The Turning of Anne Merrick (38 page)

Titus added, “Provide us fodder to keep the mules moving, and an escort to keep the Redcoat dragoons off our backs, and we can help you bring those supplies here, where folk are in desperate need.”

“Agreed, my fellows!” McLane jumped up and gave Jack and Titus a slap on the back. “We’ll leave at first light.”

Arms overloaded with firewood, Anne kicked at the door, and shouted, “Open up!”

Sally jerked the door open with a peevish whisper.
“Wheesht! He’s still sleepin’!”

Anne winced, whispering,
“I forgot he was here.”
Tripping over a divot in the dirt floor, she lost control of her load, and the cordwood fell from her arms in a noisy thumpety-thump.

David bolted upright, shouting, “WHAT?”

Poor David had fallen asleep with his head on Sally’s lap the night before. Rather than send him packing into the frigid night—seeing as how he was so sick with a head cold—everyone thought it best to leave him be. So exhausted he was, he didn’t stir when Jack and Titus helped Sally lift him onto the comfy straw pallet she fixed for him near the hearth. David snored the morning away, even sleeping through breakfast and the farewells when Jack, Titus, and Captain McLane left for Wilmington.

Sally crouched down at David’s side and gentled him back to his pillow, crooning, “It’s naught, sweetums… Annie dropped th’ firewood, is all. Back to sleep, now…”

David lay back, blinking and yawning. Throwing his arms up over his head, he stretched and asked, “What is it you have cooking there?”

“A nice chicken broth.” Sally got up to stir the pot on the grate, taking a sip of the soup. “Made from the bones and leavings from last night’s dinner…”

David scratched his head. “Last night’s dinner?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sally stirred her soup. “Ye had a nice lie-in this morn.”

David bolted up and, struggling to disengage from the tangle of blankets Sally had heaped upon him, exclaimed, “I’ve got to get to headquarters.”

“Och!” Sally dropped the spoon in the pot, swung a leg over David, and with both hands pushed him flat to the pallet. Vowing, “Yer stayin’ put!” she dropped to her knees and straddled his chest.

“Let—me—up!” Twisting and turning, David tried to wriggle free. “I’ve got to go. The Baron begins training the Model Company today…”

Sally cried, “Help me, Annie!”

Anne ran over from stacking the firewood and managed to gain control over her brother’s bucking legs. Pinned like a bug in a specimen case, David ceased struggling, and in a very reasonable tone he said, “This is serious. The two of you
have
to let me up. I’ll be court-martialed for failing to report to duty…”

“Don’t worry…” Anne said.

Sally grinned. “We promise t’ testify on yer behalf.”

David switched to his most imperious tone. “Let me up right
now
—that’s an order.”

“An
order
!” Anne and Sally burst into laughter.

“I mean it,” David insisted. “I’m a captain in this army.”

“Sorry, Captain.” Anne jumped up and ruffled her brother’s hair. “We take our orders from General Washington, who has removed your name from the duty roster.”

“Removed?”

David’s shift from terse to worried was so distinct, Sally slipped off to sit beside him and stroke the wrinkles from his forehead. “Dinna fash so,” she said. “I stopped by headquarters first light and let ’em know ye were under th’ weather. Th’ General values yer service, and aims t’ see ye fit.”

Anne added, “You’ve been battling a bad cold for days and days, and it’s only gotten worse. You’re a fine officer, but you’ll be no good to Washington feverish or consumptive. A few days’ rest and a dose of Sally’s chicken broth will surely cure what ails you.”

“Yer t’ be coddled,
Captain
…” Sally planted a kiss on his cheek. “Tha’s an order!”

“But…” David’s attempt to stifle a cough erupted into a drawn-out coughing fit.

“Waesacks!”
Sally hurried to dipper up a cup of water for him. “D’ye hear tha, Annie? We need to do something about that cough.”

Anne pulled her coat down from the peg. “I’ll go see if Pink has any onions we might trade for.”

David put on a sore face and groaned, “Noooo…”

“Aye…” Sally said. “A warm onion poultice will drive th’ cough from yer lungs.”

“That’s it!”
David threw his arms up over his head in total surrender. “I give up…”

Fully bundled, Anne set off chasing her shadow on a march across the valley toward Captain Dunaway’s hut. It seemed the entire camp was out taking advantage of the clear sky and calm wind. She passed several crews of soldiers hard at work with ax and adze, hewing round logs into level and even squares. Thick plumes of smoke snaking up into the blue sky marked the multiple fires where washwomen worked their battledores, stirring steaming cauldrons of laundry.

Anne stopped at the parade ground to join a huddle of women and soldiers watching a large company of soldiers being drilled in battle formations. The drillmaster was a big officer wearing a splendid bicorn hat adorned with a gold and red cockade. He marched up and down the lines barking in French. A young officer followed after him, and in a much less daunting voice translated the directives into English, which were then executed by the American soldiers in the most pitiful manner.

