The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  Jack followed Ned’s example, and wore his priming horn fashioned from the pointed tip of a deer antler on a stout thong around his neck. The hollowed-out antler contained the fine-grained gunpowder granules to be tapped into the frizzen on the flintlock to catch the spark when flint struck steel to charge the shot. A shooter had to carefully control the prime—not enough would result in a misfire; too much could severely damage one’s weapon and person.

  Jack studied the redoubt through his spyglass, counting heads. “We have seven gunners to dispatch.” He passed the glass to Ned.

  Ned peered through, one eye asquint. “Hmmm… those blue coats aren’t as easy to mark as the red on a day like today.”

  From their vantage point, they had a good view of the overall encampment, renewing Jack’s admiration for Stark’s daring strategy to divide his force and completely surround the enemy. He fingered the paper pinned to his hat and only hoped the subterfuge would fool the Brunswicker pickets into allowing the militiamen to gain their positions according to the battle plan.

  He and Ned set their flintlocks at half cock and settled in to wait for the rebel forces to encircle the enemy, sharing what was left of their pemmican and a few stale wheat cakes—not a bad breakfast when washed down with a gulp of peachy from Jack’s flask.

  Their backbones were instantly stiffened by cracklings of sporadic gunfire coming from the west. Standing to peer out beyond their cover of branches, Jack could see flashes and puffs of smoke coming from gunfire in the clearing around the bridge to the east.

  “They’ve begun.”

  Within the cannon redoubt, the German gunners lurched to their feet to peer over the breastwork. Another volley of shot sent them scrambling to ready their cannon.

  Ned and Jack regained solid seats on their tree limbs and brought rifles to full cock and stocks to shoulders, settling on their targets. Jack looked up, the mottled pattern of shadow and sunlight coming through the maple leaves dancing across Ned’s brown face. “The sergeant using the quadrant is in my sights,” he said.

  Ned nodded. “I have a clear shot at the gunner with the ram.”

  In a unison crack and boom of rifle fire, the man with the quadrant and the man with the ram dropped from sight. The Germans were rattled for a moment, confused by the direction of the attack. Discipline willed out, and the artillery commander quickly reorganized his crew into a more defensive posture, working low behind the cover of the breastwork. At the same time, Jack and Ned reloaded.

  “Keep your eye on those red puffballs they have on the tops of their hats,” Jack advised.

  Ned pulled the trigger, and dispatched the crew commander. “Four left,” he said, pouring a measure of powder down the smoking barrel of his rifle.

  Jack pulled his trigger. “Three.”

  As Jack and Ned concentrated on the time-consuming process of reloading their weapons—swiping the barrels clean, pouring powder, ramming patch and ball, charging the frizzen pan—the Germans whisked off their hats and shaded their eyes from the sun, using what they knew to be but a minute or two at the most to try to locate their far-off assailants. One man shouted and pointed to the telltale smoke trail floating away from the sugar maple. The artillerymen ducked low and swiveled the cannon around, taking aim at the revealed position.

  Heart a-race, Jack pulled weapon to shoulder and peered along his sights, methodically moving the barrel from spot to spot, searching for a good target. A plume of smoke wiggled up from the redoubt, and Ned gave Jack’s shirttail a yank as he scrambled down the tree. “Move!” he shouted.

  They leapt from limb to limb, catching clothing on branches, scraping skin on rough bark. The boom of the three-pounder was followed by the unmistakable whirr of a heavy iron ball hurtling with unimaginable speed through the air. The ball hit the mark dead-on in a crash and crack of wood, shaking the two men out to tumble and roll onto the ground like ripe fruit in a shower of wood shards, branches, and leaves.

  Ned did not waste a second. Leaping to his feet, he scrambled back up the damaged tree. Jack gave his head a shake to resettle his brains and followed after.

  Shouts and heavy musket fire resounded from the opposite direction. Stark’s two columns charged across the bridge. The dragoon squadrons holding the redoubt on the high ground beneath the cannon were forming to withstand a mighty rebel assault.

