The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  Jack let his rifle slip from his shoulder, dropping it to rest breech end in the dirt. “We’ve just come from Bennington.”

  “Hmmmph.” Morgan grunted. “Been scouting long for Stark?”

  “Not long at all,” Jack said. “We’ve been working on our own—mostly harrying Burgoyne’s advance and passing along intelligence. David—I mean, Captain Peabody—he sent us to scout for Stark. After Ned and Isaac here were able to infiltrate the German camp, we gave him the lay of the land. Stark figured his battle plan, then used us to take out the Hessian artillery.”

  “After dispatching the artillery, we joined the general mayhem,” Titus added.

  “You his slave?” Morgan asked Titus, pointing to Jack.

  “No, sir. I’m a free man.”

  “And my friend,” Jack was quick to add.

  “Friends, you say?” Morgan tossed his soap brush into the steaming bowl. “Spare me a moment, boys, but this crooked face of mine requires some attention when put to razor’s edge.”

  The Colonel turned to concentrate on the small looking glass hanging by a thong from a nail pounded into the tree trunk. Watching him swipe the edge of the razor across his skin with quick deliberation, it seemed to Jack the man was very familiar with all the nooks and crannies of his face, and could no doubt give himself a close shave in the dark.

  Just as Morgan turned, wiping his face clean with a linen towel, Ned gave Jack a poke with his rifle, and gestured to the web of silvery scars crisscrossing the Colonel’s broad back.

  “Wondering how I earned these stripes?” Morgan asked.

  Ned nodded. Titus shrugged. Isaac and Jack said nothing.

  “Army discipline—a British lash—they don’t call them ‘bloodybacks’ for naught, you know.” The Colonel pulled on a spotless white linsey hunting shirt and tied it about the waist with a red satin sash. “I was a teamster with Braddock’s army back in ’fifty-eight. Young, hotheaded, and more than a bit of a natural cuss, I never took too well to being ordered about, and ended up knocking a captain bung-end to the dirt with a sound fist to the gut. Assault on an officer earned me five hundred lashes.”

  “Foh…” Titus groaned. “Five hundred’ll kill a man.”

  “I never did get the full five hundred. My flogger tired and quit at four ninety-nine. How I despised that horse’s arse of a captain…” The recollection brought on a big smile, and Jack could see Dan Morgan’s face was indeed “crooked,” his features thrown off-kilter by a thick scar that formed a deep cleft along his left cheek. “Still worth every stripe, I think.”

  “That’s a good story,” Ned said. “But the Redcoats might say you owe them a stripe.”

  “Ha! I’d like to see ’em try to collect.” Without putting aside his razor, Colonel Morgan pointed to Isaac. “You and your war club are familiar to me, friend…”

  “From our days with Braddock, when our hair was not so white,” Isaac said, obviously proud to have found a place in this man’s memory. “I remember you were a good fighter of Redcoats even then.”

  Morgan laughed, a big booming laugh, and though Jack could well imagine the man’s spirit had perhaps mellowed some with age, there was yet a truly wild look in his eye.

  The Colonel suddenly reached out to him with his open razor, and Jack was hard-pressed not to flinch, allowing Morgan to trace the wet steel along the saber scar on his cheek.

  “And what might your name be, brother?”

  “Hampton. Jack Hampton.”

  Morgan moved his blade, using the tip to push aside Jack’s neckerchief. He took a long look at the hanged man’s scar snaking up the side of his neck.

  “Dear, dear, bread and beer—I’d wager you might have a few good stories to tell, Jack Hampton.”

  Of the same height, Jack smiled and met the Colonel’s gaze, eye to eye. “I suppose do.”

  “Scars…” Morgan snapped his razor shut. “A man with none has about as much worth as a hole in the snow—ain’t that so, Isaac?”

  Morgan sat down on a campstool, pulled on a pair of woolen socks, and laced his feet into his polished boots. “We’re light infantry here—skirmishers mainly—trained troops. Not a ragtag militia like those who serve with Stark. My corps is made up of the bettermost marksmen from every regiment, and every man serving in it passed a test—and so must all of you. Except for Isaac there. I already have the measure of his mettle.”

