The Turning of Anne Merrick (59 page)

“You’re still fevering…” he said, eyeing the full cup of broth he’d left that morning, untouched and gone cold. “And you haven’t swallowed a drop of the beef tea the fellows made for you.”

“Give it to another, Mr. Jones,” Anne said. “I’ve no appetite.”

Leaning in, Trueworthy smiled and said, “I worked the burial crew today, and I brought you some presents—bound t’ give you some cheer.” Digging down into his shirt, he pulled out a small clump of green grass no bigger than his fist. “Plucked this up when the guards weren’t lookin’.” He held the grass to Anne’s nose. “In’t it grand?”

Anne gave a little shrug, eyes drawn back to the blue sky beyond the bars of her prison.

The sailor reached into his shirt again, and brushed a bit of white fluff against her cheek. “Believe it or not, this was just rolling along the beach—soft as a feather from a cherub’s wing—swansdown, I think.”

Anne rolled back onto her side to gaze up at the window.

Jones gave her a nudge. “What say you come up on deck and take some air? Might spark your appetite… You have to eat something.”

Anne sighed, her voice sounding as small as she felt. “Not today, Mr. Jones.”

“The day’s a-wasting, and the fresh air will do you some good…”

Anne didn’t respond.

“Come, now.” Trueworthy tugged at her sleeve. “I won’t be taking no for an answer…”

Anne pulled her arm away and curled her legs up.

“Stop this nonsense!” Trueworthy leaned over, his face inches from hers. “You can’t just give up!”

“Why not?” Anne rolled onto her back. “You were the one who said there was no hope. None.”

“I said there’s no hope for rescue, but that doesn’t mean there’s no hope at all! Once the war’s over we’ll all be…”

Anne heaved a breath. “Please, Mr. Jones—leave me be.”

“No.” Trueworthy stood. Straddling her prone body, he grabbed
Anne by the wrists, and levered her up to a sit. “I won’t let you lie here and rot in the stink with the goners and the rats. Up, up!” he urged. “The bloody Hessian bastards yet allow us a bit of fresh air and sunshine, and by God, you are going to take some in.”

Sapped of all energy to resist, Anne found herself pulled up to a stand. With bare toes grasping at the rough canvas pallet, her stomach lurched and her head spun, and she felt as if she were caught in a cyclone of liquid spinning down toward a great drain. Anne snapped her eyes wide-open and braced a hand to the seaman’s bony shoulder to keep from dropping to her knees. If there’d been anything in her stomach, she would have lost it on the spot. She gasped. “This isn’t a good idea, Mr. Jones—”

“Call me True,” he said, wrapping an arm about her waist for support. “We’re ol’ mates, you and me, are we no’?”

She steadied her mien, took a deep breath, and blinked away the onslaught of dizziness. Ahead, a bright beam of daylight sliced in from the hatchway, beckoning, like a magical arrow pointing the way up from hell to heaven. Even her smile was weak. “All right, True—but only if you call me Anne.”

“Easy goes it, Annie. That’s the way…” True cautioned. “You’ll have your sea legs under you in no time.”

Anne shuffled forward step by step, True charting a mazelike course around the inhabited pallets of the men too sick and far gone for anyone to bother with. Anne turned her eyes from the gaunt faces and scabrous heads crawling with vermin, fearful of seeing her own end in their suffering.

Once they breached the hatchway at the top of the stairs, a strong voice called,
“Guten abend, madam.”
The Hessian Captain and his grand mustache peered down over the quarterdeck railing, smiling.

Fevering and as filthy as she’d ever been in her life, Anne traversed the crowded gangway, leaning heavily on True’s arm, greeted by her fellow prisoners doffing ragged caps, and wishing her good day, as if she were out taking the air on the Commons on a Sunday morning after church. Trueworthy led her to a halt amidships.

“This will do.”

Anne shifted to lean on the railing, letting the fresh spring breeze wash the awful smell of the lower deck from her nostrils. “It must be Monday,” she said, watching the miller’s daughter moving along a clothesline taking in the wash. Anne imagined herself standing amid the snapping sun-bleached linen, folding clean bedclothes into neat, crisp-cornered packets.

“Good, isn’t it?” True patted her on the back.

