Met by an overwhelming smell of wet ashes, Anne stood in the doorway squinting and blinking. A candlewick sputtered in a puddle of wax pooled in a dish on the bedside table. In the flashing light Anne could just make out Pink, sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the bed, a dark shawl thrown over her shoulders. It was the first time Anne had seen the woman without a headdress, and untamed, Pink’s hair formed a soft explosion of curls haloing her head.
“Pink… ?” As Anne drew closer she could better make out the prone figure on the bed. Captain Dunaway was laid out in his best uniform. Pink had carefully dressed her master’s hair with side curls, and powdered it white. She’d arranged his hands on his chest clasping his ornate saber.
Pink sat very still beside the body, eyes swollen and sad with crying, hands with fingers laced and resting on a piece of foolscap on her lap. “Lieutenant Gill went to fetch a cart. He made a promise to Master Aubrey. Promised he’d see him home to be buried in the family place.” She whispered, as if she were afraid he might wake. “He was always sickly as a boy.”
Anne stepped closer. “You laid your master out very fine.”
Pink turned her head and brushed her fingers along the dead man’s cheek. “He’s my brother. Was my brother…” She paused, and self-corrected again. “He was my half brother.”
Anne stuttered for a moment trying to fathom the proper condolence. “I’m—I’m so very sorry for your loss.” She looked around. “Is there anything I can do—anything you need? Maybe I could fetch in some firewood?”
Pink offered up the page in her lap. “Mr. Gill give me this paper. If it’s no bother, missus, could you read it out to me?”
“Of course.” Anne took a seat on the bedside stool, held the page close to the candlelight, and read aloud—“‘Be it known to all unto whom these present letters may come, that I, Captain Aubrey Dunaway of York County, Virginia, in consideration of the loyal service rendered to me, hereby Liberate and Manumit and set Free from bondage as slave, the woman called Pink, twenty-nine years of age. I do hereby declare her to be a free woman and I do renounce Right title Interest claim and Demand whatsoever to the said slave this Tenth day of the First month in the year of our Lord, One thousand Seven hundred and Seventy-eight. In testimony whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal the day and year aforementioned.’” Anne pointed to the signatures. “There it is, properly witnessed. Signed in the presence of First Lieutenant Erasmus Gill.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means your brother did not want to appear before his maker bearing the awful sin of leaving his sister in bondage…” Anne hopped up and gave Pink a hug. “It means you’re a free woman!”
“Mr. Gill said the same.” Pink heaved a sigh, and closed her eyes. “As if bein’ free were a good thing.”
Anne gave Pink’s hand a squeeze. “It is a good thing!”
“There was a day when I would pray and pine for freedom…” Pink shivered, and drew her shawl tight. “Now that I have it, I’m flummoxed as to why I ever would wish for such a thing.”
“You’re free. You can go where you want, and do what you will.”
“Go where I want and do what I will,” Pink repeated. “I ain’t never been nowhere but with Master Aubrey since the day I was birthed—and since the day I was birthed, I ain’t ever done nothin’ but be in service to Master Aubrey. What am I to do now? Where am I t’ go?”
“Have you no people back in Virginia?”
“Master Aubrey’s all that’s left of my people.” Pink rubbed the stump on her left hand where her little finger ought be. “Ol’ Master sold my mama off soon after I was weaned, and young Master Aubrey got rid of most everyone and everything to pay off Ol’ Master’s debts—though the man was my father, I curse the mean ol’ bastard for the terrible gamblin’ man he was. Left Master Aubrey in a right pickle, he did.”
“I can see why this might be a shock for you.” Anne carefully folded the page in two and handed it to Pink. “But you are an intelligent and hardworking woman, and you can make a life for yourself. If you’d like, you’re welcome to come to live with me and Sally, at least until you figure out exactly what to do.”
Pink looked up. “For real and true?”
“Of course.” Anne pulled Pink up to a stand.
Lieutenant Gill arrived just then with a cart and two men to help lift the corpse. Aubrey Dunaway was hoisted out of bed in a sling fashioned from his blanket, and the women followed the parade outside to see him placed in the cart.
