The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  Teamsters!

  The hesitation was all Pepperell needed to catch up and begin an instant tug-of-war for control of the light.

  “Leave me be!” Anne held tight, the wire bail cutting into the pads of her fingers. “I can make my own way…”

  “You cannot,” he said, wresting the lantern from her grip. “Be sensible. There are drunk and baseless men about.”

  “The pot calling the kettle black!”

  “Touché, madam.” Pepperell grew very serious. “Though I have given you ample cause to mistrust my intentions, you will only invite disaster by traveling alone through this camp after dark. Now, please—I insist upon seeing you safe to your door.”

  The teamsters began the chorus of a popular bawdy song, and Anne huffed a beleaguered sigh.

  “I promise to behave…” The Captain thumbed the sign of the cross over his heart.

  “On with you, then,” she said, waving him along. “Light the way.”

  Veering to the right of the campfire revelers, they skirted around a cluster of cannon carriages and wagons laden with powder and shot. Careful to maintain an arm’s length of space between them, Anne concentrated on following the soft rectangle of yellow light cast by the lantern he held aloft.

  “Do you see that?” Pepperell waved the light toward the field of artillery, illuminating an eerie mist crawling between the carriage wheels. His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “They say the spirits of fallen gunners follow their cannon from battlefield to battlefield…”

  “Save me from your ghost stories,” Anne said. “I don’t believe in spirits.”

  Pepperell stopped dead in his tracks, and his arm dropped like a tollgate—the back of his hand slapping Anne at the collarbone, sending her back a step.

  Anne heaved a sigh. “I am neither amused nor frightened, Captain.”

  Grabbing her by the upper arm, Pepperell put a finger to his lips. “Shhh… listen…”

  Layered atop the faded backdrop of the teamsters’ boisterous song, Anne could hear a rhythmic clank of iron chains—shink, shink, shink—as if a gang of exhausted prisoners shackled in leg irons was trudging along.

  Anne jerked away. “Naught but the wind…”

  “There is no wind. Be very quiet now and follow me,” he said, in a voice so low, Anne only just caught his command.

  Taking the lead, Pepperell swept the lantern in a wide arc from left to right, and right to left. Anne followed a few paces behind as the ominous chorus grew in intensity with every step forward—the rattling chains joined by a creaking, like that of carriage wheels turning on ungreased axles. She scurried to close the space between herself and the Captain, taking hold of a fistful of his red jacket, gooseflesh rippling up her arms and across the back of her neck.

  Pepperell quietly inched his sword free of its scabbard and handed the lantern to Anne, whispering, “Shutter it.”

  “Shutter our light?”

  His voice went military and clipped. “Do as I say.”

  Anne snapped the tin door shut on the still-burning candle, and but for the pinpoints of light keeking out through the tiny punched openings, all was thrown into darkness. As her eyes adjusted, the pulsing rattle and creak were accompanied by a pitched moaning and throaty groaning.

  Anne tugged at Pepperell’s jacket. “Let’s turn back.”

  He pulled the pistol from the sash tied about his waist, cocking back the hammer. The clack of his weapon signaled a sudden pause in the ghostly rhythm, and in the brief quiet moment, Anne could hear her heart pounding in her ears, and then the clank, creak, and moan just as suddenly renewed.

  Pepperell leaned down and whispered, “When I give the word, aim the light and open the shutter. Understand?”

  Anne nodded vigorously, pinching thumb and forefinger to the tab of tin serving as the lantern door latch.

  Sword in his left hand, pistol in his right, Pepperell took three long strides toward the noise with Anne scurrying along, the tail of his jacket clutched in her fist. They came to a halt no more than three yards from a huge, dark mound silhouetted in the starlight and pulsating in time to the clank of iron links—shink… shink… shink.

  With sword arm upraised, Pepperell barked, “Now!” and rushed forward.

  Anne swung the lantern door open, shining a piercing beam on a woman bent over a wagon’s tailgate—skirts thrown over her back—and the stunned grenadier at her rear, both of them squinting at the light.

  Pepperell put the brakes on his charge.

  The woman looked up with a tentative smile, and waggled her fingers. “Hey-ho, Cap’n!”

  The grenadier grunted, “Douse th’ bleedin’ light.”

