The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  John Stark was taller than most men crowding around the table, including Jack and Titus, who both stood over six feet tall. All bones and sinner, Stark was leaner than a piece of venison jerky. His hawk nose was the fulcrum to craggy features and a pair of belligerent blue eyes—all topped off with a shock of contrary white hair. Well regarded as a ruthless fighter in the French and Indian War, and most recently a valiant commander in the battle at Breed’s Hill, John Stark was a better man than most to follow into battle.

  “A-yuh… so these Hessians have planted two pieces of artillery. A very cautious position.” Stark spoke with a strong Yankee twang. He circled the table in silence. “The bastards have fortified and wait on reinforcements from Burgoyne. With their big guns and bayonets—of which we have none—they are confident that they can easily withstand any conventional charge we might launch.” Again, the General slowly shuffled around the drawing, his concentrated gaze assessing the lay of the land from all angles. Stamping to a halt, he looked up to address his officers. “Caution is best answered with feats of derring-do. With our strength in numbers, we shall divide ourselves into four columns, surround the enemy, and attack as one overwhelming body before the damned Germans have chance to be reinforced.”

  The General zinged sword from scabbard and used it to delineate his battle plan in swooping strokes of steel. “Colonel Herrick, you will lead your men around through the woodland, to attack from the west. Nichol—the north. Hobart—south. Stickney and I will take the bridge from the east. As Herrick has the farthest to march his troops into position, he will begin the attack. We will snap our trap closed on your signal, Sam.”

  All heads were bobbing at the brilliance of the bold plan of attack—and that quickly, there was a potent smell of victory in the air.

  Stark touched the tip of his sword to the black bars Isaac had drawn to indicate the German artillery positions. “Grapeshot sprayed from these three-pounders can do us all a world of hurt no matter what our formation. Our plan hinges on silencing their cannons. Are you an able man with that rifle, Mr. Hampton?”

  “Titus and I can do some damage. Isaac and Ned here can shoot the eye from an owl on a moonless night.”

  “Your scouting party will leave in advance of our flanking columns and gain position to pick off every one of their artillerymen.”

  “Yes, sir!” Titus gave Jack a slap on the back, and they both grinned. This was exactly the kind of irregular warfare they excelled at.

  A sudden hullabaloo interrupted the staff meeting—pistol fire and shouting as a mob poured through the doorway, crowding into the barn. Stark leapt up onto the trestle table, calling the tumultuous crowd to order with sword upraised.

  “Arrah! Explain yourselves!”

  The crowd hushed and one man was pushed to the fore.

  “We’ve come in answer to your call to arms, General! One hundred and fifty Massachusetts fighting men ready to feed the bloodybacks and their goddamn Hessian lackeys a supper of lead.”

  “We welcome Massachusetts to our fold,” Stark shouted over their cheering. “And we admire your spirit, sir, but would you fight now on this dark and rainy night?”

  “We’ll fight the Redcoats wherever and whenever we can find ’em, sir!”

  This bravado drew a second rousing cheer, and Stark shouted out, “Oh, there’ll be fighting aplenty tomorrow. If the Lord gives us sunshine, the battle will be hotter than love at haying time.”

  The men burst into laughter, and with a wave of his arm Stark brought them to order. “I promise you all this—if I do not give you fighting enough, I will never call on you to come again. Go back to your people, Massachusetts, and tell them to get some rest while they can.”

  Abuzz with excitement, the Massachusetts men shuffled out, and the General ordered lights out, bidding good night to all as he left to his bed in the farmhouse. Ned and Isaac called to Jack and Titus, pointing to the loft, and they clambered up the ladder to make soft beds of the hayrick.

  Jack could swear Titus began snoring before his head hit the bedroll he used for a pillow. Though his bed was comfortable and dry, Jack could not find sleep as easy as his fellows. Tossing and turning, too keyed up by the prospect of battle in the morning, he went over the details of the daring plan in his mind.

  We are going to prevail.

  The drumming of the rain on the roof shakes slowed to a stop. Jack rose to open the shutters and gaze out on the sea of men who would, on the morrow, become his brothers-in-arms.

  By God, these men have come to fight!

  Compared to Burgoyne’s encampments where tents and equipage were formed and arranged in an organized manner, the Patriot soldiers sprawled out across the fallow field in a haphazard jumble, making their beds under wagons, oiled tarps, and greenwood shelters.

