What I would give for a sweet balsam bed right now…
Anne tucked the wooden heart between her breasts and tried to make the best bed she could of the stairs. Legs curling to the side, hip propped on the fourth stair, head cradled on arms braced on the first stair, she peered up through the grate and could see the swath of stars Jack called the Milky Way. So many stars, they appear as a mist to our eyes… She could almost feel his warm breath in her ear, whispering, I’ll rescue you from any monster—land or sea…
Keeping her eyes focused on a tiny patch of sky, trying very hard not to blink, it didn’t seem to take long for the heavens to oblige and send a shooting star streaking through the sky.
“Rescue me, Jack.” The moment the wish escaped her lips, she imagined the whisper slipping through an opening in the grate, flying through the night sky, across earth and water to land dancing in his ear.
Plying through water as black and smooth as a good Irish stout—oarlocks and oars muffled with rags—Jack maneuvered between the British war and merchant ships moored at Peck’s Slip on the East River.
Heeding Titus’s good advice, Jack came to New York by the roundabout way of King’s Bridge, taking the back roads to the village of Haarlem. There, he traded his gelding and the purse for a weather-beaten skiff and worn fisherman’s gear. Riding the outgoing tide by the dark of the moon, Jack had reached the city in no time.
A ship’s bell chimed nine, and the tide was just beginning to rise. Jack drew in his oars to coast under the pier and tie his skiff up to a barnacle-crusted piling. He hurried to pull on soft sealskin boots, tucking the loose trousers into the cuffed tops. Stuffing two pistols and a knife into the sash tied around his waist, Jack donned a dark fisherman’s jacket and slouchy knit cap. He hoisted himself onto the pier, sending a pack of wharf rats scurrying to the dark end.
The streets seemed much livelier in the occupied city than the year before, when British martial law was first declared. Jack hurried down Water Street, collar turned up, cap pulled down to eyes, hands stuffed into pockets. It was Friday night, and the dockside taverns and trulls were doing a brisk business. Jack ducked into a deep doorway to avoid confrontation with a jovial group of drunken Redcoats coming out of the Three Cups, and found he shared the dark corner with a couple in amorous congress.
Before reaching Queen Street, he turned to cut through an alleyway and, counting from the left, pulled himself up over the garden gate of the fifth gabled house, landing in a soft thump.
The blossoms were blooming on the tailor’s peach trees, and Jack hove in a noseful of the pleasant perfume that served to calm his racing heart. Skirting around the privy, past the kitchen house, he headed straight to a pair of shutters keeking yellow light around the edges. He rapped three double taps in quick succession, and waited.
Jack could hear shuffling and muttering, but no one came to unlatch the shutters. He knocked the signal once again, this time whispering, “C’mon, Stitch—it’s me—Jack—”
The shutters swung open accompanied with the clack of flintlock weapons. Stocky Hercules Mulligan stood in a brilliant burst of lamplight, a pistol in each hand. Jack spun to see Tully coming up from behind, armed with a mean-looking stevedore hook, ready to do some damage.
Jack swiped off his hat, and threw up his arms. “For chrissakes, Stitch—I used the fucking signal, didn’t I?”
“I’ll be bumswizzled!” Hercules Mulligan lowered his weapons, and leaned out the window, a huge smile cracking his ruddy face. “If it isn’t Jack Hampton himself!”
“You used the old signal—” Squinty-eyed Tully hung his hook onto his belt, and in a voice graveled by years of smoke and rough drink, the old smuggler said, “I near gutted your arse, you stupid bastard.” Swinging a leg over the windowsill, Tully asked, “Where’s Titus?”
“He’s back in Pennsylvania, scouting for Washington.” Jack followed Tully in through the window, and latched the shutters closed. “He’s got a woman now.”
“Rascal, you!” The tailor pulled Jack into a bear hug, then held him at arm’s length. “You could use a shave, boyo…”
Jack worried the whiskers on his chin. “I’ve been on the move.”
“There’s a lean, hard look about you, lad.” Hercules pointed to the scar on Jack’s cheek. “Very menacing, that one. I’d head the other way, if I saw you coming at me.”