  Anne stood wide-eyed with lantern raised, a war drum thumping in her chest, transfixed by the sight of the copulating couple.

  “Would ye douse the light there, dearie?” the woman asked, “so’s a lass might enjoy her lad with a bit o’ privacy, aye?”

  “Oh—of… of course…” Anne sputtered, lowering the lantern.

  Pepperell sheathed his weapons. “Apologies, soldier—I’m afraid I mistook you for rebel thieves.” With a big grin and a wave of his hand he said, “Carry on!”

  “Aye, sir!” The grenadier brought a knuckle to his forehead in a snappy salute, and at once set the harness chains to rattling and the wagon axles to creaking.

  “Away with us.” Geoffrey grabbed Anne by the hand and she let him lead her along, in quick strides, up a steep hillside. Slowing to a stroll upon reaching the tree line, Anne pulled free, and gave Pepperell a shove to the shoulder.

  “Rebel thieves? I wish you’d voiced your concerns, sir.”

  Pepperell shook his head. “Really, I was expecting to find foraging raccoons. I was as surprised as you when we found… well… when we found a beast with two backs!”

  Anne couldn’t help but laugh at Geoffrey’s genuine discomfiture in this odd situation. As much as he annoyed with his ardent pursuit, the man was quite charming. “Did you note the soldier’s discipline?” she asked. “In flagrante delicto and yet the fellow did not fail to offer you a proper salute—a true guardian of the Empire!”

  “And his partner! ‘Would ye douse the light there, dearie?’” Pepperell mimicked in falsetto, throwing Anne into a peal of giggles.

  “Please… stop…” Catching her breath, Anne wiped a tear from her eye. “I’ll be waking the entire camp.”

  Geoffrey Pepperell took her by the hand. “My, but you are a lovely thing laughing…” Before Anne knew what he was about, the Redcoat captain drew her into a simple kiss.

  Flustered, Anne tried to pull away, swiping the back of her hand to the warm imprint his lips left upon hers. “Captain Pepperell…”

  “None of that…” He took her hand and pressed the palm to his heart. “We are fast friends now, having faced the dangers of the unknown together. I shall call you Anne, and you must call me Geoff.”

  His heart pulsed beneath her hand, and she caught her lips beginning to form his name. With a shake of her head, Anne tugged her hand free and marched away. “I shall do nothing of the sort.”

  Pepperell followed after. “We have not the time for these proprieties you crave, Anne.”

  “You, sir, are most presumptuous to call me by my familiar—we are barely acquainted.” Anne pointed to her campsite. “I bid you good night.”

  The glow of canvas sanctuary beckoned and she picked up the pace to just short of running. Pepperell lost his hat racing after her. Catching her by the arm, he twirled Anne into an embrace, the lantern he carried bouncing on her rear.

  “I am a soldier at war, Anne. I know well enough how to seize the day…”

  Locked in the circle of his arms, she looked direct into his eyes. Pushing two-handed against his chest, and in as stern a voice as she could call up, Anne said, “You are no gentleman, Captain Pepperell.”

  “You are correct in that…” He let the lantern drop and roll in a clatter, and laid claim to her lips.

  Anne clos
ed her eyes, and for a moment, she simply gave over to the pleasure of a man’s touch—the rasp of stubble on her soft skin—chest muscles clenched beneath her palms—strong fingertips playing the groove of her spine…

  “ANNIE MERRICK!!”

  Levered back to her senses on the fulcrum of Sally’s shocked cry, Anne broke off the kiss, and Pepperell released his hold. Like a winged spirit in a flurry of frizzled braids and muslinet, Sally flew out of the tent swinging a very bright, glass-cased lantern. She retrieved the hat Pepperell lost and tossed it to land at his feet. “Good night t’ ye, Captain.”

  Anne fumbled through the folds of her gown for her pocket fan with downcast eyes, happy for the dark to conceal her face, which was ablaze with shame.

  Pepperell picked his hat up by the crown and bowed with a feathery sweep of his arm. “Madam—I enjoyed your company immensely.”

