Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  He reached to wipe his sleeve across his mouth. “An’ it don’t take much figgerin’ to understand that General Washington can’t go fight Howe on Howe’s terms, because Howe’s got about three times more men and cannon. So we got to play cat and mouse with him and wait for a chance to hurt him when we can. That’s why General Washington’s got to pull the rest of his army out of here.”

  He stopped for a moment, then looked inquiringly into Mary’s eyes. “I hope you understand, ma’am.”

  Mary’s face fell, and her shoulders sagged. She raised the folded apron and began to work it with both hands, not raising her eyes as she spoke. “I understand. It’s just that I had been counting on . . .” Her voice caught, and she stopped for a moment before she could finish. “ . . . on seeing Billy and Eli.”

  Turlock stared at her intently for a moment, then his three-day beard stubble moved as he spoke. “Ma’am, I know I don’t have no right inquirin’, but is it more Eli you’re hopin’ to see?” His eyes were bright beneath his shaggy brows.

  Mary could not speak. She nodded her head.

  “I figgered.” Turlock sighed, and his grizzled old face softened at the pain of the memory of a plain, quiet girl he had loved from afar, thirty years ago. He had long held her in his heart, loved her, never speaking of it to anyone. She had kept her feelings locked inside also, until the day she lay on her deathbed with a raging smallpox fever ravaging her, stealing her life away. In a delirium she had cried out his name, called for him, and her father had sent for him. Her brother returned with Turlock that evening. She was in her bed, her father and mother by her side, and the moment Turlock saw her he knew her life was slipping away. She was calm, but her eyes were too bright, her skin too shiny. Shy, conscious of his own crude ways learned as an orphan serving as a cabin boy on a ship, he stood with his head bowed, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. The father had simply told him she had called for him, adding he did not know why. Then the father and mother had stepped aside, and hesitantly Turlock had gone to her bedside.

  She stared at him for a moment before recognition came, and then she held out her hand to him. He reached to take it and held back the shock of feeling the fingers gone cold. She tried to speak, but her words were only soft whispers, and he leaned his head beside hers. She formed the words that told him she had long loved him and could not leave without telling him. He remembered the warm salt tears coming, and he did not care as he spoke low to her that he had loved her but knew she was far above him so he had remained silent. She nodded, and a smile formed for a moment before she said her last words. “It is a pity,” she had said. Then her eyes closed, and she sighed, and Turlock felt the spirit leave her hand and her body. He walked away from her home, sought out the army, and never returned.

  Facing Mary, he remembered the searing pain, and his heart reached out to her. “Ma’am, don’t you worry. He’ll either come here, or to the army. If I see him first, I’ll tell him you’re here and want to see him.” He paused and then quietly added. “And if I’m readin’ this right, he’ll find you.”

  Mary started, then caught herself, her face flushed with having revealed her innermost feelings to the little man. “You can’t tell him. He doesn’t know. We’ve never talked about . . . I’ve . . . never told . . .” A tear trickled down her cheek, and she reached to wipe it away with the apron. She could not speak further, and she cleared her throat and stood silent.

  Turlock looked at the ground for a moment. “There’s some things don’t need talk,” he said. “I won’t tell him, only that you’re here and need to see him. Will that be all right?”

  Mary nodded, and her chin quivered.

  Pain showed in Turlock’s face as he spoke. “Ma’am, don’t—”

  She raised her eyes. “Mary. Call me Mary.”

  He nodded. “Mary, don’t trouble your heart with worry. I don’t know a man more able in the woods, and in a fight, than Eli, nor a man I’d rather have along than Billy. Don’t fret. They’ll both be back. They’re out there doin’ the work of the Almighty, and He’s not about to abandon ’em. Not Him.”

  Hope sprang in her eyes. “You’re certain?”

  “Mary, you’ll see him again.” His words were quiet, but they sank deep.

  For a moment a sob stuck in her throat. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

  The little man reached to touch her hands. “You’ll be fine here. Just be patient. One day soon he’ll come walking in. You’ll see.”

