Sally pulled a stumpy candle from her pocket and set it alight. Reaching up on tiptoes, she touched candle flame to the wick of the oil lamp hanging from the rafters, bathing the room with light.
All of the soldier cabins were supposed to have been built to the same simple specifications—twelve by fourteen feet, sidewalls no less than six and a half feet high, with plank roofs pitching up to the center. According to the General’s plan, each cabin was to have two windows to provide cross ventilation and promote a healthy atmosphere. From what Anne could tell, no one paid much heed to Washington’s directives. There were as many different cabins as there were builders, and Anne had yet to see one with windows.
Her brother’s hut was built to quarter two officers, and was much more spacious than the common soldier huts meant to house twelve. The roof planking was tight and kept out the snow, the door was heavy to keep out the wind, and the thick timber walls were well chinked with straw and mud to allay drafts. David’s cabinmate had scavenged an iron plate from the old ruined forge that gave the valley its name, and installed it at the back of the fireplace to radiate warmth back into the room. Well supplied with firewood, the little cabin was a toasty sanctuary even in the worst weather.
The single room was sparsely furnished. The fireplace, fitted with an iron grate and flagstone hearth, was centered opposite the doorway, and took up most of the wall. Tucked into the corner to the right of it were two simple plank platforms—built one atop the other—with straw-stuffed ticks for mattresses. David and his cabinmate stowed their chests and other gear in the space remaining at the foot of the bunk bed. A rough table with bench seats occupied the other wall, where Anne and Sally kept their trunks. They situated one of the benches close to the hearth, where they would sit and sew at night by the light and warmth of the fire.
Anne set a pail of water on the grate to boil. “I expect the boys will be here soon. I’ll make some chocolate.”
“Set th’ griddle to heat on th’ grate,” Sally said and, arranging two good-sized logs onto the fire, she went to forage through her trunk for the breakfast makings. “I promised th’ young lads a batch of scones.”
Brian Eliot and Jim Griffin fit neatly under Anne’s and Sally’s wings. The women spent the week alternately fattening the boys up and working on augmenting their pitiful wardrobes. Right off, Jack and Titus made good on their promise, producing two pairs each of leather moccasins and gaiters. Though there was no wool for knitting, the women managed to fashion socks, caps, and mufflers by unraveling shawls Anne and Sally donated to the cause. One old blanket became two new weskits. A green-striped quilted petticoat was turned into soft, warm shirts.
There was a rap on the door and Anne answered with a cheery, “Come in!”
The door scraped open, and in tumbled hungry men and boys, stomping snow from feet and hanging coats on pegs in a chaotic exchange of howdy-dos and good mornings.
At the table, Sally patted her floury dough into two thick, raisin-speckled disks, cutting each into eight even wedges with a razor-sharp knife. In transferring the wedges onto the hot griddle, young Jim reached in and pinched off a piece of dough, popping it into his mouth.
“Och, ye wee glutton!” Sally slapped his hand.
Jim grinned. “Why d’you bother with the baking—it tastes good as is…”
“Ye’ll earn a sour stomach—eatin’ raw dough…” Sally handed the boy a broad-bladed knife and plunked him down onto the bench. “Keep yer eye on those scones, and when the edges go golden, give ’em a turn.”
David sidled next to Sally, wrapping his arm about her waist. “Scones!” he said, planting a loud kiss on her cheek. “Yum!”
Anne set meticulous Brian to shaving a cake of chocolate with a paring knife, and when she went to dig up some maple sugar from the chest, Jack came up from behind and pulled her into a bear hug, nuzzling his scruffy face in her neck. “Chocolate!” he said. “You are spoiling us all!”
Anne shrugged. “The chocolate does no one any good stored away.”
Titus sat down at the fire, scratching inside his shirt. “Nothing better than a hot, sweet drink on a bitter-cold morning.”
Once the water was brought to a boil, Anne dumped in the chocolate shavings and a fistful of maple sugar, beating the mixture to a froth with a wooden spoon.
Jack and Titus arranged the two benches in a V before the hearth, and David threw a couple big logs in. They all sat with feet stretched to the crackling fire, sipping on tin cups of steaming chocolate and munching their scones, when there was a rap on the door.
