The Turning of Anne Merrick (6 page)

“Good al’ meggins!” Bab’s flask reappeared, her head wagging in disgust. “Indians! Set me on edge the day they marched into our camp, they did. It’s no wonder these Americans flock to the rebel standard when they are beset by such savagery employed by the Crown. I always said no good can come from loosing the heathens on English folk—no good at all.”

“Barbara Pennybrig!” Emma chided. “If your Bill could hear you talk…”

“Ahh, my Bill harbored no love for the red man. We both bore witness to their horrors in Canada, fighting with Wolfe back in ’fifty-nine.”

“But the Indians are our allies here,” Anne said. “They fight
for
the Crown.”

“Blether!
The savages give a fig for the Crown! It’s plunder and scalps they fight for—nothing more.” Bab passed her flask on.

“They give me a bad case of the all-over fidgets, they do, hooching and heeching around their campfires after dark.” Sally swallowed a scoof of rum. “I’ve caught several of the devils eyein’ my hair with bad intent.”

“Mind yer daughters, Mrs. Crisp,” Bab warned. “For one thing is plain—loyal or rebel, the savages certainly seem t’ covet the blond and ginger scalps.”

Emma Crisp shivered, and the fair-haired Crisp girls huddled closer to their mother.

“Poor Jane MacCrea…” Anne took a sip from the flask. “Such mayhem was bound to occur once Burgoyne gave rum and stretch to his Indians.”

“Yiv the right of it, Mrs. Merrick,” Bab agreed. “Reckless Burgoyne is, feeding the redskins liquor and setting ’em loose on the settlements to slaughter and pillage at will—knowing full well the brutes can no more discern the difference between a Loyalist and a rebel than I can between an Ottawa and a Mohawk.”

Emma asked, “What are we to do, if the Crown will not protect us?”

“Naught. For better or worse, we belong to this army and muckle good it does us trying to fathom the brain-workings of kings and generals.” Bab pushed the gown into Emma’s arms and regained possession of her flask. “Suds, starch, and hot irons—those are our concerns, ladies.”

Sally wound the excess cording about her palm and issued a warning. “Brace yerself, now…”

Anne dug her heels into the earthen floor of their small tent. Knees locked, muscles clenched, she tried hard to present a counterforce as Sally gave her stay strings a series of good hard tugs. “I surely miss having my bedpost to cling to.”

“There!” Deftly fastened in a reliable knot, Sally tucked the loose ends behind the leather-bound edge of the stays. She then tied an
embroidered pouch around Anne’s waist, settling it to hang over her left hip. “See t’ filling yer pocket, and I’ll ready my needle.”

The women jockeyed for position in the narrow aisle between the two cots—Sally gathering her sewing things, and Anne rifling through the confusion for the necessaries to equip her pocket for the evening—a folding fan, a scent bottle, a clean handkerchief, and the token Jack had given her before the Redcoats came to invade and occupy New York. She never went anywhere without her token, and the General’s table would be no exception.

Anne found the broken shard of cast iron amid the bits and bobs in her everyday pocket. No bigger than a walnut, the iron token weighed heavy in the palm of her hand. Jack wore its mate strung on a leather thong about his neck, and, when puzzled together, the two halves formed a whole—a small crown.

“For us—a token to remember the day by,” Jack had said, when he pressed it into her hand the day the Declaration of Independence was first read aloud.

Rebellion and war ensured her days together with Jack had been memorable, but also few, far between, and never free of strife. Anne sighed, grasping the broken chunk of cast iron tight in her fist. Relishing the bite of rough metal digging into her skin, she whispered with conviction, “My heart belongs to you, Jack Hampton,” before slipping it to sink down to the bottom of her pocket.

Sally glanced up from threading her needle. “What’s th’ matter, Annie?”

Anne shook her head, quick to swipe her sudden tears away with the hem of her shift. “This tent is worse than an Indian sweat lodge,” she said, snatching up the fresh-pressed overdress, pushing her arms through the sleeve holes. “Best hurry and stitch me into my frock, afore I melt into a puddle.”

“’Tis as hot and steamy as th’ devil’s nut bag, na? I can just feel my hair forming into a mad frizz.”

While Sally joined the front edges of the bodice together with neat whipstitches, Anne fussed with the starch-stiffened lace that edged the scooped neckline. Grabbing a gauzy scarf from the jumble of
garments strewn across the cot, she draped it over her shoulders, crisscrossing the ends to mask her exposed décolletage. “Sally—have you a pin in your cushion for this fichu?”

“Fichu? We’ll have none of that…” Sally looked up and snatched the scarf away, letting it flutter to their feet. “Ye’ll tempt more bears with that bit of honey, aye?”

“But where there is honey, bears come uninvited.” Anne reached down to retrieve the discarded fichu.

Sally slapped her hand away. “Tha’s th’ point, in’t it? Now just hold still—”

Anne tried not to fidget as Sally finished the seam, and just when the thread was knotted and snipped off, a masculine voice called, “Mrs. Merrick? Are you within?”

“It’s him!” Anne whispered.

Sally poked her head between the door flaps and called, “Patience, Captain! My mistress will be with ye in a blink.” Turning back, she pulled a rouge pot from her pocket and thumbed tint onto Anne’s cheeks and lips. “Mr. Pepperell is very dashing in his regimentals, and yer th’ very picture of lovely—a fine couple ye make.”

Anne hissed, “He and I are
not
a couple.”

“Ah, g’won, I meant nothing by it…” Sally whispered back. “I ken well where yer true heart lies—as do you, aye?”