  Mary shook herself and by force of will took charge. “I know he will. I’ll wait.”

  Notes

  Mary Flint as portrayed herein is a fictional person, as is Sergeant Alvin Turlock.

  However, General Washington did leave Morristown in the late spring of 1777, sending part of his troops to Middlebrook (also spelled Middle Brook) where he was easily capable of striking General Howe’s British forces. General Howe was beginning his unpredictable game of moving his army first one place, then another, in a most confusing manner, which he later had trouble explaining to the British Parliament (see Ketchum, Saratoga, p. 46).

  In general support, see also Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 344–46.

  South of Morristown

  Early July, 1777

  CHAPTER XX

  * * *

  There is mystery and magic at night on the lakes and rivers in the deep, primeval forest. Untouched and unspoiled by the hand of man, the pristine innocence of the woods draws spirits back from their unseen world to once again be near the profound pleasure and the pain of flesh and mortality. The creatures of the forest know. With instincts honed from the dawn of creation, in the quiet of the night, they sense, and sometimes see, the comings and goings of the spirits of the departed. The haunting call of an owl, or the sharp bark of a fox, or the stealthy padding of the silent feet of the panther, or the eerie laughter of a loon may mark the passage of a spirit returned to lament its mortality wasted, or to rejoice in its mortality improved. Men whose souls are awake, know, while those who have forsaken the great gift for the ways of man are left with only the troubling sense that there is a world all around them to which they are blind.

  * * * * *

  Sometime after midnight, heavy clouds rolled in to blot out the heavens and lock the forest in thick blackness. A great horned owl dropped from the top of a pine tree like a silent, invisible stone, wings and talons tucked, its great eyes wide as it watched a rabbit crouched eighty feet below, ears laid back, unmoving, certain of its safety in the quiet darkness. Fifteen feet from the ground the owl flared its wings wide to brake its headlong plunge and swung its legs down and forward, five-inch talons spread, ready. At the rustling sound from above, the rabbit exploded into action, too late. The owl anticipated its leap, and the black needle-sharp talons caught the terrified animal like a vise in midair. There was one quick, piercing squeal as the owl strained, wings pulling, to lift itself and the weight of the kicking rabbit back to the tree tops.

  Twenty yards away, beneath a maple tree, Caleb Dunson bolted wide-eyed from a fitful sleep, knowing he had heard the squeal of something mortally struck, but not knowing what, or where, or what had done the killing. The whispered sound of wings beating the air reached him in the stillness, and he turned his head to listen to it rise to the tree tops and fade. In one motion he threw back his blanket and came to a crouch, frightened, unable even to see his hand before his face in the pitch-black. In panic he groped on the ground for something to defend himself, and there was nothing but the spongy accumulation of a thousand years of pine needles and leaves and decaying vegetation on the forest floor and his blanket, knapsack, and canteen. He grasped the heavy canteen and cocked his arm, ready to swing it like a rock. Minutes passed, and the muscles in his legs began to cramp. Slowly he sat down and eased his feet forward to stretch his legs, still grasping the canteen.

  The distant belching croak of bullfrogs on a slough brought images of fearsome forest beasts, and the rustle of a ferret coming to the
strange scent of man became a great serpent slithering through the undergrowth toward him. Nighthawks and bats flitting above were the ghosts of those who had been massacred in these woods in times past, returning to take their revenge.

  For a moment Caleb’s chin trembled, and he was afraid he would cry. Then he drew a breath, set his chin, and reached for his blanket. He backed up to the trunk of the towering maple tree, wrapped the blanket about his shoulders, and sat still, listening to the sounds of the night. He repeated over and over to himself, Nothing to fear—nothing to fear. Then he repeated it aloud, and felt a surge of courage from the sound of his own voice defying all the unseen demons surrounding him in the black forest. He uttered a quick, nervous laugh, then fell silent, listening, waiting, wishing fervently for the dawn. Each passing minute seemed an eternity.

