The Turning of Anne Merrick (46 page)

She was struck dumb the day the tiny Quaker woman came into the Cup and Book the first week they were in operation, wanting to borrow a copy of
Gulliver’s Travels—
the prearranged signal David devised for use by the loose network of Patriot spies already operating in the occupied city. The Quakers were renowned for their strict adherence to pacifism and neutral stance in the war against the Crown, and Anne found it very odd indeed for Friend Lydia to be part of their spying operation.

To her right, Anne set the bottle of new invisible ink General Washington had supplied for their mission. Unlike the hartshorn ink, which was brought to the eye when put to the heat of a candle, the words written in the new ink could be made visible only with the use of a secret, counterpart chemical agent. Anne appreciated the added security provided for their dangerous correspondence, and she liked to imagine Billy, in his white wig and persnick uniform, brushing the “sympathetic stain,” as the General had called it, onto her messages, bringing the hidden secrets to light.

Anne slipped the page she’d transcribed in invisible ink into a slim leather wallet, and put Lydia’s original notes to the candle flame, dropping the burning page into a tin bucket she kept for the purpose. A soft tap on the door was followed by Sally’s voice calling, “It’s me.”

“Come in,” Anne replied, watching the damning page go to ashes.

“A busy day today, na?” Sally dropped a copy of the
Royal Gazette
on the desk. “The innkeeper’s widow came through th’ garden gate, asking me to bring this Tory rag up to ye.”

Anne flipped to the center of the newspaper and found the sheet Bede Seaborn had inserted, a letter written in a loose and careless hand, rife with scratched-out words and dappled with ink blots.

“This Major Sutherland has the penmanship of a six-year-old…” Anne took the page to the window to decipher the mundane letter the
Major wrote to his father in England. Coming to the last paragraph, she looked up and asked Sally, “Is Bede waiting in the shop?”

“Where she might be forced to part with coin? Na…” Sally shook her head. “Pink set her up in the kitchen with a mug of chocolate and full plate of mackeroons.” Hovering at Anne’s elbow, she asked, “What is it, Annie?”

“Important news. Sutherland says General Howe plans on resigning his post, and returning to England. Clinton is slated to take over as commander in chief.” Anne reinserted the page. “Information worth a dozen mackeroons at least.”

Sally said, “Th’ sort of news best not put to paper, Annie.”

“Agreed.” Anne nodded and handed the newspaper to Sally. “Return this to Mrs. Seaborn—she must be anxious to put the letter back in its place—then send Pink up. She’s for this errand.”

T
HE
W
ORKSHOP OF
E
LBERT
H
ADLEY
, M
ASTER
E
NGRAVER, ON THE
CORNER OF
E
IGHTH AND
S
ASSAFRAS

Examining the space between the rollers, Jack gave the screw the slightest twist. “Give the wheel a half-turn,” he said, watching the action of the works as Titus turned the big wheel on the engraving press.

“I think it’s good,” Jack declared. “Let’s pull a sheet and see how it prints.”

At the front of the workshop, with burins in hand, seated on tall stools, Jim and Brian bent over their work, glancing now and then to the illustration of a long-eared owl in the open volume lying between them, incising copies of the image onto eight-inch-square copper plates.

“Remember to maintain control over the depth of your line…” Strolling slowly around the long table with a little black-and-white mongrel carried in the crook of his arm, Elbert Hadley rubbed the dog’s bony topknot, his voice as calm as blue water. “The deeper the line, the deeper the tone. Lighter line—lighter hand.”

Seeing the boys apply their drawing skill to a trade pleased Jack to no end. Clean, well fed, and well clothed, both Jim and Brian flourished under Elbert’s patient tutelage, and were dedicated to learning an honest and valuable trade from a master in the art of engraving.

Elbert dropped the thick-lens spectacles resting on the top of his bald pate to perch at the bulbous end of his nose, and bent down to inspect the boys’ progress. “You’ve got it, Jim. Perhaps a little more detail about the tail feathers?” the engraver encouraged, selecting a tool from his kit. “Very good, Brian. Very good—but use the proper tool for the proper task—don’t forget to make use of the Florentine liner for your fill work.”

