The Turning of Anne Merrick (22 page)

The clash was fierce, but short-lived. The outnumbered Germans were soon vanquished by the overwhelming rebel force. As Burgoyne’s mercenaries tossed aside their weapons and fell to their knees with arms upraised in surrender, the scruffy Patriot army—in all their homespun, nut-dyed glory—raised their old and mismatched weapons, and shouted in victorious salute.

“LIBERTY!!”

In wonder, toothy smiles began to brighten the grimy and breathless Patriot faces with the realization that they had not only outwitted and outfought professional, trained troops; they had protected what was theirs at the Bennington depot, and also prospered greatly to the tune of hundreds of muskets, wagonloads of ammunition, swords, and two much-coveted artillery pieces.

“We won!!!!”
Jack linked arms with Titus. Laughing and spinning round and round, they danced a noisy jig.

Sally whisked the tent flap open. “There’s a havoc in th’ camp!”

Anne tossed stockings and garters to the side, slipped shoes on bare feet, hoisted her skirts, and ran to catch up with Sally, following the river path toward the General’s headquarters and the sound of drums beating the call to assemble.

The commotion centered on the makeshift parade ground at the manor house, where Burgoyne sat mounted straight and handsome in full and sparkling regalia on a prancing steed, leading the 47th Foot in formation from the camp.

Anne and Sally pushed their way through the throng to find Bab Pennybrig and the Crisps waving bits of pure white linen edged with lace as the regiment marched past.

“What’s happened?” Anne asked.

“A complete disaster!” Emma Crisp wailed.

Bab Pennybrig did not contradict her friend’s hysterics. “Baum’s Brunswickers and the Hessian reinforcements Burgoyne sent have all been crushed in a rebel onslaught. Pennybrig says nine hundred are killed or captured!”

Anne’s
breath caught in her throat. “My gracious!”

“Never trusted these Germans, not me,” Emma Crisp declared. “A fushionless, mim-mouthed lot, always singing their dreary hymns.”

“So where’s yer man an’ th’ Forty-seventh off to?” Sally asked Bab Pennybrig.

“Rescue force.” Even stoic Bab seemed stricken to the core, the corners of her mouth dragged downward with worry. “Gentleman Johnny’s leading it himself to recover and escort stragglers who may have escaped capture. As things stand now, our general’s lost a full seventh of his corps on this escapade, and gained nary and naught for the effort.”

“What a dismal turn of events… I’m… Oh…” Anne tugged the hankie from her pocket, pressing it over her mouth to conceal her inexcusable happiness, and she slumped against Sally for support.

Sally clutched her by the hand. “Are ye unwell?”

“The heat, I think… combined with the ill news.” Anne heaved a ragged sigh. “I’m feeling… overcome.”

The laundrywomen turned and cooed, whisking out their hankies to fan Anne’s flushed face. “Best take yer mistress for a lie-down, Sally,” Bab advised.

“Aye—look at her,” Emma Crisp concurred. “Th’ poor thing’s gone as red as a cardinal’s cloak.”

Sally wound a supporting arm around Anne’s waist. “Dinna fash, ladies. She’s prone to going all egg-shelly. A cool cloth to the brow and a tot of rum will put her to rights.”

Anne leaned her head on her friend’s sturdy shoulder and they headed slowly back to their tent with somber, downcast faces, matching the mood of the soldiers and officers gathered throughout the camp muttering in worried groups. Dipping into their tent, Sally pulled the door flaps shut and tied the ties tight. She turned to face Anne.

They both burst into wide grins, and in the narrow aisle between their camp beds, the women kicked off their sensible shoes, lifted their skirts, and danced a silent jig.

SEVEN

We have put, Sir, our hands to the plough, and cursed be he that looketh back.

T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
The American Crisis

S
EPTEMBER 18, 1777
H
AVING
C
ROSSED OVER THE
H
UDSON

The young grenadier dug down into his pocket, pulling forth a two-penny piece. Holding it pinched between thumb and forefinger, he offered the precious coin to Anne in exchange for the letter she’d written on his behalf.

“No charge.” Anne rejected his payment with a shake of her head, handing over the sheet of foolscap. No matter the color of their coats, she could not bring herself to accept any payment for writing the letters some of the soldiers readied before marching into battle.

The Redcoat didn’t argue the point, relieved to slip his hard-earned silver and the folded page into his breast pocket. “My thanks t’ ye, Widow Merrick. It’s true what they say—yer possessed of a kind soul.”

Since the army crossed the Hudson into what was solid rebel territory, Anne’s pen was kept busy writing these letters bidding farewell to dear mothers, beloved wives, and sweethearts—often begging forgiveness for some slight or real transgression, or giving instruction on
how to disburse personal possessions. Every letter assumed the worst, and every letter asked for prayers.

The onset of twilight brought with it a horde of mosquitoes to further plague the Redcoat army, and Anne killed the leviathan feasting on her forearm with a smack. She licked her thumb, and swiped away the sticky smear left behind. Even the mosquitoes seemed bolder and fiercer on this side of the river.

She packed her wares. Peddler’s box on her back, and her hands left free to swat at will, she marched a quickstep back to the crowded site at the very outskirts of the camp where sutlers, peddlers, and campwives were cloistered by order of Burgoyne. Anne was careful to note the placement of every sentry on picket duty along the way. Posted at close and regular intervals, the new picket line was quite a gauntlet, and she could not figure a way to get beyond it without being seen.