  With admirable German tenacity, the three remaining gunners heaved their gun around toward this new threat, swabbing the steaming muzzle and ramming powder charge and muslin bags filled with deadly grapeshot with machinelike precision. Not bothering with instruments, they simply pointed the muzzle at the charging mass of patriot soldiers.

  His face a study in calm and steady deliberation, Ned took aim and dropped the gunner holding the linstock—the long rod wrapped with the slow match fuse used to light the charge.

  “Neddy!”

  Like jugglers at the fair, Jack tossed up his loaded rifle at the same time the spent weapon was dropped down. With a calm grace, Ned cocked the gun, pulled quick aim, and picked off a courageous gunner just as he lunged forward to pluck the smoking linstock from the hands of his fallen comrade. The sole surviving artilleryman cast a panicked glance toward the maple tree, and hurled himself over the breastwork, abandoning the cannon.

  “Done!” Jack shouted. They scrambled down the tree, finished reloading, and ran to join the chaos at the foot of the hill.

  Gunfire rang out fast and furious. The encampment was shrouded in smoke, and the field was littered with blue-coated humps of fallen soldiers.

  “Jack Hampton!” Titus shouted from behind a choice cluster of tree stumps and rubble, waving his hat. “Over here!”

  Jack and Ned ran in a crouch, dodging around the fallen. With musket fire whizzing overhead, they slid in to join their fellows.

  “What took you so long?” Titus said with a grin, ramming a load down the barrel of his rifle.

  “Damn Germans managed to shake us out of our perch.” Rolling over to lie on his stomach, Jack waited for a blue jacket to move into his sights and he fired.

  A rifle was best used from a position of cover, where the shooter could maintain protection while reloading. Jack and his fellow scouts quickly spent the ammunition on their bullet boards, and were forced to resort to fumbling with individual patches and lead balls.

  Assaulted from every direction, the Brunswickers’ steady fire began to slow, and then, after a few sporadic pops and flares, the German line went quiet.

  Jack rolled to lean back against their cover. He drew a deep breath, and coughed, lungs burning from breathing in acrid sulfur smoke. His shirt stuck to his skin with a glue of sweat, dust, and dirt, and his rifle was blazing hot in his hands. Mouth equally gummy, he longed for a drink from his flask to wash away the coppery taste of blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue in the fall from the tree. “Sounds like they’ve run out of either powder or ammunition.”

  “Or both,” said Titus. “If our fellows have taken their ammunition wagons as planned.”

  “Good.” Isaac wiped the sweat from his face on his sleeve and laid his rifle aside. “My gun is useless—fouled.”

  “Mine, too.” Ned strapped his rifle across his back and unhooked the tomahawk from his belt.

  In the sudden quiet Jack became aware of the ringing in his ears. “You think they’ll surrender?”

  Isaac tugged his battle club free. “I wouldn’t.”

  Jack and Titus followed suit. Armed with tomahawks and razor-sharp knives slipped inside knee garters, they coiled into a crouch, ready for anything.

  A breeze swept across the field, lifting the heavy gun smoke. As if on this signal, three sharp blasts of a whistle accompanied by orders shouted in a guttural tongue snapped all rebel eyes to the redoubt. With a barbaric battle cry that Jack imagined must have once sent a chill up the spine of Roman centurions ages ago, the besieged Brunswickers charged down from their defensive position in a whirl and fury, bright sabers upraised, bayonets hon
ed and shining glorious in the sunshine. These hardened faces looked determined to cut a way through the rebel lines. The Patriot militiamen sprang forward and met the enemy with a flash of musket fire and a clank of edged steel.

  The clash was fierce, but short-lived. The outnumbered Germans were soon vanquished by the overwhelming rebel force. As Burgoyne’s mercenaries tossed aside their weapons and fell to their knees with arms upraised in surrender, the scruffy Patriot army—in all their homespun, nut-dyed glory—raised their old and mismatched weapons, and shouted in victorious salute.

  “LIBERTY!!”

