The Turning of Anne Merrick (26 page)

People like Jack and David… and Sally… and me.

Sally banged once again on her kettle. “Bowls up!”

“Ye can divvy up the extra rations amongst us…” Will Crisp held out his bowl. “No one will be the wiser.” Emma Crisp’s eldest was
wounded on picket duty during a rebel ambush the night before. Knocked flat by a rifle shot to the leg, he was lucky the lead ball zinged through his thigh muscle without doing any damage to the bone.

With a fierce look in her eye, Sally poured a double ration of gruel into the boy’s bowl, daring Sergeant Burgus to voice a complaint. “Thin as a needle, this lad is—not enough meat on him to even stop a bullet.”

Anne pointed to the end of the row, where a man bundled in a blue jacket lay curled on his side, facing away from the others. “Who’s that there?”

Foley gave it a good try. “M-m-mooo… moo… moo…” Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “M-mm-moo-mooo…”

Captain Thorn leaned over and clasped his gunner by the shoulder. “Moved him in today—right, Foley?”

The gunner nodded. “A German.”

Anne went down the aisle to give the toe of the new arrival’s mud-crusted boot a shake. “I need your name and regiment.”

The Hessian rolled onto his back. Strips of clean linen were tied to his head, holding a fresh padding of cotton lint over his right eye. He wore gold braid looped over one blood-splashed shoulder, and an ornate scabbard and sword lay atop his field chest.

“Yer wastin’ yer breath.” Sergeant Burgus sneered. “Th’ cabbage-licker don’t speak a word o’ the King’s English.”

Putting pencil to paper, Anne softened the timbre of her voice, and spoke slowly. “Please, sir, your name and regiment?”

The Hessian officer rose up on one elbow, pushing long, matted tangles of straw-colored hair over his shoulder. Though equipped with but one working eye, the officer still managed to cast Burgus a withering glare as he said in a firm voice,
“Kapitän Andréas Hoffman—erste brigade, regiment von Rhetz.”

While she scribbled the Hessian’s name onto her roster, Sally mimicked spooning food into her mouth. “Are ye able t’ feed yerself, Capeetan?”

“Ja… ja…”
The German sat up and fished a shining brass mess kit from his pack.

“Good,”
Sally muttered, ladling a helping into his bowl. “One less for us to cosset.”

Anne and Sally finished dishing up the soldiers’ dinner—a bowl of gruel, three round ship’s biscuits, and a cup of spruce beer.

Knocking one of his biscuits to the side of his wooden bowl, Burgus said, “Hard as a woman’s heart, these biscuits.” The Sergeant scooped up a spoonful of gruel, letting it drizzle and plop back into his bowl without eating it. “And would ye look at this pap? How’s a man expected to get back into fighting fit on this pig swill, I ask ye?”

“Thank ye, sir.” Sally snatched the bowl from his hands and, with great flourish, spilled the contents back into the kettle. “Plenty will be grateful for yer share of pig swill.” She tossed his empty bowl back into his lap.

“You’ve no call to deny me my victuals.” Burgus held his bowl out. “I’m a wounded soldier…”

“Wounded?
Fiech!
” Sally sneered. “Over-friendly with the oxen is what ye are.”

Captain Thorn snorted into his beer.

“I’m a King’s man, Mrs. Merrick, and I fight for rations and sixpence a day.” Burgus shifted in his seat, turning to Anne, his voice raising in pitch. “Your girl has no call to withhold my victuals. I was but sayin’—a man needs a piece of proper meat and a cup of proper grog in these desperate times…”

“In desperate times, Sergeant,” Anne replied, “a real man keeps such thoughts to himself.”

“Hear, hear!” Captain Thorn perked up, and raised his cup to Anne.

“I’m owed rations, Mrs. Merrick,” Burgus insisted, making a big show of wincing and lifting his bandaged foot onto a bolster. “I’m a King’s man, wounded in the line of duty.”

Anne could not bear to hear another word drop from the man’s selfish mouth. She closed her eyes and huffed a sigh. “Just give him his share,” she said.

“So pleased wi’ yerself, aren’t ye?” Sally jerked the bowl from Burgus. “Th’ face on ye—like a bulldog lickin’ piss off a nettle.” She ladled
out a portion of gruel and shoved the bowl back into his hands. “There—ye wee whinging snivelard. Choke on it.”

Will Crisp hooted. Foley slapped his knee and stuttered, “Yer a rare one, S-S-Sally.” Even the Hessian was laughing.

“Never tangle with a redhead, Sergeant,” Captain Thorn advised. “They’re known to carry a sting in their tails.”

The women settled in to spoon-feed the invalids, and Captain Thorn broke a biscuit into his bowl. “So, ladies… what news?”

