intuition, and reason. It was an art, Anne found, she had a talent for.

  When the British Army invaded New York City the summer before, the world was turned upside down, and Anne adjusted hercoffee house business to cater to the Redcoat occupiers, doing as she must in order to survive the occupation.

  Under the sign of the Crown and Quill, she learned the true value of keeping mind open, eyes sharp, and ears ready. She and Sally moved from table to table serving tea and scones to their very British clientele. They gathered empty mugs and plates along with earfuls on Redcoat military strategy and policy, sweeping up intelligence regarding troop movements and munitions shipments like so many crumbs into a dustpan.

  To make the information useful to the rebel cause, Anne connected with an old friend of Jack’s who ran a tailor shop on Queen Street. She and Sally were at once enmeshed in the tailor’s spy ring, collecting valuable intelligence for the flailing Continental Army Command.

  Under martial law, Anne was compelled to quarter British soldiers in the rooms she and Sally kept above the Crown and Quill. Seizing the imposition as an opportunity to expand their operation, the women set to beguiling the enemy officers housed under their roof. Not only did Anne gull Captain Edward Blankenship into divulging military secrets; Edward escorted her into the social echelon of the British High Command—where she was able to winnow even more vital information from the heedless prattle around punch bowls, gaming tables, and dance floors.

  The peddler’s case on her back seemed suddenly heavy, and Anne stopped for a moment, to shift its weight and catch a breath.

  Poor Edward! A decent man used most cruelly…

  Try as she might, she could not dispel the memory of him—lying on the floor of her shop wreathed in red-black blood—killed by a lead ball fired point-blank to his head by her own hand.

  Blankenship was a casualty of war, Anne told herself for the hundredth time. She should not—could not—regret pulling the trigger. That one shot rescued Jack from Edward’s expert blade and certain death. That one shot also safeguarded her dearest friends from the hangman’s noose.

  That shot saved my life.

  Anne put a kick in her step, and set her mind to the business at hand. Defeating the British and driving them from America’s shores would put an end to such casualties, for all.

  Upon rounding the bend, she slowed her pace. Twenty yards ahead, the road disappeared in a swirl of murky water that had washed over the banks of a parallel running stream. A huge maple tree—its trunk at least four feet in diameter—lay across the stream. Large slabs of limestone and mounds of loose scree had been tumbled from the adjacent hillside to collect around the maple in a solid, water-diverting mass. Due to the recent rains the stream was flowing strong and high, and the rebel dam was perfectly situated to create an impasse on the road Burgoyne’s engineers had carved between the foothills of the Adirondacks.

  The air was filled with the ring of sharp iron on wood and punctuated by the crash of falling timber as axmen harvested the lumber from the adjacent woodland to bridge over the flood-damaged road. In a mix of English and German, officers strode about shouting orders at the soldiers standing waist deep in the stream, prying up stones, and shoveling up buckets of gravel. The debris was passed from hand to hand in a human chain snaking out onto dry land.

  Straining on ropes lashed to the maple tree trunk, at least a dozen soldiers struggled with slippery footing trying to dislodge the dam. Others scrambled with hatchets and axes, hacking away at the tangle of branches and limbs.

  A right carfuffle indeed! Duly impressed by rebel ingenuity, Anne veered from the road to the nearby encampment. She selected a tree stump near a marquee tent as an inconspicuous place to set up shop and observe enemy operations under the guise of purveying her wares. Slipping the shoulder straps, she set her case near the stump. Cleverly wrought with brass fittings, the box opened like a clamshell to lie flat in display, each half fitted with suitably sized cubbyholes fully stocked with her wares.

  Anne straightened the jostled contents to make a more attractive display. The supplies for letter writing and record keeping were in high demand, and she did a fair business among the Redcoats. She carried a good stock of quill pens, ink, and pencils—both graphite and lead. Sundries like sealing wax, wafers, and the small sacks of ground soapstone for dusting freshly inked pages sold tolerably well. When all was said and done, individual sheets of writing bond and the pocket-sized notebooks she and Sally stitched into leather covers were top among her best sellers.

  Anne removed a pair of placards strapped to her case, and set out her sign. Hinged at one end to stand like an easel, fancy gilt block letters on a black ground proclaimed her business:

  MERRICK’S FINE PAPER,

  PENCILS, PENS, INKS,

  AND SUNDRY GOODS

  On the alternate face, she advertised her letter-writing service in her best cursive script:

  for Letters Scribed

  in a Fair Round Hand

  apply to

  Mrs. Merrick, stationer

  Anne took a seat on the tree stump. Adjusting her hat brim to shade her eyes from the sun, she crossed her ankles and surveyed the area.

  A cat’s paw in this revolution, I am… and who knows what chestnuts might be scratched up from the ashes today…

  Oh, she had not thought twice when her brother David, aide-de-camp in General Washington’s command, asked her to infiltrate Burgoyne’s camp. Operating under the same guise of staid Tory widow that had served the cause so well in New York, she and Sally were able to roam the British encampment freely, gathering information to pass along to Jack and Titus for delivery to the beleaguered Continental Army of the North.

