PRAISE FOR
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
“A terrific book! A riveting tale of love, struggle and savagery on America’s colonial frontier.”
—Bernard Cornwell
“Love and adventure, pride and passion . . . A vivid evocation of time and place . . . An unforgettable novel that will capture your heart. There is simply no way to put it down once you have begun.”
—Rosemary Rogers
“A splendid novel of passion and danger in the early Virginias by a talented new author. I highly recommend it!”
—Bertrice Small
“Blevins . . . gives strong, skilled Maggie pluck and hope.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Lavishly and minutely described . . . an in-depth and up-close look at what life was really like in those times.”
—Booklist
PRAISE FOR
The Tory Widow
“A really well-researched novel that takes you into a period in history in a way that illuminates it or brings a new perspective to historical events . . . Pages go by quickly as scenes are brought to life with evocative language and unerring syntax.”
—Historical Novels Review
“A self-reliant woman, turbulent times, politics, battles, and love meld together in what will hopefully be a new series from a writer who knows what makes historical fiction resonate: memorable characters and meaningful, accurate historical events.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The author has painted what feels like a realistic portrait of New York City and its divided residents during the beginnings of the American Revolution.”
—The Tome Traveller’s Weblog
“The plot is compelling. The writing is unobtrusive. And the research appears to me to be impeccable. And the characters!”
—The Bluestocking Society
“The Tory Widow is everything I think that a good book should be —fast paced, well written, with unforgettable characters placed in situations that make for compelling and satisfying reading.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
Titles by Christine Blevins
MIDWIFE OF THE BLUE RIDGE
THE TORY WIDOW
THE TURNING OF ANNE MERRICK
THE
Turning of
Anne Merrick
Christine Blevins
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2012 by Christine Blevins.
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover design by Judith Lagerman.
Cover illustration by Jim Griffin.
Cover photograph: floral background © DoubleA / Shutterstock.
Maps and illustrations by Brian Blevins.
Text design by Tiffany Estreicher.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / February 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Blevins, Christine.
The turning of Anne Merrick / Christine Blevins. —Berkley trade pbk. ed.
p.cm.
Sequel to: Tory widow.
EISBN: 9781101560174
1. United States—History-Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction. 2. Widows—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.L478T87 2012 2011019252
813’.6—dc22
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my sister, Natalie,
childhood nights, and stories whispered under the covers
Table of Contents
Prologue
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Part Two
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Part Three
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
AUGUST 1777
THE HUDSON RIVER VALLEY
BETWEEN FORT ANNE AND FORT EDWARD
In the distance, the resound of ax iron biting into wood echoed up from the valley floor, adding ringing harmony to the morning song of a nearby thrush. Legs crossed tailor-style and fingers interlaced as if in prayer, Jack Hampton sat stock-still in the shade cast by a thicket of roundleaf gooseberry—his dark brows knit in concentration. Puffing out a breath, he released his hands with grand flourish, scattering eight buttons onto the dark green wool of the blanket spread between himself and his friend Titus.
“Three brown, five light!” Titus Gilmore did not bother to conceal his glee as he whispered the tally.
“Bugger and blast!” Jack issued the jaw-clenched curse, flicking a pair of dried beans from his meager pile into the veritable mountain of beans Titus had already collected.
With a grin akin to an undertaker’s at a hanging, Titus scooped up the gaming pieces. He had sliced the buttons from a deer’s horn, smoothing and shaping them to belly a bit and bevel at the edges. No more than an inch in diameter, one side of each ivory-colored disk had been stained with an umber pigment that matched the deep brown hue of his skin. With a casual toss, the former slave let the buttons fly from his cupped hand to land with the lighter sides all facing upward.
“Pah! You lucky bastard!” Jack eyed the results and swept his few remaining beans toward Titus. “Take them—take them all! I swear to Christ, I don’t know why I bother playing this stupid game. There’s no skill to it—naught but luck—dumb and pure.”
“Passes the time, though, don’t it?” Titus sifted his bean winnings into a small drawst
ring sack, judging the weight of it on his palm. “I gauge that’s another dollar at least—making for a total of five dollars owed to me by one Mr. Jack Hampton.”
“Aw, now, Titus”—Jack wagged a finger—“it’s but three I owe.”
“No. It’s five. Three dollars lost at buttons and beans, and two lost at darts back in Stillwater.”
Smacking the heel of his palm to his forehead, Jack muttered, “Darts.”
A sudden spate of drumming coming up from the road snapped Jack and Titus to attention.
