The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  “What do you suppose is going on?” Anne watched Pepperell hurry back into the tent where more than a dozen officers, Lennox, Fraser, and Riedesel among them, crowded around a map-covered table with glasses of champagne in hand.

  “Mischief, to be sure,” Sally said, flinging her sack over her shoulder.

  They trudged across a rutted, mucky field to the artillery park illuminated by numerous cressets ablaze. The thickening fog swirled between the artillery carriages like a ghostly specter as gunnery crews tugged the cannon into new formations. Soldiers bearing pine-pitch torches aglow in misty halos were streaming in from all directions while sergeants shouted company names, herding the men into groups.

  Sally bounced up and down on tiptoes, craning her neck. “I hope we can find a ride. My legs are cooked noodles—I’d wager we’ve marched at least eight miles this night.”

  “And have gotten nowhere for it.” Anne grabbed Sally by the arm. “It’s odd, don’t you think? Quite a lively scene for so late an hour. Something is afoot…”

  “There’s our teamster.” Sally waved and called, “Mr. Noonan!” steering Anne toward a group of soldiers off-loading rum casks from a cart. Noonan leaned against his wagon, his tricorn pushed to the back of his head, puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe.

  “D’ye mind, Mr. Noonan, if we ride in your wagon back to baggage camp?”

  “No skin off’n my nose. Hop aboard.”

  With a jerk of her thumb, Anne asked, “What do we have going on here, Mr. Noonan, an extra rum ration?”

  “A-yup!” The teamster took a deep draw on his pipe.

  Sally asked, “Then it’s battle tomorrow, ye think?”

  “I shouldn’t wonder, miss. Gentleman Johnny’s known for treating his men to a tot afore a fight. These twelve barrels are the last of the rum stores—rousted from me bed to bring it here, too. These English don’t fare well without their grog, no, sir! Like mother’s milk to ’em, eh? Mother’s milk!”

  “Did ye hear that, Annie?” Sally beamed, and tugged the tin cup from her sack. “I’ll be back in a tic.”

  Ignoring all complaints and resistance, she muscled her way to the front of the queue where the first cask was being tapped, and held her cup out for a share.

  “My friend and I’ve been breakin’ our backs day in and day out for over a fortnight now, tendin’ th’ wounded and sick in hospital,” she announced, staring down the protesters with redheaded ire. “I dare th’ meanest among ye to step up and say our service doesna warrant a good, stiff drink.”

  The soldiers all cheered and laughed, and Sally’s rum ration was dispensed with great ceremony. Noonan helped the women to climb up into the empty wagon bed, and they made themselves comfortable, sitting with backs resting up against the headboard, facing the tail end.

  The withy mite of a wagoneer was dwarfed by the massive horned beasts he mastered with nothing more than the aid of a hickory rod. Goading the left-lead ox into motion with a light tap to the forehead, he shouted, “Haw!” and walked alongside the oxen, driving the pair with constant pokes and prods.

  Sally clutched her cup with both hands. To keep from losing any of her drink, she swayed with the pitch as the wagon lurched forward and rumbled from the artillery park.

  Anne unfurled the blankets to cover their legs, and she snuggled in beside Sally.

  Sally said, “Give over your cup.”

  Anne fished it from the pillow slip, and Sally carefully doled out a share of rum. Before they could take a sip, a shout rang out—

  “FIRE!”

  Anne and Sally grabbed hold of the sideboards at the order. The accompanying cannon blast shattered the night—reverberating through the very ground, sending the wagon into a creaky shudder, bringing the oxen to a lowing and uneasy standstill.

  “Burgoyne’s signal to reinforcements,” Noonan shouted over his shoulder as he hawed and goaded the oxen back into motion.

  “I’m struck deaf.” Sally thumped her ear with the heel of her palm. “I’m certain th’ rebels heard it as well.”

  “That’s the point,” Anne said. “The signal serves as both a desperate plea to any British forces that might be coming, and a desperate ploy…”

  “I see… to make the Continentals think reinforcements are arriving, and trick them into retreating,” Sally finished. “Och, Burgoyne’s a cunning one; I’ll give him that.”

  Anne nodded. “But I think he’s run out of time.”

