The New Land

by The New Land (retail) (epub)

  “Four shots?” he said. The brothers nodded. “One of you take enough for the second shot, since you’re faster.”

  “Chris,” Ben said. “He’s the fastest.”

  When they looked back over the wall, the British had regrouped. Bodies writhed on the ground. Others lay still, in impossible postures. Franklin couldn’t make out faces, but he could hear voices crying out to God, to comrades. One called for mother. Many groaned. The voices reverberated in Franklin’s head. He saw a redcoat slither downhill, using one arm to pull himself, holding the other against his body. It felt inhuman to stand there with his gun, ready to make more bloody wrecks like that one, to watch other men die.

  The British cannon resumed, announcing that the battle would go on. The British soldiers dropped their knapsacks so they could advance more quickly. Franklin thought of the bayonet in his knapsack, which he had left at the redoubt’s sally port almost eighteen hours before. He rested his rifle against the wall and ran for the knapsack. With the bayonet in his belt, he resumed his position.

  Again the drums beat. Again the red wave came. Again the Americans waited. And again a wall of flame leapt out, the blast from two hundred guns ripping the air. Its force staggered the red wave. This time, the British stopped to fire back. Most of their balls hit no one. The American firing fell off, the lack of ammunition beginning to tell. The red wave gained fresh heart. Foot-long bayonets flashed at the end of their muskets. The wave started again, this time with a roar of angry voices. Some redcoats wore bandages. One had an arm in a sling. His good arm cradled his musket.

  The advance faltered when it reached the wall. A few intrepid souls scaled the embankment only to be clubbed to their knees, their skulls or bones smashed. Other redcoats gathered at the base of the wall, where the Americans couldn’t get at them. The standoff lasted for seconds, then a minute. Something had to give.

  Behind him, Franklin heard the roar of close artillery and the screams of wounded men. The British had their cannon in play on the other side of the redoubt. More redcoats sprang up in front of Franklin. A man to his left jumped over the American defenders then pivoted and plunged a bayonet into the throat of a short man in shirtsleeves. Blood spurted into the redcoat’s face. Franklin swung his rifle at the attacker, aiming to smash his skull. The man ducked while the swing pulled Franklin down on his knees.

  Redcoats were leaping from the walls. There were no lines of battle, only a melee, men in sweaty uniforms grappling with filthy men in work clothes. The Americans, reduced to using their rifles like clubs, had to get in close to avoid British bayonets. Shouts and screams mingled with grunts and gargled agony.

  Franklin couldn’t see the Talbots. Next to him, an American wrestled with a redcoat. Franklin smashed his rifle barrel into the British soldier’s knees, bringing him down. The American picked up a rock and threw it. He missed. Franklin jumped on the redcoat’s back and tried to throttle him with his hands, but the man threw him off. They both lay on the ground panting. Franklin reached for the bayonet and sprang at his enemy, the bayonet in his hand ready to thrust. When he pushed it forward, the redcoat gasped yet still reached to push Franklin off. Their eyes locked. Franklin leaned his weight on the bayonet, but it began to twist from his hand. It wouldn’t go in. It had snagged a belt or a strap. Both men strained for an advantage.

  Franklin bore down with all his strength, his forearm at the man’s throat, yet the blade wouldn’t budge. The redcoat’s eyes bulged. He thrashed from side to side to throw Franklin off, one arm pushing up to protect his throat, the other pounding on Franklin’s arm and shoulder, the power of the blows sapped because he was on his back. If Franklin drew back to thrust the blade again, seeking a softer target, he would give the man an opening to twist away. He could smell the man’s breath, feel his fingers dig into his arm and hand.

  Franklin stole a glance around him. There were too many redcoats. The redoubt was lost, whether he killed this man or not. What was he doing? He needed to go.

  He stared into the redcoat’s eyes. Keeping his arm at the man’s throat, he let up on the bayonet. The redcoat nodded. Franklin released his pressure and rose to his knees. The Englishman’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t move as Franklin scrambled to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and headed to the sally port. He jammed the bayonet into his belt.