David pulled the door open to a blast of snow, and revealed a small man wearing a fur-trimmed roquelaure cloak and matching tricorn, hunched in the wind.
“Come. Come,” David urged, simultaneously rushing the visitor into the room and pushing the door shut.
The man whisked off his hat, slung back his cloak, and bowed. With a soft Norfolkian accent he said, “I beg pardon, but I was told I might find writing paper for purchase within?”
He owned a long, sharp nose, and there was a quality to his smile that reminded Anne of an illustration in one of her son Jemmy’s storybooks. An elf, she thought. Rising to her feet, she offered, “I’ve a supply of writing bond for sale—penny a sheet.”
“Much obliged. I’ll take all you can spare.”
Anne went to dig in her trunk, and Jack called, “Join us, friend. Our fire will warm you without, and a cup of chocolate will warm you within.”
The man smiled his impish smile, and raised one eyebrow. “I confess to being quite fond of chocolate.”
He took a seat, cup, and scone without saying much other than murmuring, “Delicious!” and “What a treat!”
Anne held up a paper-wrapped ream. “I could let you have as much as half a ream…”
“I’ll take it.” The man nodded happily, brushing crumbs from his front. He delved into his breast pocket, pulling forth a squat, oval-shaped brass case. “Might you also be supplied with ink?”
“Enough to fill your writing set,” Anne said.
With a big smile and ink-stained fingers, he snapped open the brass cover and revealed a compact kit that included a corked glass bottle and a stubby little quill pen. Anne filled the inkwell to the brim and handed him a packet of paper. He, in turn, handed over three continentals, and tucked the writing set back into his breast pocket.
“That’s quite a bit of paper,” David noted. “You must have a lot of correspondence.”
The man wagged his head. “Though I’m yet farming my thoughts, I’m at present composing a letter to General Sir William Howe.”
“To General Howe!” Titus burst out laughing.
“When you write that letter,” Jack said, as he snatched up a piece of kindling, and used it to scratch his back, “tell ol’ Howe Jack Hampton says ‘Go to hell!’”
They all laughed, and, bidding them adieu with a wave of his hat, the man scurried out the door.
“What an odd little fellow,” Anne said.
“But he’s surely able with that bitty little pen,” Jim said, plucking what would be his third scone from the griddle. “Did you see the size of it?”
Brian piped up. “I like how he writes—Common Sense.”
Titus gave Jack a nudge. “Didn’t seem to have much sense to me, writing a letter to Howe.”
“Oh, he’s a fine writer,” Brian said.
“When we first got here, the General had Common Sense read to us all. You remember, Cap’n…” Jim stood up and with a deepened voice intoned, “‘These are the times that try men’s souls…’”
“That was him?” David asked. “Thomas Paine?”
“No!” Jack ran to the door, swinging it wide-open, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He came back and sat in a slump. “I can’t believe we had Thomas Paine himself, sitting right here in our cabin, without our knowing it.”
“I knew it,” Jim said.
“Shame!” Sally chided, finger waving. “All o’ yiz all laughing a
t th’ man…”
“I saw you laughing as well,” David reminded. “And who wouldn’t think it a jest? Writing a letter to General Howe…”
“Och!” Sally gave David a shove. “Come summer, I’ll be paying a bonny penny for a copy of that letter.”
Jack went back to scratching his chest. “He was mad for your scones, Sal. Maybe he’ll be back.”
Anne leaned over and rapped both Jack and Titus with a wooden spoon, the two of them scratching with hands deep down their shirtfronts. “Stop it! You’re driving me mad, clawing at yourselves all morning like a pair of flea-bit pups.”
“It’s driving me mad.” Jack snarled, and continued scratching.
“Can’t help it, Mrs. Anne…” Titus twisted around, trying to reach a spot under his arm.
“They have the Itch,” Jim said, and Brian agreed with a knowing nod.
“The Itch!” Anne groaned.
“Most everyone here comes down with the Itch,” Brian said. “Pay a call on Pink. She has a balm for it.”