Sally shrugged, using the corner of her apron to wipe the spittle dribbling from her patient’s mouth. “There’s little good to tell.”

Anne rolled a blanket into a bolster, propping her charge up at an angle. “Burgoyne has cut rations once again.”

One-handed, Foley used the socket end of his bayonet to pound a biscuit into bits before stirring it into his gruel. “That b-b-bodes ill.”

“I tell you what bodes ill…” Burgus did not hesitate to join in the conversation. “It’s been over a fortnight since the battle and we do naught but sit and wait while the damn rebels gain in numbers and strength. By all rights we ought be in full retreat—back to Canada to winter.”

“Britons never retreat,” Sally said.

Anne shot her friend a warning look, to which Sally flashed a grin and a wink. No one else seemed to catch the sneer in Sally’s tone.

“There’s talk of reinforcements on the way,” Will Crisp offered. “General Clinton’s forces from New York, maybe General Howe, some say.”

“Don’t believe it. No one is coming.” Captain Thorn traced the brim of his bowl with his spoon. “We’re on our own out here.”

A low-pitched, mournful drone pierced the stillness punctuating the Captain’s dour pronouncement. Echoing over the tree-covered hills, the lone call was joined in by a higher-pitched howl, and another, and another. Sounding much like a winter’s wind screaming through chinks in a wall, the eerie harmonic wail sent a shiver up Anne’s spine.

“D’ye hear that, young Will?” Burgus cocked his head to the side, one bushy brow raised. “Reinforcements!”

Foley’s bony shoulders hunched up around his ears. “Hellhounds.”

“
Is that what they are?” Will Crisp went goggle-eyed. “The woods are filled with the reek of ’em by day—and by night you can actually see the glint of their fiery eyes as they dart among the trees.” His voice cracked on the word “trees.”

Sally leapt up to raise the wick in the oil lantern hanging from the center pole, brightening the light. “Dinna speak of th’ hellhounds, Will Crisp, lest ye bring ill fortune upon yerself.”

Foley nodded vigorous in agreement. “G-g-gaze into the eyes of a hellhound three t-t-times, and yer certain t’ meet with d-d-death.”

“Nonsense.” Captain Thorn crushed another biscuit into his bowl. “It’s nothing but the howling of wolves drawn in by the smell of war.”

“With the wounded left behind on the field, and the pitiful graves that were dug under fire”—Burgus shoved a spoonful into his mouth, spattering gruelly gobs of biscuit as he spoke—“it’s certain those wolves are eating better than we are.”

The rain began falling in earnest, thrumming on the canvas roof in rapid fire. Anne was compelled to close the tent flaps to save those closest to the door a drenching. A staccato flash of lightning produced a bone-shaking crack of thunder, startling Foley so, he upset his bowl, spilling his dinner out onto his pallet.

“S-s-s-s-sorry. Th-th-th—”

“Don’t fret, Mr. Foley.” Anne took the empty bowl from the gunner’s trembling hand. Thorn shimmied over to draw a blanket over Foley’s shaking shoulders. Sally came over to pour the last of the gruel into the gunner’s empty bowl when the sharp report of a hunter’s rifle resounded, causing them all to jerk. The single shot was followed by a hue and cry, and the ragged crackle of musket fire.

“Sounds like another sharpshooter hit his target,” Thorn said.

Will nodded. “Puffing a pipe on picket duty, I bet. No better way to draw a rebel bullet to your brain.”

“They brought a dozen dead in from Breyman’s redoubt today,” Sally said. “Every one of ’em picked off by rebel sharpshooters.”

“You mean rebel cowards. Targeting officers and artillerymen from a distance—” Burgus grumbled, gathering his blanket about his shoulders. “Where’s the gallantry in that?”

Foley shrugged. “G-g-gallantry don’t win wars.”

“I’ve heard tell these American boys are given rifles when still in leading strings. By the time they’re full grown, they can shoot the winking eye from a man at two hundred yards.” Will jerked his head over toward the Hessian.

Burgus laughed. “For once it don’t pay to be an officer, does it?”

“Whether you agree with their methods or no, the rebels have dogged our progress since Ticonderoga, and on the field of battle, they managed to repulse every one of our charges.” Captain Thorn toyed with the last of his biscuits, spinning it like a coin on the cover of his book. “There’s something to admire in how they’ve figured a way to fight us. I never thought they stood a chance, but a fortnight ago I saw untrained, ill-armed, backwoods farmers hold back the might of the Empire.”

“What a load of old bollocks! ‘Something to admire,’” Burgus mimicked. “Sounds like a rebel in the making.”

