“How can you say that, Papa, after all your time as a soldier? Aren’t there things worth fighting for?”
“Once, Franklin, only once did I fight for something worth fighting for, when we went to Louisbourg, and I still cannot be sure it was right, that God can mean for us to do such things.”
“I’m sure.”
Johann stopped. He leaned against the bench. “You must tell me then.”
“I’ve been thinking about this. A lot. Walther and I talked it over. We can talk about the taxes and laws and the revenue cutters and stupid officers, but they’re all small parts of the big problem. And it’s the biggest problem. For those of us who know only life in America, it makes no sense to be owned by the British, these people on the far side of the world.”
“Over this, you would fight and kill those men and have them try to kill you?”
“Yes, Papa. We have to. Otherwise, we are nothing.”
“And Walther, he agrees?”
“He does, but he has Joanna and the babies and the farm. He can’t leave them.”
“You would go where a man would stand as far as you are from me and aim a gun at you and pull the trigger? Or lunge at you with a knife and try to rip your guts out? Because that is war. Or maybe you get sick in camp and die in a pool of your own shit. Yes, that’s what you want? No one speaks the truth about war. No one. It’s a butcher’s trade. The lowest activity of animals. At least a butcher kills dumb animals for food. A soldier kills men with souls to satisfy some king’s idea of his own glory.
“I crossed an ocean, Franklin. I’ve worked these years so my sons would never be soldiers, would never die choking on their own blood, surrounded by people who hate them. This place, Broad Bay, it’s a good place. Compared to Kettenheim when I was your age, this is the land of milk and honey, even with those British around our necks.”
“Papa,” Franklin held his hands out, “you once fought for something worth fighting for. I know about Mama, how she fought too. Well, this is my time. Liberty is worth fighting for. I won’t fight for a king, but I will for myself and for freedom.” Trying to lighten the mood, Franklin added, “Perhaps I will be a good soldier like the sergeant major.”
“You think I was a good soldier?” Johann wagged his finger then turned it on himself. “Me? There are no good soldiers. Only lucky ones and unlucky ones. When you stand on the field and face your enemy, and he fires a volley, and the man to the right of you falls and the man to the left of you falls, but you do not, what is that? Is that being a good soldier? Or is it being a soldier who stood in the right place, opposite a man who flinched when he fired and shot high or low?” He took a step toward his son. “Franklin, young men like me in Hesse had to be lucky to survive. I have been lucky. I know this. I won’t have my sons rely on the same luck. It will run out. It has to. Don’t you see? Look at Robert. See how war left him.”
Franklin stopped the retort in his mind. He took a breath. “So, Papa, what happened at the town meeting?”
Johann pushed his fingers against his forehead. “When I said I needed to think more, some agreed. Enough agreed. We meet again in a week and will decide then. Many are angry with me. Robert is.”
They stood in silence. “Papa, I don’t need to think about it anymore. Marcus Straub and I, we’ll be leaving tomorrow for Boston.”
“No!” Johann’s face turned red. His voice, gentle until now, became a shout. “I forbid it. You may not go. You don’t know what you’re doing!” He moved to block the door. When Franklin stepped toward him, Johann didn’t move.
“Don’t be like this, Papa,” Franklin said, his voice level.
Johann shook his head. Franklin gripped his father by the elbows to push him aside. They grappled, grunting, faces contorted, neck cords standing out, not speaking. Franklin was larger, younger, and stronger. He wrenched his father from his feet and flung him to the side. Johann stumbled and fell.
“Papa!” he called.
“Go,” Johann said, not looking up. “Just go.”
* * * * * *
When Franklin burst into the house, the four young ones were standing next to Catherine, fear in their eyes. “We’ve been arguing,” he said.
“So that’s what it was,” Catherine said. “We couldn’t tell.” She moved a child aside as she reached for a ladle. She filled a bowl with stew. “You must eat before you go.” She placed the bowl on the table, wiping her hands on her apron. “You leave tonight? So you and your papa, you don’t do this again.”
“Yes. Yes. That’s right.”