The Baron and the Model Company.

This was the man David was so concerned about—the latest in a stream of soldiers of fortune shipping in from far-flung places like France, Poland, and Germany to volunteer their services for the American cause. David told them one hundred and twenty soldiers had been handpicked from across all regiments to form a Model Company to be trained by this Prussian in the European manner of waging war.

The Baron presented a very authoritative figure in a caped overcoat, double-breasted with shiny brass buttons and gold-fringed epaulettes. A large, long-snouted hound followed obediently at his heels as he marched with the company, shouting directives. In the officer’s few quiet moments reviewing his new company’s performance, the Prussian tapped the side of his polished leather knee boots with the riding crop he carried, and stroked his pet’s nose.

The Model Company, on the other hand, couldn’t be any less impressive. The Continental ranks with their mishmash weaponry and horribly ragtag clothing and footwear were in no way performing
anything resembling the close-ordered military drill Anne’d witnessed while encamped among the British. The training process was made even more convoluted by the Baron’s lack of English—every order first conceived in German, shouted in French, and relayed to the troops by his aide in English.

Marching back and forth waving his riding crop, the Prussian grew red in the face, trying to get the ten ranks of twelve to maneuver with some measure of unison and alignment. When he gave the order to wheel left, some did go left, others kept straight, some moved too slow, and others too fast. With one simple order, the entire company converged in a confounded mess. In complete frustration the Prussian tossed his crop into the air and emitted a sharp stream of German and French invectives that could lift a scalp, no translation offered or required.

“The Baron will need to learn a few English curse words, if he thinks to whip this lot into any semblance of an army,” Anne said.

Arms folded across his chest, an officer standing to her left commented with a laugh, “I expect, madam, Steuben’s few English words are most likely curse words.”

The strapping young man’s speech bore a soft Germanic accent. Anne noted the officer’s dark blue coat and asked, “Are you Prussian as well, sir?”

“No. I come from Holland, but I consider myself American now.” With a curt bow, he said, “Lieutenant Frederick Enslin—Malcolm’s Regiment, Third Pennsylvania.”

A pretty woman wearing a wicker peddler’s pack on her back stopped to hawk her wares. “Needles. Thread. Buttons. Combs—I have a good selection of all at reasonable prices.”

Anne and the Lieutenant both declined with shakes of their heads.

The peddler woman did not press her sale. Laying her hand on Enslin’s arm, she asked, “It is odd, isn’t it, Lieutenant Enslin? To see an officer—a baron, no less—taking such an active part in training regulars?”

“It is the Prussian way…” Enslin said, taking a step back to free
himself of the woman’s touch. “Steuben is the son of an officer. He spent most of his life in service to Frederick the Great, and he is an expert in the military sciences.”

The peddler arched her brows. “Is that his name? Baron Steuben?”

“Steuben is his name, but whether he’s a baron for fact—” Enslin smiled and shrugged. “It is not unknown for foreign soldiers to exaggerate their rank and status.”

“I see… most interesting…” The pretty woman strolled away, flashing a smile to the next group of soldiers. “Needles, buttons…”

“The peddler,” Anne asked. “Is she an acquaintance of yours, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Enslin replied. “I thought perhaps she was a friend of yours.”

“She’s no friend of mine—but she is somehow familiar to me…” Anne kept her eye on the peddler. The woman threw back her shawl to show off rich dark hair pulled back in a knot, and said something to make her new audience laugh. She was wearing a British red coat, cut down to size, but like many who’d scavenged an enemy coat, she’d masked its true crimson with a dip in a walnut dye, changing the color to a more acceptable maroon.

“Annie!”

Anne turned to see Brian and Jim among Steuben’s drummer corps, calling to her and waving their sticks. She waved back. At the same time, the Model Company maneuvered into another discombobulated tangle.

Steuben marched forward, whipping his crop through the air and shouting,
“Halt—HALT—HALT!”

Without taking a breath he stormed up and down the lines, laying into the company—first with a rapid stream of German, then French—capping the tirade off with a string of good old English swearwords.

“BLOODY HELL!
GODDAMN IT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” Waving his aide over, Steuben said, “You—come here
und
swear for me!”

Smiles cracked the faces of the berated soldiers. The drummers began to giggle, and Steuben himself burst out with a contagious chuckle infecting everyone on the parade ground.

After a good laugh, the Prussian grew instantly stern and barked,
“Attention!”
Visibly pleased with how his company snapped to, he renewed the training with an order to,
“Schulter firelock!”

Bidding farewell to Lieutenant Enslin, Anne followed a snow-packed path to the opposite end of the parade grounds, and Captain Dunaway’s cabin.

The latchstring was out, and Anne knocked at the door, but no one answered. Knocking harder, she yelled through a chink between door boards, “It’s Anne Merrick come to call!” but still there was no answer. Taking a step back, Anne noted the smokeless chimney. She gave the latchstring a tug and opened the door.

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?”