Pink began sobbing as she floated a fine linen sheet over the body, and Anne rushed up to wrap a comforting arm around the woman. Like a lawyer making a case to the judge, Pink looked up to the sky and proclaimed, “He was always kind to me—never once was I whipped—and I have more than a few tender remembrances of when we played as children.” She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand, and asked Anne, “Master Aubrey’s up in heaven now, ain’t he? He’s up in heaven right now listening to the music of the angels…”
Anne nodded only to give some comfort to Pink, for in her heart she doubted whether any of the men who enslaved their fellow human beings—much less this man, who kept a sister in bondage for twenty-nine years—could ever earn a place amongst the angels.
Pink packed her few articles of clothing into an old leather portmanteau, and Anne took the iron kettle from the hearth and collected Pink’s medicaments and herbs into it. Together, they bundled up her bedding and tied the bulky package with a rope.
Pink threw on a plain but good wool cloak, pulling the hood over her wild hair. Considering the three loads, and the distance back to her hut, Anne said, “I’m wearing sleeves; I can carry the bedding on my back, like a pack.”
Taking hold of the pot bale, Pink bit her bottom lip. “I don’t feel right taking these things. This kettle and bedding are Master Aubrey’s property…”
“Fiddlesticks!” Anne slipped her arms through the ropes and adjusted the bundle to sit comfortably across her shoulders. “Wherever Aubrey Dunaway is, I can assure you he has no need of either kettles or bedding.”
Pink flashed a little smile, the first Anne had seen since she’d come through the door.
“It’s a habit, I s’pose,” Pink said, “worrying for Master and his things.”
Grabbing the portmanteau, Anne suggested, “Get in the habit of worrying about Pink.”
She swung open the door, and Pink stepped out into the light.
“There!” Anne balanced the last length of firewood onto the stack she’d arranged next to the hearth. “That should get us through to morning, don’t you think?”
Straddling a bench, David looked up from shuffling a deck of cards. “More than enough—now sit down and play.”
Anne sat to face her brother, and snapped up the cards David tossed her way. She sniffed the air, saying, “The girls are spoiling you on your last day, brother… I smell chocolate and shortbread for our afternoon tea.”
“Shortbread!” Sally dropped the stocking she was knitting and knelt at the hearth. Very carefully she lifted the lid from the Dutch oven so as not to spill any of the hot embers layered atop it.
“Is it burned?” David asked.
Using a long-handled spoon, Sally levered up a round tin of shortbread, proclaiming, “It’s perfect—have a look-see!” She brought the tin over to show them the slightly golden sweet cake she’d marked into eight pie-shaped pieces using the tines of a fork.
Pink came out from behind a quilt hung from the rafters in the corner, a tin pail in hand. “I’m heading out, y’all,” she warned.
David and Anne clapped hands down on their game of Whist, and Sally flipped her apron over the shortbread. As Pink scooted out the door to toss the content of the piss pot, an ice-cold wind came skirling through the cabin, whistling up the chimney, sending out a scatter of ashes.
In a blink of the eye, Pink came scurrying back. “Woo-hooo!” she exclaimed, pushing the door shut. “It’s colder than a witch’s tittie
outside. So cold, there ain’t nary a soul to be seen.” She went over to the hearth and stirred the little pot simmering on the grate. “On a day like today, this here chocolate will surely hit the spot…”
David’s hand shot up. “I’ll have a cup!”
“Glutton!” Anne gave her brother a shove to the shoulder. “I’m sure we’d all enjoy a share.”
Pink poured a round of chocolate, and David was the first to take a sip. “Sorry, Annie. I always thought your chocolate the best, but I have to say, Pink’s is better.”
Anne agreed after taking a sip. “What’s your secret?”
“Ain’t no secret, Annie.” Pink laughed. “I just stir in a bitty pinch of red pepper powder. Adds a little bite to the sweet.”
Sally turned the shortbread out onto a cloth and broke it along the perforations into triangular pieces she called petticoat tails. “I’m surprised we didn’t see our young lads today. It’s been more’n three days since they’ve been round for a meal…”
“I hope they didn’t catch sick.” Pink took a seat beside Sally. “I heard tell there’s pox in the camp.”