Jack smiled and hooked a finger on the scarf at his neck, pulling it aside to show the hangman’s scar. “You haven’t seen this one yet…”
“A badge of honor, that scar. You bear it, but we all had a hand in earning it.” Mulligan went to the cupboard where he kept his liquor, and poured out three glasses of whiskey.
“I’ve earned a few more badges since then,” Jack said, plopping down into the desk chair.
“If we’re showin’ scars,” Tully said, taking up a glass of whiskey, “I’ve got a dandy on me hairy old arse…”
Jack laughed, and the tailor proposed, “A toast—” Raising his glass, he said, “The dew may kiss the morning grass. The clock may kiss the hours past. A lad may kiss a maiden lass. And you, my friends, may… drink hearty!”
They tossed back their whiskey, and had a good laugh. Jack heaved a sigh, and raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s good to see you both…”
Hercules Mulligan, tailor turned spy, refilled the glasses. “As glad as I am to see you, Jack, it’s not the safest place for you here—minching about New York. Our Provost has a long memory, especially for a gallows thief like you. What are you about?”
Jack tried to smile. “Thought we’d share one drink afore begging a favor.”
“Ah, now…” Hercules pulled up a chair. “There’s no begging amongst true friends.”
Tully straddled his chair. “Out with it…”
“They’ve taken Anne”—Jack’s voice cracked—“and I need your help getting her back.”
TWENTY
Heaven knows how to set a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed, if so celestial an article as Freedom should not be highly rated.
THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis
DARK AS NIGHT
“Raus!”
The abrupt shout was followed by a jangle of keys, the shriek of rusty hinges, and a reverberant clang as the iron grate was swung open. Head cradled on arms, Anne yawned, tugging at the handkerchief tied over her nose. Pulling the linen past her chin, she greeted both the daylight and the guard leaning over the hatchway with bleary-eyed blinking. Entranced by the fuzzy balls of gold wool quavering at each point of the guard’s tricorn, her sleepy brain worked to connect the morning’s sights and sounds. Hessian. Keys. Locks. Prison… prisoner.
The Hessian leaned in and gave her a poke with the business end of his musket. “Raus!”
Sitting up, very stiff, Anne wiped sand from her eyes, noting, with a bit of a chuckle, that she’d found a better night’s sleep on the stinking stairway of a rotting prison hulk than in the arms of Edward Blankenship. She reached back to knuckle-rub a cramping pain at the base of her spine, and noticed the gray congregation of emaciated, bedraggled men gathered at the bottom of the steps, all waiting patiently while she so blithely stretched and preened.
“Oh, dear!” Anne grasped the rail and pulled up to a stand, her empty pocket fluttering down the steps. A tangle of skeletal arms reached forward to snatch it up.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” she stammered. “I—I had no… I’m not accustomed…”
“Don’t fret, missus,” a voice declared. “You’re wakin’ was a pretty sight to behold. Isn’t that right, fellas?”
Nodding heads all affirmed agreement, and Anne could feel a blush rise to her cheeks. One of the prisoners ventured up the stairs, offering the pocket she’d dropped.
“Yours, miss…”
“Thank you…”
He’d stepped into the beam of daylight illuminating the hatchway, and Anne could see the man’s few wisps of thinning hair were bespeckled with nits,
and his scalp was crawling with vermin. She turned and ran up the few stairs—stomach heaving—barely making it to the railing on the landward side in time to lean over and retch up a viscous, yellow sputum.
Throat burning with the rancorous bile, she shivered, and let the pocket flutter down to the water. Anne used the hem of her petticoat to wipe vomit from her chin, and dab away the salty tears stinging the cut on her cheek. Light-headed, she leaned against the rail, studying the bright red blossom staining the edge of her shift, and fingered the cut on her cheek.
Bleeding…
The violence of her stomach caused the wound to tear. Inflamed and tender, the skin immediate to the cut felt hot to the touch. The salve Edward applied the day before was dried and crusted, brown flakes of it sticking to her bloodstained fingers.
