The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  There was a laugh and a muttered assent. Jack kissed Anne on the top of her woolly head. “Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.”

  Jack splashed the oil on the decking just beneath the bomb. Taking in a deep breath, he touched the candle flame to the end of the fuse, ran back to the stairs, and wrapped his arm around Annie’s waist. “Stick to me like a tick, you hear?”

  Anne nodded.

  The fuse fizzled and popped, and everyone watched the sparkling bright light climb up the length of the match cord and disappear for a blink of an eye, before exploding in a blinding, thunderous explosion and crack of splintered wood. The Scotsman pried open the grate, and, shouting like madmen, the prisoners moved up the stairs.

  Flames crackled and crawled, licking at the tween deck ceiling, and smoke billowed out the gaping hole blown through the bulkhead. Jack pulled Anne up the stairs, her bare feet just skimming the treads. They tumbled out onto the confusion of the ship’s deck. Everyone was making for the bow end, away from the fire. Hessian guards on duty spun in confusion, and more ran out of their quarters under the quarterdeck. Jack saw one soldier toss his weapon, strip his jacket, and fly over the rail.

  Shouting, “Alarm! Feuer! Alle mann von bord! Alle mann von bord!”Jack dragged Annie toward the stern, to the accommodation ladder—the egress reserved for officers’ use. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her down the stairway that sloped down to a landing three feet above the waterline.

  One after another, men were leaping from the gangways like lemmings into the sea, the dark water dotted with bobbing heads swimming to shore. There was another explosion, and a ball of fire burst up through the upper quarterdeck, brightening the sky.

  The fire roaring inside the hulk muffled the screams and shouts of the men leaping from the decks, and flames shot out from the barred window openings, and licked up the tarred planking on the hull.

  “We’re almost free…” Jack shouted, setting Anne back on her feet. She wavered and sagged against his chest, the heat of her fever penetrating the thin linen shirt she wore.

  Jack stood and watched the commotion on the beach as the first of the survivors staggered out of the water. The scene was confused with shouts and shadows of horsemen riding to and fro with torches and lanterns bobbing about.

  “Horses?” He scanned the dark coastline and whispered, “Come on, Tully… where are you?”

  A bright pinpoint of light flashed three times in the trees to the left of the bay in answer to his question. Jack caught his breath and watched the spot, wanting to make certain his eyes weren’t playing tricks when the signal flashed anew.

  “There it is, darling girl! Good ol’ Tully’s waiting for us.” Jack lifted Anne once again into his arms. Saying, “Here we go!” he stepped off the platform.

  The weight of Anne’s almost-unconscious form, and the heavy Hessian jacket, dragged them all the way down. Jack gave a mighty kick off the sandy bottom, and they rushed back up to break the surface. Jack pulled in a deep breath, and Anne floundered, coughing and sputtering.

  The bay seemed calm in the dark, but the outrushing tide grabbed at their legs, pulling them both toward the chaos on the mill end of the beach, away from the calm regularity of Tully’s blinking light.

  Clutching Anne as best he could, it was impossible to make any headway swimming against the strong tide. The cold water had revived her some, and Anne kicked and flayed about, gasping, coughing, and choking all at once, taking in mouthfuls of salty water.

  “Goddamn it!” Jack growled and just gave in to the current. He was able to keep Anne’s head above water as they floated away from Tully’s signal, to join the vast multitude bobbing toward the closest shore. Chest heaving, Jack helped Anne struggle up onto the beach. Her cap was gone. His shoes were lost. He looked over his shoulder to see the tiny light blinking three times.

  The scene on the beach reminded Jack of a time when a pack of weasels gained access to the hen yard on his family farm. Screaming chaos. The handful of armed dragoons and Hessians shouting, threatening, trying to gain control over the panicked and confused jumble of survivors—some barely alive, most struggling to catch a breath, very few getting their legs moving to break free and make a mad dash for the trees.

  “Oh noooo!” Anne moaned. “He’s coming for us.”

