The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  What a waste of time.

  Burgoyne’s high-command officers were so deeply embroiled in preparing for conflict with the rebel army, she hadn’t even seen Geoffrey Pepperell, much less spoken to him, since they’d crossed the Hudson. The Baroness and Lucy Lennox were equally sequestered from their husbands, and Anne found her main streams of intelligence had run bone-dry.

  No matter. Impossible to pass any messages, anyway. Up ahead, she spied Sally walking along the very edge of the path in a listless stroll, her basket dangling by two fingers. Anne called out, “Sally!” and ran to catch up with her friend.

  “Any news?”

  Sally shrugged. “More of the same. Everyone’s on pins and needles. The soldiers ready for battle. Their womenfolk dread it.”

  Anne nodded. “I walked all the way up to the front line where the Twenty-fourth is camped. You can actually hear the Continental drums echoing from their works somewhere on the heights.”

  “We’re tha’ close?” Sally’s voice wavered, and her big blue eyes went watery.

  Anne nodded. “There’s bound to be a clash any day.”

  Choking back a sob, Sally hiked her skirt and darted off in a sprint. Anne chased after, and slowed to a walk upon seeing her friend duck inside their tent. She took a deep breath before following her inside.

  Sally lay on her cot facing the tent wall, a single creased page in her hand. From the sad sighs and sniffling, Anne knew Sally was reading, for perhaps the thousandth time, the last letter she’d received from David back in Peekskill.

  Poor thing! The closer they moved toward the Continental Army and the inevitable battle, the harder it was on her.

  “Landsakes!” Anne clapped her hands together, killing a mosquito hovering over Sally’s head. “These beasts are big enough to be harnessed.” Wielding a damp towel she’d twirled into a whip, Anne went on a hunt, killing half a dozen biters lurking along the canvas roof. She then uncorked a bottle of lavender oil, and massaged the scent onto her arms, face, and neck to keep the bugs at bay. She offered the oil to Sally. “You should put some on.”

  Sally didn’t budge, so Anne poured a dab onto her friend’s exposed forearm, rubbing it in. “You don’t want to catch a fever, do you, Sal?”

  “Och, Annie, can ye leave me be?” Sally drew her blanket over her head. “If ye want to be a help, go and see to the wee ones next door. The poor things are being et alive.”

  “Come with me.”

  “I’ve no’ th’ temper for any more idle chatter this day.” Sally’s voice was very tired, and she waved Anne off. “G’won—off wi’ ye. There are scones for them… there… in my basket.”

  Relieved to have an excuse to escape the thickening brew of doom and gloom percolating inside their tent, Anne dropped the lavender oil into the basket and snatched up a lantern before heading out the door. “I’ll see to our light as well.”

  General Burgoyne had the camp followers confined to a small flat area along the river shore, organizing the usual helter-skelter camp into a tight military order, creating a very crowded and noisome tent city.

  Sally and Anne had acquainted themselves with their close neighbors, and had taken a special liking of the campwives on their left. Cheerful, tiny things with dark hair, pixie faces, and lilting Welsh accents, the two sisters were married to a pair of brothers serving in the 47th. The Sandiland women lived on the strength of the regiment, and were allowed to draw rations from army stores by working alongside Bab Pennybrig in the laundry.

  With a baby balanced on one knee, Viney Sandiland sat near the smoke of a small fire, forming handfuls of unleavened wheat dough into flat cakes to bake on the broken blade of a spade-turned-griddle. She greeted Anne with a smile.

  “’Ullo, there, Mrs. Merrick! How’re ye keeping?”

  Anne held up the basket. “I’ve lavender and scones for the children.”

  “Ust!” With a snap of her apron, Viney shooed off the two little boys squabbling over the only other campstool. “Have a sit-down, missus—please. This is a surprise. Where’s your Sally today?”

  Anne sat down, catching one of the boys by the shirttail, she trapped him between her knees. She quickly broke off a piece of scone and handed it to him, putting an instant halt to her captive’s wriggling. “Sally’s not feeling up to the mark today.”

  “Poor dab! Coming onto her monthly, is she?”

  Anne nodded. “I suspect so.”

