“Would ye just look at the amount of linen they have flaffin’ on the breeze!” Sally noted. “The campwives are th’ true workhorses of any army.”
They burst through the maze of wet clothing onto a small clearing flanking the stream. Abuzz with industry and redolent with the clean steam of lye soap, this laundry-on-a-wilderness campaign was an enterprise to be admired.
Sally shouted, “Ahoy, Bab!” and waved to a tall woman agitating one of two great iron cauldrons on the boil.
Swiping face to forearm, the red-faced woman stepped back from her task and waved. “Ho there, lass!”
A half dozen women were working the laundry pots, their skirts immodestly kilted up above their knees to protect the fabric from being scorched or—worse—catching fire. Armed with a long, flat-paddle battledore, Bab agitated the boiling wash water and fished clean linen from the huge pot onto a sheet spread on the ground. Once cool, a pair of women twisted the sopping linen into ropes, wringing out the excess soapy water before moving it into a simmering copper tub filled with a rinse of starch and bluing. More stirring, another wringing, and the clothes were hung to dry.
While their mothers toiled, small boys and girls made a game of gathering and stacking piles of deadfall to fuel the fires beneath the pots. Bigger boys helped to tote buckets of water from the stream. Young girls flitted between the clotheslines, pinning up the wet laundry and gathering the dry for ironing.
“Bab! We’ve come t’ ye in dire emergency,” Sally explained. “My mistress is invited to dine among the quality at the General’s table this very evening, and we find her finest frock in this sorry state.”
“The General’s table, ye say!” Barbara Pennybrig leaned in on her battledore, clever eyes shifting from the dress Sally held out for inspection to settle on Anne. “Caught the fancy of an officer, have ye?”
“That she has,” Sally boasted. “A winning fellow, aye? A captain in Fraser’s Twenty-fourth.”
“So,” the washwoman met Anne’s eye and asked, “are ye aimin’ t’ become this captain’s ammunition wife?”
“Ammunition wife?”
“Aye. His bed companion for the duration.”
“Ochone, Mrs. Pennybrig, mind yer wicked tongue!” Sally bristled. “Mrs. Merrick is nothing if not a chaste and proper widow.”
“I mean no offense, Mrs. Merrick, but I’ve belonged to this army for five and twenty years, and I surely ken the way of it—I do. A proper young widow ought be very wary of this captain.” Bab dipped her battledore into the cauldron and pulled forth a sopping mound of linen. “A chaste young widow ought consider that this captain may have mischief on his mind.”
Anne said, “You misunderstand. This man is an officer and a gentleman…”
“This is no rough-necked regular we’re speaking of.” Sally’s brow crinkled with worry.
“An officer and a gentleman, you say.” Bab slapped the steaming clothes onto the sheet. “I tell you true when I say it is no uncommon a thing for our gentlemen officers t’ charm and woo a woman simply to fulfill the comforts once provided by the proper wife left behind. A widow might save herself a heartbreak by heeding my advice, aye…”
“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Pennybrig,” Anne said, “but I aim only to accompany the gentleman to dinner. I have no plan or desire to be any man’s wife—standard or ‘ammunition.’”
“Oho, Sally!” Bab laughed. “She’s a smart one, yer mistress. Let’s see t’ her frock.” The washwoman took the dress in hand and gauged the quality of the lace between thumb and forefinger. “Flemish, aye? Very fine, this. A dip in the starch and blue will bring it back to life.” Producing a seam ripper from her pocket, Bab began to pick at the stitches, carefully removing the lace from the gown. “The dress could stand an all-over pressing as well…”
“At what charge?” Anne asked.
“Sally tells me yer a scribe—a lady what writes letters?”
“I am.”
“And a lovely, schooled hand she has,” Sally piped in.
“We might trade skills,” Bab offered. “I’ve been wanting to have a letter scrieved to my Billy’s sister, since he fell at Breed’s Hill, but I haven’t the silver for it.”
“How sad,” Anne said. “I had no idea Mr. Pennybrig was listed among the fallen.”
“Ah no! Sergeant Pennybrig is hale and hearty as you or I. It was my first husband who fell at Breed’s Hill—Bill Galey—the finest grenadier in His Majesty’s Forty-seventh Foot. I followed Billy and the Forty-seventh for over twenty-three years.” Though Bab’s voice explained very matter-of-fact, Anne could see a sad softening in her eye. “Sergeant Pennybrig was kind enough to favor me with a convenient marriage when Bill died, so’s I could continue on with the regiment.”
