Though costlier, Anne preferred to burn oil or beeswax. The light from either was brighter and better smelling than even the best quality tallow candle. Every time she was forced to light one of her foul candles, she was put in mind of the fresh-smelling tapers Pink manufactured from berries she gathered right here in camp.
When a week went by without the promised call from Pink, Anne learned from the boys that Captain Dunaway had taken a bad turn for the worse, so she decided to go on a hunt for bayberries on her own. She followed the path to the covered bridge crossing over the Valley Creek, found the thicket of bayberry shrubs Pink spoke of, and had no problem filling her pails to the brim.
“Hey-ho, Annie,” Sally said, peering into the big kettle they borrowed from one of the washwomen. “Th’ water’s on the boil.”
Sally stoked the fire, and after sifting both buckets of berries into the pot, the women sat down to a midday meal of quince jam and johnnycakes left over from breakfast.
“A wagon train come intae camp whilst ye were berry pickin’.” Sally relayed this news, pouring them each a cup of liberty tea. “Oneida Indians all the way from Fort Stanwix bearing sacks and sacks of cornmeal. Such a welcome sight!”
“Lord knows this army can use every bit of it,” Anne said. “The Oneidans are proving a good ally in many ways.”
“I ran over to see if I might catch sight of Ned and Isaac,” Sally said, “but no, I didna see ’em amongst this lot.”
“I expect Isaac and Ned have gone off to their winter hunting camp. Isaac has a wife and children to provide for, and it’s time Ned found a wife for himself as well.” Anne dipped a piece of kindling into the pot, and showed Sally the resulting dirty green substance coating the stick. “The berries are waxing!” she said. “Help me pull the pot from the grate.”
Using slats of wood slipped through the looped handles, they managed to slide the heavy kettle from the hearth and onto the dirt floor. Once the pot cooled, the wax hardened into a thick slab floating on top of the water. Sally cracked the brittle stuff into manageable pieces and dropped them into a smaller kettle and set it on the grate to melt again.
Anne fashioned a sieve with hammer and awl by punching a series of small holes into the bottom of a tin cup. She poured the molten wax through the sieve to filter out the bits of bark, stem, and berry. Sally fetched the wicks they’d plaited the night before from lengths of cotton thread. Just as they were about to commence dipping candles, the latchstring was jerked hard, the crossbar crashed upward, the door opened, and winter swirled in.
A strange man stood in the doorway, his big silhouette framed in the rectangle of blue sky. He wore a long caped watchcoat and a flat-brimmed hat cocked up at one side. Under his left arm, he carried a saddle. A bulging pair of saddlebags were draped over his shoulder, and his right hand held a pair of squawking and flapping chickens by their yellow feet.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” He stood for a moment, blinking, head roving from side to side scanning the room. “I must beg pardon, ladies—I could have sworn this was my hut.”
“Wait!” Sally jumped up as he turned to leave. “’Tis yer hut, if yer name’s McLane.” Grabbing hold of his sleeve, she tugged him back into the cabin, and pushed the door shut.
“I am McLane.” He seemed relieved. “Alan McLane. Captain Alan McLane.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain. We’ve heard so much about you.” Anne came forward offering her hand. “I’m Anne Merrick—David’s sister—and this is Sally Tucker.”
Captain McLane set the chickens on their feet, and gave Anne an exuberant handshake. “Of course you’re Anne! And shouldn’t I have known this was Sally by her freckles and forthright manner?”
“They’re lovely chickens,” Sally said, strewing a handful of parched corn for the birds. She plucked up her cloak and swung it around her shoulders. “Have a sit by the fire, and I’ll go fetch David.”
“Alright.” Alan McLane dropped his saddle and gear in the corner, shrugged out of his coat, and hung it up on a peg.
“Cup of tea, Captain?” Anne offered.
“Black tea?” he asked, hopeful.
Anne’s smile was apologetic. “No… Sally’s liberty tea.”
“Sounds grand.” McLane grinned. “I haven’t had a hot drink in days.”
“There’s no cream,” Anne said, pouring him a cupful. “But we do have maple sugar…”
“No sugar or cream necessary, thank you. I take my tea barefoot.”