  Anne pursued her vocation with an egalitarian awareness, for gossiping with the camp laundresses at the washtubs could prove more fruitful than a conversation with the high-ranking officer whose linen was being scrubbed. And the gossip so readily gathered from sutlers providing rum and ale to the Redcoats could be as telling as any battle map.

  At the very onset of their venture, this awareness reaped instant results. While waiting in a long queue to present her peddler’s permit to the camp quartermaster for approval, Anne had noticed a young couple bidding each other farewell. She pointed to the pair and used the euphemism often applied to American girls who had succumbed to the charms of a Redcoat soldier.

  “See there, Sal… Another poor girl struck with a bad case of scarlet fever.”r />
  “A soldier’s farewell is aye bittersweet.” Sally nodded, no doubt recalling her recent parting with David.

  “Strange…” Anne’s brow knotted. “We’ve both taken him for a soldier, yet he’s not in uniform, is he?”

  Touched by the tender kiss the pair exchanged, sentiment did not blind Anne to the soldier’s bearing, ill-concealed by the yeoman’s smock shirt and broad-brimmed hat. A moment later, she gave Sally a confirming nudge to the ribs when the lovers were parted by an officer ordering the young man to be on his way, to which he responded with an “Aye, sir!” and a snappy military salute.

  Anne and Sally scurried over to comfort the tearful girl with the offer of a clean hankie and a commiserating, “There, now, lass…” In no time at all, the girl revealed her beau’s true calling as special courier for General Burgoyne to General Howe, and—most important—she divulged the location of the secret missive he carried in the false bottom of his canteen.

  Between the lines of an innocuous recipe for peach cobbler, Anne conveyed these details written in an invisible ink she concocted with water and salt of hartshorn. The next morning, she and Sally donned their striped skirts and tied a scrap of blue ribbon to a low-hanging branch of a sycamore tree.

  An auspicious beginning… If Jack and Titus had indeed found the message, and captured the courier, then they had intercepted an urgent message en route from General John Burgoyne to General Sir William Howe, the Commander-in-Chief of British forces in North America—information that could prove vital in achieving a battlefield victory the American forces so badly needed.

  Palms pressed together like a penitent in supplication, Anne could not help but think on the less than happy consequences of her pursuit. If Jack and Titus had indeed captured Burgoyne’s courier, then the young man she’d last seen tenderly kissing his lass farewell was most certainly hung for a spy—led straight to the gallows by the careless words of the woman who loved him so dear.

  It was a tragedy very real and horrible to Anne, and the thought of it brought about a familiar wrench in her heart as the image of her son, Jemmy, bounded unbidden into her mind’s eye—the boy she’d lost to smallpox five years before. The son she loved and missed with all her heart. Anne took in a deep breath.

  At least that girl will never know she was responsible for the death of her beloved.

  Be they Tory or Patriot, a steep toll was exacted on all who were unlucky enough to be arrested as spies. Anne had witnessed a spy’s hanging on the Commons just days after New York City fell to the British. She massaged the sun-warmed skin curving up from her shoulder to her ear, recollecting the stoic patriot’s single-minded clarity as he faced ignoble death, his last words a testament to his true purpose.

  I only regret that I have but one life to give my country. Anne thought on those words whenever she found herself dwelling on the tragic by-blows of her pursuit or pondering over the variety of “what-ifs” and “maybes.”

  Anne gave her head a shake. Deep thinking—a perilous pastime for soldiers at war.

  And she was a soldier. Like the brave patriot she’d seen stand the gallows, Anne endeavored to keep the ideals of the cause she fought for at the forefront of her brain, pushing the heavy consequences down into the depths of her heart.

  “How much for a quill, miss?”

  Anne glanced up. A bone-thin subaltern stood before her, juggling a heavy stack of ledgers under one arm while digging for coin in the pocket of his baggy breeches. Taking note of the number twenty-one embossed on the pewter buttons of his jacket, she answered, “Merrick’s quills are but a tuppence for one of the King’s finest fusiliers.”

  “Tuppence!”

  Anne held a goose feather up for his inspection, demonstrating the resilience of the nib with her thumb. “A quality point, this. You’ll find my quills properly trimmed and tempered to last.”

  “Here you have it…” The ensign dropped a two-penny piece in her cupped hand and took the quill. “The adjutant is yowling at me to get the company books in order.”

  Giving a nod to the turmoil on the road, Anne said, “Make good use of the time. Looks like our lads will be at least another day fixing this mess.”

  “Why the General chose this godforsaken route is beyond my ken.” The young man shrugged. “The rebels are a constant irritant, and every day we delay is yet another day for them to wreak further havoc.”

  “Chin up, ensign. You are among the King’s finest fighting men,” Anne said. “I was in New York town, and I saw firsthand the stuff these jelly-boned rebels are made of. What a ragtag, misbegotten lot they are! When met on the battlefield, they will be easily routed. Never fear.”

