The Proud and the Free

by Howard Fast

  Jacob Hyer stopped gibbering, stared at Wayne for a moment, and then walked weakly over to the bar and leaned against it. But then he recalled that customers were leaving without paying their score, and prudence overcame grief as he dashed past me and outside, calling them to pay up. Meanwhile, Wayne sauntered over to me, followed by Butler and Stewart.

  What does all this mean, Sergeant? he asked.

  It means that we are placing the whole village inside our lines, and that anyone who doesn’t live here is to get out.

  Why?

  I don’t know why. I am given orders and I carry them out.

  I think you know why, Sergeant. You’re making a hard score for yourself, and, as you may have heard, I have a long memory.

  That’s just as it may be, General Wayne, and if you want to know more I’ll take you over to the Committee of Sergeants and you can ask them.

  I can wait. I’m a patient man.

  As I am also.… And then I started to turn away, but he caught my sleeve and said:

  Does that order about nonresidents apply to myself and Colonels Stewart and Butler?

  It does not apply to yourself and Mr. Stewart and Mr. Butler. Yourself and Mr. Stewart and Mr. Butler can stay here, General, if you wish, or you can go out of our lines or you can go over to Nassau Hall – or do anything you damn please except talk to the men. I will leave six of these men of mine here at the inn, but they are only to see that you can go where you want to go safely, and as for talking to the men – well, you can do whatever talking you have to do to me or to the Committee. That’s the way it is.

  So that’s the way it is, Sergeant.

  Yes, sir.

  And the news I am expecting from Philadelphia?

  Who is bringing it?

  The Marquis de Lafayette or General St. Clair or both, with Colonel Laurens, said Wayne – holding onto his temper remarkably well, which was something for him, since he was as hot-tempered as he was arrogant.

  When they arrive, I will let you know.

  You will not conduct them here?

  I will not take them or anyone else into our lines until I have orders to do so.

  Said Wayne to that, looking me up and down: We have an old saying, Sergeant, that if you would skip a jig, you must pay off the fiddlers.

  Or, among the Scots, I grinned, that he who dances must pay the piper. But the hell with that, with the dancing I’ve seen these five years, and many a lad who had no ground under his feet when he danced and no breath for song, either. But I must say, General, I added, that we are a sober folk with the gentry, for when you cracked the whip, you were never one half so gentle with us.

  We cracked it lawfully, whispered Wayne, and not for a God-damned cursed mutiny.

  Ye have always had the making of the law, haven’t you, General?

  And will have it again, Jamie Stuart.

  Then if you know my name, I said, and I didn’t think you knew the name of any of the dirt you led, call me when you want something.

  Then I turned away and told off the men for the inn. I put Aaron Gonzales over them, who was a lad with a level head, and I told him that if one dram of spirits was touched, I’d see that a court-martial took place. I was burning with anger – for no matter what I said, there was that cold, thin, assured face of Wayne to tell me who would have the last lick – and he knew that I meant what I said. Then I took the rest of my men and went out of the damned place, with Hyer plucking at my coattails and pleading his cause.

  Let go, you scut! I threw at him, and marched off past the raging ousted guests up the road to the bridge. The men had done their work well, but such was my mood that I found grounds for complaint wherever I went. The cannon at the bridge was at the further instead of the nearer end; the barrier of logs and branches across the road was not filled in with dirt; the opening was too wide. At the side roads I swore because the men had crowded the roads instead of picketing the fields, and at the Philadelphia direction, there was a little knot of town girls, joshing the men as they made bastions and built match fires.

  What are ye? I cried. Is this some damned militia picnic?

  And when Button Lash, the sergeant in charge and the first man ever to enlist in the 1st Regiment of the Pennsylvania Line, blinded in one eye with grape at White Plains, without toes from the freezing winters, and sometimes addled in his head with all the woe he had seen, but gentle and dearly loved by all of us, said to me, Ah, Jamie – Jamie, my lad, ye have no call to wallop these boys for taking a word with a maid. They are good lads and working truly … I was sick and sore and speechless and did the rest of my rounds in silence.