  Jack turned to see a mounted soldier wheel his horse and canter toward them, pointing with his saber. The dragoon shouted, “You, there!” The officer was wearing the death’s-head helmet of the 17th, and his face was half-masked with a black scarf.

  “It is him.” Jack grabbed Anne and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of meal, and headed in, straight toward the worst confusion, but Blankenship moved his mount forward, blocking their path.

  “You, there! Soldat! Halt!” Blankenship shouted, and Jack had no other recourse but to obey, as any good Hessian would.

  “Have you seen the woman?” he asked, leaning down, staring with his one eye. “Eine frau? Have you seen her?”

  Anne whimpered, and Jack looked the monster in the eye and saluted. “Nein, Herr Hauptmann. Feuer. Alle mann von bord.”

  Blankenship sat there, looming in the saddle, firelight flickering gold on the polished steel of his blade. Suddenly, he wheeled to the flash and bang of a musket shot, spurring his horse to give chase to a band of hearty souls making a break for the woodland.

  Jack moved fast. Once he skirted around the mound of drowned bodies being gathered by a few lethargic and soggy Hessians, he ran as fast as he could with Anne bouncing on his shoulder, down a rocky shore, to where he thought he’d seen the blinking light.

  “Tully!” Jack called as loud as he dared. “Tully, where are you?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  I dwell not upon the vapours of imagination; I bring reason to your ears; and in language, as plain as A, B, C, hold up truth to your eyes.

  THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis

  THE DAWNING

  Wallabout Bay was bright with the light cast from the ball of flame that was once the Whitby. Bellowing huge gray clouds of smoke, the orange and yellow light flickered on a score of bodies bobbing facedown in the shallows.

  Hessians and dragoons with bayonets attached prodded the exhausted survivors into ranks, few of them able to stand on two feet. Torch in hand, Blankenship maneuvered his stallion up and down the rows of wet, shivering prisoners, examining each and every one.

  Mustache drooping, in shirtsleeves and bare feet, the Hessian Captain called, “I’m sorry, Captain, but ze voman is not among ze survivors…”

  Blankenship dismounted, his voice a low growl. “She was in your keeping, sir…” From his pocket he jerked the document the Provost had signed, poked it under the Hessian’s nose, and screamed, “YOUR KEEPING!”

  The Hessian took a step back. “This voman vas very ill, sir. I do not think she could have survived. Burned—she is—perhaps drowned.”

  “Bloody stupid German cunt.” Blankenship turned his back to the Hessian and marched over to where a pair of his dragoons oversaw the gathering of the dead. “Have you found her?”

  “No, Captain, but we haven’t sorted through them all. There’re many yet floating out in the bay.”

  “Ahh, now… Give it up, fellows. You won’t be finding Anne Merrick among the dead, Cap’n One-Eye, and you know it.”

  Blankenship spun to the voice. A short sailor with close-cropped hair dropped the corpse he was dragging, and padded off to fetch another. Blankenship called out to him, “You, there—Halt!”

  The sailor froze in his tracks and turned about, sharp. With an oddly merry grin on his face, he knuckled his brow in salute. “Aye, Cap’n?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Anne Merrick? Why, she’s disappeared in a puff of smoke!” Trueworthy laughed, and clapped his hands together. “Poof!”

  Blankenship tossed off his helmet and rushed forward, saber zinging from scabbard. “Tell me where she is.”

  “Certainly, Cap’n. Happy to be o
f service.” Trueworthy pulled back his shoulders. “Annie’s with Jack, and he’s taking her to a safe place—to a place where you’ll never find ’em.”

  Blankenship made a guttural sound—as if he were choking. Tugging the silk scarf from his head, he turned to glare at the Whitby.

  “Only one eye in yer head, but you see now, don’t you, Cap’n?” The little sailor stood there grinning. “Aye, the fire was no simple happenstance, was it? It was all Jack’s doing, aye? And we helped him—helped our brother rebel, yes we did.”

  Blankenship’s fingers gripped the hilt of his sword, the scar tissue slashing across his face tight as his mouth, twisted in a rictus of anger and pain. An animal growl rumbled deep in his chest.

