Jane Crumer was indeed the Mother of the Regiment: she even formed the workers into a guild or brotherhood and with the monthly contributions that they paid compiled a respectable sum of money which could be drawn upon by persons in ill-health or those desirous of borrowing money for the purchase of tools or materials. She administered this fund very wisely, but not knowing how to cast accounts in due form now took lessons from me in that art. She begged me to remain with them and act as schoolmaster to the children of the Village, of whom there were a great number, since the married men had in general not deserted their regiments; but when I informed her that I could not relinquish my intention of escaping, she desisted, with a sigh for my obstinacy.
So well had she tamed the ‘rough and ready Ninth’ by the gentle bonds of female discipline that when I strove by every argument to arouse that animation that ought to possess the breast of the soldier, I made no impression at all upon them. I offered to head any number of them and make a noble effort to escape into New York, but none of them would listen to me. They were very well off here, they said, and here they would continue at least until Peace were signed, and perhaps for the rest of their lives. The climate suited them, they liked the people of Pennsylvania, and they had had enough of war. Twenty or thirty of them had taken wives, German women for the most part.
Jane Crumer smiled at me when I told her of my ill-success, assuring me that peace had its victories no less than war. She pointed across the parade at Long Winifried (the woman who had stolen the Town Bull at Boston and vanquished the Select-man) seated outside her hut, the familiar clay-pipe still between her teeth. She was transformed from a harpy of the camp into a very respectable basket-maker and the best of housewives, though her tongue was still tart. ‘Gerry Lamb,’ said Jane Crumer, ‘you are but young. When you have overpassed the Fourth Age of Man, and ceased in Shakespeare’s words to “seek the bubble, Reputation, even in the cannon’s mouth” you will, I believe, enter upon the Fifth Age very decently. You will become a most judicious Justice—and I hope then to know you better.’
Said I: ‘Now, Mrs. Jane, you must cease funning, I beg. You know that it is not glory that I seek, but we British are plunged up to our ears in war, and for my part, like poor Terry Reeves, I intend to “stand up for my King and Country till I die!”’
She begged my pardon and cried: ‘No, no, Gerry Lamb, I did not mean to thwart your ways. I admire your steadfastness and I wish you every success. It is only that these poor remains of the Regiment are those who always lacked the resolution to escape, men of peace, not natural soldiers like yourself, and it is better that they remain here. The rest have all run off long ago and many came safe through, as you know. But the most part were apprehended and some shot, some hanged, some cast into prison. The news of their fate has discouraged the remainder.’
Accordingly, I sent a message to my comrades of the Royal Welch Fusiliers in the pen, wrapping a paper around a stone and tossing it over the palisade when the sentinel’s back was turned. It was addressed to Sergeant Collins, and in it I wrote that I intended to head a party for escape to New York, upon St. David’s Day. I considered that in all the British Army the seven men named in my letter could not be excelled for courage and intrepidity. They were three sergeants, viz.: Collins, Smutchy Steel and Robert Prout the transport-sergeant; and four private soldiers, Tyce, Penny, Evans and Owen. I mentioned that if they decided to come they were to meet me in my hut at midnight on the last day of February. At the same time I sought out Captain de Saumarez at his quarters in the town and told him of my intention, mentioning the names of the men. As my money was almost expended, I begged him to advance me as much as was convenient. He applauded both my intention and my choice of a day; and the same evening sent me no less than eight guineas, one for every man of the party.
Although my old comrades of The Ninth would none of them venture with us, they did all that lay in their power to further our escapade. Two of them even consented to hold the sentinel in play at the hour for which the evasion from the pen was planned, by pretending to be drunk and cutting capers in the vicinity of his box. The night fortunately was very dark, and at midnight the seven men duly entered my hut, having scaled the palisade unobserved. There they remained for the rest of the night. I took the precaution to bind them to certain Articles of War. The expedition that we were now undertaking must be conducted under military discipline, and being unanimously chosen their leader I demanded perfect obedience. Smutchy, who had been with me during my previous successful escapade, and now bought a cavalry pistol from one of the villagers, volunteered to execute the sentence of death upon any man who disobeyed my orders. In return, I undertook to hold a Council of War whenever I was myself in doubt as to the course to follow; but my own decisions must be obeyed as if they were those of Lord Cornwallis himself.
On March 1st, therefore, after drinking a few parting glasses in my hut to the success of our venture, ‘and St. David’, we set out westward in two parties towards the frozen Susquehannah River, which lay ten miles off. With the leading party went Jane Cramer, who was by now so well known in the country that it would be supposed that the men with her were members of the Convention army. The rear party I myself conducted, and my pass, which was good as far as the river, would no doubt cover the other four men, who would say that they had left theirs behind. We passed through the country without challenge and said our thanks and farewell to Jane as we came in sight of the river. Looking back, I observed that she walked away very disconsolately as if she would readily have come with us, but for the responsibilities that she had undertaken at the Village, and her poor disabled husband. She then turned herself about, and observed my backward looks. We both returned to the place where we had parted, moved by a common sympathy; our eyes filled with tears, I kissed her hand, but neither of us found words for this second good-bye.
