The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  With their bearings thus defined, Jack and Titus nodded and scooted closer.

  Ned balanced a small twig atop the spruce-needle hill. “One three-pound cannon on the high ground aimed west, well protected with a breastwork of logs.” He placed another twig, saying, “A second three-pounder aimed at the bridge. I counted only a dozen artillerymen in all.”

  “A strength and a weakness,” Jack noted.

  Ned shrugged. “They say Burgoyne is sending more soldiers and cannon. Once reinforced, they move forward to Bennington.”

  Titus asked, “How many men do they have now?”

  Placing one of the lead balls from Jack’s pile of ammunition near the hill, Isaac said, “One hundred Indians are camped near the bottom of the hill.” Keeping to the scale of one ball per hundred soldiers, Isaac continued to place bullets to illustrate troop strength and position. “Three hundred Hessian grenadiers and dragoons—green and blue coats—protecting the high ground. Two hundred Redcoats with the baggage. Two hundred Loyalist militia—Canadians and Americans—defending the bridge.”

  “You can tell them by the paper badges pinned to their hats,” Ned added.

  “Paper badges?”

  Ned dug into his pouch for a damp and wrinkled scrap of foolscap. “The German Colonel ordered it, so they can tell Loyalist from rebel in the heat of battle.”

  Jack examined the simple badge—nothing more than an inch-wide strip of white paper folded at the center to flap like a pair of wings—then he turned back to study the map for a moment before looking up with a big smile. “It’s almost too easy, isn’t it?”

  Anne walked in step with Geoffrey Pepperell, elbows linked, her skirts draped over her free arm. Even so, the wind coupled with the disparity in their heights rendered useless the waxcloth umbrella he had borrowed from Lucy Lennox. What seemed a trifling drizzle when they departed the manor house General Burgoyne had commandeered as his headquarters, developed into quite a downpour.

  The path along the river’s edge was a thick stew of mud, and Anne’s every step was taken with effort, as if she were shod in lead boots. She tugged a foot free from the sucking morass, almost losing one of the sturdy walking shoes she’d had sense enough to wear to the General’s table this night.

  Geoffrey set their lantern on the ground, handed the umbrella off to Anne, and unsheathed his sword. Prodding with the tip of the blade, he succeeded in dislodging a great glop caught between the sole and heel of his boot. “This substance is more akin to mortar than to mud,” he said, scraping the soles off with the edge of his blade. “Let me have at yours now…” He motioned for Anne to lift her foot.

  Anne braced a hand to the Captain’s shoulder as he bent to take practical hold of her silk-stockinged ankle to clear the muck caked on her shoes.

  “That’s better, no?” Geoffrey stood to sheathe his sword. Armed once again with lantern and umbrella, he offered the crook of his elbow. “Let’s make for higher ground.”

  Awaiting the supply train on its way from Lake George, the army encamped along the curving east bank of the Hudson at a place called Fort Miller. Once restocked with provisions, the entire army would traverse the pontoon bridge Burgoyne’s clever engineers had built, and then advance toward Albany.

  Anne flinched at a huge bolt of lightning splitting the sky over the river. She buried her face in a red wool–clad shoulder to weather the companion clap of thunder.

  “A close strike…” Pepperell wrapped an arm about her. Another bright bolt shot across the black sky, and the accompanying thunder rumbled like the roll of battle drums, signaling a blast of wicked wind to race up the river, jostling the trees and dousing their light.

  Geoffrey shouted over the tumult of the storm, “We’ll take cover in the fort!” With umbrella turned as a shield to the wind, he pulled Anne toward the dilapidated ruins silhouetted against a sky alive with flash and crackle.

  Fort Miller once guarded the fording place just below a series of rapids on the Hudson, and a huge stone fireplace and forlorn chimney were all that remained of the old wilderness blockhouse. They ducked in to hunker inside the vast fireplace.

  “I think we are wise to wait out this tempest.” Pepperell stuffed the half-open umbrella up the chimney’s throat to block the rain making its way through the opening.