Old friends, Captain Aubrey Dunaway and First Lieutenant Erasmus Gill shared a cabin. Unlike the officer’s cabin Anne shared with Sally, theirs boasted a separate bed in each corner. Jack and Titus sat shirtless on what was apparently Mr. Gill’s bed, as the other bed was occupied by a coughing, wheezing, and feverish Captain Dunaway.
Anne sat beside Jack, sipping on the fragrant cup of Oswego tea Captain Dunaway’s slave woman had pressed into her hand on arrival, and she watched Pink light the nub of a candle in a dish, and bring the bright light close to examine Jack’s chest.
“Mm-hmm…” Pink murmured. “Y’all have the Itch, all right…” She moved to sit beside Titus, and said, “Could you tilt your head t’ the left a bit, please…”
Pink touched him beside the ear, tracing her fingertips down the side of his neck. Titus’s eyes popped wide. Muscles tensing, his chest began to heave, and the bed boards creaked with his squirming. Anne feared Titus was about ready to bolt out the door when Pink looked up with an apologetic smile and said, “On dark skin like ours, I get a better sense of the rash by touch.”
Titus blurted, “But you aren’t dark at all, Miss Pink. I expect that’s why they call you that… Pink…”
“I’m not as dark as some.” Pink laughed. “But I’m sure not pink.”
“No…” Titus flashed a shy grin. “I’d say you’re sugar brown.”
Jack snorted.
Anne gave Jack a bump with her shoulder and leaned forward with a smile. “I must say, Miss Pink, I am enjoying your bayberry candles. Such a pleasant, homey scent—isn’t it, Titus?”
“Mm-hmm,” was all Titus could manage.
“I used to help my mother make bayberry candles when I was a girl,” Anne said.
“I make ’em…” Pink said as she slowly traced around to the front of Titus’s chest, fingertips slipping down toward the waistband of his breeches. “It’s not hard.”
“Oh.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “I bet it is hard, isn’t it, Titus?”
Titus shot Jack an elbow, and Anne dealt him a kick.
Jack leaned down, glaring at Anne, rubbing his leg. “Did you hear that, Titus? Miss Pink makes her own bayberry candles!”
“That’s… fine,” Titus managed through clenched teeth.
Pink looked up from her examination. “Am I causing you pain, sir?”
Jack snorted again, and Titus muttered, “No,” with a very vigorous shake of his head.
Pink rose to her feet. “I’ll go an’ mix up some balm for you both.”
Anne watched Titus, his eyes following the woman as she crossed over to the table near her master’s, and she whispered in Jack’s ear, “They’d make for a perfect couple.”
Tall and willow slim, the slave woman was much younger than Anne expected she’d be. Excited by the prospect of engineering a match, Anne asked, “How old are you, Pink?”
Pink glanced up from measuring a dark powder into a bowl. “Me? I’m nine and twenty—I know fo’ sure ’cause I was birthed the same day as Master Aubrey here.” She reached down and squeezed Captain Dunaway’s arm.
Jack leaned and whispered, “See that? She’s missing the little finger on her left hand.”
“Her only flaw,” Anne said. “I think Titus is smitten.”
“Titus can’t tear his eyes from her,” Jack whispered with a jerk of his head. “He’s watching her like a hawk following a chicken.”
There was an exotic cast to the woman’s features—dark, knowing eyes, expressive black brows, a generous mouth—all arranged in perfect harmony. Pink had cleverly altered the dour gray hand-me-downs from an older mistress to suit her shapely form, extending the too-short sleeves and hems with bright bands of scarlet calico. Though her hair was twisted up in a tight turban of matching red fabric, the tiny dark corkscrews escaping at the nape of her neck gave hint to its color and texture.
“The bestest cure for the Itch is sulfur flour mixed with simple unguent.” Smiling, Pink brought over two small clay pots, handing one to Anne. “But in this misbegotten place, I’m afraid gunpowder and hog fat make do. I’ll show y’all how to apply it.” Scooping up a fingerful of the gray sludge, she sat beside Titus.
Anne stood up to watch Pink apply the balm. Titus visibly flinched at her touch. Brow furrowed, Pink asked, “Does it sting?”
“It stinks some,” Titus said, “but it don’t sting at all. In fact, it feels real good—soothing.”