“Poltroon!” Thorn whipped his biscuit across the aisle, hitting Burgus square on his big greasy pate. “You forget yourself, Sergeant!”

Anne laughed, and Sally clapped her hands, exclaiming, “Bull’s-eye!”

“How dare you question my loyalty, sir?” Captain Thorn leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes hooded in fury. “If you were any kind of a soldier, you’d know to study your enemy’s strengths. If you were a smart soldier, you’d know to respect them. But you, Sergeant Burgus, are akin to a fingerpost on the road, pointing the way to a place you’ve never been.” The Captain pounded a fist to his chest. “I was on that battlefield and know what I saw—an enemy fighting with fierce determination—men fighting for something more than sixpence a day.”

“Sorry, Cap’n.” Burgus mumbled his apology, fished out the flung biscuit caught in the folds of his blanket, and crumbled it into his bowl. “But I stand by what I said—Americans are cowards, through and through.”

“If the Americans are cowards, why do they flock to the rebel standard, while our fellows desert in droves?” Will Crisp asked. “Just
the other day, a whole company of Brunswickers snuck off in the night.”

Burgus snorted. “What d’ ye expect from Germans?”

Kapitän
Hoffman bolted upright.
“Arschloch!”
he shouted, and a bright patch of red burst like a blossom on the pad covering his eye. “It
vas
German
soldaten
who saved
die Englische flanke
… German
soldaten!”

Burgus scooted backward, putting as much space as he could between himself and the Hessian’s fury, wagging a stubby finger. “You just better shut your kraut-hole. No one here gives a shite about your gibberish.”

“Lie back, lad.” Sally rushed over to soothe the Hessian back to the pillow. “There’s no use gettin’ in a twist over the likes of him.”

“What do you know, anyway, B-B-Burgus?” Foley stuttered. “Like Cap’n says—you-you-you weren’t there.”

The Sergeant folded his arms across his chest, his jaw set tight and jutting forward. “I know what I hear.”

“Then hear this—” Thorn raised his cup in toast. “To our German comrades-in-arms! Without whose courage and fortitude we here may well have ended up as wolf’s meat.”

“Aye that!” Foley leaned over to tap his cup to the Captain’s. “T’ th’ Ger-Ger-Germans!”

Anne pushed through the canvas, sank down onto her cot with a groan, and swiped the mobcap from her head. “This place is sucking the very life from me.” Shoulders in a slump, she stared down at skirts, shoes, stockings—all saturated and crusted with mud. “What’s the point of changing out of muddy clothes?”

Sally hung the lantern from the ridgepole, dropped her basket, and plunked down onto her bed. “No point.”

Anne tottered over like a felled tree, landing on her side in a thump. “I don’t think I can bear another day in that hospital.”

“I canna bear another day in this bloody camp.” Sally flopped onto her back. “But we’re
trapped in this hellhole until Burgoyne makes a move. Who’d a’ thought th’ bastard would sit on his fat English arse doing nothing?”

“And what in bloody hell is General Gates waiting for?” Anne whispered. “Why doesn’t he attack? The British have never been as weak.”

“Bastards, th’ lot of them!!” Sally flung her pillow at the ridgepole, sending the lantern in a wild swing.

“Shhh…” Anne warned. “Keep your voice down. Remember where we are.”

“How can I forget?” Sally hissed. “I’m just about ready t’ go bloody mad, Annie. A wee skirmish here, and a few shots in the night—as if Gates thinks Burgoyne and his army will just dribble away on their own. It’s a foolish strategy, and we’ve no way to get word to our lads.”

“And Burgoyne is nobody’s fool. I fear there is method to his madness, and reinforcements are on the way. Goddamn it!” Anne pounded the stretched canvas of her cot. “Gates ought to seize advantage and attack with full force now!”

“Wheesht, Annie!” Sally began to giggle. “Would ye listen to us two? Swearin’ and cursin’ like a pair o’ drunken troopers!”

Anne smiled. “Jack would call it honest language.”

The whispered conversations within the protection of their own canvas served as a relief to the exhausting pretense they were forced to carry on without respite. Living out each day in constant dread, guilt, and worry had taken a toll.

Back when they were able to pass along intelligence, there was a great purpose served by their deception—but since the battle at Freeman’s Farm, they floated aimlessly in a maddening limbo, like lost souls, with no aim or direction.

Anne fussed with her pillow, kneading it into a doughy ball. There wasn’t even any pleasure to be found in the comfort of her bed, as sleeping served only to hasten yet another awful day among the enemy. “That’s it.” She shot up to her feet. “I’m sick and tired of living at the whim of generals. I will not do it a single day more.” She pulled out
the basket stored beneath her cot. “What food do we have put by?”