  “There’s not much time between the lightning and thunder.” Anne dropped to haunches, wringing water from her hems, casting a fretful glance to the north where the baggage train was encamped. “I hope Sally’s faring well…”

  “You needn’t worry. Your tent’s staked high enough, and the trees will break the wind.” Setting sword to the side, Pepperell sat down beside her, back pressed to the firebox wall. “We’ll go forth as soon as it ceases lightning.”

  The rain turned almost horizontal, and moved in waves on staccato blasts of wind, punctuated by flashes and crashes of lightning and thunder. Water sprayed through the open face of their shelter, but the huge old fireplace was deep enough to offer protection from the worst of the storm.

  Anne settled to sit beside Geoffrey, hugging her knees to her chest. “That was a rather somber table this evening. The General in particular seemed to be treading a razor’s edge.”

  With eyes never wavering from the curtain of water falling across the opening of the firebox, Geoffrey said, “We’re all on edge since Colonel Baum sent troubling news regarding the strength of the rebel forces at Bennington. Two more battalions of Hessians have been dispatched; we can do naught but wait on tenterhooks, hoping the relief forces arrive in time to mitigate a disaster.”

  Of this Anne was well aware. She and Sally had stood with the hankie-waving crowd of weeping German wives flanking the sides of the road, counting the reinforcements as they marched out of camp to go to the aid of Colonel Baum.

  “You really oughtn’t fret so. The Germans are assured victory.”

  “What care these mercenaries, I wonder?” Pepperell leaned his head back, brow knit, eyes shut, then shrugged. “Win or lose, they earn their pay regardless.”

  Taken aback by his embittered tone, Anne asked, “You doubt the fidelity of the German troops?”

  “I’ve no doubt their officers are honorable fighting men,” he said. “But the German common soldiers lack a backbone stiffened by love of country and cause. Every day, more and more of them desert—more willing to brave the unknown wilderness than the inevitable battle at the end of our march.”

  “Have you voiced your concerns to your commander?”

  Pepperell shook his head. “Fraser detests officers who cavil and question the judgment of their superiors, and I don’t blame him.”

  Anne persisted. “If you believe there’s a problem, it would ease your mind to point it out to General Fraser.”

  Geoffrey heaved a weary sigh. “I’m afraid my malaise regarding the Germans is but a single symptom of a much more complex corruption.”

  Though most anxious to learn what could cause an officer in Burgoyne’s command to be so troubled, Anne found she was yet hard-pressed to not feel sorry for the man regardless the color of his coat.

  “Giving voice to your concerns can help to unburden a heavy heart. If you’d like”—Anne scooted closer—“I can lend an ear.”

  Pepperell shot a weak smile. “I wouldn’t want to bother you…”

  Anne gave him a jab with her elbow. “Come, now—it’s a poor friend indeed that can’t be bothered.”

  Geoffrey turned, and with all the earnestness of a young boy he said, “Then you must swear to never repeat what I’m about to say—not to Sally, not to anyone.”

  With no little guilt, Anne crossed a thumb over her heart. “As if you whispered your cares down a well.”

  Geoffrey drew a great in-and-out breath. “So, you know I’m no stranger to these colonies. I was all of fifteen years old when my father bought my first commission in the Forty-fourth Regiment of Foot back in…” He pondered for a moment. “’Fifty-nine, it was.”

  Surprised to find
such a seasoned officer of high rank was only three years her senior, Anne said, “You were but a boy.”

  “Discipline, hard marching, and self-reliance quick made a man of me. I was there when we took Fort Niagara, and I was at the siege to see de Cavagnal surrender Montreal to Amherst, and the whole of Canada added to the Empire.” Geoffrey tugged the soggy ribbon from his queue, and raked fingers through his wet hair. “So enamored with this country was I, once back home in England, I resigned the Forty-fourth for the Forty-first so I could come back and garrison at Niagara.”

  “Is that where you met Ohaweio?”

  Pepperell nodded. “And where I learned to speak Mohawk. When I caught wind of Gentleman Johnny’s Army of Canada, I left Niagara to join the Twenty-fourth. I simply had to be part of this campaign.”