“Smallpox?” Anne looked away from the game. “Who told you that?”
“One of the washwomen.” Pink nodded. “Said a quarantine’s been set up and they’re lookin’ for nurses. I had me the pox as a little one, so I was thinkin’ to apply… Pays eight dollars a month, plus rations.”
Anne popped up. She pulled her shawl up over her head and plucked her coat from the peg. “I’d better go and check on them…”
“Och, Annie!” Sally said. “Not a one of us meant for ye t’ go traipsin’ about in th’ ice cold.”
David lunged out and grabbed Anne by the skirts. “Sit down and finish the game. I’m sure they’re fine… You saw them on parade just the other day.”
“That was three days ago, David…” Anne jerked her skirts free, tugged on a woolly cap, and stuffed her hands into a pair of mittens. “If you recall, it took my Jemmy just short of three days to die from the pox.”
“You’re right.” David nodded and gathered up the cards. “Though I wager they’re both hunkered in with their messmates, I suppose there’s no harm in your checking in.”
Sally tied Anne’s muffler snug, and handed over a small package wrapped in a bit of old sacking. “Petticoat tails for our young lads, na?”
Hands and shortbread tucked in pockets, head down, Anne took off marching a quickstep across the valley. David’s right… Anyone with a brain is hunkered in…
It was a crackling cold—a stinging cold—one of those days when it hurt to take too deep a breath. Strong gusts of wind propelled Anne across the parade ground, and she could see the groups of huts hugging the entrenchments—the gray ribbons of smoke rising from the stubby stone chimneys streaming sideways with the wind. Anxious for the boys and a warm fire, she veered off the packed-down path to cut a shorter way through knee-deep snow, aiming for the second cluster from the left. Weedon’s brigade…
She’d been there only once before, but she recalled the directions Brian had given her. Third hut from the left in the first row you see… Anne stopped and wiped the water from her eyes, counting again, One—two—three huts from the left…
Not a wisp of smoke puffed from that chimney. Anne jerked up her skirts and ran the rest of the way to pound at the door. When no one answered her knock, she yanked on the latchstring and found what she knew she’d find—the hut was cold, dark, and completely empty.
Spinning around in the doorway, Anne pulled at the moist wool covering her mouth and heaved big, cloudy breaths. Where could they be? She eyed the hilly horizon, and the winter sun—so pale and weak—hovered just above an angry slurry of storm clouds riding in from the west.
No time to waste… Anne hurried to the last row—the officer huts—and pounded on the first door she came to, surprised to be greeted by a familiar face.
“Lieutenant Enslin,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Merrick. I hope you remember—we spoke on the parade ground the other day…”
“Of course.” Equally surprised, the Lieutenant waved her inside. “Come in… come in…”
“Thank you.” Anne scurried straight to the hearth.
The Lieutenant’s hut was similar to the hut Pink occupied with Captain Dunaway, except that it boasted a rectangular cast-iron stove of the type the Dutch were fond of, resting on a pad of flagstones within the fireplace. A young soldier with a slate in his hand and a blanket thrown over his shoulders was sitting on one of the pair of stools pulled close to the stove. There was something odd in the look on his face, and Anne thought for a moment he seemed frightened.
“I’m helping Private Monhort learn his sums.” Enslin directed the soldier like a schoolmaster would. “Carry on, Private, while I speak with Mrs. Merrick.”
Private Monhort smiled, and bent over his slate, the soft tick of chalk on the stone signaling he was back on task.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Anne said, allowing Enslin to draw her into the orb of warm air radiating from the stove. “I won’t be but a moment.”
“Warm yourself”—Enslin gestured to the stove—“and tell me why you are here.”
“Do you recall the two drummer boys who were waving to me on the parade ground?” Anne lifted her skirts above her boot tops, allowing a warm draft to move up her legs.
The Lieutenant nodded. “I know them. They are with the Thirteenth Pennsylvanians.”