  Other Americans pushed toward the same goal. Redcoats atop the redoubt walls fired into the struggling mass. Franklin ran up against a pile of Americans. He held the rifle across his body and pushed, driving ahead with his legs, step by step. When he burst through the sally port, he stumbled, then gathered himself. More redcoats stood to the side, firing at defenseless men fleeing up the hill. Franklin needed to be lucky now. He started to run.

  After only a few strides, he slammed face first into the ground. A searing pain scorched his scalp. He lost track of the day.

  “Ben,” Christopher shouted, “the boy!”

  The brothers had never separated during the brawl. With a glance, they’d silently agreed to withdraw. They fell in behind Franklin but couldn’t keep up with his younger legs.

  “Christ,” Ben said, leaning over, “all that blood.”

  “Come on.” Christopher jammed the fallen man’s rifle under his arm with his musket. Each brother grabbed an arm and began to drag. One side of Franklin’s whitened face was smeared red. After a hundred yards of slow progress, another soldier called over. “I’ll carry your guns. You take the man.”

  They lifted Franklin, draping one of his arms over each brother’s shoulders. At the hilltop, they laid him on the ground. Ben tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped it round Franklin’s head. The boy breathed yet. The British, stalled by a brace of Americans who fired from behind a stone wall, abandoned their pursuit and turned to their own dead and wounded who ringed the redoubt.

  On the far side of the hill, Christopher found a barrow filled with shovels and picks. He dumped the tools. They loaded Franklin, his arms and legs spilling out every side, and laid his rifle across. Each brother lifted a handle with one hand, his musket with the other.

  “Keep an eye out for something to drink,” Ben said. “I’m parched.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  †

  The scene around Franklin was unaccountably domestic. Captain Bellamy, spectacles perched halfway down his nose and legs crossed, was reading a broadsheet. Franklin clenched his eyelids against the sunlight that poured through a window over the captain’s shoulder. The sheet pulled up to his chin smelled of soap. His shirt was clean. Where was the frenzy of those final moments in the redoubt, the desperate struggle with the redcoats, the flight up the slope?

  “Good evening,” the captain said, lowering his broadsheet.

  Franklin struggled for words. His voice wouldn’t come. His throat felt raw, coated with hair and scabs. Bellamy lifted a metal cup to Franklin’s lips, supporting his head. The water went down hard, making Franklin sputter and cough. Pain burst in his head. He groaned. The water felt good on his lips, in his mouth. They tried again. He swallowed some that time. They kept at it until the cup was empty.

  “How do you feel?” Bellamy asked.

  “Like someone’s pounding my brain with a hammer.” He closed his eyes and felt the pain relent. “What hit me?”

  “Musket ball, ran right along your scalp.” Bellamy ran a finger along the side of his own head, from back to front. “It took a pretty good gouge out. They had to cut off your hair to dress the wound. If it doesn’t grow back, you’ll have a very distinctive scar.” Franklin lifted a hand to the left side of his head. “Don’t touch it. It bleeds easy.” Franklin let his hand fall.

  “When is it? Now, I mean.”

  Bellamy looked at the broadsheet he had dropped to the floor. “After dinner, Monday, June 21.”

  Franklin tried to calculate. It seemed like it must be two days, but he couldn’t stop his eyelids from descending. Bellamy sat back and pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. He had to leave soon.
>
  “More water.” After another cupful, Franklin asked, “This house, is it where Marcus was?”

  “Down the street.” Bellamy looked around the wood-paneled room. “It’s a fine place. I imagine the Jenkins family is missing it.”

  “We lost.” Franklin had his eyes closed.

  “We did.” Bellamy sat back and crossed his legs. “The British are digging in up on Bunker Hill like they’re planning to stay a while. But they won’t.”

  “It’s all right with me if they do.”

  Bellamy shrugged. “It’s one hill on a big continent. Our spirit is good. They can’t win this war. We won’t let them. It’s our home, not theirs.”

  “They won.”

  “Conquerors always lose in the end. Look at Rome.”

  Franklin sighed. He lacked the energy and the knowledge to talk about history and conquest. “How did I get here?”