It’s a good thing Elbert was able to make a place for us here…
Jack was happy to be immersed once again in the smell of ink and wet paper, working with his hands at something more than cleaning the lock on his rifle, or manufacturing bullets. In exchange for the roof over their heads, and the boys’ informal apprenticeship, he and Titus were glad to pitch in and help however they could, from presswork to chopping firewood. Elbert Hadley welcomed them into his home and business with open arms, happy for the help and company, and thrilled to be once again in good service to the cause of Liberty.

They first met the odd little engraver in British-occupied New York, where he joined the well-oiled machine of spies and smugglers organized by tailor Hercules Mulligan. Elbert had provided the expertly engraved plates for the failed counterfeiting scheme that ended with Patsy Quinn dead, Jack near hanged, and their escape from New York.

It was Mulligan who dubbed the little engraver “the Quaker”—the nickname based on his hailing from Philadelphia. No matter how often the gentle little man protested, “I’m not a Quaker; I’m a Deist,” they all continued to call him the Quaker. He bore this mis-moniker in good humor, but now that they were in the land of true Quakers, the nickname seemed silly.

Elbert suits him better.

Jack called to Titus, “Toss over the small mallet…”

Copperplate engraving and printing was a specialty business.
Elbert was employed directly by Philadelphia’s book and news printers to provide the copperplate-engraved pages to be included in larger works, and his considerable skill was in high demand.

The engraver’s location on the edge of town and the cover of legitimate employment proved perfect for relaying the gathered intelligence to David and Alan McLane, whose duties kept them on horseback in the countryside beyond the outskirts of the city.

Good thing Annie agreed to come to Philadelphia…
The assignment in Philadelphia suited everyone better than the rough existence in the winter camp, and gave them opportunity to gather the intelligence Washington needed, and maybe help bring about the end to the war sooner than later.

The doorbell rang, and the engraver scurried out of the workroom to the small storefront area at the front of the house. The door barely clicked shut behind him before Elbert came bustling back into the workshop with Pink in tow.

Jack jumped up. “What’s happened to Anne?”

“Don’t fret. She’s fine,” Pink said, throwing back her hood. “She’s paying a call on that Loring lady, and the news I come with can’t wait.” She set her heavy basket on the table, and other than flashing a beautiful smile Titus’s way, Pink was all business. Clasping her hands together, she recited, “An important message from a reliable source. General Howe is to resign his post and return to England in May. General Clinton will be assigned as the new Commander-in-Chief in America.”

“Clinton!” Jack was not pleased with this news. He encountered this particular general back when he infiltrated the British attack force on Long Island, and Sir Henry Clinton was one of few British officers who would recognize him for a rebel spy on sight. He rolled his sleeves down, buttoning the cuffs. “Who’s the source?”

“A letter writ by Major Sutherland, brought in by Bede Seaborn, the innkeeper’s widow from the White Swan. There’s more…” From her basket, Pink produced a ream of writing paper wrapped and tied with blue grosgrain ribbon. “Page fifty-four is news from the Quaker woman, written in the most secret ink.”

“We’ll go.”
Brian popped up from his seat; as much as he enjoyed his lessons, he was always keen for adventure of any sort.

“No. You two will stay with Elbert. Me and Titus can handle this delivery.”

Titus asked, “Farmers?”

Jack nodded. “Let’s get the pushcart ready.”

T
HE
P
ENN
M
ANSION, ON
S
IXTH AND
M
ARKET

“Anne Merrick! My stars and body!” Merry blue eyes a-sparkle, Betsy Loring skipped down the stairs to the entry hall, greeting Anne with a beautiful smile and a kiss on each cheek. “Come. You
must
join us for tea.”

“It is so good to see you, Betsy, but I don’t want to intrude. I only thought to leave my card…”

“Don’t be a noodle!” Looping an arm through hers, Betsy led Anne up the stairway. “You cannot imagine how happy I am to see you here in Philadelphia. I was very worried about you, my dear, after that awful incident at your shop in New York…”

“Please…” Anne squeezed Betsy’s hand, and heaved a little trembling sigh. “So terrible—the threat to my safety sent me flying to live with my father in Peekskill.”

“William and I were so concerned. But living with your father…” Betsy cringed. “Almost as bad as having to cohabitate with Mr. Loring!”

Anne did not pretend her sympathetic shudder. Joshua Loring was an odious Loyalist opportunist who willingly traded his wife’s favors to General Howe in exchange for a lucrative post. As Commissary of Prisons in New York, he was responsible, together with the Provost, for the inhumane treatment of the Patriot prisoners of war. Betsy never bothered to disguise the disdain she bore her husband.