The ice when we came to the river was rotten with thaw; for the weather had been mild during the day, and it was evident that we could not attempt to cross. However, a severe north wind now blew up and I judged that it was now freezing again. The Susquehannah at this point was about a mile over. We resolved to remain on its banks all night in the hope that by morning the ice would bear our weight. In a thicket some of us felled a few saplings and made a hut of hurdles to protect us against the wind, while others collected brushwood. I went along the bank to where I had noticed a man setting fishing-lines at a hole in the ice. I believed that he might have observed us, and wished to assure myself that he was of no danger to us. His face appeared familiar and I had no difficulty when I approached to put a name to him. ‘Why, now, Happy Billy Broadribb,’ I cried, ‘how goes the fishing?’
This Broadribb was a Royal Welch Fusilier. He had received his nickname because of the gloom which was permanently settled upon his countenance; he had deserted us during our expedition against Fort Lafayette two years before. He had been very negligent of his hair and accoutrements on that occasion and had impertinently answered the Sergeant who reproved the fault, protesting that ‘pipe-clay and pomatum will lose us the war’ and that ‘the Americans at least have a great deal more sense than to waste their time in such fribbling ways’. The Sergeant ordered him a lashing of twenty strokes, to be carried out the next morning; but he deserted rather than submit. ‘Happy’ Broadribb seemed very shy of me at first, as a sergeant in the regiment from which he had ‘deserted in the face of the enemy’; but it occurred to me that he might be of assistance to us, and I therefore showed him every possible friendliness.
‘Why, Happy Billy,’ said I. ‘Sergeant Farr who ordered you that lashing is dead, poor fellow, these eighteen months. He was a very severe officer. I believe that nobody blamed you in his heart for answering him back as you did. But were you not a friend of Harry Tyce? He is yonder in the bushes with a few others of the Regiment, and would, I am sure, be glad to shake your hand again.’
‘Nay, I must be going,’ said Broadribb, looking very ill at ease. ‘I am sure I cannot l
ook any Welch Fusilier in the face. Besides, it is very cold.’
‘We have a gallon of peach-whiskey between us,’ I said, ‘and you shall warm yourself with a dram.’
He then consented to accompany me into the thicket. But first, I asked him: ‘Well, pray, old Happy, how have you spent the last two years? Have the people of America fulfilled your expectations of them?’
He sighed and replied lugubriously: ‘To tell you the truth, Sergeant Lamb, I have passed a most miserable existence since I left the Service. The Americans universally profess scorn for me as having deserted my King yet being averse from an engagement to fight for Congress. It is very hard. I have roved about Pennsylvania and New York and the Jerseys ever since, working most industriously for my livelihood; but have ever met with more kicks than halfpence.’
‘What sort of work have you done?’ I asked.
‘Why, now, any and every sort of work—“whipping the stump”, with an axe over my shoulder, peddling Notions, helping in a saw-mill, rowing at a ferry, hoeing turnips for a Dutch farmer, even “goose-herding”, though I am a sad hand with the needle. I believe I know every inch of the country between here and the British lines. The Loyalists have been better friends to me than the Rebels, for I have made no bones about regretting my desertion.’
We went together into the thicket, and in a tone that I hoped my comrades would understand I cried out: ‘Here comes a friend in need, Fusilier William Broadribb who once deserted the Regiment in a huff but has lived to regret it. I believe that he will now make amends for his single error by acting as our guide back to New York. He knows the whole lie of the land as well as General Washington himself. Come, comrades, where is that peach? A deep swig of benbooze for old Happy Billy Broadribb.’
Private Tyce, who was a Yorkshireman, took the cue well and slapped his old mess-mate on the back. ‘I’m right glad to see you, Billy Broadribb. It will all be plain sailing. You will guide us by the paths you know, and when we win safe through to New York we will as one man intercede for your pardon with Sir Henry Clinton—how say you, Sergeant Lamb?’
‘He will grant it,’ I replied with assurance. ‘There is no doubt whatever on that score. And what is more, when I ran over the same course three years ago, Sir Henry was most liberal in his reward of our guide, as Sergeant Steel here will testify.’
Here Sergeant Probert interposed in his excitable Welsh way: ‘I care not what Sir Henry gives, but I do know this, by damn, that I my own self will reward Billy with a great deals of money, and with a great many drops of drink too.’
We made Broadribb happy indeed with repeated drams of peach-whiskey and encouragement of him as a misunderstood and ill-used person; and he finally consented to guide us throughout the journey. But, drunk though he was, I was pleased to observe that he did not on that account lose his judgment, but on the contrary gave us very valuable advice. He said that he knew the temper of the country very well, and that whereas two or three men might pass through it unmolested, nine in number were too many altogether. We must divide up, as soon as we had passed the river, for so great a body of British soldiers would soon spread an alarm through the country and cause immediate pursuit. He also strongly advised us to change our regimental clothes for ‘coloured’ ones at the first opportunity.
We told him that we would sleep on the proposal. We had a merry supper party upon the fish he had caught, which we roasted at the fire, also some slices of sour German bread and the peach-whiskey.