  “Ah. The Talbots dragged you all the way from Charlestown in a wheelbarrow, then they sat here like a couple of mother birds waiting for an egg to hatch. When I got here an hour ago, they were both asleep, still in their same clothes. I sent them to get some proper rest. I hope they’re stretched out on cots.”

  “I owe them a debt.”

  “You do, but they were proud to do it. You’re the closest thing to family they’ve got around here. Queer ducks they are, but steadfast.” Bellamy leaned forward. “How about some food? You must be famished.”

  Franklin shook his head, then regretted it. The movement set off a nausea that threw him off balance while lying flat on his back. He closed his eyes and waited.

  Bellamy smiled. “I don’t know about you, but when we were up on that hill, I could have eaten a horse, hooves and all.” Lying on the makeshift bed—really planks with a mattress laid across—Franklin looked very young. Being awake had softened the waxy sallowness he wore when Bellamy arrived. Maybe it was the water.

  “Did we lose men? Up there? The company?”

  Bellamy cleared his throat. “There’s Jonas in a house down the road.” He turned to point across the room. “Took a ball to the shoulder. Went clean through. The doctor’s not sure about him. He’s got fever.” The captain scratched the back of his head. “Sergeant Upton. He was killed at the wall, near me. And Collier and Miller too. Some others have been hurt, but not so bad. It wasn’t as bad as I feared, but it was bad.” Bellamy pursed his lips. “You fought well, son. You didn’t have to come back up from the village. The men know that.”

  Franklin let his eyes stray from the captain’s face. He was looking at nothing when he spoke. “At the end, at the wall, when it was like a brawl…” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes.”

  “I could have stayed and probably killed one of them. I had him down. I had the bayonet blade in my hand. I could have done it.” Franklin fell silent again.

  “It was a hard fight.”

  “I left. I saved my own skin instead of staying to fight.”

  “The day was lost. It was time to leave.”

  “That wasn’t it. Or not all of it.” He looked back at Bellamy. “I didn’t want to kill him.”

  Bellamy nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want some food? It’s been three days.” Franklin grunted no, then allowed himself to drift away.

  When he opened his eyes next, a lantern lit the room. Ben and Christopher dozed in chairs next to him. Christopher woke first and prodded his brother. When Franklin declined food, the brothers acted as though he hadn’t spoken. Ben had fixed some porridge. He hurried off to warm it.

  Christopher wedged a blanket behind Franklin’s head, then put a shirt to the same use. The pain wasn’t as bad now, but the dizziness came back. After a silent time, Christopher offered the water cup. Franklin sipped it steadily, feeling its cool through his whole body. He recognized a passing interest in food.

  Ben fed the porridge to him slowly, letting him rest between spoonfuls. Franklin had never properly appreciated the sweet flavor of porridge before. It flooded him, full of life itself. The warm food after the cool water was almost heavenly. He let his head drop back. “Enough,” he said.

  Ben sat back. The spoon jutted from the bowl at an angle. “More in the morning.”

  “I owe you, you both, my life,” Franklin said. “I know that. I’ll find a way to repay you.” Ben smiled. Christopher looked down at his hands.

  After a silence, Christopher cleared his throat and looked up. “Make something of yourself.”

  * * * * * *

  The lady nurses of the Jenkins house changed his bandage and tried to keep him quiet, but Franklin only grew more restless. Recovery was taking longer than he thought it should. One of the nurses, an older woman with a fluty voice named Flora Lewis, read to him in the afternoons. For several days, she also read to him from whatever in the Jenkins library struck her fancy. Franklin asked Mrs. Lewis to read something about history, perhaps about empires. He wanted to know more about what the captain said, that conquerors always lose in the end. She started reading about the Roman Empire, from the time of Jesus.

  At other times, Franklin was content to lie still and think. Perhaps it wasn’t quite thinking, more like imagining. He imagined going back to camp with the Essex County boys. He imagined digging, marching, sitting around campfires, facing cannons, shooting, and brawling. He imagined becoming an officer, wearing a uniform, the thrill of victory. He imagined rooms with sick and wounded soldiers. Men like the one in the bed opposite him, who thrashed with fever for several days, shouting in a vexing gibble-gabble until he gave out. Now there was a man from Connecticut who tried to stop a rolling cannonball with his foot. He lost the foot.

