The Turning of Anne Merrick (37 page)

“
The bestest cure for the Itch is sulfur flour mixed with simple unguent.” Smiling, Pink brought over two small clay pots, handing one to Anne. “But in this misbegotten place, I’m afraid gunpowder and hog fat make do. I’ll show y’all how to apply it.” Scooping up a fingerful of the gray sludge, she sat beside Titus.

Anne stood up to watch Pink apply the balm. Titus visibly flinched at her touch. Brow furrowed, Pink asked, “Does it sting?”

“It stinks some,” Titus said, “but it don’t sting at all. In fact, it feels real good—soothing.”

“I know it do stink, but this balm will kill all the scabies what have burrowed under your skin. You don’t have to lay it on thick, but make certain you cover every inch…” She looked up into Titus’s eyes, and you could almost see the spark struck between them, like the powder flash from a pistol shot.

Aubrey Dunaway called to his slave in a wheezing sigh, “Pink…”

Pink startled. “I’m a-comin’,” she said, rushing over to his side.

Jack shot Titus an elbow. “She fancies you.”

Titus went grim. His gaze was locked on Pink, watching as she propped her master up and fed him water with a teaspoon. His whisper was monotone. “No point in her fancying anyone. She belongs to that man there.”

“She cares for him gently…” Anne said. “Captain Dunaway must be a kind master… I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if…”

“Kind master?” Jaw clenched, Titus pulled on his shirt, and pointed to the straw pallet and pillow at the foot of the bed. “So kind that he has her sleep at the foot of his bed like a dog?”

“Titus has the right of it. There’s no such thing as a kind slave owner.” Jack stood up and tugged his shirt over his head. “I’ll never understand these men who fight for the cause of liberty, yet they keep human beings in bondage for their own selfish purpose.”

“General Washington is numbered among these slave owners,” Anne reminded.

“I know,” Jack said, “and that has always been troublesome to me.”

Pink returned, her brow puckered with distress to see them slipping on their coats. “You’re leaving?”

“
What do we owe for the balm?” Titus asked, holding up the clay pot.

Pink shook her head. “No charge, sir. Naught but gunpowder and hog fat, anyway.” She followed after Titus as he turned to lift the door latch, saying, “Your rash might seem to get worse afore it gets better, but in five days or so, you should see the cure. Remember to rub the balm on every day…”

“I will.” Titus kept his eyes downcast and muttered, “Thank you.”

Pink grasped him by the hand. “If you run out, I can mix up more… no bother.”

Bed boards knocked and creaked as the Captain turned onto his side, calling, “Pink…”

Pink tightened her grip on Titus’s hand. “Best change your bedstraw as well… and boil your bedding…”

“Pink—”
Dunaway groaned.

“Your master calls, Miss Pink.” Titus tugged open the door, and the winter wind swept into the room, parting the pair of them like a sharp knife. Titus fled into the cold, and Jack ran after him.

Anne put a hand on Pink’s shoulder. “Maybe you can come and pay me a call? The boys can show you my cabin…”

“Piiink!”

“I’m comin’!” Pink looked at Anne, dark eyes blinking back tears. “There’s a whole mess of bayberry down by the covered bridge. If you want, I can show you… and Titus.”

“Bayberries.” Anne smiled. “That will work.” She pulled her shawl up over her head, and ran to catch up with Jack.

THIRTEEN

What we contend for is worthy the affliction we may go through.

T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
The American Crisis

P
AROLE
W
ORD
: P
ERSEVERANCE
C
OUNTERSIGN
: P
EACE

Anne tramped back to the cabin with two pails full of bayberries. The day dawned clear and sunny, and not only did it look warmer; it
felt
warmer. Snow dropped from the trees in clumps, and well-trod pathways had gone to mud and slush. The thaw trickled from the very peak down the roof shakes to
drip drip drip
from a comb of icicles formed along the eaves. Both hands occupied, Anne shouted, “Open up!” and kicked the door, inciting a torrent of ice-cold droplets to rain down on her head.

With a “Make way! Make way!” she scurried past Sally as she pulled the door open, and set the heavy buckets down on the hearth. “That ought be enough for a candle or two.”

“Ahhh!” Sally drew a deep breath. “Yer candleberries have the cabin smelling fresh already!”

The chandler in Albany had assured Anne the candles she purchased from him were the best quality, made with 100 percent sheep’s
tallow. But from the moment she set the first candle alight, Anne knew she’d been duped. The cheap hemp wicks constantly guttered, and the smoke emitted was dense with an odor like rancid burnt pork drippings that clung to clothes and hair.

Evil-smelling things…
Anne stripped off her coat and eyed the half-gone tallow candle in its dish.
I wager there’s more of pig than sheep in those candles…

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.”