  Fluttering her open fan at her breast, Anne managed a slight curtsy. “A lovely evening, Captain. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Pepperell fit hat to head, pulling the wide brim to a dashing angle. “Till we meet again, my darling, I will see you in my dreams.” Touching two fingers to his lips, he threw a kiss and marched off.

  Fists to hips, Sally watched Pepperell disappear into the darkness. “Gweeshtie! In’t he a winsome devil!”

  Without a word to Sally, Anne trudged into the tight quarters of their tent, wishing she could dive under a blanket, bury her face in her pillow, and hide in the oblivion of sleep. Instead, she fished nippers from the mending basket and began snipping away at the stitches at the front of her bodice. In silence, she shrugged out of the sleeves, pushing the gown into a circular puff in the narrow aisle between the two cots. Shoes, then garters and stockings, were added to the careless pile.

  Sally stepped behind to undo the knot in Anne’s stays, whipping the loose laces free of the eyelets. “So? How’d we rebels fare at th’ General’s table?”

  Anne peeled off the stiff-boned article with a sigh and stretch of relief. “I’ll tell you all tomorrow.” She swung her peddler’s case onto her cot. “It must be past midnight already and I’ve a long report to write—”

  Sally tumbled the discarded clothes into a ball. “Ye harvested some fruit, then?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Anne sat down and opened her box. “A bumping crop—very ripe.”

  Sally sat down on her bed, opposite Anne. “It was plain to my eye tha’ ye were successful at winning yer man’s devotion…”

  “He’s not my man.” Anne peeled a page of rose-colored foolscap from the short stack in the box, creased it long ways, and carefully ripped it in two. “You know, I really didn’t mean to kiss him that way…” She glanced up and met Sally’s eye for the first time. “I think perhaps I had too much to drink. Champagne, claret, Madeira—my glass was never empty.”

  “So ye drank overmuch an’ gave yer Redcoat captain a peck.” Sally reached over and slapped Anne on the knee. “What of it? Ye were on th’ job.”

  “Oh, Sally!” Anne flung herself backward, throwing her arms over her face. “I’m no better than some dockside Betty.”

  “Come now, lass…” Sally pulled a jug of water out from under the bed. “Dinna be so hard on yerself. ’Twere naught but a brief kiss…”

  “You don’t understand.” Anne bolted upright. “I think his kiss gave me pleasure.”

  Sally was quiet for a moment. She took a small beaker from the writing box and filled it to the mark with water. “Ours is a tricky business, Annie. ’Tis hard to keep a balance on this razor’s edge we tread. But I believe ’tis one thing to gaze over the edge, an’ quite another to fall. Ye needna fash—ye didna fall—tha kiss was but a wobble, is all.” She leaned forward and picked a brown glass jar from the box and handed it to Anne.

  Anne peeled back the beeswax cap on the jar of hartshorn salt. “A wobble, you think?”

  “Aye… Given time, ye’ll ken exact how t’ wrap this lobsterback round yer wee finger, just as ye did th’ other back at the Cup and Quill.”

  “I hope you’re right…” Anne sifted a measure of hartshorn into the beaker Sally held. “It was easy to bend Edward to my will—he was a kind enough fellow, but there was no substance to him. Geoffrey is a man who knows what he wants and goes after it, much like Jack—strong-willed and dogged persistent.”

  “And there’s why ye gave in t’ his kiss, no doubt. He reminds ye of Jack. Ye see? Yer heart is ever true, even in its wobbling.” Sally handed Anne the beaker, and stood to hang the lantern from a hook on the ridgepole just above their heads.

  “Maybe that’s it…” Anne stirred the liquid in the beaker until the powder dissolved, the silver teaspoon dinging a bright tune until the water showed crystal clear when held to the light.

  “Yer writin’ a report, so courtin’ the Redcoat has already reaped results for our cause, and that suits our purpose here, aye? So quit yer bleatin’ an’ yer ditherin’—ye did well.” Yawning, Sally slipped under her blanket, curling onto her side to hug her pillow. “Write it all down an’ get some sleep.”

  Maybe Sally is right… With quill in hand, Anne bent her head to her work, first penning an innocuous recipe in black ink on the two long slips of paper. Switching quills to write with the invisible ink, she filled the spaces between the lines with all of the pertinent intelligence she’d learned that night.

