The Turning of Anne Merrick (20 page)

The general from New Hampshire turned his attention back to the makeshift table contrived of planking and a pair of sawhorses. He pushed the tin lamp to shine upon the detailed schematic of the German camp Isaac had drawn there with a chunk of charcoal.

John Stark was taller than most men crowding around the table, including Jack and Titus, who both stood over six feet tall. All bones and sinner, Stark was leaner than a piece of venison jerky. His hawk nose was the fulcrum to craggy features and a pair of belligerent blue eyes—all topped off with a shock of contrary white hair. Well regarded as a ruthless fighter in the French and Indian War, and most recently a valiant commander in the battle at Breed’s Hill, John Stark was a better man than most to follow into battle.

“A-yuh… so these Hessians have planted
two
pieces of artillery. A very cautious position.” Stark spoke with a strong Yankee twang. He circled the table in silence. “The bastards have fortified and wait on reinforcements from Burgoyne. With their big guns and bayonets—of which we have none—they are confident that they can easily withstand any conventional charge we might launch.” Again, the General slowly shuffled around the drawing, his concentrated gaze assessing the lay of the land from all angles. Stamping to a halt, he looked up to address his officers. “Caution is best answered with feats of derring-do.
With our strength in numbers, we shall divide ourselves into four columns, surround the enemy, and attack as one overwhelming body before the damned Germans have chance to be reinforced.”

The General zinged sword from scabbard and used it to delineate his battle plan in swooping strokes of steel. “Colonel Herrick, you will lead your men around through the woodland, to attack from the west. Nichol—the north. Hobart—south. Stickney and I will take the bridge from the east. As Herrick has the farthest to march his troops into position, he will begin the attack. We will snap our trap closed on your signal, Sam.”

All heads were bobbing at the brilliance of the bold plan of attack—and that quickly, there was a potent smell of victory in the air.

Stark touched the tip of his sword to the black bars Isaac had drawn to indicate the German artillery positions. “Grapeshot sprayed from these three-pounders can do us all a world of hurt no matter what our formation. Our plan hinges on silencing their cannons. Are you an able man with that rifle, Mr. Hampton?”

“Titus and I can do some damage. Isaac and Ned here can shoot the eye from an owl on a moonless night.”

“Your scouting party will leave in advance of our flanking columns and gain position to pick off every one of their artillerymen.”

“Yes, sir!” Titus gave Jack a slap on the back, and they both grinned. This was exactly the kind of irregular warfare they excelled at.

A sudden hullabaloo interrupted the staff meeting—pistol fire and shouting as a mob poured through the doorway, crowding into the barn. Stark leapt up onto the trestle table, calling the tumultuous crowd to order with sword upraised.

“Arrah! Explain yourselves!”

The crowd hushed and one man was pushed to the fore.

“We’ve come in answer to your call to arms, General! One hundred and fifty Massachusetts fighting men ready to feed the bloodybacks and their goddamn Hessian lackeys a supper of lead.”

“We welcome Massachusetts to our fold,” Stark shouted over their cheering. “And we admire your spirit, sir, but would you fight now on this dark and rainy night?”

“We’ll
fight the Redcoats wherever and whenever we can find ’em, sir!”

This bravado drew a second rousing cheer, and Stark shouted out, “Oh, there’ll be fighting aplenty tomorrow. If the Lord gives us sunshine, the battle will be hotter than love at haying time.”

The men burst into laughter, and with a wave of his arm Stark brought them to order. “I promise you all this—if I do not give you fighting enough, I will never call on you to come again. Go back to your people, Massachusetts, and tell them to get some rest while they can.”

Abuzz with excitement, the Massachusetts men shuffled out, and the General ordered lights out, bidding good night to all as he left to his bed in the farmhouse. Ned and Isaac called to Jack and Titus, pointing to the loft, and they clambered up the ladder to make soft beds of the hayrick.

Jack could swear Titus began snoring before his head hit the bedroll he used for a pillow. Though his bed was comfortable and dry, Jack could not find sleep as easy as his fellows. Tossing and turning, too keyed up by the prospect of battle in the morning, he went over the details of the daring plan in his mind.

We are going to prevail.

The drumming of the rain on the roof shakes slowed to a stop. Jack rose to open the shutters and gaze out on the sea of men who would, on the morrow, become his brothers-in-arms.

By God, these men have come to fight!

Compared to Burgoyne’s encampments where tents and equipage were formed and arranged in an organized manner, the Patriot soldiers sprawled out across the fallow field in a haphazard jumble, making their beds under wagons, oiled tarps, and greenwood shelters.

Jack’s gaze wandered up to the heavens where patches of star-filled sky emerged between great, misty swathes of disbursing clouds, reminding him of Anne’s loose hair caught up on a breeze. It was easy to imagine her standing somewhere, in her gauzy shift, head thrown back, looking up at the same night sky. The wind worked to comb the clouds into thin strands, exposing the brightest star in Andromeda. He smiled and whispered, “Capella.”

SIX

Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.

T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
The American Crisis

O
N THE
H
UDSON, AFTER THE
S
TORM

“There!” Anne floated a clean napkin over Sally’s basket. “We’re off!”

With hems tucked into waistbands to protect them from the mud, Anne and Sally made their way from the kitchen fires with three dozen scones hot off the iron, ready for use as bribe or reward.

Happy fat white cumuli floated lazily across the crisp blue sky, and it was already a hot and sultry day. The strong sun steamed what Anne had earlier classified as soupy mud into an easier-to-negotiate cakey paste.

