“So that is how it ended,” someone said and there was a murmur of men recounting where they were and what they were doing or having done to them at the time the General intervened.
The conversations died down as the exhaustion, cold and shock set in. The Regiment’s surgeon, Dr. Timothy Thaxter, arrived, accompanied by an assistant. The doctor was a plump man with ruddy cheeks and frizzy powdered hair, which fluffed out on the sides of his head like uncombed cotton. He removed his cloak that hung over his shoulders, held it behind him, without looking, for his assistant to grab, and scanned the room.
“Well, it does not appear as bad as the other barracks I came from. No one unconscious or gouged-out eyes in here, it seems.”
The doctor cut a comical figure with his yellow waistcoat buttoned tightly across his broad stomach. However, Will sensed from their polite greetings that the Mariners knew and respected him. He handled the more serious cases of the men on the cots himself, while his assistant made the rounds of the room, feeling for broken bones and dressing cuts and bruises. Will watched as Dr. Thaxter felt Adam’s dislocated joint with his long fingers. He couldn’t hear what he said to Adam. Adam nodded, folded a cloth into a square and bit down on it. The doctor stood up, his ample rear blocking Will’s view, and manipulated Adam’s arm. It was accomplished quickly. When the doctor sat down next to Adam, his friend’s arm was back in its socket and Adam was wiping the sweat off his brow with the cloth. Will thought his face looked more grey than black. That must be how blacks turn pale, he thought.
When the assistant put down his bag and knelt next to Will, he first examined the knot on the back of his head. He cleaned the blood from Will’s hair, using a cloth he dipped in a basin of warm water. Will heard a snipping sound, but the assistant held his head firmly so he couldn’t move.
“Do not worry. A young man like you. It will grow back in a week’s time.” He let go of Will’s head and dropped his shorn brown hair on the floor.
The assistant knelt facing him and pulled Will’s eyelids up, looked in each eye and told him to follow his finger with first one eye and then the next. Will did as he was told, watching the assistant’s finger move from left to right and back and forward.
“Good. You will be shipshape in no time,” he said reaching forward and taking Will’s bad hand. Before he could object, the assistant pulled Will’s dislocated thumb forward and twisted it toward his palm. Will yelped in pain.
“The thumb will be sore for a few days. Try not to strain it. And there is no need to thank me,” he said, with a smile, moving on to examine the Mariner next to Will. Will looked down at this hand and cautiously wiggled his thumb.
“Not too hard now,” the assistant said, looking up from cleaning a nasty-looking abrasion near a Mariner’s eye. “You do not want it to fall off. You will need it to hold a fork or spoon when the Colonel sends over food.”
True to the assistant’s prediction, cooks soon brought in loaves of bread and pots of stew, with thick chunks of beef lurking in the dark brown gravy, amidst peas, onions and beans. The men shared the food, taking small portions at first to ensure all received an equal amount. Those with swollen or split lips, missing teeth and bruised jaws ate more slowly than the others. By common, unspoken consensus, it was only after the Mariners with mouth wounds had finished their first portions that the men who had eaten more quickly took second helpings.
Some of the men had wandered off to their rooms before Lieutenant Holmes returned to the barracks. The bruise on his forehead had turned an ugly purple color. He limped to the fire, warming his hands, and then turned toward those of his men who remained. They were slumped against the walls or seated on the few chairs and on the cots of the more seriously injured. Will estimated there were almost forty men still in the common room, all attentively waiting for the Lieutenant to speak.
“I have just come from the Colonel,” Nat announced. “He and Captain Morgan met with General Washington, who is satisfied the Mariners did not provoke the attack and properly defended themselves and his Headquarters. The General however, is greatly displeased with soldiers in his army fighting among themselves and the lack of discipline among the militias. He will soon be issuing general orders to be read to all troops. Anyone, militia or Continental levy, engaging in such unmilitary conduct in the future will be severely dealt with.”