“Yes, that’s best.”
Liesl ran to Franklin and grabbed him around the waist. He kept his arm around her as he sat before the stew. “I’m not hungry.”
Catherine sat too. “You will be. You always are. Liesl and I will get your things together. Will you help me, Liesl, for Franklin?” She held her hand out to the little girl, who slowly relaxed her grasp on her brother and followed.
The stew did smell good. Franklin began to eat, mechanically at first, then with more purpose. He looked around the kitchen, which his father had built when Franklin was a boy. Mayflower Hof was the only home he remembered. His brother and sister talked about living in the stockade. They had liked having other children around to play with, but they’d been afraid too. Franklin didn’t remember the stockade, but he knew this room like his own breath. The warmth from the fireplace. His mother watching porridge. Walther building the fire. His father cursing softly after lifting the hot coffee pot without a cloth.
“You’re going to fight,” Lena said. She had taken the chair next to him as he ate. She was thirteen now, shy but slender and graceful. Her movements were like their father’s.
He nodded and offered her a piece of his bread. She shook her head. When he swallowed, it made a knot in his chest.
Catherine bustled in and took his empty bowl. Franklin accepted the knapsack from Liesl, who clung to him again. She hung on through his hugs with Lena and Karl, and his kiss for baby Klara. And then the farewell embrace with Catherine.
“Do you think I’m wrong?” he asked her. “Do you agree with him?”
Catherine’s eyes were brimming. “I think no man loves his children more than your papa does.” He crouched before Liesl and kissed her forehead. She wouldn’t look up.
At the road, Franklin found his father standing with his good rifle in one hand and his bayonet in the other.
“You should stay,” he said. “I’m not shouting now. You must be sure. This fight that’s coming, it’s not so clear.”
“It’s clear to me, Papa.”
“Yes, I know. Things are more clear when you’re young. I remember.” He looked at the weapons in his hands. He held them out.
“Papa, you need the rifle for hunting.”
Johann shrugged as Franklin took it. “I’ll be fine with the old rifle. It will be a happy time for the deer.” He handed over the bayonet. “I never talked to you about this—”
“Robert did.”
“He did?” Johann shook his head. “If there was ever a man who didn’t understand the bayonet, it’s Robert McDonnell.” He cocked a hip. “It only goes on a musket, so they’ll have to give you the musket. You’ve seen, of course, they’re not as accurate as the rifle, but in a battle, no one shoots straight. Rifles misfire. Powder gets wet. Cartridges are dropped. But the bayonet, the bayonet always works.” He pointed at it. “Let them see it. Let them see you will use it. And don’t poke with it. Drive it, with all your weight.” He demonstrated.
Franklin nodded.
“Keep it sharp. It’s a tool, like any other. It must be cared for.”
Franklin nodded again.
Johann sighed. “Why not wait, just a few days? There might be a company formed here, from Waldoborough. If you wait until next week’s meeting.”
Franklin shook his head. “I can’t. A coaster’s stopping in the morning.”
“Then stay here this night.”
“No, I’ll stay wit
h Marcus. They’re closer to the pier.” He looked at his father directly. “I think it’s best I go now.”
Johann dug a pouch of coins from his pocket. Franklin stopped his hand.
Johann smiled. “It’s not enough to say no to.” He stepped sideways and stuffed it into Franklin’s knapsack.
They clasped hands. Johann gripped his son’s shoulder with his free hand and stared into his eyes. “You, Franklin, you come home to us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
†
Franklin and Marcus rested against the starboard rail as the sloop swept inside the island that sheltered Lynn’s harbor. To avoid Royal Navy patrols, the captain had run close to the shore, landing at Lynn rather than the larger port at Salem. Boston was, of course, out of the question. British warships filled that harbor. Franklin didn’t ask why they had to evade the British. Perhaps the captain was smuggling. Maybe he planned to use his swift ship as a privateer against British merchantmen. The sloop had cannon fore and aft and the crewmembers had a desperate look. Since Franklin and Marcus shared the captain’s wish to avoid the British, the reason for the captain’s stealth didn’t signify.
