The Turning of Anne Merrick (33 page)

“Just need t’ catch my wind,” Sally gasped, arms crossed over her middle. “Go… make certain he’s dead.”

Anne found the lantern and brought it over to shine a light on Sergeant Burgus. His eyes were open and lifeless, and his gaping mouth brimmed with a puddle of blood. “That is the second man I’ve had to kill…”

“
Yer certain he’s dead?”

“I am.” With a trembling hand, she retrieved her spent pistol, and tucked it back into her sash. “There’s nothing so empty as a dead man’s eyes.”

“We both had a hand in it.” Sally struggled up to her feet. “I stove my blade intae him, an’ I’ll not fash a moment over it. Th’ world’s well rid of th’ spawn.”

An indistinct shout rang out in the distance, followed by the crackle of musket fire.

“This is not a good place for us…” Anne scurried to gather the baskets, offering one to Sally. “Are you able, or ought we leave it behind?”

“Are ye daft? These baskets are filled with good cheer.” Sally took the one. “No doubt I’ll be sore on the morrow, but I’m fine for now.”

They started up the path only to pull to an immediate halt when two figures stepped out from the trees no more than ten yards ahead—shadowy men, each wearing a tall hat and carrying long guns.

“Grenadiers!” Anne moaned.

Sally dropped her basket and freed her pistol and, extending her arm, she clacked back the hammer and shouted, “Who comes there?”

Anne slapped open the shutter on the lantern, the soft beam swinging wildly on a pair of befeathered Indians shading their eyes. The taller Indian waved.

“
Shé-ku
, Jack’s woman!”

Anne reached up to steady the swinging light, and squinted. “Neddy?” Sally lowered her weapon, and they both jerked at the crackle of musket fire flashing in the trees to the east.

“Deserters,” Isaac said.

Sally turned to Anne. “These are our friends, na?”

“Friends…” Anne said, shuttering her lantern. “And a sight for sore eyes.”

“Hoa.”
Ned set off, waving them along. “We’ll show you the way home.”

TEN

Here are laurels, come and share them.

T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
The American Crisis

D
ECEMBER 17, 1777
S
ARATOGA

“Up-a-daisy!”

Skirts in a bundle over one arm, Anne grabbed hold of Jack’s hand, and he helped her scramble up the last few steps to a hilltop overlooking the place where Fishkill Creek drained into the Hudson, near the town of Saratoga.

The wind was brisk, but for the first time since the battle at Bemis Heights, the sun shone bright and unfettered by clouds. Anne tossed back the hood of her red cloak, and took in the view. The clear sky was reflected in the water, turning the river into a blue satin ribbon wending north and south through a beautiful tapestry of trees at the apex of change—iridescent yellow and orange broadleaves mingled with mellow reds and browns, tempered by stands of deep green conifers. “What a grand day!” she exclaimed.

Jack said, “Looks like we’re the last to arrive to this party…”

Anne held back for a moment, watching her man as he strode away to greet the others with a shout and a wave. Jack, and the men he
fought alongside with, had become woven into the cloth of the colorful landscape spread before her.

They are the weft to the warp of this weaver’s loom…

Jack’s dark hair had grown so long and unruly, he took to plaiting it into a single thick braid bound with a leather lace, and even at that, the breeze still managed to coax several strands loose. He wore a length of soft red wool wrapped around his neck against the chill, the loose ends tucked into his homespun hunting shirt. A long rifle was slung over his shoulder, an Indian tomahawk dangled from his belt, and his feet were shod in moccasins he’d made for himself. But the changes most notable were not wrought in his dress. The battles he’d survived had chiseled him stronger—a more thoughtful, cautious strength—a strength Anne knew she could rely on.

Since their joyful reunion under the stars at the Continental camp on Bemis Heights, they’d managed to snatch only scant moments of time together. Anne and Sally joined the cadre of Patriot camp followers as the Continental Army continued to press Burgoyne’s army to the point of surrender. At last, completely surrounded, severely outnumbered, and without any other recourse, Gentleman Johnny agreed to the terms of an honorable surrender, and on this day, the capitulation would be completed in formal ceremony.