  Jack’s gaze wandered up to the heavens where patches of star-filled sky emerged between great, misty swathes of disbursing clouds, reminding him of Anne’s loose hair caught up on a breeze. It was easy to imagine her standing somewhere, in her gauzy shift, head thrown back, looking up at the same night sky. The wind worked to comb the clouds into thin strands, exposing the brightest star in Andromeda. He smiled and whispered, “Capella.”

  SIX

  Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.

  THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis

  ON THE HUDSON, AFTER THE STORM

  “There!” Anne floated a clean napkin over Sally’s basket. “We’re off!”

  With hems tucked into waistbands to protect them from the mud, Anne and Sally made their way from the kitchen fires with three dozen scones hot off the iron, ready for use as bribe or reward.

  Happy fat white cumuli floated lazily across the crisp blue sky, and it was already a hot and sultry day. The strong sun steamed what Anne had earlier classified as soupy mud into an easier-to-negotiate cakey paste.

  The camp was a hive of activity recuperating from the stormy night. Sodden clothing, bedding, and gear were laid over brush, hung from every available tree limb, and strung from webs of impromptu clothesline. Door flaps were thrown open, airing out waterlogged tents. Canvas, line, and poles damaged by the strong winds were being repaired and restaked.

  Anne ran up to knock at the door of the small farmhouse occupied by the officers’ wives. When the Baroness answered, Anne pressed a dozen scones tied up in a napkin into her hands.

  “Fresh-baked this morning by my girl, Sally—with raisins to please small bellies.” Anne winked at the two girls peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts.

  “How wonderfully kind of you, Mrs. Merrick,” the Baroness exclaimed. “Friedrich relished the last batch immensely.”

  “Is the Baron at home?”

  “Nein.” Irritation furrowed the woman’s brow. “Called from his breakfast to headquarters early this morning.”

  “A soldier’s duty knows no clock.” Anne put on a sympathetic face. “I’m sure everyone is on pins and needles waiting to hear of Colonel Baum’s success at Bennington—is there news?”

  “None yet. My husband is most anxious.”

  “As are we all.” Anne stepped off the stoop. “Good day, Baroness.”

  Anne and Sally marched toward the manor house Burgoyne commandeered for his headquarters, and joined the loose crowd gathering in the yard. Slowing to a stroll, the women assessed the available soldiers, and, spotting a likely target, Sally elbowed Anne.

  “The sergeant leanin’ against th’ newel post—that’s Pennybrig.”

  With a nod Anne said, “Let’s go.”

  Sally waved, and called out, “Hoy! Sergeant Pennybrig!”

  The particularly grizzled veteran turned and his face near broke in two for a smile missing an incisor and the molar beside it. Excepting for the salt-and-pepper stubble edging toward being branded a full-on beard, Pennybrig was strapped and buttoned into his full dress regimentals.

  “We’re
on our way to pay a visit to yer woman,” Sally said in a thicker-than-usual brogue. “How d’ye fend this bright an’ cheery morn?”

  Thin streams of powder-tinged sweat ran from under his side-curl wig to stain the black leather stock buckled about his jowly neck. Handkerchief wadded in his fist, the sergeant mopped his brow and lamented, “I’m as hot as a bride in a featherbed and as wet as her—” Catching himself, his eyes went wide, and he stammered, “Beg pardon, ladies. I’ve an ugly soldier’s tongue on me.”

  Anne smiled. “It is very hot today, Sergeant. Would you care for some water?”

  Sally Offered the man a tin bottle from their basket. As he guzzled half the contents, she asked, “What are ye after, all busked out in full fig on a day like today, anyway?”

  Puffing out an exasperated sigh, he jerked a thumb to the house. “Court-martialing. I bore witness in one case. Wasting a good chunk o’ my day on cowards and deserters.”

  Sally tsked. “Och, a soldier’s duty knows no clock.”

  “Ohhh…” Anne said, “When we saw the crowd we thought there might be word on the success of the expedition to Bennington.”

  Pennybrig took another drink, swiping his sleeve over the mouth of the bottle before handing it back. “The scouts tolt me our reinforcements are still on the road, bogged down in the muck an’ mire.”