No customs officer greeted them, so the two men from Waldoborough paused only to ask for the road to Boston, which passed straight through town. Their trousers and felt hats labeled them as country folk. Their guns and their destination signaled their intent to join the Americans who, calling themselves patriots, were besieging the British.
Marcus and Franklin had been friends since their young years. A cooper’s son, Marcus had strong muscles from wrestling iron rings around barrel staves. His fine looks and sunny moods had drawn the interest of Franklin’s sister Lena, though Marcus seemed uninterested in her interest. Marcus favored fishing from the Christiane with Franklin at the helm. Franklin wasn’t certain he would have left for the fight without Marcus as his companion.
The day was raw for early May. The muddy road, soaked by overnight rains, sucked at their boots. Horsemen and wagons splashed by while the two volunteers, afire with the urgency of their mission, trudged through the sloppy going.
As they neared the town, Marcus made a face. “Ugh. That’s horrible. I’ve heard that Lynn stinks, but this is awful.”
Franklin smirked in agreement. The stench intensified as they approached several tanneries. Raucous dogs warned them to stay away. A marsh stretched to their left, between a stream and the sea. The tanners’ shops dominated the town. Stout wooden frames held the drying hides of cows and horses. Lime pits and tanning pools festered across the landscape, the air clotted with the perfume of soaking animal turds that would cure the hides. Piles of hair and flesh scraped from the hides added a different type of stench. When Marcus stopped to tie a kerchief over his nose and mouth, Franklin copied him, though the cloth provided little relief.
“You two goin’ against the redcoats?” The question came from a figure leaning against a tree. Franklin broke stride to look at him.
“Indeed, sir, we are.” The roughly dressed man had a crutch wedged under an armpit. One side of his face was puffy. Yellow-brown bruises ran from under one eye almost to the jawline.
“Figured as much. Couple of young men full of purpose heading to Boston with their Brown Besses. Well, I wish you luck, boys.”
Marcus held out his hand and gave his name. Josiah Alderson of Lynn reciprocated. He offered them water from a bucket next to him. They took off their kerchiefs to drink from his dipper.
“Looks like you’ve been in a fight yourself,” Franklin said, nodding at the crutch.
“That’s the Lord’s truth,” Alderson said. He pulled a pipe from his trousers pocket and began to fidget with it. “That I have. And with those shit-eating lobsterbacks, I was. Say,”—he held up the pipe by the bowl—”you boys wouldn’t have some tobacco, would you?”
They shook their heads.
“Ah, such honest lads. Haven’t yet learned the dirty habits of this filthy world.”
Franklin answered, “Tell us, Mr. Alderson—”
“I’m Josiah to fellow patriots such as you.”
“Were you at Concord?”
“Not at the bridge, no,” Alderson said, shoving the pipe into his pocket and leaning back. “But afterwards, in the scrape that went on afterwards. Then all the way back to Boston. Dear me, yes, I was by God in the thick of that.”
Franklin and Marcus waited for him to continue. The man paused, building tension before launching into his tale.
“Well, I come hurrying up, a few of us from Lynn did, in the afternoon, when the redcoats were on the far side of the Menotomy, headed back to Cambridge as fast as their wicked legs could carry ‘em. Well, we’d shoot at them from behind something like a tree or a building, like any damned fool would, then pull back into the woods or away from the road to reload out of their range. Then we’d run up ahead and find another good spot, crouch down and shoot again. There was quite a few of us doing that. I’ll tell you,” Alderson shook his head, “it felt like a damned turkey shoot. That’s what it did.”
“Looks like the turkeys started shooting back,” Marcus said, pointing at the crutch.
“You ain’t the first to say so,” the man said with a sniff. “Wasn’t their shooting was the problem. Around about Cambridge, the fighting became general, a regular scrap it was. The redcoats stopped and got in their formations and all, then the bastards charge us. This one officer type, he must have been at least a captain, I look over and he’s riding down on me with his saber slashing. And me, I’d just fired at another officer, so all I have in my hand is a musket that isn’t worth a damn. Well, like anyone would, I turn and commence to running. But I run straight into a damned hole, get my foot stuck in it, wrench the leg and knee something fierce, then fall right onto a rock, face first.” He pointed at the bruises. “Yes, sir, I went out like a candle, right then and there.” He shook his head with practiced wonder and dismay.