Thump, thump, thump, thump…
Anne looked up to see a frail-looking man pulling a heavy, blanket-wrapped parcel up through the hatchway. Another followed after, and another, and another—The dead…
Thump, thump, thump, thump… Bony heels striking the wooden stair treads thudded a rhythmic dirge as ten corpses were dragged up the hatchway stairs and laid side by side beneath the stairs to the quarterdeck. Someone had taken the time to sew three of the deceased into their blankets; the rest had no shroud other than the filthy, feculent rags they had died in. Anne untied the handkerchief from her neck and crushed it to her nose, grateful for the vestige of lavender clinging to the threads.
It was clear two of the dead had perished from the pox, every square inch of exposed skin erupted in sores caked with dried pus and blood. The other dead men were unlike any corpse she’d ever seen—their bodies gray, desiccated hulls—reminding Anne of the empty cicada shells one might find scattered beneath the trees in the fall.
Jail fever. She could only guess these had died from hunger, dysentery, and sheer misery. Anne pressed a hand to her forehead. A little warm?
A never-ending multitude continued to shuffle up from belowdecks—all sorts of men—white, black, and brown—sailors, soldiers, and citizens—all mingling together with no apparent distinction given to rank or race. Some of the prisoners collected to sit in small groups where worn playing cards were dealt, or lead dice made from musket balls were thrown from cupped hands. One ambitious man received customers at his impromptu barbershop, equipped with a crate and a small pair of sewing shears.
A handful of the prisoners stood out clearly better off than the majority—relatively heartier, more fit, and less ragged.
Fresh comers, no doubt… like me.
Anne flinched to see a fresh comer breach the hatchway. He wore the uniform of her brother David’s old regiment, the Third Yorkers. Oozing pustules had broken out on the young soldier’s face, neck, and hands, and his eyes were glazed with fever. It was odd to see a man with such a rampant case of smallpox wandering free, but on a ship so crowded and confined, there was no point in enforcing quarantine.
Stomach still a bit wambly, Anne turned her back to the forlorn scene. Leaning elbows on the rail, she gazed across a short stretch of water to the shore, no more than a hundred yards away.
It was a pleasant sight—like a painting—neat and ordered. A hill rose up from the sandy beach, where a small gristmill straddled a millstream, the waterwheel turning slow. The peach trees in the orchard were just past blossoming with a scattering of pale pink petals still clinging to the branches. An iron weathercock mounted on the peak of the mill was directed by an easterly breeze, and a woman wearing a bright white sunbonnet and apron worked a hoe in the garden.
A fellow prisoner standing off to Anne’s right said, “The miller’s daughter keeps a nice kitchen garden. She even has a bed of sparrowgrass.”
Barefoot, and equal to Anne in height, he was dressed in a faded, checkered frock shirt, and sailor’s baggy striped trousers. The silk kerchief tied at his neck was grimy and veered to ragged, but Anne could imagine it was once a nice bright shade of yellow. He had a head as round as an orange, and the ginger hair sprouted on noggin and chin was cropped to an uneven curly fuzz by an uncaring barber with haphazard shears.
Anne asked him, “How do you know—about the sparrowgrass?”
He inched a little closer. “I’m among them what pass for fit, and lucky to be chosen for burial duty.” He jerked a thumb to the row of dead bodies. “We haul the corpses past the mill, and bury ’em on the beach over yonder.”
“Poor souls.” Anne squinted at the sandy beach the sailor pointed to.
“Aye, that.” He scowled. “They don’t even make fit food for worms, do they?”
“A difficult duty, seeing to the mortal remains of your brother prisoners,” Anne said. “Very Christian of you, sir.”
“Not difficult at all,” he said. “Dig a trench till the guard says deep enough. Roll ’em in, and toss a bit of sand over ’em.” The sailor reached back to scratch between his shoulder blades. “Nothing Christian in it, either. Do it mainly to get away from this stink and set my feet upon hard land. Getting a whiff of sweet earth and grass now and then helps to keep me from being sewn into my blanket.”
Anne sighed. “From here, the little mill seems almost a dream, doesn’t it, Mister… ?”
“Jones. Trueworthy Jones.” The man introduced himself, bowing slight at the waist. “Once with Glover’s Marblehead Mariners, of late a seaman on the captured privateer sloop Deane, out of Boston.”
“Anne Merrick.” She managed a grin and dipped a slight curtsy, taking the line from the Hessian’s roster. “Widow, rebel, and spy.”