The big man pulled a bench close to the hearth. Broad shoulders in a slump, he sat with elbows leaning on knees, holding his chapped hands out toward the flames, and sighed with pleasure. Captain Alan McLane led a company of foragers who scoured far and wide in search of provisions and supplies for the troops in Valley Forge. Always on the move either gathering foodstuffs and livestock, or harrying British supply convoys, Captain McLane was a man rarely out of the saddle or the weather.
Anne cobbled together a meal for the Captain—slices of pemmican with johnnycakes and jam—which he wolfed down with much relish. Sally soon returned with David, Jack, and Titus in tow. Introductions were made and they all settled on benches before the fire with steaming cups of fresh-brewed tea.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” David said, gesturing with his thumb to the chickens. “But as usual, you didn’t come home empty-handed, you old rover!”
Anne said, “Sally and I regret putting you out of your bed, Captain.”
“No need to make a great touse about it. It doesn’t matter much to me where I lay my bones, and David says there’s room for me to bunk in with these fine fellows,” Alan said, giving Titus and Jack a nod. “I won’t be in camp for more than a night or two at most, anyway. I’ve only come in to gather up a few wagons and drivers.”
David thumped his friend on the back. “You’ve secured some supplies, hey?”
“A mother lode,” McLane said. “Stumbled upon a pair of British supply ships run aground not too far from Wilmington—a brig and a sloop. We captured ’em both with just a few shots from a field piece.” He scooted forward a bit in his seat, excitement clear on his friendly face. “The ships are filled to the brim with the finest kind of uniforms, arms, ammunition, pork, flour, butter”—he jerked his thumb to the two birds clucking and pecking about—“not to mention chickens!”
“Oooh!” Sally clapped her hands. “D’ye by chance bring any butter?”
“More than a pound in my saddlebag,” Alan said with a grin. “You’ve had your eye on those birds since I came through the door, Miss Sally. I hope you’re thinking along the lines of fried chicken…”
“Fried chicken with gravy and an Indian pudding wi’ raisins.” Sally set her cup down, and rolled up her sleeves. “If yiz will excuse me, it appears I’ve necks to wring and feathers t’ pluck!”
David blew his nose, and looked worried. “I don’t know, Alan. We’ve wagons aplenty, but damn few draft animals… How far of a trek would you say it is?”
“A hundred forty miles, more or less.” Alan shrugged. “I expected we’d have to make several trips…”
Titus gave Jack a nudge. Jack took Anne by the hand, and they exchanged a barely discernable nod. He said, “Me and Titus are willing to bogue in and go to and fro. We have a pair of sturdy wagons, and our mule teams are fit.”
Titus added, “Provide us fodder to keep the mules moving, and an escort to keep the Redcoat dragoons off our backs, and we can help you bring those supplies here, where folk are in desperate need.”
“Agreed, my fellows!” McLane jumped up and gave Jack and Titus a slap on the back. “We’ll leave at first light.”
Arms overloaded with firewood, Anne kicked at the door, and shouted, “Open up!”
Sally jerked the door open with a peevish whisper. “Wheesht! He’s still sleepin’!”
Anne winced, whispering, “I forgot he was here.” Tripping over a divot in the dirt floor, she lost control of her load, and the cordwood fell from h
er arms in a noisy thumpety-thump.
David bolted upright, shouting, “WHAT?”
Poor David had fallen asleep with his head on Sally’s lap the night before. Rather than send him packing into the frigid night—seeing as how he was so sick with a head cold—everyone thought it best to leave him be. So exhausted he was, he didn’t stir when Jack and Titus helped Sally lift him onto the comfy straw pallet she fixed for him near the hearth. David snored the morning away, even sleeping through breakfast and the farewells when Jack, Titus, and Captain McLane left for Wilmington.
Sally crouched down at David’s side and gentled him back to his pillow, crooning, “It’s naught, sweetums… Annie dropped th’ firewood, is all. Back to sleep, now…”
David lay back, blinking and yawning. Throwing his arms up over his head, he stretched and asked, “What is it you have cooking there?”
“A nice chicken broth.” Sally got up to stir the pot on the grate, taking a sip of the soup. “Made from the bones and leavings from last night’s dinner…”
David scratched his head. “Last night’s dinner?”