“I know it do stink, but this balm will kill all the scabies what have burrowed under your skin. You don’t have to lay it on thick, but make certain you cover every inch…” She looked up into Titus’s eyes, and you could almost see the spark struck between them, like the powder flash from a pistol shot.
Aubrey Dunaway called to his slave in a wheezing sigh, “Pink…”
Pink startled. “I’m a-comin’,” she said, rushing over to his side.
Jack shot Titus an elbow. “She fancies you.”
Titus went grim. His gaze was locked on Pink, watching as she propped her master up and fed him water with a teaspoon. His whisper was monotone. “No point in her fancying anyone. She belongs to that man there.”
“She cares for him gently…” Anne said. “Captain Dunaway must be a kind master… I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if…”
“Kind master?” Jaw clenched, Titus pulled on his shirt, and pointed to the straw pallet and pillow at the foot of the bed. “So kind that he has her sleep at the foot of his bed like a dog?”
“Titus has the right of it. There’s no such thing as a kind slave owner.” Jack stood up and tugged his shirt over his head. “I’ll never understand these men who fight for the cause of liberty, yet they keep human beings in bondage for their own selfish purpose.”
“General Washington is numbered among these slave owners,” Anne reminded.
“I know,” Jack said, “and that has always been troublesome to me.”
Pink returned, her brow puckered with distress to see them slipping on their coats. “You’re leaving?”
“What do we owe for the balm?” Titus asked, holding up the clay pot.
Pink shook her head. “No charge, sir. Naught but gunpowder and hog fat, anyway.” She followed after Titus as he turned to lift the door latch, saying, “Your rash might seem to get worse afore it gets better, but in five days or so, you should see the cure. Remember to rub the balm on every day…”
“I will.” Titus kept his eyes downcast and muttered, “Thank you.”
Pink grasped him by the hand. “If you run out, I can mix up more… no bother.”
Bed boards knocked and creaked as the Captain turned onto his side, calling, “Pink…”
Pink tightened her grip on Titus’s hand. “Best change your bedstraw as well… and boil your bedding…”
“Pink—” Dunaway groaned.
“Your master calls, Miss Pink.” Titus tugged open the door, and the winter wind swept into the room, parting the pair of them like a sharp knife. T
itus fled into the cold, and Jack ran after him.
Anne put a hand on Pink’s shoulder. “Maybe you can come and pay me a call? The boys can show you my cabin…”
“Piiink!”
“I’m comin’!” Pink looked at Anne, dark eyes blinking back tears. “There’s a whole mess of bayberry down by the covered bridge. If you want, I can show you… and Titus.”
“Bayberries.” Anne smiled. “That will work.” She pulled her shawl up over her head, and ran to catch up with Jack.
THIRTEEN
What we contend for is worthy the affliction we may go through.
THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis
PAROLE WORD: PERSEVERANCE
COUNTERSIGN: PEACE
Anne tramped back to the cabin with two pails full of bayberries. The day dawned clear and sunny, and not only did it look warmer; it felt warmer. Snow dropped from the trees in clumps, and well-trod pathways had gone to mud and slush. The thaw trickled from the very peak down the roof shakes to drip drip drip from a comb of icicles formed along the eaves. Both hands occupied, Anne shouted, “Open up!” and kicked the door, inciting a torrent of ice-cold droplets to rain down on her head.
With a “Make way! Make way!” she scurried past Sally as she pulled the door open, and set the heavy buckets down on the hearth. “That ought be enough for a candle or two.”
“Ahhh!” Sally drew a deep breath. “Yer candleberries have the cabin smelling fresh already!”
The chandler in Albany had assured Anne the candles she purchased from him were the best quality, made with 100 percent sheep’s tallow. But from the moment she set the first candle alight, Anne knew she’d been duped. The cheap hemp wicks constantly guttered, and the smoke emitted was dense with an odor like rancid burnt pork drippings that clung to clothes and hair.
Evil-smelling things… Anne stripped off her coat and eyed the half-gone tallow candle in its dish. I wager there’s more of pig than sheep in those candles…
The Turning of Anne Merrick Page 27
