The Turning of Anne Merrick (36 page)

“I assure you, I’m no spy,” Anne said, pointing to her pails. “You can see I went down to fetch water.”

“A clever ruse, mebbe, used by a clever spy.”

“Heavens!”
Anne threw up her arms. “If I were truly a clever spy, I’d know the bloody countersign, wouldn’t I?”

The sentry stood firm, and offered the challenge once again. “
Spaar
-ta.”

“I’m the least likely spy,” Anne said.

“It’s the least likely who make the best of spies,” he said, and repeated the parole word. “Sparta.”

Anne could not argue with his logic. “Give me a moment. These
daily countersigns are all so alike, they are a jumble in my brain.” Eyes squinched tight, she repeated,
“Spaarta aaaannnd…”
Her eyes popped open, and she blurted,
“Spain!”

“Aye. ’Tis Spain.” The sentry shouldered his weapon. “Ye can advance.”

Anne gathered up her water and headed toward the first row of eight officers’ huts strung out in a straight row not too far from the stone house headquarters. She set the pails down to yank on the latchstring to lift the bar on the inside. Putting her shoulder into it, she pushed the heavy plank door open. Hung not quite square to the floor, the swing of the door rode in a perfect semicircle carved into the dirt floor. Anne grabbed her pails and hurried into the dark cabin, kicking the door shut.

“Tha’ wind is sharp as the devil’s teeth!” Sally shivered on a small stool near the hearth, fanning the coals to flame and feeding the fire slim pieces of kindling.

Anne deposited her pails and went to lay wet mittens on the hearthstones. She hung her muffler and coat on one of the many pegs driven into the wall. “It is so cold, the stream is almost completely frozen over,” she said, stomping her boots and shaking loose the snow caked to the hems of her skirts.

Sally pulled a stumpy candle from her pocket and set it alight. Reaching up on tiptoes, she touched candle flame to the wick of the oil lamp hanging from the rafters, bathing the room with light.

All of the soldier cabins were supposed to have been built to the same simple specifications—twelve by fourteen feet, sidewalls no less than six and a half feet high, with plank roofs pitching up to the center. According to the General’s plan, each cabin was to have two windows to provide cross ventilation and promote a healthy atmosphere. From what Anne could tell, no one paid much heed to Washington’s directives. There were as many different cabins as there were builders, and Anne had yet to see one with windows.

Her brother’s hut was built to quarter two officers, and was much more spacious than the common soldier huts meant to house twelve. The roof planking was tight and kept out the snow, the door was
heavy to keep out the wind, and the thick timber walls were well chinked with straw and mud to allay drafts. David’s cabinmate had scavenged an iron plate from the old ruined forge that gave the valley its name, and installed it at the back of the fireplace to radiate warmth back into the room. Well supplied with firewood, the little cabin was a toasty sanctuary even in the worst weather.

The single room was sparsely furnished. The fireplace, fitted with an iron grate and flagstone hearth, was centered opposite the doorway, and took up most of the wall. Tucked into the corner to the right of it were two simple plank platforms—built one atop the other—with straw-stuffed ticks for mattresses. David and his cabinmate stowed their chests and other gear in the space remaining at the foot of the bunk bed. A rough table with bench seats occupied the other wall, where Anne and Sally kept their trunks. They situated one of the benches close to the hearth, where they would sit and sew at night by the light and warmth of the fire.

Anne set a pail of water on the grate to boil. “I expect the boys will be here soon. I’ll make some chocolate.”

“Set th’ griddle to heat on th’ grate,” Sally said and, arranging two good-sized logs onto the fire, she went to forage through her trunk for the breakfast makings. “I promised th’ young lads a batch of scones.”

Brian Eliot and Jim Griffin fit neatly under Anne’s and Sally’s wings. The women spent the week alternately fattening the boys up and working on augmenting their pitiful wardrobes. Right off, Jack and Titus made good on their promise, producing two pairs each of leather moccasins and gaiters. Though there was no wool for knitting, the women managed to fashion socks, caps, and mufflers by unraveling shawls Anne and Sally donated to the cause. One old blanket became two new weskits. A green-striped quilted petticoat was turned into soft, warm shirts.

There was a rap on the door and Anne answered with a cheery, “Come in!”

The door scraped open, and in tumbled hungry men and boys, stomping snow from feet and hanging coats on pegs in a chaotic exchange of howdy-dos and good mornings.

At the table, Sally patted her floury dough into two thick, raisin-speckled disks, cutting each into eight even wedges with a razor-sharp knife. In transferring the wedges onto the hot griddle, young Jim reached in and pinched off a piece of dough, popping it into his mouth.