“I’m so sorry…”
“Ahhh, yer sorrow’s wasted on me, dearie. Many a campwife were left widows and shipped back to England as paupers due to Howe’s misjudgment of the Yankees on that hill. Pennybrig’s a good man with a big heart, and I’m lucky to have him.” Bab draped the delicate lace pieces over one shoulder. “Come along. We’ll take this dress to the Crisps for pressing, and then I’ll see to the lace.”
Anne and Sally almost ran to keep up with Bab Pennybrig’s quickstep, sweeping through the maze of drying linen to the ironing station situated in the shade cast by a fragrant grove of spruce trees.
Three ironing tables—nothing more than wide planks covered with thick felt pads—were propped between barrels. Nearby, a small fire blazed, where flat irons of various shapes and sizes rested on a grate just above a layer of red-hot coals.
A heavyset woman in her middle years and three young women stood off to the side near a tub of water, passing a dipperful in agitated conversation. Anne was amused to see that Mrs. Crisp, the aptly named ironing woman, was conversely as soft and round as a dumpling. Though younger and considerably shapelier, the three Crisp girls all shared their mother’s fair hair, blue eyes, and pretty features.
“Hey-ho, Emma!” Bab called.
Mrs. Crisp tossed the dipper into the tub and scurried forward, all a-swither. “Have you heard the awful news? Burgoyne’s savages have turned wild agin’ us!”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Scalping and… and murder!” Emma began to sob into her apron, her shoulders heaving. “Woe befall all bloody savages! My poor girls! Oh, what’s a body to do? What’s a body to do?”
“You must take hold, Emma.” Bab pulled a tin flask from her pocket. “Have a tot of rum and pull yourself thegither.”
Apple-cheeked Mrs. Crisp emerged sniffling from her apron to take a long, healthy draught from Bab’s flask.
“That’s better, aye?”
Emma blinked and nodded, helping herself to another drink before passing the flask back. The girls edged in, gathering around their mother. The eldest was no more than eighteen years—and the younger two were perhaps fifteen or sixteen, and alike enough for Anne to consider that they were probably twins.
Bab settled an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Now that wits have been collected, tell us exactly what it is yiv heard, and who ye heard it from.”
Emma drew a deep breath, and began. “My lad Will—the one Pennybrig took into the regiment as a drummer? He just fetched over the news. A local lass engaged to marry one of Burgoyne’s officers was seized by the General’s savages on a rampage, shot dead, and most horribly scalped.”
The eldest daughter added, “Her name was Jane MacCrea—a real beauty, Will says—with lovely red hair. She was on the way to marry her man—an officer here with the Loyalist brigade.”
One of the twins added to the lurid detail. “The drunken Indians came whooping into camp today, ye ken how they do, with those bloody scalps swingin’ from their belts…”
The eldest Crisp girl reclaimed control of the camp gossip. “Jane’s beau at once recognized his beloved’s red tresses, and he demanded the General avenge her death, and hang the murderer with all ha
ste…”
“As he well ought,” Bab said with a nod.
Emma Crisp closed the tale. “But the Indians not only refused to give up their man; they threatened to leave the camp. Will says Johnnie Burgoyne, afeart of losing his Indian cohort, has capitulated in favor of the redskin murderers, who continue t’ roam free amongst us as we speak!”
“Good al’ meggins!” Bab’s flask reappeared, her head wagging in disgust. “Indians! Set me on edge the day they marched into our camp, they did. It’s no wonder these Americans flock to the rebel standard when they are beset by such savagery employed by the Crown. I always said no good can come from loosing the heathens on English folk—no good at all.”
“Barbara Pennybrig!” Emma chided. “If your Bill could hear you talk…”
“Ahh, my Bill harbored no love for the red man. We both bore witness to their horrors in Canada, fighting with Wolfe back in ’fifty-nine.”
“But the Indians are our allies here,” Anne said. “They fight for the Crown.”
“Blether! The savages give a fig for the Crown! It’s plunder and scalps they fight for—nothing more.” Bab passed her flask on.
