The Turning of Anne Merrick (44 page)

Jack and Titus stood beside Sally, and Jack whispered, “What’s this about, David?”

David shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

“I expect we’ll find out soon enough.” Titus waggled his brow in the direction of General Washington sitting at the end of a long dining table in a pool of light, methodically adding his signature to sheet after sheet of paper. Without glancing up from his task the General said, “I’ll be with you and your party in a moment, Captain Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.” David stepped forward, doffing his tricorn with a sweep and, tucking it under his arm, he stood at ease with hands clasped behind his back.

The fire snapped and hissed, burning in a huge fireplace backed with cast-iron plates. Anne shuffled over to stand beside Jack, and unwound her muffler.

The General was positioned close to the fire, the varnished table he worked at surrounded with ten padded chairs. A large matching sideboard took up the wall to the left of the hearth, where Billy was busy ladling hot cider spiced with cloves and cinnamon from a steaming kettle into a crockery pitcher.

Washington set down his quill and stood up, gesturing for them all to come forward. Anne was surprised to see he was taller than Jack and Titus, who were always among the tallest in a crowd. Though she’d seen the General before on horseback and about the camp, his stature was even more imposing within the confines of four walls, and a bit intimidating.

The General came out from behind the table to greet them, shaking hands first with Jack and Titus. “Mr. Hampton, Mr. Gilmore—good to see you both well and working hard for our cause. The shipment from Wilmington was much appreciated.” Washington turned and greeted Anne and Sally with a bow. “Mrs. Merrick, Miss Tucker, your facility so aptly demonstrated when entrenched amongst the enemy has proven most beneficial to your country.”

Washington moved to the free end of the table, calling David to sit with him on one side, and indicating for the rest to take seats opposite. Lacing the fingers of his large hands, he announced, “I will go straight to the heart of the matter. I must call upon you all to once again enter into dangerous service.”

Sally groaned, and Anne felt as if a toad had landed in her belly. Beneath the table, Jack took her by the hand.

“We are at a decided disadvantage, operating with so little intelligence, our army is not best prepared to face the British in campaign. Your country needs you, and I ask you all to go and ply your considerable skills in Philadelphia—setting up an operation similar to the one that served so well in New York.”

Anne kept her eyes focused on the beautifully beveled edge of the table, afraid to speak the answer that leapt to her lips.
No. No, no, no…

For what seemed the longest time, not a one of them uttered a word, until Sally very softly said, “I’ve never been to Philadelphia.”

Anne looked up. “I don’t know if we would realize any success, General. Philadelphia is much bigger than New York—and New York was home.” Anne looked to Jack, shaking her head. “We don’t know a soul there…”

“The Quaker’s in Philadelphia.” Jack shrugged. “He could help us.”

“Mrs. Loring is there, Anne,” David added. “You could reestablish your ties with Howe’s mistress…”

“And running a coffeehouse, you’ll be making social connections,” Washington said.

Anne blinked, overwhelmed by the whole proposition. “You mean for us to open a coffeehouse?”

The General nodded. “I will be making funds available to set up the entire operation.”

Sally worried, “B-but what’s to become of our young lads?”

“And Pink?” Anne added. “You don’t want to leave Pink behind, do you, Titus?”

“I don’t see why she shouldn’t come with.” Titus folded his arms. “She’d be a help.”

“Captain Peabody will be in charge, and I’m sure all accommodations can be made to satisfy the operation needs.” Sensing her resistance, Washington added, “I expect the assignment will be a short one, Mrs. Merrick, three or four months at most, until we retake the city.”

Jack squeezed her hand. “That’s not so bad…”

“
Like old times, Annie, na?” Sally leaned in to bump shoulders.

Anne nodded, fighting back her tears.

Billy set down a tray bearing the pitcher of hot cider, eight punch cups, and a cut crystal decanter half-full of amber-hued liquid. Washington poured a good amount of spirits into the pitcher. “Whiskey from my plantation at Mount Vernon—warms the belly and the brain,” he said, flashing a rare smile. “We have a fine distillery there, do we not, Billy?”

“Very fine,” Billy agreed, taking the pitcher to pour out eight cupfuls of hot punch.

The General held up his cup. “Can we drink on our new venture?”