  In wonder, toothy smiles began to brighten the grimy and breathless Patriot faces with the realization that they had not only outwitted and outfought professional, trained troops; they had protected what was theirs at the Bennington depot, and also prospered greatly to the tune of hundreds of muskets, wagonloads of ammunition, swords, and two much-coveted artillery pieces.

  “We won!!!!” Jack linked arms with Titus. Laughing and spinning round and round, they danced a noisy jig.

  Sally whisked the tent flap open. “There’s a havoc in th’ camp!”

  Anne tossed stockings and garters to the side, slipped shoes on bare feet, hoisted her skirts, and ran to catch up with Sally, following the river path toward the General’s headquarters and the sound of drums beating the call to assemble.

  The commotion centered on the makeshift parade ground at the manor house, where Burgoyne sat mounted straight and handsome in full and sparkling regalia on a prancing steed, leading the 47th Foot in formation from the camp.

  Anne and Sally pushed their way through the throng to find Bab Pennybrig and the Crisps waving bits of pure white linen edged with lace as the regiment marched past.

  “What’s happened?” Anne asked.

  “A complete disaster!” Emma Crisp wailed.

  Bab Pennybrig did not contradict her friend’s hysterics. “Baum’s Brunswickers and the Hessian reinforcements Burgoyne sent have all been crushed in a rebel onslaught. Pennybrig says nine hundred are killed or captured!”

  Anne’s breath caught in her throat. “My gracious!”

  “Never trusted these Germans, not me,” Emma Crisp declared. “A fushionless, mim-mouthed lot, always singing their dreary hymns.”

  “So where’s yer man an’ th’ Forty-seventh off to?” Sally asked Bab Pennybrig.

  “Rescue force.” Even stoic Bab seemed stricken to the core, the corners of her mouth dragged downward with worry. “Gentleman Johnny’s leading it himself to recover and escort stragglers who may have escaped capture. As things stand now, our general’s lost a full seventh of his corps on this escapade, and gained nary and naught for the effort.”

  “What a dismal turn of events… I’m… Oh…” Anne tugged the hankie from her pocket, pressing it over her mouth to conceal her inexcusable happiness, and she slumped against Sally for support.

  Sally clutched her by the hand. “Are ye unwell?”

  “The heat, I think… combined with the ill news.” Anne heaved a ragged sigh. “I’m feeling… overcome.”

  The laundrywomen turned and cooed, whisking out their hankies to fan Anne’s flushed face. “Best take yer mistress for a lie-down, Sally,” Bab advised.

  “Aye—look at her,” Emma Crisp concurred. “Th’ poor thing’s gone as red as a cardinal’s cloak.”

  Sally wound a supporting arm around Anne’s waist. “Dinna fash, ladies. She’s prone to going all egg-shelly. A cool cloth to the brow and a tot of rum will put her to rights.”

  Anne leaned her head on her friend’s sturdy shoulder and they headed slowly back to their tent with somber, downcast faces, matching the mood of the soldiers and officers gathered throughout the camp muttering in worried groups. Dipping into their tent, Sally pulled the door flaps shut and tied the ties tight. She turned to face Anne.

  They both burst into wide grins, and in the narrow aisle between their camp beds, the women kicked off their sensible shoes, lifted their skirts, and danced a silent jig.

  SEVEN

  We have put, Sir, our hands to the plough, and cursed be he that looketh back.

  THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis

  SEPTEMBER 18, 1777

  HAVING CROSSED OVER THE HUDSON

  The young grenadier dug down into his pocket, pulling forth a two-penny piece. Holding it pinched between thumb and forefinger, he offered the precious coin to Anne in exchange for the letter she’d written on his behalf.

  “No charge.” Anne rejected his payment with a shake of her head, handing over the sheet of foolscap. No matter the color of their coats, she could not bring herself to accept any payment for writing the letters some of the soldiers readied before marching into battle.

  The Redcoat didn’t argue the point, relieved to slip his hard-earned silver and the folded page into his breast pocket. “My thanks t’ ye, Widow Merrick. It’s true what they say—yer possessed of a kind soul.”

