The Turning of Anne Merrick (40 page)

Enslin took Anne’s arm and looped it through the crook of his elbow. “It is clear to me you loved your boy very much,” he said, pulling her along.

Anne was grateful for the man’s arm, and for the regular crunch of their footfalls in the snow moving her forward. She was of a sudden so weary—encumbered by the drag of days gone by.

“You know, Mr. Enslin, there are those for whom inoculation proves fatal.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“My mother was one. She contracted a terrible case, and a week after we were all inoculated, she was dead.”

“Ach, ja—”
Enslin’s slip into Dutch the first deviation from his otherwise perfect English. “A burned child dreads the fire… Of
course
you are wary of inoculation.”

“I was not wary, Mr. Enslin. I was fearful. I was never brave enough to do for Jemmy what Mother did for me.” Anne looked up at the Lieutenant. The compassion in his eyes—as blue and calm as lake water—allowed her to crack the door open on her sadness. “I paid an awful price for my cowardice, and I live every day knowing my fear of losing Jemmy is what caused me to lose him.” Anne heaved a sigh, her breath puffing out on a cloud of vapor that vanished almost as soon as it was realized. When Enslin spoke, she startled.

“My old grandsire once told me regretting the past is like chasing the wind.” Enslin offered Anne a handkerchief tugged from his pocket. “I say to you, Mrs. Merrick, you are not a coward. You did what all good mothers do—you protected your dearly beloved child as best you knew how. Live every day knowing that.”

Anne used the hankie to blot the tears from her cheeks, and smiled. “My grandmother once told me the kindest men always have handkerchiefs at the ready.”

As they reached the top of a hill, the Lieutenant pointed and announced, “There is the quarantine.”

Near the stables, the Flying Hospital stood newly completed, smoke billowing from a pair of chimneys, one at either end. A building twice as long and half again as tall as a standard hut, Washington had ordered two such hospitals to be constructed for each brigade. The harsh winter impeded the progress of construction, and as yet, most of the severely ill soldiers were shipped off to hospitals outside the camp.

The Lieutenant took Anne by the hand and together they ran the rest of the way down the hill. Enslin pushed the door open to a long, narrow, and very crowded room. Lit with glass-paned lanterns hanging from the rafters, Anne could see there were bunk beds three berths high lined up along either end, but many were sitting or lying on straw pallets laid out on the dirt floor. Seeing an aggravated woman with bucket and copper dipper making her way about the room offering water, Anne was reminded when she and Sally worked the British hospital. The foul yet familiar smell permeated the woolen muffler she’d pulled up over her nose—a decoction of sweat, urine, and vomit overlaced with the strong smoke of burning sulfur.

“There is Mr. Barnabas Binny. You see? The man in the old-fashioned wig,” Enslin said, pushing the door shut. “He is the surgeon in charge. Go to him. He will know what’s become of your boys.”

Wending a path between soldiers sitting and standing bundled in blankets and coats waiting their turn for inoculation, Anne untied her muffler and headed toward the man wearing an iron gray curly wig.

He’d set up shop with a table and stool beside the nearest hearth. A rib-thin soldier sat shivering on the tall stool, bare-chested, his shirt and blanket in a heap on his lap.

“Hold still, now…” With lancet in hand, Mr. Binny very carefully incised a half-inch-long opening into the soldier’s upper arm, sopping up the trickle of blood with a rusty old rag.

Anne cleared her throat and said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Binny…”

He looked up, and Anne was surprised to see he was much younger than his style of wig indicated. As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Paid a shilling for it. Not the mode, I know, but it keeps my pate and ears warm. If you are looking to be inoculated, miss, you’ll just have
to wait your turn. If you’ve come to help, present yourself to Mrs. Snook, our matron. She puts every willing hand to some use.”

Anne pulled off her mittens. “I’m looking for two drummer boys from Pennsylvania’s Thirteenth, inoculated recently. Could you tell me where I might find them?”

Binny turned his attention back to his task. Using a snuff spoon, he scooped up a bit of the matter collected on a china plate, and carefully inserted a small dollop of pus into the soldier’s open wound. “Quarantines reside at the other end. Look for your boys there.”

Enslin led the way through the crowd. The west end of the hospital was occupied by soldiers in various stages of the disease, though it seemed—to Anne’s great relief—no one was suffering from any kind of a serious case.

“Here they are!” Enslin called Anne over. Brian and Jim were sitting on an upper bunk in the far corner, huddled together under a pair of shabby blankets.

“Jim! Brian!” Anne waved her hat as she made her way over. “There you are!”

Jim hunched his shoulders and mumbled, “Hullo, Annie.”

Brian asked, “What are you doing here?”

“That’s a fine greeting—” Anne tugged on their blanket. “Come on down so I can have a good look at the two of you!” The boys came down slowly, and she at once understood their reluctance.

Pressing hand to foreheads, Anne was instantly relieved to find no fever, and see the few pox that had erupted on their faces were beginning to scab up. She pointed to their bare feet, and asked, “What’s happened to your moccasins?”

When no answer was forthcoming, she jerked aside the shabby blankets they wore to reveal they were practically naked beneath, in nothing but thin undershirts and breeches.

“Where are your jackets? What’s become of the shirts and weskits we made for you?”

Heads hung low, Brian said, “Stolen.”

“Stolen?” Anne could feel the blood rising to her cheeks. “Who stole your things?”

Lieutenant Enslin said, “Name this thief, and I will have him arrested.”

Jim looked to Brian, and Brian only shook his head, negative.

Anne glanced at Enslin, and the Lieutenant added, “Name the thief. That is an order.”