  Three signal rockets screamed up into the sky—one right after another—bursting in a bang and a glittering shower of silvery sparks, casting flashes of bright light over the landscape. Anne leaned her head on her friend’s shoulder, watching the sparks float, twinkling, to their demise.

  “Tomorrow’s the day, Sally.”

  Sally raised her cup. “To our good lads, Annie… and to us!”

  Anne tapped her cup to Sally’s, whispering, “To Liberty!”

  NINE

  Here, in this spot is our business to be accomplished, our felicity secured. What we have now to do is as clear as light, and the way to do it is as strait as a line.

  THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis

  OCTOBER 7, 1777

  IN THE WOODS, NEAR A WHEAT FIELD

  Think of something else… something good… Jack wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. A thunderstorm on a summer night… Eyes closed, he worried the cast-iron token he wore on a leather thong about his neck and smiled.

  A thunderstorm on a summer night with Annie curled warm at my side. The gale wind sweeps in and cools our skin… banging the shutters open and closed… open and closed…

  The constant crackle of musket fire in the distance almost sounded like raindrops on the roof tiles over Anne’s garret room above the Cup and Quill—the sharp report of rifles, the shutters; the boom of cannon, thunder. Jack imagined Anne’s chestnut curls in a tangle on sun-bleached linen—he could almost smell the lavender water used to press the pillow slips. He took a slow breath in through his nose, and whistled it out, calming his racing heart, and easing the tension bunched between shoulders.

  Owk! Owk! Owk!

  Jack’s eyes snapped open. Squinting west at the sun flashing in and out between the flutter of gold and orange maple leaves, he could see a dark chevron of migrating geese flying by, dispelling his pleasant daydream with their grating call.

  Along with the whole of Morgan’s rifle corps and Dearborn’s light infantry, Jack waited on tenterhooks in the forest at the edge of a wheat field—listening to the battle being waged in the distance, waiting for the order to unleash American fury on Burgoyne’s right flank.

  Jack massaged his right upper arm where he took a musket ball during the last clash with the Redcoats. Loath to pay a visit to the surgeon’s tent with what was a minor wound in the grand scheme of things, he had Titus pry out the lead ball with the tip of his folding knife. Isaac applied an odd plaster he made with water and the powdered bark of the slippery elm tree, and though the wound was healing nicely, his arm was still feeling a bit stiff and bruised.

  He sucked in another deep breath. It was a perfect autumn afternoon. The crisp blue sky served as a backdrop to the fiery fall foliage, and every now and then a cool breeze played through the treetops, sending torrents of leaves dancing down upon them.

  “What a beautiful day,” Jack said.

  Standing at his left, Titus grunted, his loaded rifle in a two-fisted grip, the brim of his felt hat drawn down to shade his eyes. “It’s about to get very ugly, very soon.”

  Ned waited in front of them, head bobbing, shifting from foot to foot, as if he were standing with bare feet on a sheet of ice. Jack laid a hand on the young Oneidan’s shoulder.

  “Close your eyes and take in a breath, Tree Shaker. Imagine you’re up in the branches.”

  Standing beside Titus, bare-chested Isaac pulled the hammer on his rifle to full cock. “Get ready, my brothers,” he said.

  Sure enough, Isaac’s instincts proved spot-on. Morgan’s tur
key call sounded twice in succession—the signal to move forward at the quickstep.

  The rhythmic scrunch scrunch scrunch of moccasined footfalls on the thick carpet of leaves blotted out the sound of the distant battle. The moving force gained in speed and noise—the woodland resounding with the steely riot of six hundred flintlock weapons clacking back.

  As they drew closer, the British artillery began to thunder, shaking the ground, rocking the foot soldiers with a bone-rattling vibration. In no more than a blink of the eye, a hail of grapeshot flew through the treetops, tearing through the leaves and branches, ricocheting off thick limbs, but doing little to slow the momentum of the Patriot onslaught.

  Titus shouted over his shoulder, pointing up at the sky with a grin. “The lobsters have their guns cranked up a notch too high!”