“Who is this Captain Morgan and his militia?” someone asked. There were cries of “Why did they attack the Headquarters? Where do they come from? Was any Mariner badly hurt?” Nat held up both hands for silence.
“They are Morgan’s Rifles,” Nat responded, “named after the man who recruited them, Daniel Morgan. There are two hundred and fiftyfive of them, and most are from the western part of Virginia. Colonel Glover told me Captain Morgan claims his men marched 600 miles in twenty-one days to help General Washington end the occupation of Boston.”
“So they can march. So what,” one Mariner called out. “Do not these ignorant backwoodsmen know they are supposed to fight the British and not us?”
There were murmurs of assent and Will caught words like “illiterate deer hunters,” and “buckskin idiots,” before Nat again signaled for silence.
“General Washington demanded an explanation. Colonel Glover said Captain Morgan claims that when his men arrived last week, a delegation approached Vassell House to pay their respects to the General. They were turned away in a rude manner by armed Negroes in uniform.”
“Not true,” some cried. “They are illiterates and liars,” others called out. “Look to the sentry rosters,” another yelled.
“I am only recounting what our Colonel said Captain Morgan represented to General Washington,” Nat reminded them. “Captain Morgan also told the General it was objectionable, disagreeable and degrading for his men to serve in the same army as Negroes dressed as soldiers. He told the General that he, as a Virginian, should understand.”
4
“And what did the General respond,” Solomon asked, glancing at Adam first.
“General Washington told Captain Morgan he was Commander of the Continental Army and not a militia officer from Virginia. The Colonel said he had never seen the General so angry. He reminded Captain Morgan that he decided who would be his Headquarters Guard and that the Mariners are and will be his Guard for as long as the General is in Massachusetts.”
The room erupted into hooting and clapping and cries of “Long Live General Washington,” and “Three Cheers for the General.”
Nat waited until they had finished the lusty last huzzah. “Several of our men have been seriously injured,” he said grimly. “Titus Fuller had one eye gouged out. Caesar Winship is still unconscious. Dr. Thaxter is hopeful he will improve.” The room was quiet. “It seems the men of Morgan’s Militia singled out the black freedmen of our Regiment for special attention.” His words hung over the room before he added, “I am pleased Adam emerged relatively unscathed.” Adam made a fist and raised his good arm in defiance, to loud cheering. “Colonel Glover said there were about 200 of them involved in the fight, to 123 of us,” Nat added. “Tomorrow, all those who are able should assemble for roster. We want the General to know we are able to continue to serve.”
Sunday morning dawned dull and grey with a low ominous sky promising more snow. A bitter northerly wind added to the men’s discomfort as they lined up before breakfast in ranks, their bodies stiff and aching. Will, with the approval of the men in his barracks, lined up with Lt. Holmes’ company, filling in a gap made by several Mariners too badly injured to report for active duty. He held no rifle and stood in place with his hands alternately held awkwardly at his sides or tucked inside his coat for warmth, looking decidedly unmilitary in his torn breeches and brown coat.
Colonel Glover sat astride his horse at the front of the columns of Mariners. He opened the Bible resting on his saddle horn, read a prayer and added a special plea for the Mariners who were in need of God’s healing powers, and led them in singing a Psalm. Will was aware
he was one of the few who did not know the words. The Colonel read a brief chapter from the Bible, cognizant that the cold made his men’s pain and stiffness worse.
“General Washington has asked me to convey his appreciation for your devotion to duty. He has expressed his continued confidence in you, and I have given him my assurance that you will fully satisfy his expectations. This means you will set aside any feelings for revenge or any ill will you may harbor within your hearts. So long as we serve as the General’s Headquarters Guard, each and every one of you must do your duty properly, acting with polite firmness and rectitude to all who approach Vassell House. The honor of the Regiment demands nothing less from you. I know you will act appropriately.”