  Picking two scones out of the basket, Anne handed them to the Sergeant. “Here’s something to add a bit of pleasure to your day, Sergeant. Fresh-baked this morning.”

  In shagging his head negative, Pennybrig’s wig slipped precariously to the left, and was quickly righted with a deft tug. “I’ve no coin on me, mistress.”

  “Not to worry…” Anne pressed the scones into his hands. “You’ve earned them.”

  The door to the house was flung open and two desolate soldiers shackled in wrist and leg irons were shuffled down the stairs under guard.

  “What did they do?” Sally asked.

  “Deserters.” Pennybrig produced a clean handkerchief, in which he carefully wrapped the scones before slipping them into his pocket. “Sentenced to a striping—five hundred lashes each with the cat-o’-nine.”

  “They’re but boys!” Anne hated to contemplate the damage to be wrought on their young backs and spirits.

  “There’s no cosseting of deserters in the King’s army.” The sergeant pointed to a third man being prodded down the stairs, leg irons clanking. “Here’s the poor bugger I was called to testify against—quit his sentinel post to desert! Scouting party picked him up some twenty miles away, just wandering along the road, la-di-da.” Pennybrig tapped a grubby-nailed forefinger to his temple. “Not right in the head, that one. Thick as manure and only half as useful, if ye ask me. Says he deserted because the washwomen refused t’ tend to his laundry. Pah! I know for a fact Bab Pennybrig is not prone to refusing any man’s coin.”

  “What’s to become of him?”

  “That one’s earned the full measure of Johnny’s wrath—firing squad.”

  “My!” Anne said. “Discipline has grown harsh indeed.”

  “Especially harsh,” Sally added, “if the lad is as thick as ye say.”

  “Aye, ’tis harsh, but the man quit his post and Gentleman Johnny’s making a fair example of him.” The drummers began beating the call to assemble, and like a dog to the whistle, Pennybrig snapped to attention. “The Forty-seventh is being paraded t’ witness the execution, ladies—many thanks fer th’ drink and th’ scones.”

  While the regiment was drummed into formation, the shackled prisoner was marched out to the far end of the pasture. They stripped the man’s regimental jacket from his back, and his white shirt was daubed with an X over his heart, in bootblack. The rhythm of the drum call shifted into a steady roll, and a tow sack was drawn over his head.

  Anne grabbed Sally by the hand and they hurried away. The tension in Anne’s neck was as tight as the cords on the drums, and it seemed they could not move fast enough to escape the shouts of, “Ready—aim—”

  Cracckkkkk.

  The women flinched in unison—shoulders to ears. Anne stopped and turned. Eight puffs of smoke floated like a string of pearls above the head of the onlookers, the shots yet echoing up the river valley.

  Sally pulled Anne by the apron strings. “C’mon…”

  They picked their way down a sloppy path to the river and the laundrywomen working the steaming cauldrons. The children crowded around Sally, and she distributed the remaining scones among them, breaking them in two. “Share, ye wee imps,” she admonished, “or I’ll take a switch to yer hurdies.” Swinging the empty basket overhead, Sally called, “Hoy, Bab! We spied yer man over t’ headquarters. He cuts a fine figure in his fancy coat.”

  Bright as a beet, Bab stirred the wash on the boil. “Was that th’ crack of the firing squad just then?”

  “Aye.” Sally nodded.

  “God rest the poor lad’s soul.” Bab stepped away from the wash to make a sign of the cross. Leaning on her battledore, she closed her eyes and fanned the back of her neck with her hand. “I swan, it’s hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock today.”

  Anne and Sally sat on a tree stump to slip off their shoes and roll off their stockings. “Come wading with us,” Anne said. “It’ll do you some good.”

  Bab kicked off her wooden clogs and the three of them kilted their skirts high and ran down to cool their feet. Anne pointed upriver to a gang of shirtless soldiers splashing around, who were shouting in German and tossing wood and shards of sodden canvas onto the shore.

  “What are they up to?”

  “Salvaging pontoons and bridge decking scattered by the storm,” Bab said, her eyes wandering warily to gaze at the opposite shore. “There’ll be no retreat. Gentleman Johnny means to build us another bridge.”

  Jack squinted in the bright sunlight and watched the column of stoic Indians armed with gun and tomahawk marching into the barnyard, many of them dressed in British red coats. “What have we here?”