  Forty minutes later a light rain began to fall, softly at first, then more heavily, and it held, pelting straight down, filling the forest with a steady drumming. Rivulets formed to puddle in the low places, and the forest floor became a mass of water-soaked decaying matter and mud. Caleb pulled the blanket over his head to sit huddled beneath the dripping leaves and branches of the great tree. The chilling rain came through the blanket, then his clothes, to his skin. It soaked his hair and ran cold down his neck inside the blanket. It dripped from his eyebrows and his nose and chin, onto the place his hand gripped the blanket to close it against his chest. Uncontrollable shaking seized him, and his teeth chattered. Thoroughly miserable, the boy drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to draw warmth from them through his cold, water-soaked trousers.

  Slowly his senses dulled, and he lost all sense of time. His eyes closed, his head tipped forward, and he drifted into the world of half-consciousness. He was aware of the steady sound of the rain, and of the cold, but could not understand how his mother appeared so clearly in the blackness, or how she remained dry in the soaking rain. He saw the lantern on the kitchen table, and the black stove, and the steaming coffeepot with the baked bread nearby, and the bowl of butter and pot of honey, and he wondered how they came to be in the forest. He saw her speak, but could not hear her words above the patter of the falling rain, and then he saw her beckon to him. An overwhelming ache to be home in the kitchen, warm, safe, sharing steaming coffee with bread and honey rose in his breast, and he called out to her. His head snapped up at the sound of his own voice, and for a time he stared into the darkness while his mind came back to the forest and the cold rain. He swallowed against the lump that rose in his throat, then once again settled for the long wait through the night.

  The rain slowed and stopped, and small breaks appeared in the clouds. The morning star shone brightly in the east for a time before it began to fade. The black forest began its change to purple and gray, and Caleb watched, fascinated at how the demons of the night became chipmunks and blue jays, squirrels and rabbits, magpies and porcupines. They disappeared the moment he shrugged off the sodden blanket and rose to his feet, working with his cold, set muscles.

  He dug six-day-old bread from his knapsack, and cheese, and drank cool water from his canteen, shaking in his cold, soggy clothing. For a moment the memory of steaming coffee in his mother’s kitchen flashed in his mind, and the ache to be there rose again to torment him. He pushed it aside and knelt to roll his coat inside his blanket and tie the bundle. He slipped the rope loop over his head and settled it on his back, then shouldered his knapsack and canteen to dangle at his side. He had no musket, no weapon.

  He trudged two miles in the mud of a narrow forest trail before the first arc of the sun turned the rainwater on every leaf into diamonds, and a misty steam began rising from the puddles. An hour later the heat of the sun had begun to dry the world, and another hour brought sweltering heat once again. He gauged time by the sun, and stopped at noon long enough to eat dried salt beef and the last of his crusted bread and to drink from his canteen. He sat on a log to pull off his muddy shoes and socks and to peer at the blisters that had formed on his heels. He dug into his knapsack for an extra pair of socks, tugged them on, then the wet ones, and then his shoes. Then he once again shouldered his bedroll and knapsack and continued southwest, watching and listening for something that would tell him he had found the New York regiments of the Continental army, moving toward Philadelphia.

  The sun had touched the western tree line before he heard the distant clanging sounds of men setting up heavy iron tripods and hanging great, black cooking kettles from the center chains. Hope rose, and he began to trot, eyes bright in anticipation. Private Caleb Dunson. A Continental soldier. Uniform. Musket. Bayonet. Danger. Battles. Friends, loyal and true.

  He sobered and a hard look came into his eyes. A chance to repay the redcoats for my father. My brother. They’ll pay. They’ll pay.

  The crooked trail led him out of the forest into a broad meadow, and suddenly they were there before him. Hundreds of them—cutting wood for the fires beneath the cooking pots, some setting up tents, others skinning three deer they had shot during the day, and still others sitting on or near their bedrolls where they had dropped them in the tall grass. Muskets and swords lay carelessly dropped on bedrolls or leaned against logs.