He looked over his men and smiled for the first time that morning. “Dr. Thaxter has advised me that nothing would help you to heal better than healthy food in ample supply. You will not be disappointed at today’s meal. General Washington has ordered cured Virginia hams from his own larder, and fresh beef and mutton to be provided to the men of the Marblehead Mariners in recognition of your stalwart duty as his Guard.”
The men greeted this news with three rousing cheers for General Washington and waited to be dismissed.
“Lieutenants. Have your Ensigns read out the day’s orders to your companies.”
Nat saluted, pivoted and shouted a command to the Ensigns at the head of each file of men. The orders read by the Ensigns were short.“The rosters for today’s sentries are posted. Those not on duty are to clean and repair your uniforms. The necessities will be provided. Uniforms must be ready for inspection by day’s end. There will be no drills today. Forward march in file to barracks.”
Will stayed with the ranks until they were dismissed and sought out Nat, who was standing outside the red brick barracks building.
“How are you,” he asked, looking at Nat’s purple bruised temple.
“It is a good thing for me that Colonel Glover obtained Anna’s father’s commitment to our marriage. My God, it is less than a week from today, and I will be limping into Church looking like a common tavern brawler. And you? No lasting damage?” he asked, as they walked slowly away from the barracks and the men.
Will showed Nat that his thumb was in its right place and removed his slouch hat to reveal the scab on the shaved spot on his head. “My head aches less this morning. I can tolerate the pain in my ribs. How are Titus and Caesar?”
Nat looked glum. “Dr. Thaxter will sew Titus’ eye lid shut today or tomorrow. Caesar is still unconscious. The Doctor is of the opinion he may never recover and has warned the Colonel. If he dies, the Colonel does not want the men to go into Cambridge seeking revenge.” He held Will by the elbow and drew him closer.
“Privately, the Colonel has asked General Washington for permission to file charges against Captain Morgan if the General will convene a courts martial.”
“Why does Colonel Glover need permission to do that?
“He does not. Will understand, the Colonel does not want to embarrass General Washington. If the charges are made public and the General does not convene the court, it will create the impression the General favors his fellow Virginians over Massachusetts men. This could reverberate at the Congress in Philadelphia and give comfort to those who are disappointed with the General for failing to drive the British from Boston.”
“So, what is to be done?”
“Colonel Glover hopes to persuade the General. If he cannot, he does not want the Mariners to make matters worse by exacting an eye for an eye, so to speak.” Nat lowered his voice. “I tell you if the Colonel had his way, Captain Morgan would be hanging from a gibbet like the pirate spawn he is.”
“Nat. I barely grasp the politics you talk about. Now I do not even understand your words. What is pihrot spaahn?” he said with exasperation, imitating his friend’s accent.
“The Colonel says that Captain Morgan is somehow related to Henry Morgan, the infamous pirate who pillaged and burned his way up and down the coast. As a seafaring man and himself from a shipping merchant’s family, Colonel Glover has a special aversion to pirates. Besides, he said that Captain Morgan is a poorly educated gambler, with a reputation of a fondness for hard liquor and insubordination during the French and Indian War. He has no respect for such a man.” He sighed. “Well, we have circumnavigated the barrack,” Nat said as they approached the front steps.
“Navigation. That is it, Nat,” Will said excitedly, suddenly remembering. “I need a book of maps. Adam mentioned some islands the other day and I had no idea what he was talking about. Do you think Colonel Knox has books of maps?” he asked eagerly.
“That I do not know. More importantly, remember what I have told you is to be held in confidence. Take advantage of the soap and bleach and clean your clothes,” he said, motioning for Will precede him.
“I am more looking forward to the meal than the washing of my clothes,” Will responded honestly.
“There is time enough for both,” Nat replied as they went up the steps.