  “What kind of test?” Ned asked.

  “A shooting test.” Morgan got up and rummaged through the table for a plain sheet of foolscap. “First, we establish the target.” To their amusement, rather than a standard bull’s-eye, he took a pencil and drew a comical head of King George in profile, complete with crown. He handed the page to his aide, who took off running across the cornfield and affixed the target to a big elm tree.

  “You’ll each take three shots,” Morgan said.

  Jack squinted at the target, gauging the distance at more than two hundred yards. He, Titus, and Ned readied their rifles, taking note of the direction and velocity of the wind as they figured and poured the exact number of gunpowder grains to prime the pans on their weapons.

  Ned was the first to shoot, followed by Titus and Jack. After three rounds, the aide ran back, and handed the target page to the Colonel.

  Morgan studied the paper made ragged by nine lead balls punching through where he had penciled in King George’s eye, and grinned his crooked grin. “Well, Captain Peabody—these scouts will suit.”

  * * *

  Twilight was quickly ebbing into nightfall, and Anne walked as fast as she could toward Burgoyne’s headquarters in the family farmhouse he had commandeered. Skirting the edges of the Rear Guard encampment, Anne was surprised to see the 47th abuzz with activity at a time when most soldiers might gather with their messmates to share a bite and a tot of rum before finding their beds for the night.

  Every fire had a kettle on the boil. Red wool coats were being vigorously brushed. Soldiers were busy polishing boots and gaiters with blackball, while others brightened white britches and crossbelts with a sponging of pipe clay. Sheet-draped men sat softening their beards with steamy towels, and their makeshift barbers whipped up bowls of frothy lather with badger-bristle brushes.

  As she passed by Riedesel’s first battalion, Anne’s ears rang with the shing-shing of bayonets and curved sabers being drawn over whetstones and honed to a hairsplitting edge. With looking glasses propped, the Brunswicker mercenaries trimmed their mustaches and dressed their hair in their odd fashion.

  Rat tails, Anne thought, as she passed a grenadier tightly wrapping his queue in black linen tape, leaving the long whip of a tail to trail down to the middle of his back.

  Off in the distance, centered in a clearing and surrounded by a scattering of crude log outbuildings, the ochre-painted farm housewas shining like a pumpkin lantern on All Hallow’s Eve, its square window eyes yellowed with candlelight. The dirt path leading to headquarters and the farmhouse yard was thick with soldiers milling about. A queasiness squirmed into her belly, and Anne felt as if she’d eaten a bad oyster.

  “Mrs. Merrick!”

  Anne glanced over her shoulder to see Sergeant Pennybrig waving. She waited for him to catch up. “Good evening, Sergeant…”

  “You shouldn’t be about on your own this night, Mrs. Merrick. It can get ugly. Johnny’s ordered an extra ration of rum for one and all.” Pennybrig offered his arm. “I’d best see you back to your quarters…”

  The queasiness in her belly hardened into a leaden lump. “An extra ration?”

  “Aye. The sure sign,” Pennybrig said with a nod. “No doubt we’ll be ordered into battle on the morrow.”

  Ignoring Pennybrig’s offer, Anne took off in a run, weaving a path around the cadres of soldiers lining up to collect their bonus rum. She pushed through the officers gathered around the porch of the farmhouse, ran up the steps, and peered through the window.

  The front parlor was mobbed with white linen and braided red jac
kets—the polished brass and silver gorgets the officers wore on their chests glinting in the candlelight. Anne spied a laughing Geoffrey Pepperell in his dress regimentals, standing off to the side with Lennox and a few others, a goblet of claret in his hand.

  She rapped on the glass with her knuckles, her voice frantic to her ear. “Geoffrey! Geoffrey Pepperell!” One of the officers nudged Pepperell and drew his attention to the window where Anne stood. She waved, and he came rushing out to the porch, his blue eyes twinkling with excitement.

  “Anne!” Pepperell glanced over his shoulder at his smirking fellows. “How sweet! This is quite a surprise.”

  “Geoffrey, please.” She grasped him by the forearm. “I must speak with General Burgoyne. I need but a moment of his time.”