  With the hartshorn ink yet wet and visible, Anne reread the words she’d written. Geoffrey Pepperell was the key to valuable information that might save rebel lives, win battles, and help to end the war. She could not afford to risk alienating his affection, or losing his interest.

  Waiting for the pages to dry, Anne plucked the pins from her hair, dropping each into a tin cup, as she tallied the sins she’d committed for the sake of her cause—lying, treason, counterfeiting, killing—plink, plink, plink, plink. Proving faithless to Jack Hampton was a crime she’d never considered—not until this night. Plink.

  If only I could join ranks, and face the might of the King’s Army head-on, how much simpler life would be.

  She eyed the bottom of the second page wishing she could at least add a line to let Jack know how much she missed him—let him know that no matter what, it was only he who held the key to her heart. Anne dipped her pen into the invisible ink and wrote the words, “Message ENDS,” between the last two lines of the recipe.

  Without thinking, Anne moved her pen to the empty space right above the bottom edge of the page and drew with quick strokes. Blowing on the wet ink, she watched her little drawing disappear. When dry, she rolled the two sheets into a tight and tiny scroll, tied it off with a snippet of waxed thread, and dropped it into an empty scent bottle she stoppered with a cork. Holding the blue glass up to the light, she gave the bottle a little shake and smiled.

  A secret message within a secret message…

  Most likely Jack would never reveal the image—placed as it was at the bottom of the page—but for some reason just knowing her little drawing was there provided a great measure of contentment.

  Anne closed the writing box and shoved it under the cot. She found her pocket in the tangle at the foot of the bed and, as was her habit, withdrew the half-crown token and placed it, along with her pistol, under her pillow.

  Lying flat on her back, hands laced over belly, she stared wide-awake at the canvas overhead. A cooling breeze moved in through the door flaps, washing over her sweat-dampened shift. The wind-rippled canvas turned a liquid shade of gold in the lantern light, reminding Anne of champagne illuminated by the warm waver of beeswax candles.

  Anne jumped to her feet and snuffed out the lantern. She fished the cast-iron piece from under her pillow, and clenched it tight, feeling the raw edge bite into her skin. With token in fist, and fist to heart, she lay back in the dark, focusing her memories on those few nights when Jack had shared her bed—calling up the feeling of his hard body pressed to her side… the weight of his leg thrown over hers… the caress of his hand heavy on the curve of her ribs…


  With a groan, Anne squirmed and knocked knuckles to forehead, whispering, “What manner of woman am I?”

  “One made of flesh and bone, just like any other,” Sally’s sleepy voice responded. “T’ sleep, ye silly gomerel, for tomorrow’s a new day, aye?”

  THREE

  You are fighting for what you can never obtain and we defending what we mean never to part with.

  THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis

  ON A RIDGE, FACING EAST

  “Hey-ho! Striped skirts today!” Titus passed the brass spyglass to Jack. “Have a look.”

  On a ridgetop overpeer, hidden in a thicket of furze, Jack lay on the flat of his belly beside Titus. Propped on elbows, the eyepiece of the scope to one eye, his other eye squashed asquint, he panned from left to right across the ordered procession of artillery, wagons, and people amassed on the road below.

  “I don’t see ’em …”

  “Right there.” Titus pointed. “Sally’s in a white cap, and Mrs. Anne’s wearing her straw hat with the blue ribbon.”

  Jack aimed his scope to follow the trajectory of Titus’s arm and snorted. “You’ve just described practically every woman down there.”

  With the tip of his finger, Titus directed the lens end of the glass to the correct position. “Start at the head of the line, then count about a dozen wagons back.”

  Jack pushed back the brim of his hat and began counting. Just behind the eleventh wagon he found Anne and Sally at their barrow, waiting for their turn to cross the jury-rigged timber bridge the British had engineered to span the flooded road.

  “Yep—there they are!” Even from a distance, the sight of the women always served as a dose of instant relief. Though fully dedicated and willing to risk his own life for the rebel cause, Jack was not at all comfortable that Anne and Sally bore the highest risk in their pursuit for enemy intelligence. Excited to see the women not only safe, but signaling a message, Jack gave Titus a rough shove. “The last time they both wore the stripes, we caught us a courier, remember?”