“D’ rather not say,” Brian muttered.

“Lieutenant Enslin…”
Anne and the Lieutenant both turned to find an armed soldier with snow collected on his hat and the shoulders of his caped overcoat. He added, “Colonel Malcolm wishes for you to report to headquarters, Lieutenant.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” Enslin said. “I will be on my way as soon as I finish here… You are dismissed.”

“No, sir,” the Sergeant said. “I’ve orders to escort you to the Colonel’s headquarters, posthaste.”

“I see.” Enslin closed his eyes for a moment, and drew in a breath. To Anne he said, “It seems I am needed at brigade headquarters—I can arrange for a man to escort you back to your hut…”

“Oh, please don’t bother. I’ll be fine on my own.” Anne dipped a slight curtsy. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You couldn’t have been any more helpful or kind.”

“My pleasure.” Lieutenant Enslin bid adieu with a brief bow and followed after the Sergeant.

“My pleasure,” Brian repeated with scorn, his narrowed eyes following Enslin out the door. “You best keep your distance from him.”

Anne was aware many soldiers were very bigoted against the German deserters from the British lines who joined their ranks, and she said, “Don’t worry. He’s not a Hessian. Lieutenant Enslin is Dutch.”

Jim piped in, “It ain’t about him being Dutch.”

Brian drew himself up tall and in a stern voice said, “You just stay away from him, Annie, you hear me?”

Anne snorted. “Has the pox addled your brain?”

“I’m tellin’ you to stay away from him, Annie. He’s… Well, he ain’t regular; that’s all.”

“And what does that mean?”

Brian looked off at the corner of the ceiling. “He’s a molly.”

“What?”

“He don’t fancy girls,” Jim explained.

“
I
know
what a molly is.” Anne gave Brian a sharp poke to the shoulder. “And you both ought know better than to make up such a vile lie.”

“’Tain’t a lie,” Jim said.

“I swear on the altar of the Almighty, it’s true.” Brian made the motion crossing his heart. “Why on earth would anyone make up sech a thing?”

“Ensign Maxwell told us so hisself.” Jim folded his arms across his skinny chest. “He ordered all of us drummer boys to keep our distance—told us they caught Lieutenant Enslin in
flag-ron-tay
with John Monhort.”

“Monhort’s a molly, too,” Brian added.

“Listen to me—both of you.” Anne took them each by the shoulder and gave the boys a good shake. “This kind of talk is wicked and slanderous, and can get you into trouble. Lieutenant Enslin is an officer, and he has proven very kind to me. I’m so disappointed in you both. Enough of your vicious gossip,” Anne said. “Tell me what’s become of your shoes and clothing.”

Jim shook his head, and Brian’s brows wove into one angry line. Neither of them offered up a word.

“Alright, then.” Anne grabbed the boys by the arm. Dragging them along, she pushed a way across the room and plunked them both down before the fire. She tugged the shawl out from under her coat and draped it over Brian’s shoulders. Her woolly muffler was wound around Jim’s thin neck. “Stay here, where it’s warm—and don’t scratch,” she said, slapping Brian on the wrist. Anne pulled the package of shortbread from her pocket. “Here. Though you don’t deserve them, Sally sent you both some petticoat tails to share. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Brian kept his head down and muttered, “Thank you, Annie.”

Jim hopped up and gave her a hug. “Don’t be mad at us too long.”

Stepping out the door, Anne recognized at once the wind had picked up. The light snow was flying in on a horizontal trajectory, and was mixed with little pellets
of ice that bored into her skin like pieces of gravel thrown up from a wagon wheel. Stuffing hands up sleeves, she tucked chin to chest and cut a path uphill through a stand of chestnuts, the shortest route back to her cabin. Trudging through the snow, Anne couldn’t stop thinking about the gossip the boys had repeated.
It can’t be true… It must be a misunderstanding…

Breaking through the trees, she trudged up to the crest of the hill, and saw a figure standing on a rise facing the artillery park. Through the snow, she recognized the wicker pack and red-brown coat of the peddler woman, but the greeting Anne called out was lost in the wind.

As she drew closer, the woman twisted around to avoid bearing the full brunt of a wicked blast of wind, and Anne could see the peddler was using a pencil to scratch tick marks onto a slip of paper cupped in her hand.

She’s counting cannon!

Anne skirted sideways, stumbling and sliding the rest of the way down the hill, hoping she hadn’t been seen.

FOURTEEN

Our support and success depend on such a variety of men and circumstances, that every one, who does but wish well, is of some use.

T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
The American Crisis

P
AROLE
W
ORD
: W
ISDOM
C
OUNTERSIGN
: W
AR

“She’s a pretty woman… carries a big wicker pack and goes about selling buttons and needles…” Anne thought for a minute, then added, “Her coat is British red, dyed brown with walnut—”

“We think the woman is a spy,” David said.

“I for certain recollect the one you speak on. Hair and eyes as dark as Egypt—very friendly and interested in our works—” The duty Sergeant at the main gate stopped to worry the stubble on his chin. “A spy, you say?”

“A clever spy,” Anne said.

“Very clever, she was, now that I think on it…” The Sergeant leaned in on his musket. “How she eyed the position of the guns—struck me as odd, until she said her husband was a gunner what died at Breed’s Hill.”

“Probably true,” Anne said. “Except she neglected to mention he was a Redcoat gunner.”

“That’s where she got her coat…” The Sergeant snapped his fingers. “
Oh, she knew her business, Cap’n—she had a signed pass and knew the proper countersign when challenged.”