  Anne said, “I’m sure your familiarity with the country, and ability to communicate direct with the natives, made you a perfect addition to his corps…”

  “Because of my experience, I always knew the army’s progress would be much more difficult than Burgoyne anticipated. And I knew the Indians would be difficult to control. But with the ultimate aim of uniting our forces with Howe’s army, I never questioned that we would succeed in crushing the rebellion to put an end to this bloody civil war.” His voice fell very quiet, his eyes downcast. “Things have changed since. Now I question the methods we use to wage war on our brethren Englishmen. The answers to my questions leave me with naught but a dreadful feeling of doom—and it hangs like a flaming sword over my head.”

  There was a terrible crashing accompanied by wood snapping and splintering, like the sound of axmen felling trees in the forest.

  “Stay put,” Geoffrey said, jumping to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  Pepperell made a dash toward the river, disappearing beyond Anne’s sight. In a short time, he reappeared in a full-on gallop, skittering to a halt as he stamped the mud from his boots and dropped into a dripping crouch beside her.

  “You should see the Hudson! A raging torrent…” Geoffrey panted, swiping water from his face.

  “The awful noise… ?”

  “Our pontoon bridge being washed away.” Plopping to sit with legs sprawled before him, he puffed out a great breath, and leaned back against the wall. “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re waiting out the storm…”

  He heaved an exhausted sigh and turned to Anne with grief-filled eyes. “I mean what are we doing here—hiring mercenaries to fight our battles—giving our native allies stretch to scalp and pillage at will—” His mouth went grim and he waved his hands to the sky. “It is clear to me God Himself does not favor our position.”

  In all the time she’d spent with Geoffrey he’d never been anything but a cheerful, stalwart, and devoted officer. If Geoffrey Pepperell harbors doubts, there must be others of good conscience who feel the same, she thought, with an initial glee that shifted straight to guilt. The man’s obvious misery should not cause such delight.

  Anne laid a hand on Pepperell’s shoulder. “Remember, this war is man’s doing, and so men must suffer the consequences of it. The same storm causing grief to British intentions is no doubt harrying the rebels as well.”

  His shoulders slumped. “True enough. I’ve no call blaming God for our misfortunes”—Pepperell snorted a halfhearted chuckle—“when we are proving so adept at mucking up the whole affair quite handily on our own.”

  “Take heart,” Anne said, forcing conviction to her tone. “Surely when General Howe’s army converges with ours in Albany everything will be set aright.”

  Geoffrey shagged his head from side to side. “Howe’s not coming.”

  Anne could feel her heart flutter in her chest. “What? Why not?”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “He’s rallied his forces to Pennsylvania. He intends to engage Washington there.”

  “Oh.” Anne stammered, “Why… th-that is quite a turn…”

  “And it seems my General has been aware of this turn for some time.” Geoffrey pinched the bridge of his nose. “My head aches to think of it. Our entire stratagem is based upon the two armies forming a junction to crush the rebels once and for all, and Burgoyne only informed us of Howe’s Judas kiss in meeting today.” In a practiced and precise imitation of Gentleman Johnny’s very posh accent, he mimicked, “‘And oh, by the way, my good fellows, we are betrayed by the bastard Howe, and are to be left spinning in the wind, as it were…’”

  “He said that?”

  “No…” Geoffrey flashed a sheepish grin. “But it’s exactly where we stand.”

  Anne drew a deep breath. “What’s to be done?”

  “We ought commence a strategic withdrawal. We are in a damned bad way, and our ridiculous supply line will be our undoing. We are at half rations now, and still we have difficulties provisioning the troops. All the while, our scouts tell us the Continentals are daily growing their forces. Without Howe, we are badly outnumbered.”

  “Do you think Burgoyne will fall back?”

  “He will not, and, swords in hand, my brothers-in-arms and I will follow wherever he leads.” Geoffrey took Anne by the hand. “But I admit this to your ears only, in the dark, in a raging storm.” Squeezing it tight, he kept his eyes forward. “We cannot conquer this land.”

  Anne shook her head. “This pending confrontation with the Continentals is perhaps questionable, but the King has deep coffers. He will send all the supplies and soldiers needed to secure his colonies…”

  “No matter,” Pepperell said. “We will not win and here’s why: If I were as American as I am an Englishman, and foreign troops landed in my country, I would never lay down my arms. Never! And our army fights a country filled with a relentless multitude of such Americans.”