“Let’s talk of pleasant things.” Anne turned the conversation to Mrs. Loring’s favorite subject. “How are you? Are you enjoying your stay in Philadelphia?”

“
No, I miss New York… I cannot abide all of these plain folk lurking about all brown and gray—so morose.” Anything but plain, Betsy Loring wore a perfectly fitted gown of rose-colored Italian wool. Her golden blond hair was gathered with a matching ribbon in a soft chignon at the back of her neck. The soles of her blue silk slippers tapped lightly on the marbled treads as they moved toward the second floor. “I am required to dance in attendance on these local Loyalists and their simpering, simpleton daughters. Ugh!” Betsy continued, “Only this morning I said to the General—I said, Billy, between you, me, and the bedpost, I frankly prefer it when society names me whore, and leaves me to my Faro table.”

“You are incorrigible!” Anne laughed. She admired Betsy’s forthright manner, a desirable trait in the person who was her direct link to the most powerful Englishman on the Continent. A self-centered, ambitious woman, Elizabeth Loring never allowed wagging tongues or provincial sensibilities to prevent her from fully enjoying her position as consort to the commander in chief of the British forces.

Betsy stopped at the top of the stairs and whispered, “The daughter of the Chief Justice, and the daughter of a member of the Provincial Council.” Anne followed behind as she swept into the drawing room.

It was a bright and cheerful room, with immense double-hung windows facing Market Street. The plaster walls were painted a pleasant shade of marigold, trimmed with crown and skirting boards enameled bright white. Two young women sat together on a blue brocade settee, thick as a pair of inkle weavers, whispering and giggling. A beautiful silver tea service was arranged on a low table between the settee and a pair of chairs upholstered in a deeper blue.

“I see our tea has arrived!” Betsy made the introductions: “Miss Peggy Shippen and Miss Peggy Chew of Philadelphia proper—Mistress Anne Merrick, a dear friend of mine from New York.”

No more than eighteen years old, the girls were dressed in almost identical floral chintz gowns, overfestooned with lace and furbelows, and they wore their hair puffed very high in the latest French fashion. Though dressed alike, these Peggies could not have been more different.
Miss Shippen’s cherubic peaches-and-cream prettiness was the complete opposite to Miss Chew’s brunette and angular beauty.

Fair Shippen, and Dark Chew…
Anne decided with a smile. Like many of the young Loyalist women in New York, it seemed Philadelphia’s daughters were also on the hunt for quality husbands among Howe’s officer elite.

Anne removed her cloak, and before taking one of two chairs, she handed Betsy the pressed paper box of sweet biscuits Pink had prepared. “Mackeroons—a specialty at the Cup and Book.”

“J’adore les macarons!”
Betsy exclaimed with a tolerable French accent. Peeling off the ribbon, she popped one in her mouth. “You must have angels working in your kitchen—these are
heavenly
!”

“The Cup and Book,” Dark Peggy asked, reaching for one of the mackeroons Betsy offered. “Isn’t that the new coffeehouse on Chestnut everyone’s talking about?”

Anne beamed. “The Cup and Book is my shop.”

Fair Peggy let out a high-pitched
squee
and clapped her hands, and Dark Peggy explained, “We’ve been meaning to frequent your very shop, Mrs. Merrick… John’s been raving about it.”

“John?”

“Major John André,” Betsy said. Shifting her chair forward, she began to pour the tea. “He’s the darling of the Twenty-sixth Foot, and has set every female heart from the Delaware to the Schuylkill aflutter.”

“How can you not know who he is? Johnny frequents your coffeeshop daily!” Fair Peggy was fair perplexed by Anne’s unfamiliarity with Major John André.

Anne gave a little shrug. “So many British officers frequent the Cup and Book…”

“You
must
know him. He is very well-favored,” Dark Peggy said.

“The Twenty-sixth Foot?” Anne thought for a minute. “Does he sketch? There is a handsome young officer from the Twenty-sixth I’ve noticed—very solitary. Sits alone near the window with his chocolate, sketching street scenes…”

“
That is him.” Dark Peggy accepted the cup and saucer Betsy passed her way. “Major André is a gentleman of many talents.”