The Turning of Anne Merrick (57 page)

“My apologies, gentlemen,” she stammered. “I—I had no… I’m not accustomed…”

“Don’t fret, missus,” a voice declared. “You’re wakin’ was a pretty sight to behold. Isn’t that right, fellas?”

Nodding heads all affirmed agreement, and Anne could feel a blush rise to her cheeks. One of the prisoners ventured up the stairs, offering the pocket she’d dropped.

“Yours, miss…”

“Thank you…”

He’d stepped into the beam of daylight illuminating the hatchway, and Anne could see the man’s few wisps of thinning hair were bespeckled with nits, and his scalp was crawling with vermin. She turned and ran up the few stairs—stomach heaving—barely making it to the railing on the landward side in time to lean over and retch up a viscous, yellow sputum.

Throat burning with the rancorous bile, she shivered, and let the pocket flutter down to the water. Anne used the hem of her petticoat to wipe vomit from her chin, and dab away the salty tears stinging the cut on her cheek. Light-headed, she leaned against the rail, studying the bright red blossom staining the edge of her shift, and fingered the cut on her cheek.

Bleeding…

The violence of her stomach caused the wound to tear. Inflamed and tender, the skin immediate to the cut felt hot to the touch. The salve Edward applied the day before was dried and crusted, brown flakes of it sticking to her bloodstained fingers.

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

Anne looked up to see a frail-looking man pulling a heavy, blanket-wrapped parcel up through the hatchway. Another followed after, and another, and another—
The dead…

Thump, thump, thump, thump…
Bony heels striking the wooden stair treads thudded a rhythmic dirge as ten corpses were dragged up the hatchway stairs and laid side by side beneath the stairs to the quarterdeck. Someone had taken the time to sew three of the deceased into their blankets; the rest had no shroud other than the filthy, feculent rags they had died in. Anne untied the handkerchief from her neck and crushed it to her nose, grateful for the vestige of lavender clinging to the threads.

It was clear two of the dead had perished from the pox, every square inch of exposed skin erupted in sores caked with dried pus and blood. The other dead men were unlike any corpse she’d ever seen—their bodies gray, desiccated hulls—reminding Anne of the empty cicada shells one might find scattered beneath the trees in the fall.

Jail fever.
She could only guess these had died from hunger, dysentery, and sheer misery. Anne pressed a hand to her forehead.
A little warm?

A never-ending multitude continued to shuffle up from belowdecks—all sorts of men—white, black, and brown—sailors, soldiers, and citizens—all mingling together with no apparent distinction given to rank or race. Some of the prisoners collected to sit in small groups where worn playing cards were dealt, or lead dice made from musket balls were thrown from cupped hands. One ambitious man received customers at his impromptu barbershop, equipped with a crate and a small pair of sewing shears.

A handful of the prisoners stood out clearly better off than the majority—relatively heartier, more fit, and less ragged.

Fresh comers, no doubt… like me.

Anne flinched to see a fresh comer breach the hatchway. He wore the uniform of her brother David’s old regiment, the Third Yorkers. Oozing pustules had broken out on the young soldier’s face, neck, and hands, and his eyes were glazed with fever. It was odd to see a man with such a rampant case of smallpox wandering free, but on a ship so crowded and confined, there was no point in enforcing quarantine.

Stomach still a bit wambly, Anne turned her back to the forlorn
scene. Leaning elbows on the rail, she gazed across a short stretch of water to the shore, no more than a hundred yards away.

It was a pleasant sight—like a painting—neat and ordered. A hill rose up from the sandy beach, where a small gristmill straddled a millstream, the waterwheel turning slow. The peach trees in the orchard were just past blossoming with a scattering of pale pink petals still clinging to the branches. An iron weathercock mounted on the peak of the mill was directed by an easterly breeze, and a woman wearing a bright white sunbonnet and apron worked a hoe in the garden.

A fellow prisoner standing off to Anne’s right said, “The miller’s daughter keeps a nice kitchen garden. She even has a bed of sparrowgrass.”

Barefoot, and equal to Anne in height, he was dressed in a faded, checkered frock shirt, and sailor’s baggy striped trousers. The silk kerchief tied at his neck was grimy and veered to ragged, but Anne could imagine it was once a nice bright shade of yellow. He had a head as round as an orange, and the ginger hair sprouted on noggin and chin was cropped to an uneven curly fuzz by an uncaring barber with haphazard shears.

Anne asked him, “How do you know—about the sparrowgrass?”