Jack, Titus, and David were quick to take up their cups and stand. Sally joined them

Anne heaved a sigh and rose to her feet. Reaching across the table to tap Washington’s cup, she said, “I expect to see you, very soon, General, in Philadelphia.”

FIFTEEN

The larger we make the circle, the more we shall harmonize, and the stronger we shall be.

T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
The American Crisis

I
N
B
RITISH
-O
CCUPIED
P
HILADELPHIA
N
O. 177
, O
N THE
E
AST
S
IDE OF
S
ECOND
S
TREET

Walter Darragh followed the golden arc cast by the beeswax taper in the candle dish he carried, wandering down the hallway in nightshirt and cap, his felt slippers
whoosh
ing along on the waxed floorboards. He called out quietly, “Lydia?”

With no answer forthcoming he moved on, turning the doorknob to his eldest son Daniel’s empty bedchamber. In mobcap, chemise, and woolen night jacket, his wife sat on the floor in the moonlit room, crouched like a tree toad, scratching away with a graphite pencil on a loose sheet of paper.

Walter whispered, “Wife…”

Lydia looked up, her pretty face framed by the ruffled edge of her mobcap. With blue eyes wide, she pressed the tip of her index finger to her lips. “Shhh…”

“Enough.” Walter took a step into the room. “I’d have thee come to bed.”

Whispering, “Will thee hush?” the tiny woman tugged off her
mobcap and curled down to lie with ear pressed to the floorboards. Lydia’s hair, plaited in a single braid for sleep, slithered over her shoulder like a viper on the hunt.

From the floor below Walter could hear the squawk and scrape of chairs being pushed back from their family dining table, and the accompanying deep rumble of male voices. He near leapt from his skin, and Lydia bolted upright at the sudden loud knock on their door.

Folding her page, she stuffed it and the pencil under the mobcap pulled back onto her head, and waved her husband off. “Go! See what they want.”

Walter unbolted the lock and swung the door open to a British officer standing on the landing.

“We’re finished for the night, Mr. Darragh…” The Captain fit his tricorn on his head. “It seems Lieutenant Croker’s taken off with my keys—would it be too much of a bother for you to douse the lights, and lock the door behind us?”

“No bother, Captain Lockhart.” Walter could feel his wife’s little hand rest light between his shoulder blades as she drew beside him, yawning and rubbing feigned sleep from her eyes.

The Captain swept his hat off. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Darragh. I know the hour is very late.”

“Not to worry, Captain—I was meaning to have a word with thee by and by…” Lydia Darragh clutched her night jacket closed with the flat of her fist pressed over heart. “I was thinking about having Polly wax the floors… The boots are taking a toll. Do you think thee’ll be using our room again on the morrow?”

“We will.” Lockhart nodded his head in the affirmative. “I’m afraid General Howe has called a council meeting for the afternoon.”

“Very well.” Lydia smiled. “The waxing will wait for another day, then.”

Walter bid Captain Lockhart good night. He waited in the doorway until he heard the downstairs door click shut before turning to his wife.

“Lydia, I find thy eavesdropping unsavory, and now I hear thy tongue speaking words unplain.”

“Walter…”
Lydia Darragh smiled. Rising up on tiptoes, she pulled him down to meet her soft kiss, and she whispered in his ear, “Go lock the door, husband, then hurry thee back to warm my bed… Are these words plain enough?”

T
HE
W
HITE
S
WAN
I
NN ON
F
RONT
S
TREET
N
EAR THE
F
ERRY
S
LIP

With a laundry basket full of clean linen propped on her hip, Bede Seaborn was just about to give a customary tap before resorting to her keys, when the chamber door flew open on its own accord. With his tricorn slapped haphazard on the back of his head, waistcoat unbuttoned, buckling on his cross belt, Major Nicholas Sutherland came near to bowling Mrs. Seaborn over. Barking, “See to the muddle in my chamber,” over his shoulder, he thundered down the stairs.

Of the six Redcoat officers quartered at her inn, Major Sutherland was not only the most callous of the lot, but also the one most prone to having a lie-in and leaving his chamber in an awful mess.

“And a good day t’ you, Major Sutherland…” the innkeeper cheerfully called, then added a muttered, “… you lazy-arsed bastard.” Stepping over the threshold to find her chambermaid slipping into her chemise and frantically gathering up the rest of her clothes from the mess on the floor, Bede sighed. “Oh, Nell…”