  To hear this brand of thinking existed among the British officer corps! Anne sat quiet, loath to say anything that might lead Pepperell astray from this line of reasoning. Together they sat for some time, listening as the thunder faded and watching the rain slow to a reasonable patter. She tugged at Geoffrey’s hand. “I’m worried for Sally…”

  “You’re right. We should be on our way.”

  They walked in silence to the baggage camp. Protected by a buffer of tall pines, her tent seemed unruffled by the storm. Standing before the doorway, Anne offered her hand. “Good night, Captain.”

  “You must be aware, Mrs. Merrick, there are not many in this world I make privy to my thoughts.” Geoffrey brought her hand to his lips. “Thank you for putting up with this soldier’s ramblings.”

  Anne reached up on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek, whispering in his ear. “Try not to carry all the burdens of the world upon your shoulders, Mr. Pepperell. Some things are simply beyond control.” She slipped inside her tent.

  Sally bolted upright, wide-awake. Unshuttering their lantern, she exclaimed, “Och! Yer soaked t’ th’ bone!” Snatching up the seam ripper, she hopped up to help Anne undress.

  Anne took the ripper from Sally’s hand. “While I undress, you mix up a batch of hartshorn ink and ready my writing box.”

  Sally swung the writing box out, flipping open the lid. “It must be dire news indeed for yer Redcoat rascal to forgo all attempts at wheedlin’ ye intae his bed.”

  Anne peeked through the tent flaps and watched Pepperell wend his way back to the river path. “It would be a crime, but I think with a little effort, I would be able to turn that man to our cause.”

  “G’won! What’s happened?”

  Anne stepped out of her soaking wet gown. “Howe and his army are in Pennsylvania, and he intends to stay there!”

  “Gweeshtie!” Sally dropped onto her cot. “Ye think we might actually stand a chance of beating Burgoyne?”

  Anne tugged on a dry shift. “At the least, we stand a better chance.”

  After preparing her message in the bottle, Anne extinguished the light and lay down to sleep. She worried the smooth curves of the little wooden heart she now kept beneath her pillow, thinking about the secret
doubts Geoffrey Pepperell admitted to owning, and wondered how many of the Redcoats might feel the same. Perhaps even Howe himself. Poor Geoffrey. No whip bit so sharp as the lash of one’s own conscience.

  Anne glanced over to Sally, sleeping so soundly, her soft snore buzzing in time with the steady rain on the tent top. She always envied Sally’s knack for not allowing the day’s events to trouble a good night’s sleep. Tossing onto her side, Anne had a hard time finding a comfortable position, and was amused to find she craved the springy balsam bed she’d so derided.

  The steady rain drumming on the taut canvas slowed and dwindled to a random scattering of heavy drops loosened by the wind traveling through the treetops. Anne gathered her shawl about her shoulders and stepped outside.

  But for the constant shush of the river rushing by, the camp was dead quiet. Here and there she could see the yellow glow of fires kindled by pickets on guard duty. A refreshing breeze blew in off the river, and the storm clouds slipped quickly across the face of an almost-full moon, like a herd of misty horses racing across the sky.

  Ho-hoo… hoo… hooooh!

  Anne spun to the direction of the owl’s call, heart a-race, half expecting Jack to come sauntering from the trees decked out in befeathered Oneidan finery. She sighed, and pinched back tears.

  Just an owl being an owl.

  Pockets of starry sky became exposed by the wind chasing the storm clouds to the west. Anne faced east, searching for and finding Capella. Pulling her shawl tight to her shoulders, she imagined Jack somewhere looking up at the same bright star.

  One day soon, she thought, smiling.

  Jack handed the paper to General Stark. “And this is the badge the Loyalist militia wear pinned to their hats.”

  A refreshing breeze blew in through the wagon doors at either end of the old Dutch barn serving as headquarters for the American forces, sending the lights into a flicker. The Loyalist badge fluttered from Stark’s grasp like a butterfly.

  The general from New Hampshire turned his attention back to the makeshift table contrived of planking and a pair of sawhorses. He pushed the tin lamp to shine upon the detailed schematic of the German camp Isaac had drawn there with a chunk of charcoal.