  “Good evening t’ ye, Mrs. Merrick.” Viney’s younger sister, Prue, waddled out from inside the tent. About to give birth at any moment, she looked as if she’d hidden a ripe melon under her skirt. Prue’s advanced pregnancy did not deter her from chasing after three assorted wee Sandilands, lining them up to wait their turn for scones and lavender.

  “It’s good you have your own fire today,” Anne noted. “The mosquitoes are especially voracious, and the smoke will help to keep them away.”

  “Voracious,” Viney repeated in a way Anne could tell the word was being set aside for future use.

  Prue swiped a loose tendril of dark hair back under her mobcap, and bent over the fire to give stir to a kettle of pease porridge simmering over the hot coals. “Our men brought us a supply of firewood so’s we wouldn’t have to fight for a place amongst the mob at the kitchen fire.”

  Anne poured lavender oil onto her palms, and got to work on the boy she’d trapped, briskly rubbing it onto his face and neck. “You know,” she said to him, moving down to his scabby arms, “I once was Mama to a sturdy little boy like you.”

  Prue glanced over. “What happened to him—your lad?”

  “The smallpox. Jemmy was but six when he was stricken,” Anne said, surprising herself with how matter-of-fact her loss sounded. It didn’t seem so long ago she wouldn’t have been able to speak Jemmy’s name without choking back tears. “He’s gone from me five years this spring.”

  “Did ye have any others?”

  “No. Only the one boy.”

  “How sad for you.” Viney pushed the shovel blade onto the embers. “I lost my eldest girl to the pox last summer.”

  Prue stepped around and gave her sister’s shoulder a squeeze. “All of us caught it—every one.”

  “How awful.” Anne winced. Not counting the baby on the way, the sisters had five boys between them.

  “Don’t know how we pulled through,” Prue said. “And I suppose we were lucky to lose only one, but we do miss our little Mary…”

  “That we do, sister.” Viney blew out a sad sigh. “It’s hard, sometimes—this army life.”

  Anne gave the boy a hug and a pat on the bum, and lured the next little Sandiland into position with half a scone. “These past few days since crossing the river have been more than trying.”

  “Poor Prue.” Viney nodded. “About to hatch, and here we’re on the move again. The heat is so wearin’ on her.”

  “It seems t’ be gettin’ cooler by night, though.” The violet circles beneath Prue’s eyes told the tale of sleepless nights in their hot and crowded tent. She arched her back and ground her knuckles into her spine. “The trees are beginning to turn—I spied more than a few red leaves on the maples along the river, and last night I slept like the dead, din’t I?”

  Anne stood and used a stout stick to move the porridge kettle from the embers. “I suspect your sleeping sound has less to do with the weather, and more to do with your being exhausted.”

  “Exhausted,” Viney repeated with a nod to her sister.

  Anne gestured to the stool. “You ought sit and rest a bit—raise your feet up…”

  “I’m afeart th’ stool won’t bear my weight.” Prue laughed as she sank down to sit on the ground with legs outstretched, the space between them immediately filled with a tumble of wrestling boys.

  Anne divided a scone between the boys, quickly rubbed them down, and sent them off to play. “Lavender is said to make one sleepy.” She handed the bottle to Prue, who, with eyes closed, rubbed oil into the back of her neck.


  Viney shifted to cradle her fussing baby. Untying the string on her blouse, she put him to breast. “I haven’t had a tidy night’s sleep myself since before we crossed the river—toss and turn with worry, I do.”

  “Our Viney cannot abide the not knowing.” Prue massaged the last of the oil onto swollen ankles and feet.

  “Maddening, it is. I but close my eyes and my brains take off in a spinning reel.” Viney ticked off her worries on her fingers. “When will our men be ordered into battle? When will Prue’s baby decide to be born? How on earth are we to stretch half rations to fill so many bellies? Where will we winter? How are we to find shoes for all the boys?” Viney gave her head a shake to dispel her worries. “Fain would I be back home in Swansea with Mum and Dad…”

  Prue’s pretty blue eyes snapped open. “Tripe! Not only would you be about committing murder after two days with Mum nipping at your neck; being apart from Sam for more than a fortnight would find you drowned in a sea of your own tears.”