  “Oh yes… They’re off together into the happy ever after, Anne and her Jack. Far from this war…” The sailor laughed. “Leaving you with naught but a face uglier than any baboon’s arse…”

  Blankenship’s saber flashed once in the flickering firelight, and he brought the furious edge down on the sailor’s neck.

  Dropping to his knees, the little man pressed a palm to the blood oozing down over his chest, and, still smiling, he muttered, “Thank you, Cap’n…” and toppled over onto the sand.

  With Anne over his shoulder, Jack stumbled along the riverbank, searching the dark vista for the signal light. He began to fret that the blinking light he saw from the deck of the Whitby was but a figment of his imagination, when he heard a rowboat thumping against the rocks, and he called out softly, “Is that you, Tully?”

  A small dory floated out from the shadows into view, with Tully at the prow. “Arrah, Jack! I knew you’d make it!”

  “A welcome sight, you are.” Jack splashed into the river. “What happened to your light?”

  “Had to toss it in the drink when a pair of dragoons came nosin’ about the shoreline.” Tully jumped out to help Jack hoist Anne into the boat.

  Anne’s eyes fluttered open. “Hello, Tully.”

  Tully heaved a sigh. “Thank God, she’s alive.”

  “We got her in the nick of time. Blankenship’s on the beach looking for her as we speak.” Jack pulled himself into the forward end of the dory to sit with legs sprawled and back braced against the seat plank. He tugged Anne’s wet, shivering form into his arms and commenced to rubbing her briskly. “We did it, Tully—approached like foxes, fought like lions…”

  “And now we disappear like birds.” Tully tossed over a pair of woolen blankets, took a seat, aft, and put his back to the oars, turning the boat toward the Manhattan coast.

  Jack bundled Anne into the warm dry wool, and as the hue and cry of Wallabout Bay gave way to the serene dip and trickle of Tully’s muffled oars, he watched the fiery ball of flame diminish to no more than a spark in the distance.

  “That’s it.” Jack whispered in Anne’s ear. “We’ve done our duty, Annie. We’re going far from this war—you and me—south—where the sun shines brighter, and it’s always warm.”

  Anne laid her fevered cheek to his chest and sighed. “I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with you.”

  “You’ve the right of it, darling girl. We’re a pair, you and I.” Jack pulled her close. “Inseparable.”

  EPILOGUE

  They have refined upon villainy till it wants a name. To the fiercer vices of former ages they have added the dregs and scummings of the most finished rascality, and are so completely sunk in serpentine deceit, that there is not left among them one generous enemy.

  THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis

  AUGUST, 1778

  BRITISH COMMAND HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK CITY

  “I must say, Legion green suits you, Edward!” Young William Cathcart welcomed Blankenship to his office with a firm handshake. “You cut a fine figure in your new togs. Whiskey?”

  Edward Blankenship nodded and took a seat in front of a desk nearly covered over with a large map of the American colonies. Doffing his new leather helmet, he fluffed the green plume before setting it aside, unbuttoned his smart green coattee, and said, “After so many years wearing regimental red, I find I rather favor this green, Colonel.”

  “I am so pleased we were able to woo you away from the Seventeenth.” Cathcart took a seat behind the desk and poured two glasses of Scots whiskey. “I never thought it possible.”

  Blankenship adjusted the black scarf he wore tied over one eye. “A promotion and the promise of waging a real war against these rebels was all the wooing I required, sir.”

  Lord Cathcart slid a full glass of whiskey over the polished walnut, and raised his own in toast. “To green jackets and the newest addition to our new British Legion—Major Edward Blankenship.”

  Edward downed his drink, and hitched his chair forward to focus on the map. “Tell me, where is our Legion bound?”

  “South.” Cathcart leaned in and dragged a finger down along the coastline from New York to Georgia. “Be ready to live in your saddle, Major. Ours is to be a hard company of raiders. We’ll be on the move—swift and light—for these are no conventional battles we’ll be waging.”

