The Turning of Anne Merrick Read Free Page B

outfitting themselves to infiltrate the British encampment as peddlers, Jack disapproved of the purchase.
    “Field beds are awful cumbersome cargo, Annie.”
    “A waste of funds,” her brother, David, insisted. “True peddlers make do with a piece of oilcloth for ground cover and straw-filled mats for beds.”
    Straw-filled mats indeed!
Anne took great pleasure dressing each cot with a goose-down pillow and a striped blanket, so glad she had turned a deaf ear to their admonishments. Though the portable bedswere unwieldy to transport, a dry berth suspended above the hard, wet ground made camping tolerable.
    Accustomed to city life and thick brick walls, Anne had a difficult time finding sleep as it was, with naught but a thin sheath of canvas betwixt her and all manner of nocturnal creatures throwing up a din to raise the dead on most nights. She could not imagine having to lie down among the creeping crawlers—the mere thought of it drew her shoulders into a cringe.
    Sally returned with a pair of square-bladed spades on lend from the Germans. After carving a drainage channel around the perimeter of the tent, the women took a moment to admire their handiwork.
    “Abroad a little more than a fortnight,” Anne said, “and we’ve become quite expert in settling our camp.”
    “Och, aye,” Sally agreed. “A sight better than most British army men, and as good as them pernicky kraut eaters.”
    “I expect David and Jack should be proud of us.”
    Sally sighed, her features suddenly soft. “O, but I’ve a fist-sized hole in my heart for my David. I miss him so…”
    “I know…” Anne leaned a shoulder to rest against the maple. “I’m missing Jack as well, but we must…”
    An odd buzz caused them both to startle. Taking a step back from the tree, Anne eyed the upper branches for a beehive or a hornet nest, when her gaze was pulled downward by an ominous slither across the top of her bare foot.
    Inches from where she stood, a large snake drew into a tight coil—the stacked buttons on the end of his tail buzzing in fury as it settledinto a crook where the tree root curved up to the trunk. Gray, and marked with chevrons of darker gray, the rattler’s coloration blended perfectly with the bark of the sugar maple. So well disguised, in fact, if not for the rattle, Anne would have had a difficult time spotting thereptile. With unblinking, riveting eyes and its black ribbon tongue whipping in and out from between a nasty pair of fangs, the snake raised its head in challenge—poised to spring.
    Anne’s eyes flashed up to meet Sally’s, and in complete unison theylet out a pitched shriek loud enough to raise the very demons from hell. Sally swung her spade in a scything motion, catching the upright viper, and sending it into a writhing sprawl. Anne ran up and brought her spade down in an arcing swipe, like that of an executioner, severing the snake’s head in one thumping blow.
    Panting, with hearts a-race, they stood over the twitching snake parts with fists clenched to their weapons, ready to strike again as if the snake were capable of reuniting head to body. When the viper’s death throes subsided, Anne relaxed her stance, and stepped in, about to give the motionless reptile a wary poke with her spade, when someone shouted.
    “STOP!”
    Anne turned to see their screams had drawn a small crowd of Hessians, Redcoats, and sutlers from the neighboring campsites.
    “Take care, madam!” A British officer stepped forward, holding out a warning hand. “That rattler is yet a dangerous thing. Leave this to my friend Ohaweio—he is adept at handling these situations.” The officer was accompanied by a befeathered Indian wearing a matching red coat with green facings over his bare chest and leather leggings.
    Sucking in a breath, Anne nodded, and handed her spade to the Indian. Sally dropped her shovel to scurry over and clutch Anne by the arm.
    The Indian carefully scooped up the beheaded snake. Ohaweio held the