He inched a little closer. “I’m among them what pass for fit, and lucky to be chosen for burial duty.” He jerked a thumb to the row of dead bodies. “We haul the corpses past the mill, and bury ’em on the beach over yonder.”

“Poor souls.” Anne squinted at the sandy beach the sailor pointed to.

“Aye, that.” He scowled. “They don’t even make fit food for worms, do they?”

“A difficult duty, seeing to the mortal remains of your brother prisoners,” Anne said. “Very Christian of you, sir.”

“Not difficult at all,” he said. “Dig a trench till the guard says deep enough. Roll ’em in, and toss a bit of sand over ’em.” The sailor reached back to scratch between his shoulder blades. “Nothing Christian in it, either. Do it mainly to get away from this stink and set my
feet upon hard land. Getting a whiff of sweet earth and grass now and then helps to keep me from being sewn into my blanket.”

Anne sighed. “From here, the little mill seems almost a dream, doesn’t it, Mister… ?”

“Jones. Trueworthy Jones.” The man introduced himself, bowing slight at the waist. “Once with Glover’s Marblehead Mariners, of late a seaman on the captured privateer sloop
Deane
, out of Boston.”

“Anne Merrick.” She managed a grin and dipped a slight curtsy, taking the line from the Hessian’s roster. “Widow, rebel, and spy.”

“Spy! Always somethin’ of consequence to land a woman in this hellhole.” Trueworthy smiled and revealed a set of tobacco-stained, rotted teeth.

“There are other women aboard?”

“None now, save yourself,” Jones said. “Women are a rarity here.” Before Anne could ask what had become of the other women, the sailor offered, “Some among us remembers you from the Cup and Quill.”

Anne perked up. “You know the Cup and Quill?”

“The best coffee in New York town, as I recollect.” The sailor scratched inside his shirt. “And Miss Sally’s scones… a wonder!”

Anne heaved a sigh, relieved by the thought of Sally and Pink safe with David and Titus.
They must have gotten word to Jack by now…
Quiet for a moment, she asked, “Has anyone ever jumped ship? The shoreline is so close and the water seems calm…”

“Put it from your thoughts.” Jones lowered his tone, wagging his bushy brows toward the Hessians armed with rifles posted up on the quarterdeck. “They’ll sink you afore you’re two strokes out.”

Anne stiffened. A sharp pain knifed her in the belly, as if someone had wrapped a wire around her innards and pulled it tight. She sucked in a gasp, and let her breath out slow as the pain subsided.

Trueworthy’s blue eyes popped in alarm. “Are you all right, missus?”

“It’s nothing. A crick in my spine.” Anne rolled her shoulders, grinding both fists into the gnawing pain at the small of her back. “That’s what I get for making a bed of stairs.”

“I don’t know… You’ve gone wan as a milk-washed fence…”

“
I am feeling a bit… off.” A shrill, high-pitched tone began squealing in her right ear.

“A-fevered?”

“I don’t think so… a little dizzy.”

“Have you been pox-proofed?”

Anne nodded. “As a child.”

“That’s good.” Trueworthy Jones studied Anne’s face. “Let’s get you a drink,” he said, guiding Anne forward with a push on her elbow. “The scuttlebutt’s at the bow.”

“Water would be good,” Anne said. “Maybe something to eat?”

“We won’t be getting our rations until later in the day, and fresh comers aren’t accounted for in the shipment, so you won’t get a share till ’morrow,” he said.

“I see…”

“Don’t be downgone; you’re not missin’ much—rancid salt pork and weevilly biscuit, if we’re lucky. I’ve a spare ship’s biscuit put by… hard enough to break a rat’s tooth, but better than naught. I can give you a piece to nibble on.”

“That is most generous, Mr. Jo…” A wrenching cramp stopped Anne in her tracks and pulled the wind from her lungs. Drawn into a hunch, she tried to choke back her cry. Tiny silver explosions erupted around the spinning periphery of her vision, and she wavered trying to maintain her balance.

Murmuring, “
Feu de joie
…” Anne tottered sideways as if felled by an ax, last aware of the sickening crack of her skull hitting the deck.

“Jack—wake up.”

Jack snapped his eyes open and bolted upright from the rough pallet he’d made for himself under the potted lemon tree in the corner of the tailor’s office. Sweeping his hair from his forehead, he asked, “What time is it?”

“Time to wake…” Hercules sat in his desk chair, tape measure strung around his neck, shirtsleeves rolled to elbows, his brawny forearms braced to knees. “Tully’s brought news.”

Jack followed the tailor’s troubled eyes to Tully standing in the doorway, and felt his heart slip to his stomach. Afraid to say the words too loud, he whispered, “Is she… ?”