  Then I went past Nassau Hall where the Committee still burned light, found my hutment, pulled off my boots and crawled into bed, overalls and all. I was sick at heart and knotted in the belly and bruised inside with loneliness and frustration and hopelessness – and for that I slept poorly, tossing and turning and dreaming dreadful dreams of my childhood, dreams in which I stood naked in the midst of a circle of bearded, kilted gillies such as my father had told me of, and while an unseen arm whipped me they chanted, Caper, Jamie, caper, for this is your lot and it will not be otherwise.

  * * *

  Sweating and grateful, I awoke to someone’s whisper and a hand on my shoulder, and there was Willie Hunt, unseen in the darkness but his voice specific enough telling me:

  Jamie – Jamie, wake up, for we got some passing strange fish in our net and we don’t know what in hell to do with them.

  What time is it?

  Onto morning, Jamie, but this is a dirty catch and the men will not wait.

  Coughing, my stomach all sour and heaving, I crawled from the straw bolster and pulled on my boots and struggled into my coat, and then felt my way out after Willie Hunt. Onto morning it might have been, but there was no sign of that in the starless sky, which was as black as pitch. Benny Clapper from the 2nd was waiting for us with a lit brand, and in the light it cast we followed him over to the bridge. As we walked over there, I asked Willie Hunt:

  How did you get into this?

  I could not sleep, Jamie, so I stretched my legs over to the bridge, where I thought maybe I could pry a little tobacco out of the lads. And there I am, warming by the fire and gossiping with them to pass the time, when out of the night come these two very strange birds.

  What are they?

  Wait and you’ll see, Jamie. You’ll see.

  We were at the bridge now, and there, behind the barricade in a circle of men, were two well-dressed but nervous gentlemen, one long, one short, both cloaked in black and wearing fine felted hats. Outside the circle and to one side, another of our lads held their horses, and in spite of the cold of that early winter morning, the two of them were sweating.

  Here is Jamie Stuart, someone said, and the circle opened up to let me in; but the two strangers said nothing, only eyeing me nervously and speculatively.

  Who are you and what do you want? I demanded.

  We want to speak to the authority of the mutiny.

  What mutiny?

  The mutiny of the Pennsylvania Line.

  Who in hell said there was a mutiny?

  That is the intelligence we have.

  And who in hell is we?

  Who are you, sir? demanded the taller one suddenly. Who are these men? What security have we that these are Pennsylvania men?

  That’s the kind of dirty culls they are, Jamie, said Benny Clapper, and they got the white mark of Tory on them, I swear. They been standing here and talking in circles these twenty minutes now. And you know what I say they are? I say they’re dirty damned spies, and we ought to string them up on a handy branch and have done with it.

  Now that’s a hasty opinion to come to, said the smaller man, licking his lips, his eyes darting from face to face. A hasty way of dealing with honest men. Are you the Pennsylvanians?

  We are, I nodded.

  We must see your commander. We must speak with him.

  Now look at them, Jamie, said
Michael Omalley. Me eyes have not seen two more honest men.

  What do you want with our commander? I asked.

  We have a message for him, a most confidential message, an exceedingly confidential message.

  Message from where?

  That is our intelligence, said the taller man hoarsely. We are honor bound to reveal that only to your commander. To no one else. I am sorry, sir.

  All right, I said. All right –

  And when they all began to talk, I cried, Shut up – the lot of you. I’ll take them to the Committee. Benny and Willie, come along with me. The rest of you mind that road and stop the damned gabble. A fine lot of talkative soldiers you are!

  But our horses, sir … the tall one began.

  Leave your horses where they are. Do you expect to ride through the village at this hour of darkness like a bloody Paul Revere? If you’re as honest as you testify, you’ll have your horses soon enough.

  And with that, we marched these two uneasy gentry down the road to Nassau Hall. By now, the night was breaking, the pitch-black giving way to murky gray, the houses emerging like ghosts from the darkness. The little town had that ultimate quiet that a place has in those very early hours, and the sentries in front of Nassau Hall were haggard and weary, their eyes full of the mysterious weight of the nighttime.

  What’s up, Jamie? they asked. What’s up?

  I must wake the Committee.

  They bedded down late, Jamie, right there on the floor by the table, and it’s only God’s mercy to leave them alone.

  I haven’t much mercy lately, and here are two queer birds who can’t wait. I’m thinking this is important enough.

  All right, Jamie, go on in.