  Since the army crossed the Hudson into what was solid rebel territory, Anne’s pen was kept busy writing these letters bidding farewell to dear mothers, beloved wives, and sweethearts—often begging forgiveness for some slight or real transgression, or giving instruction on how to disburse personal possessions. Every letter assumed the worst, and every letter asked for prayers.

  The onset of twilight brought with it a horde of mosquitoes to further plague the Redcoat army, and Anne killed the leviathan feasting on her forearm with a smack. She licked her thumb, and swiped away the sticky smear left behind. Even the mosquitoes seemed bolder and fiercer on this side of the river.

  She packed her wares. Peddler’s box on her back, and her hands left free to swat at will, she marched a quickstep back to the crowded site at the very outskirts of the camp where sutlers, peddlers, and campwives were cloistered by order of Burgoyne. Anne was careful to note the placement of every sentry on picket duty along the way. Posted at close and regular intervals, the new picket line was quite a gauntlet, and she could not figure a way to get beyond it without being seen.

  After the sound trouncing received at Bennington, Burgoyne tarried for several weeks at the Fort Miller camp, rebuilding the pontoon bridge and—most important—gathering provisions via his tenuous supply line stretching all the way back to Canada. Once ten tons of provisions had been horded, and careful rationing instituted, Burgoyne led his army across the Hudson. The General was intent on getting to Albany, as ordered, whether Howe was there to meet him or not.

  Three days before, mounted on his charger, Burgoyne greeted each regiment as it stepped off the bridge, with his hat raised high and a shouted, “Britons never retreat!” His soldiers cheered in response.

  Once the army, artillery, and resupplied baggage train completed the crossing, General Burgoyne ordered the floating bridge dismantled. From her position at the tail end of the snaking column crossing over the Hudson, Anne watched the engineers release the pontoons from their moorings. As the last link to supply and communication tumbled past on the current, she could not help but admire the dogged purpose these British exhibited. Burgoyne had made certain there would be no turning back.

  The bravado displayed at the river crossing was soon squashed flatter than the mosquito on her arm. The Patriot army owned the west bank of the river, and Burgoyne’s progress forward was at once relegated to worse than a snail’s pace.

  The only road was so severely damaged, the British columns were forced to march in a tortuous single file most of the way. To further bedevil the Redcoat advance, the bridges crossing over the many creeks and streams feeding the Hudson had all been destroyed, causing long periods of complete standstill, waiting for the engineers to jury-rig new crossings.

  The vulnerable and drawn-out column was hemmed in on the right by the Hudson, and on the left by very steep, menacing, tree-covered hills. Redcoat scouts and foragers had little room in which to reconnoiter, and they were so immediately harried, ambushed, or captured by the rebels, Burgoyne was soon forced to put an end to
sending out any scouting parties. He and his seven-thousand-man army stumbled forward veritably blindfolded, not knowing the whereabouts or numbers of the rebel army, or how it was preparing to engage.

  Every step forward contributed to a palpable unease. There was not a single beast of any type to be seen—cattle, sheep, pigs, even deer were all missing from the landscape. The few wilderness farm fields the army passed stood burned or thoroughly gleaned by their unseen enemy.

  A terrifying rumor warning of rebel sharpshooters lurking behind every tree and stone soon spread up and down the column like wildfire, putting everyone on edge. The rumor was soon affirmed as fact when a group of soldiers—lured by the prospect of a likely potato patch—breached the picket line and were mown down in an instant crack and flash of rifle fire.

  With no way or hope of replenishing his precious supply of fighting men, Burgoyne railed at this loss for “the pitiful consideration of potatoes.” Orders were issued for all corps to proceed completely armed and fit out for instant action. To guard against rebel infiltration and maintain control over his troops, a dense picket line was mandated in camp and a complex system of passwords instituted. It was made clear to one and all, man or woman—cross the picket line, and, if the rebels didn’t plant a lead ball between your eyes, Gentleman Johnny would see you hanged for disobeying orders.

  Anne stopped to reposition leather straps on her peddler’s pack. She’d hiked three miles to the front lines and learned nothing of value.