  Disappointment coupled with annoyance to flash cross Pepperell’s handsome features. “It’s Burgoyne you want? Whatever for?”

  “I need a pass. Sally and I are leaving for Albany tomorrow, and we need permission to get across the picket line.”

  “Leaving?” Geoffrey shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

  Anne rose up on tiptoes, catching a glimpse of the General and Simon Fraser sitting side by side at a table in the corner of the parlor, sipping on flutes of champagne.

  “There he is! I see him…”

  “Officers only.” Pepperell grabbed Anne by the shoulder before she could squeeze through the doorway, and pulled her back. “I understand you are anxious to get to Albany—as are we all—but Burgoyne will not see you—not tonight.”

  “Ask him for me, then. Tell him that Sally and I are quite capable; after all, Albany is but a long day’s walk from here…”

  “A long… Are you daft? I’ll do no such thing!”

  Anne tugged at the facings on his jacket. “Please, Geoff. All I need is a pass through the picket line. Tell Burgoyne Sally and I know how to take care of ourselves. Tell him we’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been given our marching orders. There will be a battle tomorrow and no one will be safe on that road, Anne. No one.” Geoffrey took her by the hand. “I’ll take you back to your camp.”

  The reality of the situation tumbled down upon her like a cartload of cannonballs, pinning her in place. The day had come—battle eve—and she would not be gathered together with Jack, David, Sally, and Titus. She and Sally would not be able to bid their men farewell with a kiss, or care for them if they should need care.

  Pepperell tugged at her hand. “Come along, now.”

  Unable to speak, Anne jerked free from his grasp and covered her face with both hands, pressing her fingertips into her eyes to staunch a flood of tears. How on earth would she break this news to Sally after raising her hopes so high? Her voice cracked. “No one will be safe.”

  “There, now…” Pepperell pulled her into his arms.

  Anne leaned into his embrace, buried her face in the musty red wool of his jacket, and sobbed, “I hate—hate this war!”

  Pepperell rubbed circles into her back and crooned into her ear, “Dear, dear Anne—don’t fret so. I’ll be fine. You’ll see… We shall route these cowardly rebel rascals, and then you and I will be together in Albany with the whole of the winter season before us.”

  Though spoken as a comfort, his words served to thump Anne over the head like blows from a stout cudgel. With a firm hand to his chest, Anne pushed the Redcoat captain back.

  “Of course. You’re right.” She swiped at her tears, and with complete sincerity said, “Take care tomorrow, Geoffrey.” Rising up on tiptoes, she kissed him light on the lips, twirled away, and skittered down the steps.

  Pepperell began to follow. “I’ll come with you…”

  “I can make my way back on my own.” Anne held him at bay with a shake of her head. “Your place is in there—together with your fellows—your band of brothers.”

  Geoffrey shot a glance back to his friends, laughing in the golden light with glasses upraised. “Are you certain?”

  Anne nodded. “I am.”

  Daniel Morgan’s riflemen rushed in to take their positions within the cover of the trees, forming an irregular line at the edge of Freeman’s field. Some of the soldiers took their stand behind tree trunks and some lay on the flats of their bellies, hidden within thickets of brush. The lithe scrambled up into the branches. Jack followed Ned up into the arms of a sprawling chestnut oak.

  “This is a good place,” Ned said, making himself comfortable on his perch.

  Jack settled on a wide limb beneath Ned, laying his rifle across his lap. It was a good place, not so high that he couldn’t jump down if he needed to, but high enough to offer a good view of the open field before them. He reached up and slapped at Ned’s dangling foot.

  “The Redcoats are almost here.”

  Ned shaded his eyes as he stared into the field. “Do you see ’em?”

  “No… but I can smell ’em.” Jack lifted his chin, drawing in a deep breath. “Bootblack, and”—he drew another breath—“bagpipes, and”—he wrinkled his nose, sniffing—“yep… beshitted britches.”

  Ned guffawed, drawing a “shush” from Titus and an evil glare from Isaac, both sitting at the base of the oak.

  The day began cold with a heavy fog clinging to the landscape like sheep’s wool to a thornbush. Once the fog began to break, scouting parties returned with reports of British troops no more than three miles away, moving toward the Continental works. Morgan’s riflemen, along with Dearborn’s light infantry, were out to blunt any possible advance.