After the sound trouncing received at Bennington, Burgoyne tarried for several weeks at the Fort Miller camp, rebuilding the pontoon bridge and—most important—gathering provisions via his tenuous supply line stretching all the way back to Canada. Once ten tons of provisions had been horded, and careful rationing instituted, Burgoyne led his army across the Hudson. The General was intent on getting to Albany, as ordered, whether Howe was there to meet him or not.

Three days before, mounted on his charger, Burgoyne greeted each regiment as it stepped off the bridge, with his hat raised high and a shouted, “Britons never retreat!” His soldiers cheered in response.

Once the army, artillery, and resupplied baggage train completed the crossing, General Burgoyne ordered the floating bridge dismantled. From her position at the tail end of the snaking column crossing over the Hudson, Anne watched the engineers release the pontoons from their moorings. As the last link to supply and communication tumbled past on the current, she could not help but admire the dogged purpose these British exhibited. Burgoyne had made certain there would be no turning back.

The bravado displayed at the river crossing was soon squashed flat
ter than the mosquito on her arm. The Patriot army owned the west bank of the river, and Burgoyne’s progress forward was at once relegated to worse than a snail’s pace.

The only road was so severely damaged, the British columns were forced to march in a tortuous single file most of the way. To further bedevil the Redcoat advance, the bridges crossing over the many creeks and streams feeding the Hudson had all been destroyed, causing long periods of complete standstill, waiting for the engineers to jury-rig new crossings.

The vulnerable and drawn-out column was hemmed in on the right by the Hudson, and on the left by very steep, menacing, tree-covered hills. Redcoat scouts and foragers had little room in which to reconnoiter, and they were so immediately harried, ambushed, or captured by the rebels, Burgoyne was soon forced to put an end to sending out any scouting parties. He and his seven-thousand-man army stumbled forward veritably blindfolded, not knowing the whereabouts or numbers of the rebel army, or how it was preparing to engage.

Every step forward contributed to a palpable unease. There was not a single beast of any type to be seen—cattle, sheep, pigs, even deer were all missing from the landscape. The few wilderness farm fields the army passed stood burned or thoroughly gleaned by their unseen enemy.

A terrifying rumor warning of rebel sharpshooters lurking behind every tree and stone soon spread up and down the column like wildfire, putting everyone on edge. The rumor was soon affirmed as fact when a group of soldiers—lured by the prospect of a likely potato patch—breached the picket line and were mown down in an instant crack and flash of rifle fire.

With no way or hope of replenishing his precious supply of fighting men, Burgoyne railed at this loss for “the pitiful consideration of potatoes.” Orders were issued for all corps to proceed completely armed and fit out for instant action. To guard against rebel infiltration and maintain control over his troops, a dense picket line was mandated in camp and a complex system of passwords instituted. It was
made clear to one and all, man or woman—cross the picket line, and, if the rebels didn’t plant a lead ball between your eyes, Gentleman Johnny would see you hanged for disobeying orders.

Anne stopped to reposition leather straps on her peddler’s pack. She’d hiked three miles to the front lines and learned nothing of value.

What a waste of time.

Burgoyne’s high-command officers were so deeply embroiled in preparing for conflict with the rebel army, she hadn’t even seen Geoffrey Pepperell, much less spoken to him, since they’d crossed the Hudson. The Baroness and Lucy Lennox were equally sequestered from their husbands, and Anne found her main streams of intelligence had run bone-dry.

No matter. Impossible to pass any messages, anyway.
Up ahead, she spied Sally walking along the very edge of the path in a listless stroll, her basket dangling by two fingers. Anne called out, “Sally!” and ran to catch up with her friend.

“Any news?”

Sally shrugged. “More of the same. Everyone’s on pins and needles. The soldiers ready for battle. Their womenfolk dread it.”

Anne nodded. “I walked all the way up to the front line where the Twenty-fourth is camped. You can actually hear the Continental drums echoing from their works somewhere on the heights.”

“We’re tha’ close?” Sally’s voice wavered, and her big blue eyes went watery.

Anne nodded. “There’s bound to be a clash any day.”

Choking back a sob, Sally hiked her skirt and darted off in a sprint. Anne chased after, and slowed to a walk upon seeing her friend duck inside their tent. She took a deep breath before following her inside.

Sally lay on her cot facing the tent wall, a single creased page in her hand. From the sad sighs and sniffling, Anne knew Sally was reading, for perhaps the thousandth time, the last letter she’d received from David back in Peekskill.

Poor thing!
The closer they moved toward the Continental Army and the inevitable battle, the harder it was on her.

“
Landsakes!” Anne clapped her hands together, killing a mosquito hovering over Sally’s head. “These beasts are big enough to be harnessed.” Wielding a damp towel she’d twirled into a whip, Anne went on a hunt, killing half a dozen biters lurking along the canvas roof. She then uncorked a bottle of lavender oil, and massaged the scent onto her arms, face, and neck to keep the bugs at bay. She offered the oil to Sally. “You should put some on.”

Sally didn’t budge, so Anne poured a dab onto her friend’s exposed forearm, rubbing it in. “You don’t want to catch a fever, do you, Sal?”

“Och, Annie, can ye leave me be?” Sally drew her blanket over her head. “If ye want to be a help, go and see to the wee ones next door. The poor things are being et alive.”

“Come with me.”

“I’ve no’ th’ temper for any more idle chatter this day.” Sally’s voice was very tired, and she waved Anne off. “G’won—off wi’ ye. There are scones for them… there… in my basket.”

Relieved to have an excuse to escape the thickening brew of doom and gloom percolating inside their tent, Anne dropped the lavender oil into the basket and snatched up a lantern before heading out the door. “I’ll see to our light as well.”