Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  They finished cutting the meat, piled it on the end of a plank, wiped their knives on their pant legs, then slipped them back into their sheaths, waiting for McCormack’s next orders.

  “Get the bones away from here. They’re drawing flies.”

  They wrapped the bones in a piece of bloody tarp, and Caleb and another man with a four-day stubble of whiskers and a limp dragged it two hundred yards to the edge of the camp. They dumped the bones into a garbage pit swarming with flies. As they made their way back, the man spoke to Caleb.

  “New?”

  “Yes. Today.”

  “From Boston?”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch out for the Irish.”

  There was an ominous tone to the man’s voice, and Caleb turned to look at him before he asked, “Why?”

  “They like to fight. Watch out.”

  Caleb fell silent for a moment, reflecting on the warning. “You been here long?”

  “Since Long Island.”

  “You were at Trenton?”

  The man nodded. “Trenton, Princeton, Morristown. Got this limp at Princeton.”

  “How?”

  “British musketball. I got the one that shot me. Bayonet. Won’t be shooting any more of us.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  The man shrugged. “Right now, tracking Howe toward the Delaware. Maybe on to Philadelphia. I think Howe wants Philadelphia.”

  An hour later McCormack called Company Three to the supper line, and they waited for the cooks to ladle steaming venison and turnip gruel from the pot into their bowls or plates, thrust a thick slice of Indian cornmeal bread on top of it, and fill their cups with hot coffee. Caleb sat down on his bedroll, lost for a time in the taste of the first hot, solid meal he had had in seven days. Finished, he followed the men to a small stream fifteen yards to the north, rinsed his utensils, and returned, while other men began the cleanup of the cooking pots. He sat down on his bedroll and waited for further orders.

  There were none. Men untied their bedrolls to spread them wherever they chose. Within twenty minutes the military camp of the Continental army became a mass of blankets and knapsacks, with muskets leaned or laid wherever men chose, and no hint of organization or military discipline. Trained officers turned their backs, unable to bear the sight of the disheveled camp or brook the stubborn refusal of the troops to bow to military authority.

  Caleb sat astonished. Is this soldiering? A military camp? He studied the men for a time and saw not one salute, heard not one man say “sir.” How do I know the officers from the enlisted? And what difference does it make anyway? For the first time a small voice of alarm sounded inside. Perhaps his expectations of military life were a tiny bit at variance with the reality.

  The sun had not yet set when loud voices erupted fifteen yards to his left. Startled, Caleb leaned forward to look. A stocky, bull-shouldered young man stood near a stack of cut firewood, shaking his finger in the face of a taller, thinner man, cursing him in a rich Irish accent, so thick Caleb could hardly make out the dialect.

  “Sure, an’ it’s you who has gone too far, desecratin’ the good name of Limerick while it’s there me family remains.”

  The taller man waved a hand. “Limerick, pshaw, it’s Limerick that gets all the trash that Dublin drives out.”

  “Jamie, should ye withdraw those words, it’s yer head you’ll be savin’ because if ye don’t, it’s yer head I’ll break.”

  “I’ll not withdraw nothin,’ and it’s yer head that’ll do the sufferin’.”

  “Then defend yerself.”

  “That I will, Conlin Murphy.”

  Toe-to-toe they raised their fists and began a jerky, wary circling of each other, each waiting for an opening. It came quickly, and Murphy struck hard with his left hand. Jamie’s head snapped back and blood began trickling from his nose. Incensed, Jamie bored into Murphy, and for two minutes the air was filled with windmilling arms, curses, grunts, blood, and the sound of fists hitting flesh. Jamie went down but bounded back up to kick Murphy in the stomach. Murphy grunted and went over backward, gasping for breath, while Jamie stood over him, fists raised, daring him to rise. Murphy kicked Jamie’s legs out from under him, and when Jamie scrambled back to his knees, Murphy caught him above his left ear with a solid right hand, and Jamie slumped back and toppled onto his side, eyes swimming in his head, unable to rise.

