The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  To draw the desired military clientele, the Cup and Book offered a convenient, friendly, warm shop serving quality fare, at reasonable cost—not cheap enough to attract riffraff regulars, but not so dear as to put too big a pinch on an officer’s pocket. As an additional lure, Anne paid a premium for the latest newspapers and magazines arriving weekly from London—news from home made available to her customers free of charge.

  Anne also devoted a good portion of their funds to developing a lending library, stocked with novels and other books of interest. When she set about painting the shingle to hang out on the lane, she added a flourish to curry the custom of literary gentlemen in the officer ranks. Under the image of a steaming cup centered over an open volume, she’d written the Latin motto Liber amicus: A book is a friend.

  In the lull after the morning rush, Anne poured herself a cup of chocolate, and took a seat on a stool behind the counter she kept in front of the pair of shelves housing the lending library at the back of the shop. She exhumed a stack of receipts and her ledger, pen, and inkwell to work on the accounts. Anne added to the various columns, still somewhat amazed by the speed with which they had fallen into the routine of running a coffeehouse and a spy ring.

  The Redcoats trained us well, Anne thought. Made us experts at striking one tent, and pitching another on new ground…

  With the coffeehouse on firm footing, she decided it was time to take the next step, and delve deeper into Philadelphian military society. Today was the day she planned to pay a teatime call on Mrs. Betsy Loring, General Howe’s mistress, and an acquaintance from the days she and Sally worked for the tailor’s ring in New York.

  Pink came over to the counter and mentioned, “There’s an ugly fella over at the window with his eye on you.”

  “Where?” Anne looked up, scanning the room.

  Pink turned. “Oh…” She shrugged. “He’s gone now.”

  Anne gathered up her receipts. “When you have a moment, can you make up a pretty package of your mackeroons for me to bring along on my call this afternoon? Betsy Loring has a terrible sweet tooth.”

  Pink smiled. “Be happy to, Annie.”

  Adding Pink to the mix proved a boon beyond Anne’s expectations. Not only did she lend an extra pair of able and hardworking hands in cleaning, cooking, and shopping, but Anne came to realize those who’ve suffered in bound servitude made for the most accomplished spies. The ability to hover inconspicuous and eavesdrop was ingrained in Pink from childhood. Favored with sharp ears and eyes, and an agile mind, she possessed a keen instinct for gleaning important fragments of information from ongoing conversations. Not being able to read or write was her only shortfall, and together, Anne and Sally would work to see it rectified.

  The doorbell rang, and Anne glanced up from her accounts. A smile flashed across her face to see the small woman in plain dress with book in hand step briskly to her counter. Anne hopped from her stool. “Good morning, Mrs. Darragh! Did you enjoy the book?”

  “Good morning, Anne Merrick—I did.”

  Anne noted the Quakeress’s greeting and remembered how Friends did not use titles of any sort. Lydia Darragh set the volume titled She Stoops to Conquer on the countertop, the irony of the gilt letters vivid on the green polished calf not lost on either of them the week before, when Anne recommended the book.

  “Not anything like my usual reading, but in truth, I enjoyed thy book immensely.” Lydia smiled within her starched white bonnet, her eyes as bright as blue glass buttons. “Does thee have another, along similar lines?”

  Anne slipped the little green book into her pocket, and turned to search her shelves, amused by the Quaker woman’s budding penchant for bawdy comedy. “I know just the thing…” She tugged a thin book bound in blue morocco from the top shelf, and handed it to Lydia. “The Rivals—a play added recently to the library. I haven’t read it, but the bookseller tells me the story is quite humorous.”

  Lydia signed the lending ledger in a precise round hand to check out The Rivals. “This is light reading. I expect I’ll return thy book to thee on Sixth Day.”

  Anne questioned, “Sixth Day?”

  “In plain speech,” Lydia explained, “today is Third Day, Anne Merrick.”

  “Oh! I see.” Anne nodded, calculating to Friday from the offered reference point. “I’ll see you then, Lydia Darragh, on Sixth Day.”

  “Good day, Friend Anne.”

  Putting her ledger away, Anne went to find Sally in the kitchen house. “I’m going upstairs,” she said, and, using a brand to light a candle, she patted her pocket. “A delivery from Mrs. Darragh.”

  Sally smiled. “Regular as clockwork, our Quakeress.”

  Anne carried the candle up the stairs. Shutting the door behind her, she set the candle on her desk, and flung herself down onto the bed to take a breath and a moment to enjoy the curious pattern cast by sunlight playing through the lace curtains.

  After months of living either under canvas or in a dirt-floor log hut, she relished every minute in her little room. Despite the initial resistance given to the General’s request that they set up shop in Philadelphia, she no longer regretted the move—especially on the nights when Jack let himself in through the back door with the extra key she’d given him.

  Enough woolgathering… Anne sat up and pulled the book from her pocket. She flipped through to the folded sheet of foolscap in the center. Listed on it, in Lydia’s neat round hand, were the highlights from the most recent council meeting held in the dining room the British Army appropriated from the Darragh family.

  As usual, Anne thought, laying out her writing supplies, the least likely make for the best spies.

  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.”

  THE WORKSHOP OF ELBERT HADLEY, MASTER ENGRAVER, ON THE

  CORNER OF EIGHTH AND SASSAFRAS

  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.”

  THE PENN MANSION, ON SIXTH AND MARKET

  “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.