“They give me a bad case of the all-over fidgets, they do, hooching and heeching around their campfires after dark.” Sally swallowed a scoof of rum. “I’ve caught several of the devils eyein’ my hair with bad intent.”
“Mind yer daughters, Mrs. Crisp,” Bab warned. “For one thing is plain—loyal or rebel, the savages certainly seem t’ covet the blond and ginger scalps.”
Emma Crisp shivered, and the fair-haired Crisp girls huddled closer to their mother.
“Poor Jane MacCrea…” Anne took a sip from the flask. “Such mayhem was bound to occur once Burgoyne gave rum and stretch to his Indians.”
“Yiv the right of it, Mrs. Merrick,” Bab agreed. “Reckless Burgoyne is, feeding the redskins liquor and setting ’em loose on the settlements to slaughter and pillage at will—knowing full well the brutes can no more discern the difference between a Loyalist and a rebel than I can between an Ottawa and a Mohawk.”
Emma asked, “What are we to do, if the Crown will not protect us?”
“Naught. For better or worse, we belong to this army and muckle good it does us trying to fathom the brain-workings of kings and generals.” Bab pushed the gown into Emma’s arms and regained possession of her flask. “Suds, starch, and hot irons—those are our concerns, ladies.”
Sally wound the excess cording about her palm and issued a warning. “Brace yerself, now…”
Anne dug her heels into the earthen floor of their small tent. Knees locked, muscles clenched, she tried hard to present a counterforce as Sally gave her stay strings a series of good hard tugs. “I surely miss having my bedpost to cling to.”
“There!” Deftly fastened in a reliable knot, Sally tucked the loose ends behind the leather-bound edge of the stays. She then tied an embroidered pouch around Anne’s waist, settling it to hang over her left hip. “See t’ filling yer pocket, and I’ll ready my needle.”
The women jockeyed for position in the narrow aisle between the two cots—Sally gathering her sewing things, and Anne rifling through the confusion for the necessaries to equip her pocket for the evening—a folding fan, a scent bottle, a clean handkerchief, and the token Jack had given her before the Redcoats came to invade and occupy New York. She never went anywhere without her token, and the General’s table would be no exception.
Anne found the broken shard of cast iron amid the bits and bobs in her everyday pocket. No bigger than a walnut, the iron token weighed heavy in the palm of her hand. Jack wore its mate strung on a leather thong about his neck, and, when puzzled together, the two halves formed a whole—a small crown.
“For us—a token to remember the day by,” Jack had said, when he pressed it into her hand the day the Declaration of Independence was first read aloud.
Rebellion and war ensured her days together with Jack had been memorable, but also few, far between, and never free of strife. Anne sighed, grasping the broken chunk of cast iron tight in her fist. Relishing the bite of rough metal digging into her skin, she whispered with conviction, “My heart belongs to you, Jack Hampton,” before slipping it to sink down to the bottom of her pocket.
Sally glanced up from threading her needle. “What’s th’ matter, Annie?”
Anne shook her head, quick to swipe her sudden tears away with the hem of her shift. “This tent is worse than an Indian sweat lodge,” she said, snatching up the fresh-pressed overdress, pushing her arms through the sleeve holes. “Best hurry and stitch me into my frock, afore I melt into a puddle.”
“’Tis as hot and steamy as th’ devil’s nut bag, na? I can just feel my hair forming into a mad frizz.”
While Sally joined the front edges of the bodice together with neat whipstitches, Anne fussed with the starch-stiffened lace that edged the scooped neckline. Grabbing a gauzy scarf from the jumble of garments strewn across the cot, she draped it over her shoulders, crisscrossing the ends to mask her exposed décolletage. “Sally—have you a pin in your cushion for this fichu?”
“Fichu? We’ll have none of that…” Sally looked up and snatched the scarf away, letting it flutter to their feet. “Ye’ll tempt more bears with that bit of honey, aye?”
“But where there is honey, bears come uninvited.” Anne reached down to retrieve the discarded fichu.
Sally slapped her hand away. “Tha’s th’ point, in’t it? Now just hold still—”
Anne tried not to fidget as Sally finished the seam, and just when the thread was knotted and snipped off, a masculine voice called, “Mrs. Merrick? Are you within?”
“It’s him!” Anne whispered.