Anne drew a deep breath. Puffing it out slow, she focused to relax the lines in her forehead and ease the tension in her neck, keeping her voice low. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Sal, but as much as I wish for us to achieve results, I so
dread
putting forth the requisite charade…”

Grasping Anne square by the shoulders, Sally leaned in a scant inch from her ear. “Neither of us enjoys being at th’ beck and boo of these lobsterback scoundrels, but such are the quirks an’ quillets of the battles we fight. As ye once said—there are many who bear far worse than we for the same cause.”

Sally straightened one of the blue ribbon rosettes pinned into Anne’s upswept curls, turned her friend toward the door flaps, and whispered, “Off wi’ ye, now—bat yer eyelashes and flaunt yer bubbies—for Liberty and Country, aye?”

TWO

The success of the cause, the union of the people, and the means of supporting and securing both, are points which cannot be too much attended to.

T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
The American Crisis

T
HE
G
ENERAL
’
S
T
ABLE

As twilight tipped into nightfall, Anne walked along with Geoffrey Pepperell from one end of the camp to the other. The cicada’s pulse gave way to the chirp, croak, and buzz of cricket, toad, and katydid, and the moon had yet to show its face, making it difficult to traverse the uneven path. Anne held her skirts in both hands, picking her way carefully. “I had no idea the General’s quarters were so far removed from the rest of the camp.”

“Remote, but well worth the trek—Gentleman Johnny travels with an excellent larder, and his cook is studied in the French technique.”

“Hold on…” Anne hopped and braced a hand to Geoffrey Pepperell’s forearm, her foot extended out from beneath the hem of her gown. “It seems I’ve caught something in my shoe.”

Before she could issue protest, the Captain was down on one knee, his warm fingers cradling her ankle. He slipped her shoe free and shook the hindrance into his palm. “An acorn.” Pepperell tossed the nut over his shoulder, and held her shoe up for inspection. “This, madam, is as silly a shoe as I’ve ever seen on a military campaign.”

Made of red brocade and decorated with rhinestone buckles, the silk pumps were the finest pair she owned. Anne braced a hand to the Captain’s shoulder as she slipped her foot back into what was, admittedly, a silly shoe. Fingering the thick silver braid and fringe of Pepperell’s epaulet, Anne said, “I notice you’ve also come figged out in your finest adornment.”

“Touché!”
Geoffrey Pepperell laughed, rising to a stand. From top to bottom, the dashing Captain was attired in his best—beginning with the lush ostrich plumes on his broad-brimmed hat, all the way down to the skintight white breeches tucked into polished cordovan boots. He carried an ivory-handled pistol tucked into a satin sash tied at his waist, along with a brass-hilted sword in his belt. A black silk cravat was tied loose at his throat, and the shirt beneath his red coat was ruffled at neck and cuffs.

Pepperell took Anne by the hand and pulled her along. “Look there—see?” He pointed toward the large tent coming into view. “Gentleman Johnny’s marquee.”

Amid the capricious blink of fireflies and stars popping onto the ever-darkening sky, Burgoyne’s marquee tent beckoned. Framed by a silhouette of maple trees, the tent’s oiled silk was illuminated from within, and it glowed as if fashioned from amber glass.

“How pret—!” The heel of Anne’s shoe caught in soft earth, and she stumbled forward with arms flailing like a whirligig. Quick to react, Pepperell grabbed her, and kept her from pitching headlong into the dirt.

“Steady…” Hands lingering at her waist, his lips to her ear, he murmured, “I curse Negligence—why didn’t I think to bring a light?”

Anne stepped away and began fiddling once again with her shoe, her voice a bit too loud. “And I curse Vanity, who bade me to don these ridiculous slippers. French heels after all the rain we’ve been having—what was I thinking?”

“I think you should lift your skirts—” Pepperell answered, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “At least until we cross over this muddy patch.”

Like dipping a toe in bathwater, Anne hiked her hemline and
tested her footing before venturing forth. Feeling the boggy ground yield under light pressure, she pulled back as if scalded.

Pepperell took a few steps forward. “A quagmire. Your fancy slippers will not survive it. I must carry you over.”

“Carry? Oh, no…” Anne spun around, but without a light, she could not figure an alternative route. “Such an imposition…”

“Come…” Arms wide, Geoffrey said, “I’m happy for any excuse to sweep a woman off her feet.”

With awkward hesitation, Anne moved in and placed her arms about his neck. The Captain dipped down and swooped her up with ease. Cradling her like a babe, his right arm supporting her legs was lost in a froth of skirts and petticoats, and his left necessarily supported her back. The tips of his fingers pressed into flesh inches away from her breast, setting her heart a-race. Wriggling to shift into a less intimate hold, Anne found she only incited the Redcoat to tighten his grasp.

“Best not squirm, or we’ll both go tumbling into the muck,” Pepperell said. “Ready?”

No!
Anne thought, but she nodded and said, “Yes.”

Geoffrey moved forward slowly on the soft and slippery ground, his hanger sword thumping against his hip. It was a warm evening, and Anne could feel the heat of the man’s body penetrating through the layers of linen and wool.

Jack would not like this,
she thought, with an audible groan.

Pepperell paused. “Pardon?”

“Nothing… It’s just…” She raised the timbre of her voice to mask the blatant pounding of her heart. “I’m—I’m so sorry my silly footwear is causing you to tote me about like a sack of turnips.”

“Sack of turnips!” Without breaking stride, Pepperell gave her a little toss into the air. “You are no more than a bundle of feathers. I could carry you for miles.”

Miles!
Anne ached for the fan in her pocket. She was in the dark, in the woods, in the arms of a man—not Jack—and she was sweating.

Take a breath… not much farther…
Anne focused on the glint of
rhinestones rising and falling beyond the hemlines of her skirts as her feet bobbed up and down.