  Murphy wiped his bloody face on his shirt sleeve and stood over him. “Now it’s withdraw yer foul words about Limerick, or I’ll give ye the same again when ye get up, Jamie, my friend.”

  The warning was wasted. Jamie did not hear it, nor could he rise.

  Murphy backed away, hitched up his trousers, squared his shoulders, and boomed out to the crowd of silent onlookers, “An’ there’s a lesson in this fer all of ye. If ever ye speak of Limerick, the blessed place of me birth, where me sainted mother an’ sister remain to this day, speak it with respect, or ye’ll deal with me, Conlin Murphy.”

  Silence gripped the circle of men who had gathered to watch the Irish settle their differences. With Murphy’s words still hanging in the air, none of them spoke or moved, except Caleb. The sudden battle had caught him by total surprise. Shocked, he had not thought to rise from his seated position to watch it. At Murphy’s warning, Caleb rose to his feet and whispered to the man next to him, “Where’s Limerick?”

  The movement and the whispered words reached Murphy, and he turned his head to see who had defied him. For a moment he stared in disbelief, and then in three strides he was standing before Caleb, feet spread, hands on his hips. Caleb froze, and the blood drained from his face. Murphy reached with both hands to grasp his shirtfront, then jerk him out into the center of the circled men.

  “So it’s makin’ light of me, eh?” Without another word, Murphy held Caleb’s shirtfront with his left hand and slapped his face with his right—four, quick, vicious blows. Blood trickled from both corners of Caleb’s mouth and down onto his chin. Caleb grabbed for Murphy’s left hand and tried to break free but could not. He swung at Murphy’s head, first with his right hand, then his left. His fists landed, but Murphy shrugged them off with a wicked laugh, then swung hard with his right fist. The blow caught Caleb high on his left cheek, and he went down backward, rolling, groping, trying to rise. His left eye was blurred, and he could not make his right eye focus. He got one knee under himself and was trying to stand when Murphy stepped in and swung, first his left hand to Caleb’s ribs, then his right to his head. Caleb grunted and went down on his side and did not move.

  Murphy reached for him, and half a dozen men stepped forward to grab Murphy, struggling and cursing, forcing him to his knees. One brought a knife blade against Murphy’s throat, voice choked with rage. “That’s enough! The boy meant no harm. Touch him again, and you’ll fight us all.”

  Hate leaped from Murphy like something alive. “Cowards. Craven cowards, all of ye!” he bellowed. “Come at me one at a time, knife or no, and I’ll fight the bunch of ye. I’ll quit on the boy for now, but if ever he disparages me home again, I’ll beat him senseless.”

  Captain Venables came running as the men released their hold on Murphy and stepped back, not knowing what to expect. Murphy rose to his feet, straightened his shirt, gave them one last look of contempt, and turned toward Captain Venables.

  Panting from his run, Venables stopped and demanded, “All right, who started it?”

  “Sure, and it was them who put upon me,” Murphy said.

  Half a dozen angry men drowned him out. “It was you, Murphy! You beat Jamie, and then this boy. It was you.”

  Venables raised both hands. “Enough! Any more of this tonight, and you’ll all be in chains. Tomorrow, I’ll convene a hearing. Get back to your work.” He dropped to one knee to study Caleb. “I’ll get the regimental surgeon over here right now. Someone see to this boy while I’m gone.”

  Murphy stalked away while two older men knelt beside Caleb and bent low to look closely at his fa
ce. Blood was smeared on his chin and shirt, and trickled from both sides of his mouth, his nose, and his left ear. There was a cut half an inch long on his left cheek bone, with blood running back into his hair. His left eye was turning purple and was swelled nearly closed. One reached to gingerly press Caleb’s nose and shook his head. “Not broken.”