Grown to number more than twenty thousand, General Gates’s entire force marched across the Fishkill that morning to witness the surrender. Always-prudent and ever-cautious David was unwilling to risk exposing Anne and Sally’s true allegiance to any on the British side, and he deemed it unwise for them to attend the ceremony. Instead, he proposed a picnic, and promised them all a “wondrous sight.”

Ned and Isaac were sitting before a fire they’d kindled, roasting sausage links on sharp green sticks. The Indians were garbed in full array for the celebration—moccasins, leggings, and breechclouts heavy with beaded embellishments—with trade silver strewn over chests, and dangling from ears. Isaac’s
gustoweh
was adorned with the bright feathers of a male cardinal, and was edged with a band of wampum beads. As Anne drew close, she was surprised by the friendly design ringing the brim—white figures on a purple ground, linked hand in hand in hand.

Sally sat beside the Oneidans on a striped wool blanket, cutting a wheel of cheese into slim wedges. Handing each Indian a piece, she said, “It’s good. It’s Dutch!”

Jack asked, “Where’s David?”

“Wagin’ war on th’ bramble.” Sally jerked a thumb. “Making ready for the surprise, he says.”

Saber in hand, dressed in polished black boots and his blue and buff dress uniform, David was hacking away at a bramble, creating a break in the thicket to the north of the picnic site.

Jack shouted, “Hoy, Captain!”

David looked up and waved as well, and Anne couldn’t help but smile. It had been some time since she’d seen her brother so happy and carefree. “Lately, I forget he’s but six and twenty,” she said to Jack. “It’s a pleasure to see the boy in him once again.”

Titus came out of the break, tossing an armful of cut brush into a pile, and he waved to Anne and Jack. Though his clothes were a homespun match to what Jack wore, he sported an elaborate tricorn, pinned with a green silk cockade, edged in silver braid, and topped off with a tall white plume.

“He certainly has a fondness for hats, our Titus,” Anne said.

“He’s amassed a collection,” Jack said. “That one’s plundered from the German redoubt.”

“Come here, everyone! It’s time!” David waved them over to the promontory. Once assembled, he announced, “From this vantage point, we will be able to see what no other Patriot eyes are allowed to see by order of the final Treaty of Convention—the vanquished British army grounding its arms.” David handed Sally and Anne each a spyglass. “Aim toward the flats by the river.”

Anne could already hear the roll and thump of the regimental drums and the trill of fifes carried on the breeze. With the aid of the spyglass, she could see a throng of red coats assembling into ranks, blue coats in formation marching in, and she was able to pick out General Burgoyne on horseback, looking very handsome in his splendid dress uniform, reviewing his vanquished army.

It was a massive assemblage, more than five thousand soldiers. As
she panned across the ranks, Anne thought she might spy a familiar face or two, but other than Burgoyne, she couldn’t find any of the significant faces she hoped she might see.

“Do you see any you know?” Ned asked.

“I dinna see any I cared for. Do you, Annie?” Sally said

“No.” Anne shook her head. “I don’t.”

“They all look the same, don’t they?” Titus said, his glass to his eye. “Sad and grim.”

Jack took the glass from Titus and had a look. “We sure know that feeling, don’t we?”

Row by row, the soldiers came forward to surrender their arms. Infantrymen tossed muskets and cartridge boxes into growing piles. Artillerymen brought the cannon forward. Officers relinquished sidearms and swords, and even the drummers stacked their drums. Then General Burgoyne led the entire parade north, beyond their sight, to where he would meet with General Gates, and hand over his sword in defeat.

Titus was the first to snap his spyglass shut. “There it is. We beat him. Beat Burgoyne with all his Germans and Indians. Beat him bad.”

David’s grin was wide. “The French are bound to sit up and take notice of us now…”

“French!”
Sally yelped and ran off to the campfire. She came running back brandishing a green bottle and a stack of tin cups. “Champagne filched and carried over hill and dale for just such an occasion,” she said, passing around the cups. “Compliments of Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne!”

“Perfect! Give it here!” David opened the bottle—whacking off wire bale, cork, and all with one swing of his sword. They all swooped in, giggling and laughing, trying to catch the spilling froth. Even reserved Isaac shouted,
“Oho!”
and captured a share.

Anne said, “Raise your cups!”

Jack held his high. “To us here—and to all who peril their lives for Liberty—’tis to Glory we steer!”

ELEVEN