  “You tell true, sister.” Viney giggled. “I could never stand to be parted overlong from my Sam. And I truly couldn’t bear not being able t’ wish my man Godspeed afore he marches into battle.”

  “And if, heaven forbid, either of our lads are wounded,” Prue added, “with us here, they are certain t’ be tended by the most loving hands…”

  “Aye, that,” Viney agreed. “But yet, army life is hard on womankind, in’t it?”

  “’Tis,” Prue agreed with a single and emphatic nod. “Awful hard.”

  Anne lit the wick on her lamp, bid the Sandiland women good evening, and went back to her tent, finding Sally curled on her side under a blanket, the letter from David still gripped between her fingers. She hung the lantern from the ridgepole, and adjusted the wick to bathe the tent in light. “That’s better for reading, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t need any light.” Sally’s voice was gruff with tears. “David’s words are etched on my heart.”

  Anne began rifling through their dwindling stores, coming up with an almost empty sack of dried peas, and a shriveled rind of bacon. “The Sandilands have a fire. What say I cook us up a little porridge?”

  “Not on my account. I’ve no stomach for food of any sort.”

  Anne sank down on her cot. “Neither do I.”

  She fell back, staring up at the canvas. Every scrap of information they unearthed since crossing the river pointed to the inevitability of the upcoming battle. She and Sally both knew the temper of these Redcoats. No matter the hardships that must be endured, nor the odds for success, they were determined to prevail.

  And somewhere in those hills, only a few miles distant, David, Jack, and Titus, as well, were committed to joining in the fight that was bound to ensue. Anne so wished she could, like the Sandiland sisters, be there to bid her men Godspeed before the battle.

  No matter how swift and desperate their last tryst had been, she was happy and grateful for the precious night spent under the stars wrapped in her lover’s arms, but it was troubling to think the sight of Jack following Ned into the mist might be the last she’d ever see of him.

  No good comes from thinking the worst.

  Anne turned to see Sally’s cot trembling with her stifled sobbing. The war left Sally and David separated for more days than they’d ever been together. It was no wonder she grew so upset at the news of the Continental drums. The last time David engaged in a battle, he’d barely come out alive.

  It was a good thing she and Sally had decided not to flee New York as most had, and were there to tend to his wounds properly. Anne shuddered. Her brother would have certainly perished otherwise.

  “I’ve been thinking, Sally,” she whispered. “Since crossing the river, we haven’t been able to cull any sort of information, and with the picket line so tight, we’ve no way to pass along what we might learn, anyway. Burgoyne’s situation and actions are just as clear to the Patriot scouts as they are to us—probably more so.”

  Sally whimpered and waved her hand, as if shooing off a mosquito.

  “What I’m saying is I see no point in our staying on any longer.” Anne jumped up to her feet and untied her apron. “As a matter of fact, I’m going right now to ask Burgoyne for a pass to leave the camp.”

  Sally bolted upright and, swinging her legs to the side, she sniffed and swiped the wet from her pillow-creased cheek with the back of her hand. “D’ye think he’ll let us go?”

  “I don’t see why not. After all, the sale of scones and foolscap are not essential to his efforts here.” Anne slipped off her mobcap, smoothed her hair, and tied the ribbons of her best straw hat under her chin.

  “Bide a wee.” Sally rummaged through her pocket and brought out the rouge pot and thumbed a little color onto Anne’s lips and cheeks.

  Anne pulled her friend in for a hard hug. “Wipe your tears and start packing—we’ll leave at first light. By sunset tomorrow, we’ll be with David and Jack in the Continental camp.”

  Jack, Titus, Isaac, and Ned finished strapping on their gear and ran to catch up with David Peabody. Regardless of his bad leg, Anne’s brother led them through the camp at a quick pace.

  “Did I hear right?” Jack asked. “Did you say Stark has quit the fight?”

  “That’s right,” David said over his shoulder. “Packed up and left, taking his men with him… said their time was up.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jack said. “Why’d Stark even bother marching his militia here?”

  David pushed a loose shock of hair behind his ear. “Stark’s a goddamn prickly bastard, always finding cause for slight. He’s made a big show of it this time, marching in as the heroes of Bennington, only to turn and take his men home.”

  “Why does General Gates let them leave when you say we need every man we can get?” Titus asked.