  Ned shaded his eyes with one hand. “Those are Stockbridge Indians.”

  “Mahicans so loyal to the British they were near wiped out fighting in the French War,” Isaac explained. “So few in numbers now, they live with the support of the Oneida.”

  “I heard the Stockbridge fought with the Americans at Breed’s Hill, but I didn’t believe it.” Ned folded his arms across his chest, head shaking in wonder. “Koué! Never thought to see the day when Mahicans would take up arms against the Redcoat…”

  The new influx of manpower was quickly welcomed and integrated into the four columns forming on the fallow field, more than two thousand men ready and eager to do battle. Scraps of foolscap were passed along the lines, and the militiamen pinned the counterfeit Loyalist badges to their hats with plenty of high-spirited laughter and bravado. Jack, Titus, Ned, and Isaac stood off to the side, divested of all heavy gear—traveling light with but weapons, pouch, and powder horn. Ned bounced on the balls of his feet, and Jack saw Isaac quiet his nephew with a hand to his shoulder.

  The troops pulled to full attention when General Stark emerged from the barn. Mounted on a big gray gelding, back ramrod straight, he traversed up and down the ranks, his face a craggy and serious study. Rising up on his stirrups, Stark pointed west and shouted for all to hear. “There are your enemies—and they are ours, or this night Molly Stark sleeps a widow!”

  “Huzzah!” Fists and rifles punched the air, and Jack bellowed his cheer, feeling as if his lungs would burst from his chest. On Stark’s signal the drummer boys beat a marching cadence, and in a thump and a clankety-clank, the first two columns were set in motion, splitting like fish from the bone into opposite directions.

  On the same signal, Jack and his fellow scouts peeled off in a trot. Running along the river flats, they splashed across a small creek feeding into the Walloomsac River, and parted ways—Titus and Isaac heading toward the bridge, Jack and Ned toward the wooded ridge.

  Rifles strapped across their backs,
Jack and Neddy ran up and along the ridgeline to a place northeast of the German artillery redoubt. Stopping to search for a suitable tree at the edge of the woodland, Ned leapt to grab hold of a branch on an age-old sugar maple, swinging up to straddle its lowest limb. “This is the one.”

  Leaning down with arm outstretched, Ned pulled Jack along, and then clambered up the ladder of limbs with the speed and agility of a squirrel. When breathless Jack caught up, he found Ned sitting comfortable on a sturdy limb, about three-quarters of the way up, his rifle laid across his lap, and without a word he pointed to the clear view of the German cannon seated behind a breastwork of logs about two hundred yards away. Jack settled onto a limb just below Ned.

  “I’ve never seen any human climb a tree with your kind of speed.”

  Ned began swinging his legs. “My Oneida name—Sharontakawas—it means ‘tree shaker.’ On a hunt, I was always the one chosen to climb up to scout from on high.”

  “Tree Shaker.” Jack laughed. “After today, they will call you ‘Widow Maker.’”

  Ned grinned. “That’s a good name, too.”

  Neither Jack nor Ned suffered any qualms applying their hands and eyes to a battle tactic decried by the British as uncivilized and barbaric. Charged with nervous energy, they both reviewed the condition of their weapons, and arranged their shooting accoutrements.

  When compared to a British smoothbore Brown Bess, Jack’s rifle seemed ill suited for the battlefield. Lacking a bayonet, its rifle barrel took twice as long to load, making it a senseless weapon for use in European-style warfare. But the range and accuracy of an American rifle made it the perfect sharpshooter’s weapon. In the hands of a marksman shooting from under cover at a distance, the rifle wrought pinpoint damage, and this woodsman’s skill was an advantage the rebels were learning to exploit.

  To make for quicker loading and improve their rate of fire, both Jack and Ned had prepared a bullet block. Nothing more than a paddle of wood augered through with a dozen holes matching the caliber of the weapon, each hole fitted with a lead ball wrapped in a greased patch of fabric. In the heat of battle, the board could be handily positioned over the bore, the bullet more quickly rammed down the tight-fitting grooved barrel to the breech. Their bullet blocks were attached to sturdy shoulder straps crossing over chest, nestled alongside powder horns filled to the brim with perfectly dry gunpowder.