  Anne’s bombast earned her a soul-shrinking glare from the young officer. “I am not afraid, miss, but the rebels have proven they are nobody’s fool,” he said, tapping a finger to the ledgers under his arm. “They understand how an army travels on its stomach, and how every delay serves to dwindle our meager provisions. These marauders move in our advance, burning crops and carrying off every bit of livestock, making it nigh on impossible for us to find forage. I fully expect the entire army will be moved to half rations soon.”

  The gloom-and-doom subaltern scuttled off to his bookwork, and Anne penciled the sale into her ledger. It was encouraging to hear the rebel tactics were having an effect on British supply lines, sensibilities, and stomachs. A soldier’s daily ration of flour, salt meat, and dried peas was barely enough to keep a man in fighting fit—a move to half rations could only compound the many trials Burgoyne’s army was already bearing.

  “Mrs. Merrick!”

  Looking up, she smiled, and waved to Captain Pepperell in the company of another officer striding her way. Rising to her feet, she greeted the men. “Welcome to my emporium—such that it is.”

  The officers whisked hats from heads, and Geoffrey Pepperell threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Allow me to present my comrade-in-arms and all-around good fellow, Lieutenant Gordon Lennox.” Anne dipped a slight curtsy to the Captain’s ruddy-faced companion, and Pepperell continued the introductions. “And this, Lennox, is Mrs. Anne Merrick—Purveyor of Fine Stationery and Snake Vanquisher Extraordinaire.”

  “The Rattlesnake Widow?” Lennox cocked his head in a nod and snapped a salute. “A pleasure indeed, madam! Geoff has regaled me with the tale of your kill.”

  “My kill!”

  “As you can see, Mrs. Merrick,” Pepperell added, “your fame precedes you.”

  “I would rather find fame in a manner that did not include a poisonous viper slithering over my foot, thank you very much.” Anne’s smile came with ease. She found herself liking this Geoffrey Pepperell. Unlike many of the stodgy martinets populating the officer corps with their off-putting aristocratic affectations, he was possessed of a rascal’s charm combined with a sincerity that appealed—much like her Jack.

  “This is fortuitous, finding you here on my doorstep!” Geoffrey took her by the hand. “I was only just on my way to seek you out—wasn’t I, Gordie?”

  “Coming to claim the promised cup of tea?” Anne asked.

  “Coming to invite you to dine at the General’s table tonight.”

  Anne pulled back her hand, and laced her fingers just beneath her breastbone, taking a moment to rein in her elation. “I don’t know… The presence of a woman at a table of fighting men can only serve to scotch the wheel of conversation—”

  Lennox interrupted. “Other women will be in attendance, Mrs. Merrick—my wife, Lucy, among them…”

  “I will not take no for an answer,” Geoff said. “As one of the providers of the feast, it is only fitting you should partake.”

  Anne’s brows shot up. “A provider of the feast?”

  “Rattlesnake soup!” Pepperell said. “Promise you’ll come…”

  Anne laughed. “I don’t see how I can refuse.”

  “Wonderful! I’ll come to escort you to the General’s camp at sundown.” Pepperell slapped Lennox on the back. “Awa
y to the kitchen, Gordie, to see to our soup.”

  “The General’s table…” Anne settled hands on hips, watching the pair march away. “Now, that is quite a chestnut!”

  Sally threw back the painted canvas they had drawn over their barrow to protect the content from inclement weather, and Anne stood by, chewing her thumbnail.

  “I really don’t recall packing it, Sal…”

  “Well, I do.” Sally delved down to the very bottom of the barrow. “Hold on, now… Here ’tis!” She squirmed a misshapen, muslin-wrapped, twine-bound bundle from beneath the tarp, and tossed it over.

  “Huzzah!” Anne peeled away the wrapping to unfurl her best day dress. As she held the gown at arm’s length, her brows merged in dismay.

  The garment was made of quality fabric—yards of imported indiennes printed with a happy pattern of forget-me-nots twining over a cream-colored ground—but the dress was terribly crushed and wrinkled. Limp with damp, the Mechlenburg lace edging the sweeping neckline and embellishing the three-quarter sleeves drooped in a sad display.

  “Dinna fash, Annie.” Sally jerked her thumb to the plumes of smoke rising up east of the road. “The washwomen have their pots on the boil and their irons on the fire. A bit of starch and a good pressing will put your frock to rights.”

  Anne threw the dress over her shoulder and pulled forth the mending basket from the barrow. “We’ve plenty of blue ribbon. I can make some rosettes to dress my hair.”

  Sally tossed a hairbrush and a pair of iron curling tongs into the basket. “We can put a few curls in as well. Ye’ll be the prettiest lady at the table.”

  They ran down to cross the road, and headed toward the stream where the camp laundresses took advantage of the easy access to water and a sunny day to catch up on the never-ending wash. Anne and Sally zigzagged through yards of clothesline stretched from tree to tree, hung with dozens of shirts pinned up to dry.