“Och, ye wee glutton!” Sally slapped his hand.

Jim grinned. “Why d’you bother with the baking—it tastes good as is…”

“Ye’ll earn a sour stomach—eatin’ raw dough…” Sally handed the boy a broad-bladed knife and plunked him down onto the bench. “Keep yer eye on those scones, and when the edges go golden, give ’em a turn.”

David sidled next to Sally, wrapping his arm about her waist. “Scones!” he said, planting a loud kiss on her cheek. “Yum!”

Anne set meticulous Brian to shaving a cake of chocolate with a paring knife, and when she went to dig up some maple sugar from the chest, Jack came up from behind and pulled her into a bear hug, nuzzling his scruffy face in her neck. “Chocolate!” he said. “You are spoiling us all!”

Anne shrugged. “The chocolate does no one any good stored away.”

Titus sat down at the fire, scratching inside his shirt. “Nothing better than a hot, sweet drink on a bitter-cold morning.”

Once the water was brought to a boil, Anne dumped in the chocolate shavings and a fistful of maple sugar, beating the mixture to a froth with a wooden spoon.

Jack and Titus arranged the two benches in a
V
before the hearth, and David threw a couple big logs in. They all sat with feet stretched to the crackling fire, sipping on tin cups of steaming chocolate and munching their scones, when there was a rap on the door.

David pulled the door open to a blast of snow, and revealed a small man wearing a fur-trimmed roquelaure cloak and matching tricorn, hunched in the wind.

“Come. Come,” David urged, simultaneously rushing the visitor into the room and pushing the door shut.

The man whisked off his hat, slung back his cloak, and bowed.
With a soft Norfolkian accent he said, “I beg pardon, but I was told I might find writing paper for purchase within?”

He owned a long, sharp nose, and there was a quality to his smile that reminded Anne of an illustration in one of her son Jemmy’s storybooks.
An elf,
she thought. Rising to her feet, she offered, “I’ve a supply of writing bond for sale—penny a sheet.”

“Much obliged. I’ll take all you can spare.”

Anne went to dig in her trunk, and Jack called, “Join us, friend. Our fire will warm you without, and a cup of chocolate will warm you within.”

The man smiled his impish smile, and raised one eyebrow. “I confess to being quite fond of chocolate.”

He took a seat, cup, and scone without saying much other than murmuring, “Delicious!” and “What a treat!”

Anne held up a paper-wrapped ream. “I could let you have as much as half a ream…”

“I’ll take it.” The man nodded happily, brushing crumbs from his front. He delved into his breast pocket, pulling forth a squat, oval-shaped brass case. “Might you also be supplied with ink?”

“Enough to fill your writing set,” Anne said.

With a big smile and ink-stained fingers, he snapped open the brass cover and revealed a compact kit that included a corked glass bottle and a stubby little quill pen. Anne filled the inkwell to the brim and handed him a packet of paper. He, in turn, handed over three continentals, and tucked the writing set back into his breast pocket.

“That’s quite a bit of paper,” David noted. “You must have a lot of correspondence.”

The man wagged his head. “Though I’m yet farming my thoughts, I’m at present composing a letter to General Sir William Howe.”

“To General Howe!” Titus burst out laughing.

“When you write that letter,” Jack said, as he snatched up a piece of kindling, and used it to scratch his back, “tell ol’ Howe Jack Hampton says ‘Go to hell!’”

They all laughed, and, bidding them adieu with a wave of his hat, the man scurried out the door.

“
What an odd little fellow,” Anne said.

“But he’s surely able with that bitty little pen,” Jim said, plucking what would be his third scone from the griddle. “Did you see the size of it?”

Brian piped up. “I like how he writes—Common Sense.”

Titus gave Jack a nudge. “Didn’t seem to have much sense to me, writing a letter to Howe.”

“Oh, he’s a fine writer,” Brian said.

“When we first got here, the General had Common Sense read to us all. You remember, Cap’n…” Jim stood up and with a deepened voice intoned, “‘These are the times that try men’s souls…’”

“That was
him
?” David asked. “Thomas Paine?”

“No!” Jack ran to the door, swinging it wide-open, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He came back and sat in a slump. “I can’t believe we had Thomas Paine himself, sitting right here in our cabin, without our knowing it.”

“I knew it,” Jim said.

“Shame!” Sally chided, finger waving. “All o’ yiz all laughing at th’ man…”

“I saw you laughing as well,” David reminded. “And who wouldn’t think it a jest? Writing a letter to General Howe…”

“Och!” Sally gave David a shove. “Come summer, I’ll be paying a bonny penny for a copy of that letter.”