“Mm-hmm.” Sally stirred her soup. “Ye had a nice lie-in this morn.”
David bolted up and, struggling to disengage from the tangle of blankets Sally had heaped upon him, exclaimed, “I’ve got to get to headquarters.”
“Och!” Sally dropped the spoon in the pot, swung a leg over David, and with both hands pushed him flat to the pallet. Vowing, “Yer stayin’ put!” she dropped to her knees and straddled his chest.
“Let—me—up!” Twisting and turning, David tried to wriggle free. “I’ve got to go. The Baron begins training the Model Company today…”
Sally cried, “Help me, Annie!”
Anne ran over from stacking the firewood and managed to gain control over her brother’s bucking legs. Pinned like a bug in a specimen case, David ceased struggling, and in a very reasonable tone he said, “This is serious. The two of you have to let me up. I’ll be court-martialed for failing to report to duty…”
“Don’t worry…” Anne said.
Sally grinned. “We promise t’ testify on yer behalf.”
David switched to his most imperious tone. “Let me up right now—that’s an order.”
“An order!” Anne and Sally burst into laughter.
“I mean it,” David insisted. “I’m a captain in this army.”
“Sorry, Captain.” Anne jumped up and ruffled her brother’s hair. “We take our orders from General Washington, who has removed your name from the duty roster.”
“Removed?”
David’s shift from terse to worried was so distinct, Sally slipped off to sit beside him and stroke the wrinkles from his forehead. “Dinna fash so,” she said. “I stopped by headquarters first light and let ’em know ye were under th’ weather. Th’ General values yer service, and aims t’ see ye fit.”
Anne added, “You’ve been battling a bad cold for days and days, and it’s only gotten worse. You’re a fine officer, but you’ll be no good to Washington feverish or consumptive. A few days’ rest and a dose of Sally’s chicken broth will surely cure what ails you.”
“Yer t’ be coddled, Captain…” Sally planted a kiss on his cheek. “Tha’s an order!”
“But…” David’s attempt to stifle a cough erupted into a drawn-out coughing fit.
“Waesacks!” Sally hurried to dipper up a cup of water for him. “D’ye hear tha, Annie? We need to do something about that cough.”
Anne pulled her coat down from the peg. “I’ll go see if Pink has any onions we might trade for.”
David put on a sore face and groaned, “Noooo…”
“Aye…” Sally said. “A warm onion poultice will drive th’ cough from yer lungs.”
“That’s it!” David threw his arms up over his head in total surrender. “I give up…”
Fully bundled, Anne set off chasing her shadow on a march across the valley toward Captain Dunaway’s hut. It seemed the entire camp was out taking advantage of the clear sky and calm wind. She passed several crews of soldiers hard at work with ax and adze, hewing round logs into level and even squares. Thick plumes of smoke snaking up into the blue sky marked the multiple fires where washwomen worked their battledores, stirring steaming cauldrons of laundry.
Anne stopped at the parade ground to join a huddle of women and soldiers watching a large company of soldiers being drilled in battle formations. The drillmaster was a big officer wearing a splendid bicorn hat adorned with a gold and red cockade. He marched up and down the lines barking in French. A young officer followed after him, and in a much less daunting voice translated the directives into English, which were then executed by the American soldiers in the most pitiful manner.
The Baron and the Model Company.
This was the man David was so concerned about—the latest in a stream of soldiers of fortune shipping in from far-flung places like France, Poland, and Germany to volunteer their services for the American cause. David told them one hundred and twenty soldiers had been handpicked from across all regiments to form a Model Company to be trained by this Prussian in the European manner of waging war.
The Baron presented a very authoritative figure in a caped overcoat, double-breasted with shiny brass buttons and gold-fringed epaulettes. A large, long-snouted hound followed obediently at his heels as he marched with the company, shouting directives. In the officer’s few quiet moments reviewing his new company’s performance, the Prussian tapped the side of his polished leather knee boots with the riding crop he carried, and stroked his pet’s nose.