  Caleb stopped, suddenly aware he did not know how to join the army. Who do I talk to? What do I say? He continued forward cautiously, looking for an officer, but he could not see a uniform within one hundred yards, and he stopped with the unsettling feeling that something was very wrong. No pickets, no uniforms, no officers, no order, no one challenging me.

  He turned to the nearest soldier. “Can you tell me where to find an officer?”

  The man cocked one eye at him. “What for?”

  “I came to join the army.”

  The man snorted. “Where’s your musket? Bayonet?”

  “I don’t have one. I thought—”

  “You thought the army had one for you. Well, it don’t, at least not right now.” He pointed indifferently. “That man with the beard is a captain. Talk with him.”

  Caleb approached the man, aware soldiers were watching him. “Sir, I’ve come to join the army. Can you tell me what to do?”

  The tall, bearded man eyed Caleb, head to toe. “Your mother know you’re here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  The man shook his head. “More like sixteen. Got a musket?”

  “No.”

  “How did you expect to fight?”

  “I thought the army—”

  “Well, it won’t. We don’t have a musket to spare right now. If the French come through on their promise we might have some soon, but not now.” He stopped for a moment, then continued. “If you’re here for a big adventure, leave now. If you join, we expect you to stay until you’re sent home. Or killed. Now decide. Do you want to stay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Where you from? Boston?”

  “Yes. How did you—”

  “The way you talk. Why do you want to join a New York regiment?”

  “You were the nearest one.”

  He pointed. “Go give that man your name and sign where he says. He’s the quartermaster for the New York Ninth Regiment. Tell him I said you’re to be assigned to the company with the Irish, because they’re short of men. You got any questions, ask him. His name’s McCormack. Lieutenant McCormack.”

  “Thank you, sir. May I know your name?”

  “Captain Venables. Charles Venables.”

  Caleb made his way to Lieutenant Abel McCormack. “Sir, Captain Venables sent me to you. I want to join.”

  McCormack looked Caleb over with a shrewd eye. Nearly six feet tall, almost to his full frame, broad shouldered, big elbows, knees, and feet. He would grow into them. “What’s your name?”

  “Caleb Dunson, sir.”

  “Did Venables tell you which company?”

  “Yes, sir. The Irish one that needs men.”

  “Third Company. Got
a musket?”

  “No.”

  “For now you’ll carry a spear.”

  “A spear?”

  “Yes. Go cut a small pine and strip the branches and sharpen the big end. A spear.”

  “That’s what I use to fight?”

  McCormack shrugged. “You can throw rocks if that suits you better. Until you get a musket, that’s how you’ll fight.”

  Caleb nodded. “Where’s Third Company?”

  Pointing, McCormack said, “Right over there. You go on over. Tell Sergeant O’Malley I sent you. I’ll be over in a few minutes. You’ve got to sign your name or you won’t ever get your pay. Spell your name.”

  Caleb slowly spelled it while McCormack concentrated, then walked away. Caleb worked his way to Sergeant O’Malley, who was in charge of four men dicing deer meat on a plank for the Third Company stew pot. McCormack had a knife in his hand while he watched the men work.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant O’Malley? Officer Venables said I’m to report to you. Third Company. I just joined.”

  O’Malley wheeled around. “What’s your name?”

  “Caleb Dunson.”

  “Ever cut meat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put down your bedroll and belongings wherever you can and get back here. We got to get this meat into the pot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For half an hour Caleb stood shoulder to shoulder with the four other men, using McCormack’s knife to cut the fresh venison into small chunks. He worked steadily, covertly glancing about from time to time, a new feeling of pride, of belonging rising within, while his thoughts ran. A soldier. Working with soldiers. My company. Third Company. He glanced at their faces. They were sweaty, like his own, and bearded, while his was smooth. There was no joy in their countenances, only the dull expression of men with a job to do, and then another, and another, whatever the jobs might be. See the pride in their faces? Comrades. Friends, good and true.