“The call to assemble!” Titus scooped up his buttons.
“Get your glass!” On hands and knees, Jack crept forward to peer through the bramble while Titus scrambled to fish a brass-cased spyglass from his buckskin pouch. Keeping within the cover of the brush, the men lay close to the edge of the ridge, propped on elbows, the nut-brown cloth of their shirts masking their presence from enemy eyes below.
Sliding the telescoping spyglass to full open, Titus aimed the lens to the south and fixed focus. “The road’s been cleared.”
“That can’t be…” Jack tucked a strand of jet-black hair behind his ear, squinting to see through the hazy morning mist. “We dropped those big pines into an awful tangle…”
“And those big Germans have gone and cleared the tangle away—see for yourself.” Titus passed the spyglass to Jack.
“Goddamn those cabbage-eaters!” Jack peered through the lens. “I thought that bit of ax work would cost them at least half a day.”
“And the Redcoat vanguard is beginning to form… Do you see?” Titus pointed to a growing company of mounted cavalry.
Jack nodded. “They’re getting ready to move, alright.”
The pair inched forward as far as they dared, and watched as General Burgoyne’s formidable eight-thousand-man army coalesced into a colorful double column snaking through the wooded valley.
The red-coated infantry companies followed the vanguard, marching in the lead to the trill and thump of fife and drum, their polished musket barrels aglint in the morning light. The Redcoats were followed by close-ordered ranks of blue- and green-jacketed Hessian grenadiers and Jäger riflemen. After the Germans came a large contingent of Loyalist militia, wearing mismatched clothes and carrying sundry weapons. The militiamen were followed by a cadre of Canadian hatchetmen. Many beaded-and-befeathered Seneca and Mohawk warriors marched along with their British ally, and even more Algonquian braves from the far-western frontier had joined in the fight against the hated, land-hungry Americans.
“Here comes the baggage train,” Titus said. “Keep your eyespeeled for Mrs. Anne and Sally—we don’t want to miss any signals.”
A huge gaggle of camp followers came tagging along with a long train of carts and wagons overloaded with the supplies required to maintain Burgoyne’s multitude in the wilderness. While officers’ ladies were allowed to ride, the wives and children of the common soldier traveled on foot along with the herd of profit-seeking sutlers, peddlers, and prostitutes. So intent on monitoring this raucous and disordered passage, Jack did not notice the sound of oh-so-careful footfalls creeping up from behind.
A circle of cool iron pressed into his neck, the touch of it accompanied by the distinct double clack of a flintlock being pulled back to full cock. Jack did not move a muscle. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Titus, stiff and wary, with a rifle barrel pressed into the spongy black hair at the base of his skull as well. After waiting what seemed an eternity, a deep, ominous voice at the end of the gun intoned, “Your Yan-kee tongues echo across the valley.”
Jack rolled over, swatting the Indian’s gun aside. “Goddamn you, Neddy!”
Neddy Sharontakawas, the younger of their two grinning Oneida scouts, settled the strap of his weapon over his shoulder. “Did we cause you t’ mess your breeches there, Jack?”
Titus pulled up to a sit and gestured with the dagger he’d managed to slip from the sheath at his belt, admonishing the elder Indian scout. “I’d expect you t’ know better than to sneak up on a man like that, Isaac.”
“I expect a man to have some sense…” Isaac extended a hand and helped Titus up to his feet, his grin turned to a sneer. “… Four eyes lookin’ to forward and none to back—makes no sense at all.”
Captain Isaac Onenshontie earned his rank fighting with Braddock’s army in the Seven Years’ War, and he bore his veteran status in proud display. His Iroquoian surname, meaning “flying arm,” was bestowed to honor his prowess with the war club dangling from his belt. The cluster of eagle and owl feathers attached to the tuft of hair at the top of Isaac’s otherwise plucked pate denoted high-distinction among his warrior brethren, and the series of blue-black arrowheads tattooed from shoulder to shoulder, spanning the breadth of his chest, were a testament to battles fought and enemies vanquished. Under this seasoned war chief’s tutelage, Jack and Titus were learning the ways of woodland survival and warfare, and they were both ready to accede to the inherent wisdom found in Isaac’s rough lesson.
Isaac gave still-seated Jack a nudge with a moccasin-shod foot. “We saw your woman.”
Neddy sent the turkey feathers bunched on the crown of his cap to quivering with a vigorous nod. “And she’s wearin’ stripes today.”