  “Gates and Stark are always at each other.” David punched the flats of his fists together to illustrate the relationship. “Stark thinks he ought to be in charge of this army, and carries a grudge about being passed over for promotion.”

  Jack shrugged. “The man is a great field commander—proved it at Breed’s Hill and Bennington, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but this is neither the time nor place for such theatrics,” David said. “Not with the likes of John Burgoyne knocking on our door.”

  Titus said, “General Stark knows how to fight and win…”

  “Will you two stop?” David snapped. “Stark is gone and you’ve been reassigned to scout for Colonel Morgan. Take my word for it—you won’t miss that bastard Stark for a moment. Morgan is of the same ornery ilk.”

  David Peabody was so like his sister, Anne, and Jack could not help but sometimes smile at their similarities in both look and temperament. From the way his brow furrowed in irritation, to his impatience with perceived foolishness, to the rich shade and texture of his chestnut hair, it was clear they were siblings. David’s face was more drawn since last they’d met, with deep, dark circles beneath his eyes. Anne would think him too thin, and Sally would be compelled to fatten him up.

  That David was alive, let alone back serving as an officer in Washington’s army, was a wonder of sorts. Jack and Titus had found him unconscious and badly shot in the shoulder and leg after the battle on Long Island. They’d tended to his wounds and fever as best they could and were able to smuggle him back to New York and into Anne’s and Sally’s more capable hands. Captain David Peabody survived his wounds with a definite limp, but he’d managed to somehow incorporate this handicap into a swinging gait at a speed suited to a young soldier of twenty-six years.

  Regardless of his limp, once recovered and returned to duty, General Washington made use of David’s keen mind and organizational skills, assigning him to the task of maintaining the league of scouts and spies that were the eyes and ears of the Continental Army in this contest with Burgoyne.

  “Here they are,” David announced with a sweep of his arm. “Morgan’s Provisional Rifle Corps. Five hundred of the best crack shots in these
United States.”

  The trek through the Continental Army camp gave evidence that none of the American regiments could come close to the tight order that exemplified a Redcoat camp, but Morgan’s Rifle Corps encampment had even more of a rough frontier quality about it.

  There was little tentage in evidence. Dressed in a hodgepodge array of fringed hunting shirts, Indian-style leggings, and breechclouts, the rangers lounged around their fires under brush bowers and lean-tos. As David coursed a path betwixt and between the variety of makeshift shelters, Jack could see the everyday habits of these men were similar to those he and Titus had developed in their time spent with Isaac and Ned.

  Thin strips of venison dried on racks over smoky fires. One barefoot soldier stood upon a stretched-out hide, while his mate traced the outline of his foot for a new pair of moccasins. Camp women mingled freely with these soldiers, cooking, washing, and mending, and the men whiled away the time playing games of buttons and beans, fine-tuning their flintlocks, casting supplies of lead ball, and sharpening their tomahawks and knives.

  Jack and Titus grinned at each other, and Ned and Isaac nodded in approval.

  “See the tent and the fellow standing afore it? Under the big oak?” David pointed ahead.

  “The one shaving?” Neddy asked.

  David nodded. “That’s him—Daniel Morgan.”

  The Colonel’s standard-issue wedge tent was located on a high patch at the edge of a stubbly cornfield. In the shade of the oak, a plank-and-trestle table was covered with a scatter of maps and papers kept from flying off with strategically placed stones. A young man—the Colonel’s aide—sat on a rock with a rag, spit-polishing a pair of half boots.

  “Captain Morgan.” David swept off his tricorn in salute, and tucked it under his arm. “Here are the scouts I promised. They’ve been working the area for several months now, making life difficult for Gentleman Johnny.”

  Standing shirtless and shoeless in a pair of brown leather breeches, it was plain to see Colonel Morgan was a big man—a very fit man—a solid man accustomed to the rigors of hard work. The graying hair on his thick chest matched the thatch on his head, which he wore pulled back in a stubby braid. He eyed them all with suspicion, at the same time swirling his shaving brush into a thick lather on his face. “Scouts…” he said, swiping the soap from his lips with a flick of his thumb. “Have any of you fellows ever ventured in to where the bullets fly?”