Anne nodded. “You can almost smell the lye soap.”

“Ahoy,
Whitby
!”

A shallop knocked up to tie alongside and deliver the drinking water. Three of its crew scrambled up the larboard ladder and began working the derrick near the bow end of the
Whitby
, while the others secured chain and line to the first barrel being unloaded.

A single boatman began singing, and soon the rest joined in—including many of the sailor-prisoners watching the goings-on from the railings. The shanty provided the perfect rhythm for the men turning the windlass on the derrick to hoist the heavy barrel up out of the shallop:

A very distinctive, gravelly voice rose loud above all others, and caught Anne’s attention.

After listening for a moment, Anne muttered, “It can’t be him…” She moved toward the bow of the hulk for a better view of the
operation, with True padding along, right on her heels. Her breath caught in her throat.

“It
is
…” she whispered.

Stamping boots to the deck in time with the song he sung, Tully marched in a tight circle with his mates, singing at the top of his lungs, putting his back into pushing on the arm of the windlass. The old smuggler looked up at Anne, and, his one eye asquashed in squint, he pounded a fist to his chest, and sang even louder.

Tully wore his checkered shirt loose and open, sleeves rolled to elbows, arm muscles flexed as he pushing against the weight of the one-hundred-forty-gallon hogshead being lifted up from the shallop. Anne could clearly see Jack’s little half-crown token swinging by a leather thong from Tully’s neck.

Of a sudden, Anne felt them rush back inside—hope—faith—confidence—courage—filling her heart and mind like a gale wind whooshing into the sagging canvas of a ship floating free of the Doldrums. She grabbed hold of True to keep from being swept away.

“Would you look a-there!” True exclaimed. “Why, that jobber’s wearin’ a necklet just like yourn…”

It was an odd feeling, lying with back pressed against the concave curve of the barrel, legs tucked up.
Like a baby in a cradle…

The barrel swayed on its chains as it was first hoisted up from the shallop, then swung over and lowered down with a bump into the cargo hold. Jack braced himself as best he could when the stevedores rolled his cask up into the big rack used for keeping barrel stores stationary when at sea.

The air he was breathing went from fresh to dank while Jack waited until all twelve barrels were rolled into place. Soon the jingling chains and the singing and shouting of the crew faded away, and the big cargo hatch banged shut.

“I’m in,” Jack whispered to himself. Unlatching all the hooks, he pounded the meat of his fist against the barrelhead to pop the lid off.

Like a moth from its cocoon, he wriggled out of the hogshead, and took a moment to stretch his limbs. He rubbed the knuckles of his spine, and stamped circulation back into a left foot tingling as if a colony of ants were crawling over it.

Black as Pluto’s chimney in here…

But for some faint slivers of light filtered around the frame of the hatch high above, the cargo hold was even darker than he’d expected. With a dearth of light, the foxfire seemed to shine even brighter, and Jack was glad he’d thought to bring it.

As Jack moved forward he caught the glint of animal eyes, and could hear the tiny claws on wood as the ship’s rats scurried ahead of his footfalls. As his eyes grew accustomed, he could discern the humping shadow of the swarm moving away from his scent and his light, like a gray wave retreating back into an ocean of darkness.

What a stink!

Jack walked slow, with hand cupping his nose. The farther he moved from the water storage, the worse the smell grew. If someone were to cook up a soup made of soured cabbage, spoiled meat, and rotten eggs, it would be a sweet perfume by comparison. He turned toward a looming shadow on his right.

Stairs…
and the source of the awful putrid stench. Jack shone his light up to the iron grate blocking the hatchway to the deck above, and mounted the stairs. All was dark on the deck above, but there he could hear the pathetic sound of human misery—coughing and moaning.

Jack went back to his barrel and fished out the whale oil, tricorn, and gunnysack he’d left behind. Plopping tricorn onto head, he dropped the oil bottle into the gunny, flung the sack over his shoulder, and put the false barrelhead back into place.

Can’t be too careful.

Foxfire lighting the way, with quicker, more certain steps, Jack mounted the stairs and jimmied the flat end of his pry bar under the hasp on the lock. Whispering, “One, two…” he jerked down on the pry bar to pop the lock from its seat with a crack loud enough to make him wince. The grate opened with an ear-jarring squeal. Jack scrambled up to the between deck, surprised that he had not yet brought down the wrath of the Hessian guard.