Jack went back to scratching his chest. “He was mad for your scones, Sal. Maybe he’ll be back.”

Anne leaned over and rapped both Jack and Titus with a wooden spoon, the two of them scratching with hands deep down their shirtfronts. “Stop it! You’re driving me mad, clawing at yourselves all morning like a pair of flea-bit pups.”

“It’s driving
me
mad.” Jack snarled, and continued scratching.

“Can’t help it, Mrs. Anne…” Titus twisted around, trying to reach a spot under his arm.

“They have the Itch,” Jim said, and Brian agreed with a knowing nod.

“
The Itch!” Anne groaned.

“Most everyone here comes down with the Itch,” Brian said. “Pay a call on Pink. She has a balm for it.”

Old friends, Captain Aubrey Dunaway and First Lieutenant Erasmus Gill shared a cabin. Unlike the officer’s cabin Anne shared with Sally, theirs boasted a separate bed in each corner. Jack and Titus sat shirtless on what was apparently Mr. Gill’s bed, as the other bed was occupied by a coughing, wheezing, and feverish Captain Dunaway.

Anne sat beside Jack, sipping on the fragrant cup of Oswego tea Captain Dunaway’s slave woman had pressed into her hand on arrival, and she watched Pink light the nub of a candle in a dish, and bring the bright light close to examine Jack’s chest.

“Mm-hmm…” Pink murmured. “Y’all have the Itch, all right…” She moved to sit beside Titus, and said, “Could you tilt your head t’ the left a bit, please…”

Pink touched him beside the ear, tracing her fingertips down the side of his neck. Titus’s eyes popped wide. Muscles tensing, his chest began to heave, and the bed boards creaked with his squirming. Anne feared Titus was about ready to bolt out the door when Pink looked up with an apologetic smile and said, “On dark skin like ours, I get a better sense of the rash by touch.”

Titus blurted, “But you aren’t dark at all, Miss Pink. I expect that’s why they call you that… Pink…”

“I’m not as dark as some.” Pink laughed. “But I’m sure not pink.”

“No…” Titus flashed a shy grin. “I’d say you’re sugar brown.”

Jack snorted.

Anne gave Jack a bump with her shoulder and leaned forward with a smile. “I must say, Miss Pink, I am enjoying your bayberry candles. Such a pleasant, homey scent—isn’t it, Titus?”

“Mm-hmm,” was all Titus could manage.

“I used to help my mother make bayberry candles when I was a girl,” Anne said.

“I make ’em…”
Pink said as she slowly traced around to the front of Titus’s chest, fingertips slipping down toward the waistband of his breeches. “It’s not hard.”

“Oh.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “I bet it is hard, isn’t it, Titus?”

Titus shot Jack an elbow, and Anne dealt him a kick.

Jack leaned down, glaring at Anne, rubbing his leg. “Did you hear that, Titus? Miss Pink makes her own bayberry candles!”

“That’s… fine,” Titus managed through clenched teeth.

Pink looked up from her examination. “Am I causing you pain, sir?”

Jack snorted again, and Titus muttered, “No,” with a very vigorous shake of his head.

Pink rose to her feet. “I’ll go an’ mix up some balm for you both.”

Anne watched Titus, his eyes following the woman as she crossed over to the table near her master’s, and she whispered in Jack’s ear, “They’d make for a perfect couple.”

Tall and willow slim, the slave woman was much younger than Anne expected she’d be. Excited by the prospect of engineering a match, Anne asked, “How old are you, Pink?”

Pink glanced up from measuring a dark powder into a bowl. “Me? I’m nine and twenty—I know fo’ sure ’cause I was birthed the same day as Master Aubrey here.” She reached down and squeezed Captain Dunaway’s arm.

Jack leaned and whispered, “See that? She’s missing the little finger on her left hand.”

“Her only flaw,” Anne said. “I think Titus is smitten.”

“Titus can’t tear his eyes from her,” Jack whispered with a jerk of his head. “He’s watching her like a hawk following a chicken.”

There was an exotic cast to the woman’s features—dark, knowing eyes, expressive black brows, a generous mouth—all arranged in perfect harmony. Pink had cleverly altered the dour gray hand-me-downs from an older mistress to suit her shapely form, extending the too-short sleeves and hems with bright bands of scarlet calico. Though her hair was twisted up in a tight turban of matching red fabric, the tiny dark corkscrews escaping at the nape of her neck gave hint to its color and texture.