  The other man reached for the nearest canteen, jerked out the corncob plug, and raised Caleb’s head to force water into his mouth. Caleb choked and coughed, then tried to open his eyes. The man poured again, and Caleb made a wild, harmless swing at him. The man caught his arm and said, “Easy. It’s over. It’s over.”

  Caleb tried to speak but choked on his own blood. He swallowed and tried again. “Where did he go?” He brought his right eye to a focus but could see nothing with his left. “Where did he go?” He struggled, but they held him.

  “He’s gone. We got to get you cleaned up.”

  “No. No. It’s not over,” Caleb cried, struggling to rise. “Bring him back. It’s not over.”

  From behind both men came a voice. “I’ll take care of him.”

  They turned to look. An average-sized man with thick, gray hair stood peering down at Caleb. His aging face was filled with compassion. There was nearly no bridge left to his nose. Scars showed through both bushy eyebrows and on his left cheekbone and his lower lip. His shoulders were square, his neck thick, forearms muscled and heavy.

  “I’ll tend to him,” he repeated.

  “Are you the regimental surgeon?”

  “No, but I understand these things.”

  Both men rose, and the old man knelt beside Caleb. Tenderly he touched the cheek, testing to see if the bone was broken. He shifted his hand to take the bridge of Caleb’s nose between thumb and forefinger and closed both eyes as he moved his hand slightly to the left, then to the right. He studied the cut on the left cheek, then forced the left eye open to study the pupil. He shifted his hands to Caleb’s rib cage and carefully felt each rib, counting, from collarbone to belt.

  “Son, can you hear me?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “You’re lucky. No bones broken, except the bridge of your nose is cracked. I think it will heal without showing. I don’t know about your left ear. We’ll find out if it’s been hurt in the next couple of days. Two cracked ribs, but none broken. I’m going to get some of my things, and I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  His head still fuzzy, Caleb nodded, and the man hurried away, to return with an old, small, dented metal box, a canteen, and some clean sheeting. He soaked the rag in canteen water, cleaned away the blood, then opened the metal box and began working. He washed the cut on the left cheek with alcohol, threaded a needle, and spoke.

  “This will sting.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Caleb jerked when the man took one stitch to close the cut, then smeared strong, thick, foul smelling salve on it.

  “Still taste blood?”

  “Yes.”

  He uncorked a bottle, poured a small amount of a thick, dark liquid into a tiny cup, and said, “Wash your mouth with this. Don’t swallow it. Spit it out.”

  Caleb tipped his head back and drained the cup. For a moment he thought his head was on fire. He held the foul liquid as long as he could, then spat it onto the ground. “What is it?” he choked.

  “A carbolic salve and alcohol. It’ll help heal the cuts in your mouth. Where’s your bedroll?”

  A corpulent man came puffing behind them. “I’m Major Waldron, the regimental surgeon. Is this the injured boy?”

  The grayhaired man answered. “Yes, but I think he’s all right.”

  “Let me look.” For five minutes the surgeon went over Caleb, then examined the stitch in his cheek. “Seems it’s all taken care of. If you need me, send word.” He rose and was gone as quickly as he had arrived.

  The man turned once more to Caleb. “Where’s your bedroll?”

  Caleb pointed.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  Caleb spoke through swollen lips, “Caleb Dunson.”

  “Come on.”

  With Caleb’s arm over his shoulder, and his box and canteen under his arm, the man walked Caleb to his bedroll and sat him down.

  “Who are you?” Caleb asked.

  “Name’s Charles Dorman.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll talk about that later. For now, we get some water from the stream and keep a cold compress on that cheek and eye. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage, but you’ll want to get that swelling down.”

  With the sun below the western horizon, the world was cast in dwindling shades of bronze when the man returned. He wrung water from the rag and positioned it over the closed eye and swollen cheek. “Hold that,” he said, and Caleb reached with his hand.