Sally poked her head between the door flaps and called, “Patience, Captain! My mistress will be with ye in a blink.” Turning back, she pulled a rouge pot from her pocket and thumbed tint onto Anne’s cheeks and lips. “Mr. Pepperell is very dashing in his regimentals, and yer th’ very picture of lovely—a fine couple ye make.”
Anne hissed, “He and I are not a couple.”
“Ah, g’won, I meant nothing by it…” Sally whispered back. “I ken well where yer true heart lies—as do you, aye?”
Anne drew a deep breath. Puffing it out slow, she focused to relax the lines in her forehead and ease the tension in her neck, keeping her voice low. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Sal, but as much as I wish for us to achieve results, I so dread putting forth the requisite charade…”
Grasping Anne square by the shoulders, Sally leaned in a scant inch from her ear. “Neither of us enjoys being at th’ beck and boo of these lobsterback scoundrels, but such are the quirks an’ quillets of the battles we fight. As ye once said—there are many who bear far worse than we for the same cause.”
Sally straightened one of the blue ribbon rosettes pinned into Anne’s upswept curls, turned her friend toward the door flaps, and whispered, “Off wi’ ye, now—bat yer eyelashes and flaunt yer bubbies—for Liberty and Country, aye?”
TWO
The success of the cause, the union of the people, and the means of supporting and securing both, are points which cannot be too much attended to.
THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis
THE GENERAL’S TABLE
As twilight tipped into nightfall, Anne walked along with Geoffrey Pepperell from one end of the camp to the other. The cicada’s pulse gave way to the chirp, croak, and buzz of cricket, toad, and katydid, and the moon had yet to show its face, making it difficult to traverse the uneven path. Anne held her skirts in both hands, picking her way carefully. “I had no idea the General’s quarters were so far removed from the rest of the camp.”
“Remote, but well worth the trek—Gentleman Johnny travels with an excellent larder, and his cook is studied in the French technique.”
“Hold on…” Anne hopped and braced a hand to Geoffrey Pepperell’s forearm, her foot extended out from beneath the hem of her gown. “It seems I’ve caught something i
n my shoe.”
Before she could issue protest, the Captain was down on one knee, his warm fingers cradling her ankle. He slipped her shoe free and shook the hindrance into his palm. “An acorn.” Pepperell tossed the nut over his shoulder, and held her shoe up for inspection. “This, madam, is as silly a shoe as I’ve ever seen on a military campaign.”
Made of red brocade and decorated with rhinestone buckles, the silk pumps were the finest pair she owned. Anne braced a hand to the Captain’s shoulder as she slipped her foot back into what was, admittedly, a silly shoe. Fingering the thick silver braid and fringe of Pepperell’s epaulet, Anne said, “I notice you’ve also come figged out in your finest adornment.”
“Touché!” Geoffrey Pepperell laughed, rising to a stand. From top to bottom, the dashing Captain was attired in his best—beginning with the lush ostrich plumes on his broad-brimmed hat, all the way down to the skintight white breeches tucked into polished cordovan boots. He carried an ivory-handled pistol tucked into a satin sash tied at his waist, along with a brass-hilted sword in his belt. A black silk cravat was tied loose at his throat, and the shirt beneath his red coat was ruffled at neck and cuffs.
Pepperell took Anne by the hand and pulled her along. “Look there—see?” He pointed toward the large tent coming into view. “Gentleman Johnny’s marquee.”
Amid the capricious blink of fireflies and stars popping onto the ever-darkening sky, Burgoyne’s marquee tent beckoned. Framed by a silhouette of maple trees, the tent’s oiled silk was illuminated from within, and it glowed as if fashioned from amber glass.
“How pret—!” The heel of Anne’s shoe caught in soft earth, and she stumbled forward with arms flailing like a whirligig. Quick to react, Pepperell grabbed her, and kept her from pitching headlong into the dirt.
“Steady…” Hands lingering at her waist, his lips to her ear, he murmured, “I curse Negligence—why didn’t I think to bring a light?”
Anne stepped away and began fiddling once again with her shoe, her voice a bit too loud. “And I curse Vanity, who bade me to don these ridiculous slippers. French heels after all the rain we’ve been having—what was I thinking?”
The Turning of Anne Merrick Page 4