  Jack was among the first to break through the trees, running full speed into the open field. The world closed in and then zoomed past in a blur. He flew over a rail fence as if he wore winged sandals like Perseus. Running straight at the Redcoat formation, he raced along with Titus, Ned, and Isaac, on a collision course with the solid wall of stiff-spined musket-bearing infantrymen. Jack’s feet pounded the ground and he shouted the Iroquois war cry at the top of his lungs: “Kohe! Kohe! Kohe!”

  A volley of lead buzzed past his ears. Cannon boomed and heavy ball came smashing into the ground, sending giant plumes of dirt and debris flying up into the air. Some soldiers fell—some dove for cover—but most, like Jack, just kept on running.

  With the advantage of numbers, the massive wave of yowling rebels charging across the field was impossible to stop. The British line faltered, then broke completely. The Redcoats turned and ran in disordered retreat, scrambling to drag artillery carriages and keep their big guns from being captured.

  Having yet to fire a shot, Jack was intent on getting into range and finding a target. Speedy Ned took the point, and Jack followed in phalanx with Titus and Isaac. Dodging and leaping over the dead and wounded, they moved across the field like a pack of howling wolves on the hunt, focused on their prey.

  Enemy gun crews working from behind redoubt defenses began to cover their comrades’ retreat, bombarding the field with iron shot. Drawn into the ebb of the retreating tide, the rebel riflemen swarmed past the big gun trajectory, pursuing their enemies virtually unscathed.

  “Shoot!”

  On Isaac’s order, they all dropped to one knee and took aim. Jack brushed back his hair, drew a bead on the intersection of white crossbelts on a red coat, and pulled the trigger. He hit the mark. His target dropped from sight.

  “Into the trees! Into the trees!” Jack croaked, his throat rough from breathing in sulfurous gun smoke. He and his fellows ran an evasive pattern, veering back into the forest to join the majority of their company reloading and catching a clean breath in the thick timber. Jack fell in with Ned behind the trunk of a middling oak tree, happy to see Titus and Isaac skitter in as well.

  Colonel Morgan ran into the woods, waving his sword over his head, shouting, “Hold your positions!” His order swept through the trees.

  British drums began pounding the call to assemble and willow green regimental colors were raised along with the Union Jack behind a rail fence at the far end of the field, where saber-swinging Redcoat officers shouted and directed their scattered infantry into ordered ranks, two deep.

  Jack watched the Redcoat progress while reloading—measuring his powder, ramming in a patched ball, priming the pan—doing all on reflex. He had to admire the British bulldog tenacity. There was no way for a rifleman to match the speed with which a trained regular could load and fire his musket using paper cartridges. If Morgan meant to avoid a tangle with a British bayonet, his riflemen had to break the back of the Redcoat attack before it could become fully formed and on the forward move.

  Titus whistled and pointed. “Take a look at that!”

  A soldier wearing the Continental blue and buff jacket was racing pell-mell at full gallop across the battlefield, riding up in the stirrups, bent over the neck of his brown horse. Covering the considerable distance between the enemy’s right and left flanks, the reckless fellow exposed himself to fire from both sides—and he was heading straight for their position.

  Jack held his breath, not believing his own eyes when the valiant rider came tearing into the woods without a scratch. Morgan’s riflemen greeted the man with cheers and hats waving.

  The breathless officer leapt from his mount. “Colonel Morgan!” he shouted. “Dan Morgan, where are you?!”

  “Ben Arnold!” Morgan pushed to the fore, a huge grin on his crooked face. “You’re either drunk or crazy to pull a mad prank like that!”

  “I’m both.” General Benedict Arnold threw an arm around the frontiersman. “General Poor’s men have exposed Burgoyne’s left, and the enemy is falling back at all points. We have an advantage in numbers. We must press forward. If we keep them on the run, we may yet force a surrender.”

  “They’re readying another assault.” Morgan handed Arnold a telescoping spyglass and pointed to the second rail fence where frantic, retreating Redcoats were being rallied into order by an officer on an imposing gray stallion.

  Arnold peered through the eyepiece. “The man on the gray horse is General Simon Fraser. He’s a host in himself—worth your whole regiment…” He snapped the glass shut. “He must be disposed of.”

  Morgan nodded and called out, “Send me Sergeant Tim Murphy!”