  Franklin thought about Jane Bellamy too. That thinking was closer to dreaming. He had spent only two days around her. And part of a third. Why did she make such a strong impression? She reminded him of his mother, though there was no physical resemblance. It was her way. He dreamt of a life on the banks of the Medomak, dark-haired children, his father making child-sized furniture. And where was he, Franklin, in this dream? He couldn’t see.

  Most days, the Talbots stomped in after dinner, caked with dirt. They were digging more than ever. American commanders had learned one lesson from the battle—always keep thick walls between them and the British. So for a while, the company dug trenches in Roxbury. Then up in Medford. Wherever the lines of the siege extended, they worked to put something solid between them and British bullets.

  By early July, Franklin could rise from the makeshift bed and walk a little. His strength came back day by day. From the head wound down to his toes, he didn’t recognize his body. His legs were unsteady, like a newborn pup’s. He learned to avoid the mirror in the central hall. He didn’t care to see the emaciated stranger who stared back.

  He could feel a scab forming over most of the wound, but he preferred to keep it bandaged. It opened once when he walked in the garden, sending blood down the side of his head in a dramatic cascade. The lady nurses didn’t flinch. They had seen worse.

  He read for himself now. He stayed with the book about Rome. On bright days, he pushed a chair into the sunshine and read until he drowsed. He wondered how much history the captain knew. The Romans were losing in the story, the conquered peoples rising against them, but it seemed like it was taking lifetimes. He hoped it wouldn’t take so long to drive the British from America.

  One day Franklin asked for paper and ink and a quill. Flora Lewis set them out in what had been the dining room, making space amid heaps of bandages, blankets, and sheets. For a long time, he wrote nothing, lost in the memory of working in the shop with his father. Those hours had slipped silently by, Franklin watching how his father coaxed the wood into the shape and size he wanted, unwilling to have it be off by the slightest margin. If a chair made by Johann Overstreet wobbled, the floor was uneven. The chair was not.

  Franklin thought of his sisters, Lena and Liesl, and how they never really knew their mother. He wanted to be home. He missed sailing the Christiane into Muscongu
s Bay. He missed all of it.

  The blank paper stared back at him. He had to begin, at least to tell them he was alive. He realized he would also tell them he was coming home. He didn’t know when. As soon as he could. Before winter.

  It was mid-July, a rainy day, before Captain Bellamy came back. He looked drenched as he sat, shaking off his tricorn. Franklin was propped on his bed. He had dropped off while reading about Rome.

  “More digging, Dorchester today,” the captain said. “I’ve spent so many years leaning over leather and tools that it’s a shock to be outdoors all the time.”

  “I should be there to help,” Franklin said.

  “You’re still not able. From the look of you, a strong gust of wind would blow you down.”

  “I’m getting stronger.” Franklin shrugged. “The headaches come less often. It makes you appreciate how good it is to be healthy.”

  The captain picked at his hat, pulling off grass and dirt. His face was serious. “We need to replace Sergeant Upton, you know.” Franklin nodded. “I’ve talked to the men about it. That’s how we do it in the militia. I make the appointment, but I need to know what the men think.”

  “I’ve been reading about the Romans. I don’t think that’s what they did.”

  Bellamy smiled. “Have you? Is that Gibbon?”

  Franklin held out the book for Bellamy to inspect. “Wonderful stories in this,” the captain said. “About all the forms of human folly.” After a moment, he said, “Well, back to New England. Some said you should be the new sergeant.”

  Franklin frowned. “I’m too young. There are men my father’s age in the company.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty my last birthday.”

  “Alexander had won most of the known world by your age.”

  “I’m not Alexander.”

  “Nor I. You needn’t worry about it. I’ve appointed Christopher Talbot.”

  “Not Ben?”

  “I figure that if I appoint one of them, the other comes along.”