Guided by his foxfire, Jack made his way toward the dim shaft of light just barely illuminating the stairs to the upper deck.

“Christ almighty!” he muttered, cupping one hand over nose and mouth. “The smell of this place could lift a scalp…”

It was no wonder the Hessians did not wander down to the tween deck. The floor was littered with a tumble of ragged blankets, rough pallets made of old sailcloth, and random piss and shit pails. Some of the sleeping places were occupied by human skeletons, whose miserable plight was made even more gruesome in the eerie green light. The thought of his Annie spending one second on this ship of horror was enough to make Jack want to keck up his insides.

Shouts and sharp whistles were sounded above deck, and the whole ship creaked with annoyance as the prisoners were herded down the stairs. Jack hunkered down, tucking his foxfire under his jacket. A weak voice to his left wheezed, “Cabbage-eating butcher…”

“No. I’m not a real Hessian,” Jack whispered. “My name’s Hampton. I’ve come for my woman—Anne Merrick—do you know her?”

“Ain’t…” The voice halted to hack up a globule of phlegm. “Ain’t no women on this here ship.”

A sea of moving shadows clogged the stairway and hundreds of prisoners stumbled about in the dank dark as the tween was repopulated by the fitter prisoners who’d wisely spent the day above deck. Jack unsheathed his foxfire and moved forward through the crowd, whispering, “I’m looking for Anne Merrick. Do any of you know where she is?”

These men all stared, or turned away. No one answered his questions. A hand clawed at his leg, and fingers wound about to grasp his ankle as a voice rasped, “Any grub in that there poke sack?”

Jack pulled his leg free, panic rising from his gut and souring his mouth.
Dobbsy’s a fucking drunk. Everything… the whole stupid plan based on the ramblings of a drunk…
He raised his voice. “I’m searching for a woman called Anne Merrick. Has anyone seen her? Does anyone know where I can find Anne Merrick?”

“She’s in the gun room.”

Jack spun around, his light shining on a man wearing a regimental jacket, sitting with his back braced to a column, his face an eruption of oozing pustules.

“Can you take me to her, friend?”

The soldier jerked in a halfhearted chuckle. “I’m spent, mister—lucky to make it up and down those stairs today.”

“Where’s the gun room?” Jack asked.

“Aft, ye lubber.” The voice coming from behind bore a Scottish brogue. “They put her there when she miscarried her wean.”

“Miscarried?”

“Aye. Keep moving toward the stern.” A large hand landed on his shoulder, and pushed him forward.

Another shadow sidled up to him, and pulled him along by the arm. A young voice squeaked, “I’ll take you.”

Shining his light on a thin freckled face, Jack stumbled behind the boy, who was adept at slithering through the moving sea of human beings. A muttering and movement grew in their wake, and Jack could see others were following along. The boy pulled to a stop and pointed.

“Back behind those sea chests, you’ll find her there. She’s sick, mister.”

Jack approached the makeshift wall, sweeping the foxfire across the area behind the chests.

Anne was propped up against the bulkhead, her hands limp on a woolen blanket covering her lap. Sitting tailor style, a small man with close-cropped hair and bushy brows pressed a cool cloth to the hollow of her neck. He glanced up at the light.

“Here I thought she was daft with fever, but there you come, just as she said you would.”

Jack skirted around the chests, set his gunny aside, and dropped to his knees.

Anne smiled. “Perseus.”

“You’re so ill…”

The sailor rose to his feet, allowing Jack to sit beside Anne. “Weak and helpless as a cotton sack, she is. Miscarried a babe yestreen…”

Jack groaned. “A baby—oh, Annie…”

“I’m sorry,” Anne whispered. “I didn’t know… I would have… I could…”

“Shhh, shhh, shhh…” Jack leaned forward and grasped Anne by the hand. “Put it behind for now. I’m going to take you from this place and we’ll go far away—begin anew. We’ll make lots of babies. I promise.” Jack pressed fingertips to the swelling welt slashed across her cheek, the skin hot to the touch, and clenched his teeth to combat the rage that whirled in his chest like a firestorm.