The Model Company, on the other hand, couldn’t be any less impressive. The Continental ranks with their mishmash weaponry and horribly ragtag clothing and footwear were in no way performing anything resembling the close-ordered military drill Anne’d witnessed while encamped among the British. The training process was made even more convoluted by the Baron’s lack of English—every order first conceived in German, shouted in French, and relayed to the troops by his aide in English.
Marching back and forth waving his riding crop, the Prussian grew red in the face, trying to get the ten ranks of twelve to maneuver with some measure of unison and alignment. When he gave the order to wheel left, some did go left, others kept straight, some moved too slow, and others too fast. With one simple order, the entire company converged in a confounded mess. In complete frustration the Prussian tossed his crop into the air and emitted a sharp stream of German and French invectives that could lift a scalp, no translation offered or required.
“The Baron will need to learn a few English curse words, if he thinks to whip this lot into any semblance of an army,” Anne said.
Arms folded across his chest, an officer standing to her left commented with a laugh, “I expect, madam, Steuben’s few English words are most likely curse words.”
The strapping young man’s speech bore a soft Germanic accent. Anne noted the officer’s dark blue coat and asked, “Are you Prussian as well, sir?”
“No. I come from Holland, but I consider myself American now.” With a curt bow, he said, “Lieutenant Frederick Enslin—Malcolm’s Regiment, Third Pennsylvania.”
A pretty woman wearing a wicker peddler’s pack on her back stopped to hawk her wares. “Needles. Thread. Buttons. Combs—I have a good selection of all at reasonable prices.”
Anne and the Lieutenant both declined with shakes of their heads.
The peddler woman did not press her sale. Laying her hand on Enslin’s arm, she asked, “It is odd, isn’t it, Lieutenant Enslin? To see an officer—a baron, no less—taking such an active part in training regulars?”
“It is the Prussian way…” Enslin said, taking a step back to free himself of the woman’s touch. “Steuben is the son of an officer. He spent most of his life in service to Frederick the Great, and he is an expert in the military sciences.”
The peddler arched her brows. “Is that his name? Baron Steuben?”
“Steuben is his name,
but whether he’s a baron for fact—” Enslin smiled and shrugged. “It is not unknown for foreign soldiers to exaggerate their rank and status.”
“I see… most interesting…” The pretty woman strolled away, flashing a smile to the next group of soldiers. “Needles, buttons…”
“The peddler,” Anne asked. “Is she an acquaintance of yours, Lieutenant?”
“No,” Enslin replied. “I thought perhaps she was a friend of yours.”
“She’s no friend of mine—but she is somehow familiar to me…” Anne kept her eye on the peddler. The woman threw back her shawl to show off rich dark hair pulled back in a knot, and said something to make her new audience laugh. She was wearing a British red coat, cut down to size, but like many who’d scavenged an enemy coat, she’d masked its true crimson with a dip in a walnut dye, changing the color to a more acceptable maroon.
“Annie!”
Anne turned to see Brian and Jim among Steuben’s drummer corps, calling to her and waving their sticks. She waved back. At the same time, the Model Company maneuvered into another discombobulated tangle.
Steuben marched forward, whipping his crop through the air and shouting, “Halt—HALT—HALT!”
Without taking a breath he stormed up and down the lines, laying into the company—first with a rapid stream of German, then French—capping the tirade off with a string of good old English swearwords.
“BLOODY HELL! GODDAMN IT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” Waving his aide over, Steuben said, “You—come here und swear for me!”
Smiles cracked the faces of the berated soldiers. The drummers began to giggle, and Steuben himself burst out with a contagious chuckle infecting everyone on the parade ground.
After a good laugh, the Prussian grew instantly stern and barked, “Attention!” Visibly pleased with how his company snapped to, he renewed the training with an order to, “Schulter firelock!”
Bidding farewell to Lieutenant Enslin, Anne followed a snow-packed path to the opposite end of the parade grounds, and Captain Dunaway’s cabin.
The latchstring was out, and Anne knocked at the door, but no one answered. Knocking harder, she yelled through a chink between door boards, “It’s Anne Merrick come to call!” but still there was no answer. Taking a step back, Anne noted the smokeless chimney. She gave the latchstring a tug and opened the door.
The Turning of Anne Merrick Page 28