“Didn’t come back to this world for some time after. The fight’d moved on by then, I could hear it a ways off, but I figure that officer and his saber must’ve decided I was already singing in the heavenly choir so they ride right on past me to slice up some other poor patriot.”
“Are you going back to the fight?” Marcus asked.
Alderson squinted up at the tall young man. “Sure you don’t have any tobacco?” He answered the confirming headshake with one of his own. “No, sir, I don’t expect I will. The face is healing all right, but not this leg, though it’s not so much to complain about compared to how it went for some of the boys. We lost some good men to those vicious sons of bitches. But for me, well, getting into a fight on the one leg just don’t seem like a good idea.” He shook his head. “No, sir, not a good idea. But if you boys are looking to get into a company with a good captain, you might look in on Captain Bellamy. That’s Seth Bellamy, with the Essex County militia. He’s a good one. Fought the French last time. Knows what he’s about, he does.”
The travelers accepted his directions to the workshop of Captain Bellamy, a cobbler on the south side of Lynn. The town’s tanneries, logically enough, had attracted cobblers.
The sign next to the workshop door, set a few feet back from the road, said, “S. Bellamy, Shoes and Boots.” The mephitic fumes were less pronounced here. The travelers left their guns against the shop’s wall and entered, pulling off their hats. In the dark of the shop, Franklin could make out a woman delivering a pitcher and a cup to a worktable. Her cap couldn’t quite contain her thick hair. She turned with surprise.
“Gentlemen?” A deep voice came from the left side of the room, where a workbench stood before a window.
“Captain Bellamy, sir?” Marcus said.
“He stands before you.” The man straightened to Marcus’ height. The slanting light emphasized the creases beside his mouth and across his brow.
“We’ve come from Waldoborough, on the Maine coast, and heard that your company might be needing men.” The odors in the shop—the smell of fresh leather
and the lingering tang of warm glaze—were a relief.
“This is my daughter, Jane,” the older man said. As the visitors bowed, he added, “Thank you, Jane.” She left by a back door. “Now, gentlemen,” he said as he wiped his hands on a cloth, “what would commend you to the Essex County militia?”
Marcus looked over at Franklin, who cleared his throat. “Well, sir, we’re both patriots. We want to fight for liberty.”
“Well and good, sir, but what do you know of fighting?”
Franklin looked down at his hat, then back up. “Not much. My father was at Louisbourg, as a captain of rangers, though he doesn’t talk about it.”
“What’s his name?” When he heard the name, Bellamy shrugged. “Can’t say I knew him. Go on.”
“We can shoot,” Marcus broke in.
“Well, that’s fine,” Bellamy said, “but that’s not the hard part. The hard part’s being cold and sick and scared and what you do when your gun misfires.”
After a silence, Franklin said, “We’re going to fight the British, sir.”
With a small smile, Bellamy asked, “You have guns and powder and shot?”
“Guns, sir,” Marcus said, “but not so much powder and shot.”
“You’ll fit right in. Let’s see about your shooting.”
In a field next to the shop, Bellamy pinned a sheet of paper to a bale of hay, then led his visitors some fifty paces away. He told Marcus and Franklin to take a shot, reload, then take a second shot. He wanted to see how quickly they could shoot as well as how accurately.
Marcus hit the edge of the paper with his first shot but his second went high. “Always drop your aim a little,” Bellamy said. “It’s easy to shoot high.”
Franklin hit the edge of the paper with both shots, a disappointing performance with his rifle, particularly since reloading the rifle took twice as long. He would have to do better against the British.
“You’ll do,” Bellamy said. He looked at Franklin. “They named your town after General Waldo?”
“Yes, sir.”
The New Land Page 24