  Maybe two hours past noon… Jack squinted up at the sun shining hot and bright in a clear blue sky. “I sure wish the damn lobsters would show,” he whispered, tugging at Ned’s foot. “My inner spring is wound tighter than an eight-day clock.”

  Ned leaned over to whisper, “That’s how it always is, brother… Hurry up and wait.”

  Jack tipped his head to rest against the tree trunk and closed his eyes, filling his lungs in through his nose, and out in a slow puff. A cool breeze skirled across the open field, brushing over his face like a ghostly hand and whirling through the branches to shake a flurry of acorns rattling down through the leaves. He smiled, hearing the tiny dull thuds of the nuts landing on the ground and on the felt of Titus’s hat. The woods were very quiet, considering it was teeming with close to five hundred men just like him, itching for a fight.

  Settling deeper into his seat, Jack heaved another breath, relaxing sweaty fists clutched tight to the barrel and stock of his weapon. There was a rustling in the leaves to his right—a bird flitting among the branches.

  A cardinal or a jay gathering acorns. Jack opened one eye and just caught a flash of blue against the rich mottle of green. Jay it is.

  “Hao—get ready.” Ned gave Jack a kick to the shoulder. “Here they come.”

  Jack snapped erect. “That didn’t take so long, now, did it?” Squinting through a filter of insects, chaff, and motes dancing on the sunlight, he could see a line of red-clad figures emerge from the forest at the opposite end of the field, moving forward at a wary pace.

  Bringing his rifle to full cock, Jack propped the stock against his shoulder. As ordered, he slowly swept the barrel of his rifle from left to right, searching for just the right target. His worldview became very small and, with the enemy’s every step forward, the details in it, crisp and clear. Like a divining rod to water, the blink of an officer’s brass gorget drew the attention of Jack’s weapon—and he held the Redcoat captain in his sights, finger on the trigger.

  A turkey call rang out, and on this signal, hundreds of rebel rifles exploded in frightening unison. Every Redcoat in the front ranks fell—dead or wounded. The British line broke, retreating in panic.

  The riflemen’s wild cheer reverberated in the trees. Jack, Ned, and every other soldier sitting in a tree leapt down, and Morgan’s corps moved forward. The crunch of moccasined feet kept time with the scrape of ramrods seating lead ball to a charge of black powder. They left the cover of th
e trees and entered the open field.

  At the far end, the Redcoats shouted and scrambled to re-form their lines to the rattling call of the drums. Jack finished reloading, slipping his ramrod back into place beneath the gun barrel. He and Titus ran after Ned and Isaac, and the foursome all dropped to one knee in a patch of tall grass. This time Jack was not so discerning with his aim. He drew a bead on a blur of red and pulled the trigger.

  “Fire!”

  The British volley whizzed across the field, and all around, rebel fighters were knocked to the ground like ninepins.

  “Fire!”

  The second barrage sheared Jack’s hat from his head, sending it flying. Another lead ball buzzed past his ear, and another whistled straight through the loose fabric at his hip. All around, riflemen toppled, groaning and writhing. A heavy veil of sulfurous smoke drifted across the field, clouding Jack’s vision, burning his throat.

  “Fire!”

  Someone punched him hard in the arm, and Jack fell flat on his back.

  The turkey call yelped once again and voices shouted, “Take cover! Fall back!”

  Jack jumped up and stumbled into Titus, who was struggling to lift a wounded man to his feet. Together, they half dragged, half carried the soldier back beyond the tree line, to the deeper cover of the forest, laying him flat beneath the umbrella of a balsam fir. The man’s shirt was soaked dark with blood, his eyes fluttering, barely conscious.

  Jack fell to one knee and examined the wound, then looked up at Titus. “Gut shot.”

  British artillery boomed, and chained iron ball sliced through the branches overhead, casting up great clouds of dirt and debris as it pounded into the forest floor. Jack and Titus ducked, covering their heads.

  “Their big guns are in range,” Titus said, giving Jack a shove. “We need to make tracks before they reload.”