  Jack’d heard of Murphy. The man was legend in the rifle corps—a veteran who proved his skill at the siege in Boston, and battles at Long Island, Trenton, and Princeton—Tim Murphy was the best marksman in a regiment of crack shots.

  When the sharpshooter reported to duty a few minutes later, Jack almost burst out laughing. Tim Murphy was about six inches shorter than the double-barrel rifle he carried. Small and skinny as a beanpole, the ginger-headed Irishman wore a farmer’s smock shirt, his cheerful, elfish grin belying a reputation as the deadliest shot in the corps. Jack edged in close to get a better look at the man’s gun. It was a beautiful piece—the polished metal fittings were engraved with meticulous scrollwork, and the stock was embedded with three silver shamrocks.

  Morgan grabbed the sharpshooter by the shoulder and pointed. “See the man on the gray horse? That gallant officer is General Simon Fraser—a devilish brave fellow—but he should die. Pick a tree and do your duty, Murphy.”

  After a moment gauging the distance to his mark, judging the position of the trees and the strength of the wind, Murphy scrambled up onto the jutting limb of a grandfather maple.

  “Good choice,” Ned muttered.

  The sharpshooter did not waste any time. He settled in, aimed, and fired off a shot.

  General Arnold peered through the glass. “Miss.”

  Murphy raised rifle to shoulder and took a second shot.

  “That double barrel sure is a handy thing, ain’t it?” Titus noted.

  “Goddamn it!” Morgan said. “Grazed his mount’s mane! The bastard won’t keep still, will he? Give it another go.”

  Tim Murphy had already bit the stopper from his powder horn, and was recharging both barrels.

  “You haven’t spooked him yet, Murphy,” Arnold announced, still peering through the glass. “Your mark is staying in range…”

  “FIX!” General Fraser shouted to his Redcoats, and the order was repeated down the line.

  “Fix!”

  “Fix!”

  “Fix!”

  Morgan ordered, “Pour some fire on them, boys!”

  The riflemen peppered the Redcoats with lead. Titus dropped a regular. Ned picked off the soldier who stepped forward to fill the gap in the line. Isaac targeted a horseman. Jack rushed his shot, and only managed to knock the furry hat from a grenadier.

  General Fraser rose up in his stirrups, and ordered, “BAYONETS!”

  “Bayonets!”

  “Bayonets!”

  “Bayonets!”

  The Redcoats
locked deadly blades to the muzzle ends of their muskets, and the British line was suddenly bristling with the formidable glint of honed steel.

  Jack rammed a bullet down his rifle muzzle, and watched Tim Murphy wait for his shot. One eye asquint, the tip of the sharpshooter’s tongue poked out the corner of his mouth, weapon held steady, as he waited for the veil of smoke to lift. Murphy squeezed the trigger and, after a moment, cast a grin over his shoulder.

  “Got him!”

  Simon Fraser slumped in his saddle. Several mounted officers maneuvered in, ensconcing their wounded commander in a protective cocoon to lead him off the field.

  “Well done!” Benedict Arnold swung back onto his horse, sword in hand. “If the day is long enough, my brothers, we’ll have them in hell before nightfall. Victory or death!”

  “Victory or death!” They all cheered as the General tore back across the field to rally the Continental forces on the left.

  “Make ready to advance!” Morgan stood with his arm upstretched, his blade raised high.

  Jack looked down at his feet and muttered, “Good legs, do your duty now!”

  The sword fell and the order rang out. “Charge!”

  A furious mass of riflemen streamed out onto the field, shouting, shooting, and loading on the run. The enemy soldiers at the center of the formation were the first to collapse, toppling over like the wooden skittles in a game of ninepins. Redcoat discipline held out long enough for the British company to fire off a single volley, before grabbing their colors and turning tail to run harum-scarum back to the safety of the main lines.

  Jack and Titus ran through the abandoned field strewn with the bodies of horses and men, wounded and dying, and took cover behind one of two twelve-pounders the British had left behind.

  Jack blew at a tendril of smoke still trickling from his rifle, and pushed a sweaty hank of hair from his eyes. “I lost my hat.”

  “Take your pick,” Titus said, jerking his thumb toward the field they’d just crossed, littered with tricorns, bearskin caps, and jacked leather helmets.