Anne tugged off her cap. “I’ve just come from paying a call and found their hut completely deserted. I’m very concerned… They say smallpox is in the camp.”
“Not to worry, Mrs. Merrick. Your drummer boys have been inoculated.” Enslin opened the little door on the stove and tossed a chunk of wood on top of glowing embers. “They are in quarantine.”
“Inoculated!”
“Yes. General Washington has ordered all soldiers who’ve never suffered smallpox to be inoculated before we begin campaigning in the spring.” Enslin laid a hand on Anne’s shoulder. “Do not be so alarmed. The process is proven and very scientific.”
Anne grabbed Enslin by the arm. “Where’s this quarantine?”
Patting Anne on the shoulder, the Lieutenant said, “I assure you, Mrs. Merrick, inoculation is quite safe… Very few die from the procedure. Inoculation is for the good of the soldier and the army as a whole…”
“I know well the danger posed by smallpox, and the merits of inoculation. Both my husband and young son died of smallpox.” Anne tugged her hat back on. “Tell me where I can find the quarantine.”
Marching over to the peg where his coat and tricorn were hanging, Enslin shrugged into his coat. “I will take you to there.” Tying his tricorn secure to his head with a muffler, he said to his student, “I will return shortly, John.”
They walked side by side on a well-tamped-down path following along the lines of entrenchments. As they crossed the Gulph Road, Anne asked, “Are you inoculated, Mr. Enslin?”
“After a fashion,” he said. “The disease is very common in Holland. I suffered it as a boy, and survived. And you?”
“There was an outbreak in our town, and I was inoculated as a child,” Anne said.
“Hmmm…” Enslin said. “Your parents were progressive thinkers …”
Anne shrugged. “In truth, my father thought my mother had gone mad when she but suggested inoculation. She’d lost all her family to the smallpox, and said she could not bear see it happen again. Father absolutely forbid it, but Mother was a stubborn and willful woman, and she called Dr. Walker to our house when my father was away.”
“To defy husband and convention…” There was admiration in his tone. “Your mother was a very brave woman.”
Anne nodded. “She was.”
She walked along remembering the day Dr. Walker came to the house with his black satchel of frightening tools, remembering how he laid them out, one by one, on a swath of bloodred felt. Mother was the first…
David had cried watching as she
submitted to the physician’s knife, but Mother assured them it hurt only “a wee, little bit,” and that they must be brave. Anne smiled. I was brave for David. It had been difficult to stand stoic but she barely flinched when the physician applied his lancet to her arm. But for one tiny whimper when he was cut, David, too, was brave.
Together they watched from the window when Dr. Walker went out to the poor wretch he had lying in his cart on the lane. The poor boy’s face was so completely covered over with weeping pustules, David said he thought the boy looked like a warty old gourd. Anne gave him a hard shove for saying such a cruel thing, and she began to weep when the doctor scraped up some of the oozing matter from the sick boy’s face with a silver teaspoon.
It didn’t hurt much at all when Dr. Walker squeezed the pus he’d gathered into the open wounds on their arms, and Mother gave them each a sugar comfit from the tin she always carried in her pocket. For being so good…
Anne stood on the stoop, holding David by the hand, and watched the physician’s cart bounce down the lane. The next day, she and David sickened and went on to survive very mild cases of the pox, as was expected.
“Being inoculated has saved both our lives,” Anne mused aloud. “Had he not been inoculated, my brother would most likely have succumbed to the disease, during the Canada campaign—as so many of our soldiers did. And I most likely would have perished along with my husband and son…”
“Yes,” Enslin said. “Inoculation saves lives.”
Anne stopped in her tracks. “Do you wonder, Lieutenant, why a woman, when saved by her mother from contracting a virulent disease, would not do the same for her own son?”
Enslin took Anne’s arm and looped it through the crook of his elbow. “It is clear to me you loved your boy very much,” he said, pulling her along.
Anne was grateful for the man’s arm, and for the regular crunch of their footfalls in the snow moving her forward. She was of a sudden so weary—encumbered by the drag of days gone by.
The Turning of Anne Merrick Page 29