  They sat together until dusk faded into darkness before Dorman helped Caleb spread his blanket and settle in for the night. “Your blanket’s wet. Next time, spread it and let it dry after a rain. Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  In his life, Caleb had never ached as he did when the drum pounded out reveille, and he tried to rise at dawn. It took him ten minutes to put on his shoes and make his bedroll. Lieutenant McCormack came to give Third Company their work assignments for the day and stopped to study Caleb.

  “I heard about it. Murphy’s on report. You’re off duty for today.”

  Caleb shook his head violently. “No, I’m not. Give me my orders.”

  McCormack’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Caleb glared at him through swollen eyes, his chin thrust out. “Give me my orders.”

  “All right. Fire detail. Haul wood for the cooks.”

  Caleb nodded. Hunched over to favor bruised ribs, he walked to the wood pile. He gathered an armload of wood and made his way to the big, black iron tripod to drop it beside the black pot, then went back for a second load. The rest of the company went about their work details, aware of him, glancing from time to time to watch as he stubbornly continued to grit his teeth, hauling load after load to the Third Company cookpots. He wolfed down his breakfast, rinsed his utensils, then grabbed an ax from the woodpile and made his way to the tree line. Ten minutes later he returned with a small pine, nine feet in length. Sweating with the pain in his ribs, he trimmed the branches, then rested the big end on a log while he used the ax to sharpen it.

  Midmorning, with their bedrolls on their backs and their knapsacks and canteens hung over their shoulders, the New York regiments marched out, heading south once again. Caleb marched with Third Company, his pinetree spear over his shoulder. The left side of his face was purple and black, but the swelling had gone down enough for him to see. He held his interval in the column, hunched slightly over, chin set, eyes straight ahead.

  At noon he cut and carried firewood, ate with his company, then slung his bedroll on his back, and marched out once again.

  Supper was finished, and the sun was setting when Captain Venables came striding and located Caleb.

  A crowd of men gathered as the captain said, “We’re going to have a hearing. What charges do you want to bring against Private Murphy?”

  Caleb shook his head. “None.”

  Venables stared for a moment. “What? After what he did to you?”

  “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding of what?! Have you seen your face?”

  “No charges.”

  Venables turned to look, then called, “McCormack, come over here.”

  McCormack stopped before Venables, and Venables spoke. “McCormack, this man says he does not want to bring charges against Murphy, and I want a witness.” He turned back to Caleb. “Do I understand you do not want to hold a hearing? You refuse to bring charges against Murphy for what he did to you?”

  Caleb looked at McCormack, then at the faces of the other men gathered behind him. “That’s righ
t. No charges.”

  Venables shrugged. “Well, I can’t force you. If you bring no charges, there won’t be a hearing, because we have no bill of particulars to bring against Murphy. You understand that?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll write it up just that way. All you men, go on about your business.”

  The crowd drifted away, and Caleb had settled onto his blanket, favoring the pain in his ribs, when he heard someone coming from behind. He tried to turn his head, but the pain stopped him.

  “It’s me, Dorman,” came the voice, and a moment later the man was seated cross-legged facing Caleb.

  Caleb spoke. “I want to thank you for all you’ve done.”

  The man nodded acknowledgment, and Caleb went on.

  “You said we would talk. Why did you take the trouble with me?”

  For a time the man stared at the ground. “I can’t stand a bully. And I thought there must be something about you, the way you swung back at that man, and tried to get up when you knew you didn’t have a chance, and then wanted them to bring him back because you didn’t want it to be over. And I’ve noticed you today. Hauling wood. Making that spear.”

  Caleb asked, “You saw it yesterday?”

  “No. It was over when I got there. I asked, and others told me.”

  Caleb remained silent, and Dorman went on. “I know something about fighting. I did it for a living for a time. I was champion in the southern half of England, many years ago.”

  Caleb’s mouth dropped open in stunned surprise.

  “I can teach you a little about it. At least enough to take care of the Conlin Murphy’s of the world. If you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested.”