  “Excellent!” Blankenship slipped off his mask. His scarred mouth twisted into a smile, and he bent close to study the map with his single eye. “This is a happy turn of fortune’s wheel for me for—as you know—I’m not one for convention.”

  All countries have sooner or later been called to their reckoning; the proudest empires have sunk when the balance was struck; and Britain, like an individual penitent, must undergo her day of sorrow, and the sooner it happens to her, the better.

  THOMAS PAINE, The American Crisis

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  The following characters and terms appearing in this novel were drawn from the historical record. All other characters evolved in the gray matter between my ears.

  In order of appearance:

  Jane MacCrae—on her way to marry a British officer, she was murdered and scalped by Burgoyne’s raiding Indians. Her killing was successfully exploited by the Patriot propaganda machine, and turned sentiment away from the Loyalist cause.

  Lieutenant General John Burgoyne—Commander of the “Canada Army” and armed with a plan to end the war, Gentleman Johnny surrendered his five-thousand-man army after a series of battles that are regarded as a major turning point in the American War for Independence and in world history.

  Mrs. Fanny Loescher—the mistress General Burgoyne brought along to keep him company during the Saratoga Campaign.

  Brigadier General Simon Fraser—mortally wounded at Bemis Heights, he perished on the Baroness’s dining table and was buried on a redoubt overlooking the battlefield.

  Baroness Frederika von Riedesel—with children in tow, the Baroness braved the wilds of Canada and America to follow her husband on campaign, and authored a detailed memoir of her experiences.

  Major General Baron Friedrich von Riedesel—survived the Saratoga campaign to surrender his sword.

  Colonel Friedrich Baum—suffered a mortal wound at the Battle of Bennington and died soon thereafter.

  Brigadier General John Stark—a member of Rogers Rangers during the French and Indian War, the daring strategies he employed led to victory at Bennington.

  Colonel Daniel Morgan—confounded the enemy by taking advantage of American skill with the rifle and using guerilla and targeting tactics considered dishonorable at the time.

  General Benedict Arnold—there is an unnamed monument at the Saratoga battlefield paying tribute to the injured leg of this American hero, whose name is now listed as a synonym for the word “traitor.”

  Tim Murphy—the diminutive Irish marksman reputed, among other things, to have fired the shot that killed Simon Fraser at Bemis Heights.

  Harriet Acland—pregnant Lady Acland traveled through enemy territory to her wounded husband being held prisoner of the Continental Army. She nursed him back to health and they returned to England.

  Thomas Paine—radical author of Common Sense and The Crisis pamphlet series used to incite revolutio
n and inspire the citizen-soldiers at Valley Forge.

  Major General Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben—this Prussian volunteer authored America’s first manual on military regulations without being able to speak English, and transformed common rabble into a proper army.

  Azor—Steuben’s beloved hound.

  Lieutenant Friedrich Gotthold Enslin—the first American soldier to be court-martialed and subsequently drummed out of the military for engaging in homosexual behavior.

  Colonel Tupper and Colonel Malcolm—the officers presiding at Enslin’s court-martial and drumming out.

  General George Washington—Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, he established a network of spies to gather the intelligence vital to the cause of Liberty.

  Billy Lee—the manservant at Washington’s side throughout the Revolution. Citing Billy’s “faithful services,” Washington freed his slave in his will in 1799.

  Lydia Darragh—when the British military in occupied Philadelphia commandeered a room in her home, the clever Quakeress eavesdropped and smuggled the intelligence learned to General Washington in Valley Forge.

  Betsy Loring—General Howe’s Faro-loving, champagne-swilling, blond bombshell of a mistress.

  Peggy Shippen and Peggy Chew—Philadelphia belles who vied for the attention of Major John André. After the British withdrew, Peggy Shippen courted and married the new American officer in command, General Benedict Arnold.

  Lord William Schaw Cathcart—promoted twice on the field of battle, he earned an appointment to command the British Legion.

  Major John André—the driving force behind the Meschianza was hung for a spy in 1780.

  The Meschianza—the extravagant gala event to commemorate General Howe’s return to England at a cost of over £12,000—a huge number for the time, in a country at war.