Inside the barracks, the common room was warm from a roaring fire, cauldrons of hot water and the body heat of the waiting men. They took turns washing the mud stains and blood from their clothes, and restoring their canvas britches to match the pristine white of the snow that had begun falling in thick swirling flakes. By mid-morning the field in front of the Headquarters was covered in a snowy blanket and the grey stone wall perimeter was barely visible from the barracks. The Mariners recounted their part in yesterday’s fight, oblivious to how ridiculous they looked, re-enacting their roles, wearing long shirts with no pants, or walking around in spare pants borrowed from others, either too large, too short or too tight. Their mood was enhanced by the arrival of hot oat cakes, warm bread and kettles of weak coffee, made more from bark than from beans, but still with a coffee taste to it.
“If I could find the fellow who did me the favor of breaking my crooked teeth, I would give him a hug, no matter how badly he smelled,” Jeremiah announced, eating a piece of oat cake from the other side of his mouth. “If Doctor Thaxter will not remove the stubs, I will find a Boston silversmith to do it,” he stated with conviction. “It will not be long now before we drive the Redcoats out.”
“We should all thank the fellow for making you easier to look at,” Solomon said, standing near the fire, unaware of his own appearance. He was temporarily clothed in a pair of old linen long pants with holes in some places and patches of different-colored cloth in others, and a borrowed shirt, once white but now faded to a dirty yellow color, too short for his lanky frame. His long bony arms protruded from the sleeves just below the elbow like branches from a tree trunk. A brown blanket, thin enough to show the color of the shirt on his back, was draped over one shoulder as if it were a magnificent cloak of the finest fabric.
“If you, Solomon, appeared before Morgan’s militia dressed as you are now, you would scare them back to Virginia,” one of the Mariners said, provoking general laughter.
“Yes,” another yelled. “And they would make their 600 miles in faster time than it took them to get here.”
The morning continued in much the same manner. Will volunteered to bring in more firewood before he washed his clothes. When he returned, his coat and hat covered with snow, he was welcomed with shouts from the Mariners to hurry in and close the door, and with mock cries of horror about how they were freezing in their various states of dress. The men took turns drying their clothes by the fire, and most were back in their uniforms by early afternoon, when the cooks and orderlies brought over food from the Headquarters’ kitchens. In addition to the cured hams promised by the General, there were chicken stews, roasted beef and mutton chops, salted fish, loaves of bread, potatoes, even butter and hard cheese. Will, his hunting shirt and pants still slightly damp but clean of stains and dirt, sat on the floor sandwiched between Jeremiah and Adam, his wooden bowl balanced on his lap, eating voraciously.
“Is your shoulder feeling sore today,” he asked Adam, between spoon
fuls of hot chicken stew.
“Dr. Thaxter said we Mariners have so much muscle supporting our joints we are easier to fix and heal faster than others,” Adam replied, studying the fish skeleton he had picked clean for any missed morsels of flesh. “The thick muscles hold the displaced joint better once it is back in socket,” he added by way of explanation. “Still, I must keep it close to my ribs until it fully heals. When we go fishing, I will teach you how to row and handle the nets. We will make a Mariner out of you yet.”
“He is better now at giving speeches, not his own but Colonel Knox’s, than any of us,” Jeremiah said, leaning across Will to make his point to Adam. “And, you fought well yesterday,” Jeremiah added. “You ran faster than most of us to join the fray.”
Will acknowledged Jeremiah’s praise with a nod. He looked around the room and felt a sense of well-being and belonging. The barracks were his home and the Mariners his family. He hoped he could explain this to his brother. Will had no plan other than to find Johan and give him their father’s message. Without knowing how, he wished Johan would find a way for both of them to stay in Boston.
Chapter 8 - The Bombardment from Lechmere Point Will hurried alongside Nat through the dark streets of Cambridge. He was terrified, more terrified than he had ever been in his life.
“Why did you have to invite me?” he asked plaintively, jumping over a pool of slush to avoid dirtying his recently polished boots.
“Because you are my friend and Colonel Knox permitted me to invite whom I wanted,” Nat responded, limping ahead of him. “The Colonel is giving a dinner for me before my marriage to Anna. You will not be at the Church in Salem so I asked for your attendance at this dinner,” Nat explained with some exasperation in his voice.
Cannons for the Cause Page 16