We took turns to keep watch and at dawn I went down to the river to test the condition of the ice. It cracked under my feet, yet bore me. I brought the good news back to the party, and we resolved to make the crossing without delay. Though the ice was exceedingly weak and broken up in many places, we ventured with the firmest resolution. It shivered and complained beneath us at every step we took. We proceeded in Indian file at a few paces’ distance and had armed ourselves with long saplings so that if any man were engulphed the others might haul him to safety; but in the event we crossed without accident. Having gained the further bank, Sergeant Collins said to me: ‘Well, now, Lamb, I believe that Broadribb is right. We must divide our forces if we are to succeed. How do you say?’
‘I am very reluctant to do that,’ I replied, ‘but I can see no alternative. The Loyalists, who might be willing to assist two men or three, would most probably be fearful of entertaining so great a party as ours is now. I propose therefore that we break up into four and four. Broadribb can choose which party he would care to guide. Do you and I, Collins, each choose a man in turn; for since you are the senior sergeant you must command the other party.’
We made our choices. My first was Smutchy Steel, my second Sergeant Probert, my third was Private Jack Tyce. Sergeant Collins chose the other three private soldiers as being men of his own company. Happy Broadribb elected to accompany me, because of his friendship for Tyce and because he believed that I would have more influence than Sergeant Collins, should we succeed in our attempt, in the matter of obtaining his pardon from Sir Henry Clinton. Then I said: ‘Very well, that is decided. Collins, my advice is to travel by night and hide by day, and to use a chain of friends, making certain of each next link as you go.’
‘Why, for sure, that is what I shall do. But what of the first link? Happy, can you not direct me to a place from which to make a start?’
He undertook to do that and gave Sergeant Collins the name of a Loyalist widow living seven miles off, who would doubtless be friendly to them if they approached her discreetly. We then took leave of one another with aching hearts, while expressing full expectation of meeting all together at New York: we even considered what dishes and wines would grace our banquet of celebration. After some argument we compounded for beef-steaks, a fricassee of chicken, a prime leg of mutton, a boiled goose well stuffed, a sweet sauce of cranberries, copious Madeira, eggs and bacon, and a pineapple apiece—if such a fruit could be procured. Smutchy protested that for him no board was well spread without a steaming dish of ‘Irish Roots’ boiled in their jackets. We engaged to provide him with half a peck on his trencher, with salt and fresh butter to eat them with.
Sergeant Collins and his men continued towards the house proposed to them, but we hid all day among the trees on the snowy hill-side that formed the further bank of the river. In the morning our guide brought us to the house of one of the King’s Friends, as Loyalists were here termed. He proved more useful to us than agreeable. His business was the collection and sorting of silk, linen and cotton rags for paper-making, and he was able to provide us from his stock with four suits of very bad coloured clothes, taking our regimentals in exchange. He was a grim, unsmiling man and would not permit us to enter his house, warning us that though we might use his shed, we must expect him to disown all knowledge of us if we were apprehended on his grounds. We asked him for a few cold potatoes or a little bread, but he had nothing to spare, he said. We did not see him again, nor did he wish us ‘God speed’.
I put on my suit with disgust, for it had the rank musky smell of negro in it. Private Tyce, smiling a little to see the usually correct and formal Sergeant Lamb dressed in such a rig, I struck an attitude and declaimed in theatrical style, from my favourite character of Edgar in King Lear:
No port is free; no place
That guard and most unusual vigilance
Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
I will preserve myself: and am bethought
To take the basest and most poorest shape
That ever penury, in contempt of man,
Brought near to beast; my face I’ll grime with filth,
Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots,
&c., &c., &c.
At eleven o’clock that night we began our march, making towards Lancaster, an industrious German town of eleven hundred houses; but we decided to avoid its streets and brought up our right shoulders a little, keeping always to the woods. To have passed to the south of the town would have been dangerous: it wou
ld have taken us into territory inhabited by the inveterate Presbyterians of Ulster, whose town of Londonderry was a chief focus of revolution as well as the seat of the young American linen industry. As Irishmen, Smutchy and I could expect no mercy did we fall into their hands. But the Germans were not, so Broadribb assured us, either inquisitive to travellers or cruel to the unfortunate.
At dawn we arrived at a village named Litiz. There was a house a little distant from the others with an ill-written sign to the effect that refreshment for man and horse was to be had there. Broadribb informed us that the warmth of the whiskey had died down in him and that he needed more of the same, and a good breakfast to settle it. We judged it necessary to humour him, and since we had no spirit to spare, it was natural to allow him a little money for a drink. Unfortunately, we had no smaller coin with us than a silver dollar, and I could not trust Broadribb in a tavern alone with such a sum. He would soon become intoxicated and might forget us altogether while we waited outside in the woods. So we must go in with him. We therefore rapped at the door, and I suppose that the landlord must have taken a peep at us from the window and thought us ill-looking customers; for he scrambled out of the backdoor, bare-footed and half-dressed, buttoning himself as he went. We were apprehensive that he had run out to alarm the neighbours and therefore ourselves ran in the opposite direction and took shelter in a small wood.
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