“Then we’d better get going.” Jack scrambled to his feet and took up his rifle.
To mask their party’s number from British scouts, Jack and Titus literally followed in the footsteps of their Oneida guides, treading along a steep deer path that switchbacked down to a bend in the road.
They took a stand a little more than ten yards from the road. Crouched behind the moss- and fungus-covered mass of a fallen conifer, they watched the parade of British teamsters pass, urging sullen oxen with snapping birch switches. Though burdened with heavy pack baskets, and often with little ones cradled in knotted shawls at their hips, the soldiers’ wives all seemed happy to be on the move, keeping the pace while chattering and herding their children. Jack kept watch until Burgoyne’s prodigious baggage column dwindled to a handful of stragglers. Just when he figured he’d somehow missedseeing Anne, she and Sally rounded the bend, pushing a two-wheeled barrow piled high with their goods along the bumpety corduroy road.
“She’s very pretty, your woman,” Neddy whispered.
Annie was smiling beneath her broad-brimmed straw hat, and she was made even more beautiful by the dappled light filtering through the leaves. Peering from behind the pile of deadfall, Jack knew Anne’s smiles were meant for him, and he was surprised how intensely he missed being with her after only a few days apart. It was all he could do to keep himself from running out to catch her up in his arms. He smiled, remembering he had felt the same way the very first time he ever laid eyes on Anne Merrick.
May 20th, 1766—the day we learned Parliament repealed the Stamp Act…
He was but a printer’s apprentice back then, running the streets of New York City, passing out the broadsides proclaiming the news. The pages were still damp and fresh off the presses, and how the church bells rang and rang…
Happy, cheering New Yorkers were thronging into the streets to celebrate the good news. Jack ran up Broad Way, and handed the last of his sheets to a grumpy old Tory standing on the steps of St. Paul’s, a pretty but woebegone young woman at his side.
I thought she was his daughter…
The girl stood forlorn in the midst of such joy and happiness, and Jack could not help but swing her up into his arms. Her sudden smile was so beautiful, he kissed her full on the mouth, and ran off to join his mates on the Commons. A brief moment on a banner day—a moment and a kiss he never forgot.
Almost ten years went by before he saw the girl again. Following a rumor, Jack and a mob of fellow Sons of Liberty paid a call on Merrick’s print shop, and he recognized the Widow Merrick as the girl he’d kissed, and learned the old man he mistook for her father had, in fact, been her husband.
Poor thing. Bride to a groom three times her age… The thought of Anne married to the likes o
f Peter Merrick made Jack wince. He began to worry the dark stubble on his jaw as he watched Anne and Sally pushing their barrow along the road, skirts belling in the breeze. Striped skirts…
On one hand, the use of this most urgent signal for their very first exchange of information was a strong portent for the success of this new mission for General Washington. On the other hand, success at the business of gathering intelligence ensured it would be some time before he would hold Anne Merrick safe in his arms.
Jack held tight to the sight of Anne as she passed by—the to-and-fro of her chestnut braid marking the sway of her hips like a pendulum on a longcase clock. He watched her figure grow small, and smaller yet, until she disappeared around the next curve in the road.
The scouting party waited with quiet patience until all vestiges of female chatter and rumbling wagon wheels were borne away on the breeze. On a wordless signal, Neddy and Titus ran in the direction opposite the parade, toward the abandoned British camp. Jack and Captain Isaac moved with more careful purpose, flanking the road, eyes scouring from forest floor to tree limbs for any telltale sign.
At the sound of Ned’s call mimicking that of a turkey, Jack and Isaac broke into a full-on gallop. On the straightaway, they could see Neddy off to the left, waving them in and pointing the muzzle end of his rifle up to a small scrap of blue ribbon tied to the low-hanging branch of a sycamore. At the base of the mottled tree trunk, Titus was busy burrowing like a squirrel through the loose duff.
Isaac took a lookout position near the roadbed, and Jack joined Titus digging around the tree. Neddy snatched the ribbon from the branch and tied it to the colorful clutch of feathers and silver charms dangling from his riflestock.
“Here ’tis!” Titus unearthed a corked, blue-glass bottle and tossed it over to Jack.
Jack pulled the stopper on the familiar bottle, breathing in the trace lavender scent as he shook out a paper tube. No bigger than his littlefinger, the tightly wound paper was tied with a thread. He pulled the scroll open and studied the writing on the narrow page, very pleased that their maiden transmission was progressing just as planned.
The Turning of Anne Merrick Page 1