“No…” Tully came into the room and pulled over a ladder-back chair to straddle. “She’s not dead. The word’s been put out loud and clear—the Widow Merrick’s been arrested by the Provost for treason and assault and will be tried and hanged.”

“That’s fantastic news!” Jack brightened. “Where she’s being held? The sugar house?”

“Well…” Tully shifted in his seat. “Hard to say…”

“I’ll go out and see what I can learn…” Jack tugged on his hat.

Hercules shook his head. “You best not show your face, Jack. Tell him, Tully.”

“Dragoons are out in force, patrolling the highways in and out of the city. They are crawling over the waterfront—questioning every man working the docks, the fishboats, or ferrying over from Paulus Hook and Brooklyn.” The old smuggler took a deep breath and turned to the tailor. “How about pourin’ us all a little scoof o’ your rye whiskey, Stitch?”

Hercules folded his arms across his chest. “Quit scrubbing around it, Tully. He needs to know…”

Jack looked up. “Know what? What is it?”

“No one could tell me a peep about where Anne is being held. I tapped all my sources and came up dry as an old nun’s twat. I was on my way back when I bumped into an old mate—” Tully rubbed the stubbly, steel gray hair on his head. “You remember Dobbsy?”

Jack nodded. “I do.”

“Aye, well, we got to palaverin’, ol’ Dobbsy and me, and he tells me he’s been making solid silver a-stevedorin’ for this boatman who hauls water…” Tully’s squinty eye twisted tight in grimace. “Out of the clear blue, he tells me he saw that fat bastard O’Keefe, pushing the Widow Merrick up the larboard ladder on the
Whitby
yestereve.”

“The
Whitby
?”

Hercules said, “The prison hulk the bloodybacks have moored out in Wallabout Bay.”

“
A prison hulk?” Jack fell back against the wall. “Was Dobbs drunk?”

“Dobbsy’s always drunk.” Tully shrugged. “I didn’t want to question him too deep and risk tipping our hand. The man can’t be trusted when his pocket’s dark and he needs a drink.”

“He’s a drunk. He might be mistaken…” Jack pulled the hat from his head.

“It’s too much of a coincidence, Jack.” The tailor’s voice was soft.

“Fuck me!” Jack dropped his head back to bump against the wall, and stared at the ceiling. “A hulk.”

“There might be a way in,” Hercules said.

Tully cautioned, “With Hessian guards on duty day and night, I don’t see how he can get in.”

“A hulk,” Jack repeated to the ceiling. “I need a way in
and
out. It’s impossible.”

“What did you think?” Hercules gave Jack’s foot a kick. “Did you think they’d set Anne out on the Commons so you could stroll up la-di-da and whisk her away? Put your mind to it, lad. Once more to the breach…”

“I can’t think. I’m put to wit’s end.” Jack gave his head a shake. “I thought she’d await a hanging at the sugar house, like I did. I know the lay of it… I already figured a disguise—one of those sergeants who comes around trying to recruit rebel prisoners. I’d get in the yard when there was a crowd—like when they parcel out the day’s rations. Then I’d create a diversion—a fire, maybe—start a panic, grab Annie, and get out in the confusion.”

“Hmmmph!” Hercules nodded. “That’s actually quite a good plan.”

“But she’s not at the sugar house.” Jack stared at his open palms. “A prison hulk… Fucking Blankenship.”

“There’s a lesson learned.” Hercules shrugged.

Jack nodded. “Make certain your enemy’s dead once you kill him.”

“Dash me timbers!!” Tully slapped his knee and rasped, “I think I know a way!”

“How?”

Plucking the tape from the tailor’s neck, Tully pulled it tight to measure the breadth of Jack’s shoulders. “A-yup!” He smiled, and gave Jack a shove. “You’ll fit, alright.”
Fumbling in measuring Jack’s height from seat to the top of his head, he grinned and affirmed, “Aye, a tight squeeze, though… but you’ll fit just fine…”

Hercules snatched the tape away. “Tell us what you’re bletherin’ on about!”

Tully fell to his knees and grabbed Jack by the shoulders, his squinty eye almost open. “The water barrels, Jack! The water barrels!”

Jack blinked for a moment, then grabbed Tully by the side-whiskers. “Why, you gnarly old son of a sailor’s whore!” he cried, planting a kiss right on the top of Tully’s stubbly head.

Hercules laughed and pounded both Tully and Jack on the back. “The fuckin’ water barrels, lads!”

Water.
She tried to swallow, but her throat was sore and parched.
The scuttlebutt’s at the bow…