“Spy! Always somethin’ of consequence to land a woman in this hellhole.” Trueworthy smiled and revealed a set of tobacco-stained, rotted teeth.
“There are other women aboard?”
“None now, save yourself,” Jones said. “Women are a rarity here.” Before Anne could ask what had become of the other women, the sailor offered, “Some among us remembers you from the Cup and Quill.”
Anne perked up. “You know the Cup and Quill?”
“The best coffee in New York town, as I recollect.” The sailor scratched inside his shirt. “And Miss Sally’s scones… a wonder!”
Anne heaved a sigh, relieved by the thought of Sally and Pink safe with David and Titus. They must have gotten word to Jack by now… Quiet for a moment, she asked, “Has anyone ever jumped ship? The shoreline is so close and the water seems calm…”
“Put it from your thoughts.” Jones lowered his tone, wagging his bushy brows toward the Hessians armed with rifles posted up on the quarterdeck. “They’ll sink you afore you’re two strokes out.”
Anne stiffened. A sharp pain knifed her in the belly, as if someone had wrapped a wire around her innards and pulled it tight. She sucked in a gasp, and let her breath out slow as the pain subsided.
Trueworthy’s blue eyes popped in alarm. “Are you all right, missus?”
“It’s nothing. A crick in my spine.” Anne rolled her shoulders, grinding both fists into the gnawing pain at the small of her back. “That’s what I get for making a bed of stairs.”
“I don’t know… You’ve gone wan as a milk-washed fence…”
“I am feeling a bit… off.” A shrill, high-pitched tone began squealing in her right ear.
“A-fevered?”
“I don’t think so… a little dizzy.”
“Have you been pox-proofed?”
Anne nodded. “As a child.”
“That’s good.” Trueworthy Jones studied Anne’s face. “Let’s get you a drink,” he said, guiding Anne forward with a push on her elbow. “The scuttlebutt’s at the bow.”
“Water would be good,” Anne said. “Maybe something to eat?”
“We won’t be getting our rations until later in the day, and fresh comers aren’t accounted for in the shipment, so you won’t get a share till ’morrow,” he said.
“I see…”
“Don’t be downgone; you’re not missin’ much—rancid salt pork and weevilly biscuit, if we’re lucky. I
’ve a spare ship’s biscuit put by… hard enough to break a rat’s tooth, but better than naught. I can give you a piece to nibble on.”
“That is most generous, Mr. Jo…” A wrenching cramp stopped Anne in her tracks and pulled the wind from her lungs. Drawn into a hunch, she tried to choke back her cry. Tiny silver explosions erupted around the spinning periphery of her vision, and she wavered trying to maintain her balance.
Murmuring, “Feu de joie…” Anne tottered sideways as if felled by an ax, last aware of the sickening crack of her skull hitting the deck.
“Jack—wake up.”
Jack snapped his eyes open and bolted upright from the rough pallet he’d made for himself under the potted lemon tree in the corner of the tailor’s office. Sweeping his hair from his forehead, he asked, “What time is it?”
“Time to wake…” Hercules sat in his desk chair, tape measure strung around his neck, shirtsleeves rolled to elbows, his brawny forearms braced to knees. “Tully’s brought news.”
Jack followed the tailor’s troubled eyes to Tully standing in the doorway, and felt his heart slip to his stomach. Afraid to say the words too loud, he whispered, “Is she… ?”
“No…” Tully came into the room and pulled over a ladder-back chair to straddle. “She’s not dead. The word’s been put out loud and clear—the Widow Merrick’s been arrested by the Provost for treason and assault and will be tried and hanged.”
“That’s fantastic news!” Jack brightened. “Where she’s being held? The sugar house?”
“Well…” Tully shifted in his seat. “Hard to say…”
“I’ll go out and see what I can learn…” Jack tugged on his hat.
Hercules shook his head. “You best not show your face, Jack. Tell him, Tully.”
“Dragoons are out in force, patrolling the highways in and out of the city. They are crawling over the waterfront—questioning every man working the docks, the fishboats, or ferrying over from Paulus Hook and Brooklyn.” The old smuggler took a deep breath and turned to the tailor. “How about pourin’ us all a little scoof o’ your rye whiskey, Stitch?”
The Turning of Anne Merrick Page 42