The camp was a hive of activity recuperating from the stormy night. Sodden clothing, bedding, and gear were laid over brush, hung from every available tree limb, and strung from webs of impromptu clothesline. Door flaps were thrown open, airing out waterlogged tents. Canvas, line, and poles damaged by the strong winds were being repaired and restaked.

Anne ran up to knock at the door of the small farmhouse occupied by the officers’ wives. When the Baroness answered, Anne pressed a dozen scones tied up in a napkin into her hands.

“
Fresh-baked this morning by my girl, Sally—with raisins to please small bellies.” Anne winked at the two girls peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts.

“How wonderfully kind of you, Mrs. Merrick,” the Baroness exclaimed. “Friedrich relished the last batch immensely.”

“Is the Baron at home?”

“Nein.”
Irritation furrowed the woman’s brow. “Called from his breakfast to headquarters early this morning.”

“A soldier’s duty knows no clock.” Anne put on a sympathetic face. “I’m sure everyone is on pins and needles waiting to hear of Colonel Baum’s success at Bennington—is there news?”

“None yet. My husband is most anxious.”

“As are we all.” Anne stepped off the stoop. “Good day, Baroness.”

Anne and Sally marched toward the manor house Burgoyne commandeered for his headquarters, and joined the loose crowd gathering in the yard. Slowing to a stroll, the women assessed the available soldiers, and, spotting a likely target, Sally elbowed Anne.

“The sergeant leanin’ against th’ newel post—that’s Pennybrig.”

With a nod Anne said, “Let’s go.”

Sally waved, and called out, “Hoy! Sergeant Pennybrig!”

The particularly grizzled veteran turned and his face near broke in two for a smile missing an incisor and the molar beside it. Excepting for the salt-and-pepper stubble edging toward being branded a full-on beard, Pennybrig was strapped and buttoned into his full dress regimentals.

“We’re on our way to pay a visit to yer woman,” Sally said in a thicker-than-usual brogue. “How d’ye fend this bright an’ cheery morn?”

Thin streams of powder-tinged sweat ran from under his side-curl wig to stain the black leather stock buckled about his jowly neck. Handkerchief wadded in his fist, the sergeant mopped his brow and lamented, “I’m as hot as a bride in a featherbed and as wet as her—” Catching himself, his eyes went wide, and he stammered, “Beg pardon, ladies. I’ve an ugly soldier’s tongue on me.”

Anne smiled. “It
is
very hot today, Sergeant. Would you care for some water?”

Sally Offered the man a tin bottle from their basket. As he guzzled half the contents, she asked, “What are ye after, all busked out in full fig on a day like today, anyway?”

Puffing out an exasperated sigh, he jerked a thumb to the house. “Court-martialing. I bore witness in one case. Wasting a good chunk o’ my day on cowards and deserters.”

Sally tsked. “Och, a soldier’s duty knows no clock.”

“Ohhh…” Anne said, “When we saw the crowd we thought there might be word on the success of the expedition to Bennington.”

Pennybrig took another drink, swiping his sleeve over the mouth of the bottle before handing it back. “The scouts tolt me our reinforcements are still on the road, bogged down in the muck an’ mire.”

Picking two scones out of the basket, Anne handed them to the Sergeant. “Here’s something to add a bit of pleasure to your day, Sergeant. Fresh-baked this morning.”

In shagging his head negative, Pennybrig’s wig slipped precariously to the left, and was quickly righted with a deft tug. “I’ve no coin on me, mistress.”

“Not to worry…” Anne pressed the scones into his hands. “You’ve earned them.”

The door to the house was flung open and two desolate soldiers shackled in wrist and leg irons were shuffled down the stairs under guard.

“What did they do?” Sally asked.

“Deserters.” Pennybrig produced a clean handkerchief, in which he carefully wrapped the scones before slipping them into his pocket. “Sentenced to a striping—five hundred lashes each with the cat-o’-nine.”

“They’re but boys!” Anne hated to contemplate the damage to be wrought on their young backs and spirits.

“There’s no cosseting of deserters in the King’s army.” The sergeant pointed to a third man being prodded down the stairs, leg irons clanking. “Here’s the poor bugger I was called to testify against—quit his sentinel post to desert! Scouting party picked him up some twenty miles away, just wandering along the road, la-di-da.” Pennybrig
tapped a grubby-nailed forefinger to his temple. “Not right in the head, that one. Thick as manure and only half as useful, if ye ask me. Says he deserted because the washwomen refused t’ tend to his laundry. Pah! I know for a fact Bab Pennybrig is not prone to refusing any man’s coin.”

“What’s to become of him?”

“That one’s earned the full measure of Johnny’s wrath—firing squad.”

“My!” Anne said. “Discipline has grown harsh indeed.”

“Especially harsh,” Sally added, “if the lad is as thick as ye say.”

“Aye, ’tis harsh, but the man quit his post and Gentleman Johnny’s making a fair example of him.” The drummers began beating the call to assemble, and like a dog to the whistle, Pennybrig snapped to attention. “The Forty-seventh is being paraded t’ witness the execution, ladies—many thanks fer th’ drink and th’ scones.”

While the regiment was drummed into formation, the shackled prisoner was marched out to the far end of the pasture. They stripped the man’s regimental jacket from his back, and his white shirt was daubed with an
X
over his heart, in bootblack. The rhythm of the drum call shifted into a steady roll, and a tow sack was drawn over his head.

Anne grabbed Sally by the hand and they hurried away. The tension in Anne’s neck was as tight as the cords on the drums, and it seemed they could not move fast enough to escape the shouts of, “Ready—aim—”