  So we went in, with our two strangers and our torches, and woke up the Committee where they lay, stretched out on their blankets on the floor. It was a shame, a burning shame to wake men who slept so tiredly, such a sleep that it was like the sleep of the dead; but there was something about those two black-cloaked messengers that made my skin crawl, and I wanted none of them on my own. We lighted the candles on the table, and once again that queer, singular, almost worshipful feeling about the Committee of Sergeants came over me; for waked as they were now, at this unholy hour, with the splutter of torches in their faces, they were nevertheless patient with a patience beyond belief and listened gravely to my tale.

  Very well, said Billy Bowzar when I had finished, we are the Committee which is entrusted with supreme command over the Pennsylvania Line, but we will have no dealings with you, sirs, unless we know who you are and from whence you come. And when you say this, you say it with no restrictions – otherwise go now. This is a military encampment of a Continental Army, and within our own lines, this Committee is the court of law with all powers of martial enforcement. Also, our law is not the law you might be accustomed to, for we make our law to enforce what we believe to be right and just. I say this to offer you due warning.

  I think we can do business, sir, said the taller man, so I am ready to accept your conditions. You have been waked out of your sleep and we have gone without ours, so I will get to the point quickly and without further ado. My name is Mason and this is James Ogden, and we come as emissaries from Sir Henry Clinton in His Majesty’s loyal city of New York. From the Commander in Chief of His Majesty’s forces, we bring greetings and good cheer – and it is our good fortune to be the first to do so. We also bring a message of historic importance, which I will deliver into your own hand.

  Roughly and as well as I can remember, the foregoing is what Mason said. He was not an imaginative man, and he appeared unaware as he spoke of how stony and set the faces of the sergeants became. Almost cheerfully now, he took off his shoe, raised the inner sole, and extracted a piece of lead foil. Then, with the same precise motion, he put on the shoe again, unfolded the foil, and took out a small piece of thin paper, laying the foil on the table and handing the paper to Bowzar, and still no one spoke.

  Billy Bowzar read it. The writing was exceedingly small and cramped, and Bowzar had to hold it to a candle to read it, and then he passed it to another. Softly, Levy read it aloud for those who had not the learning, and it was short, direct, and to the effect that when the Pennsylvania men entered into accord with His Majesty’s government, each soldier would receive a bonus of twenty British pounds, while each corporal would receive thirty and each sergeant fifty. All former deserters from the British Army would receive full and unconditional pardon. All men who desired to enlist would be welcomed. Those who did not could claim transportation to the West Indies, where they would be given land.

  Finished, Bowzar looked from face to face. Jack Maloney said, I was once George’s man, even more recently than Scottsboro, so let me say this. I say we should hang them now, before the sun rises.

  They are dirty spies and dirty traitors, said Scottsboro. I say hang them.

  I know what you feel, said Bowzar slowly and thoughtfully. They have robbed us of something. Just in coming here, they have robbed us and dirtied us …

  We came in good faith, Mason began.

  Be quiet, be quiet – Bowzar said quietly, but so coldly! – Be quiet. You did an awful thing when you came into our line. These are the Pennsylvania brigades – the foreign brigades. Do you know what that means? Do you know what kind of a trust we carry? I know you are just a little dog for a big dog, but how did you dare to come to us – who have lived and died these five years for man’s freedom – with a tyrant’s offer?

  While he spoke, Bowzar had folded the message, and now he was wrapping it in the lead foil again.

  That was a terrible thing to do, said Bowzar. We will give you to General Wayne, and that way maybe wipe some of the dirt off. There is no other way but that, he said, turning to the Committee. Do you agree?

  One by one, they nodded.

  Ogden began to plead. He fell down on his knees in front of the table, crying as he pleaded. That he was a family man, he said. He had been paid for this. A man does a job that he is paid for. He emptied his pockets and the coins rolled this way and that way across the floor. Do you kill a man who comes to you in good faith? Turn him over to the officers … Hadn’t they revolted against the officers? What kind of insanity was that? At least forget it – forget it and let them go. Let the whole thing be forgotten, as if it had never happened …

  But Mason said never a word, for finally he realized what this Committee was, and the knowledge of the foreign brigades came to him, even if it came too late.

  Take them to Wayne, Jamie, said Billy Bowzar.

  We prodded them out of the room, Ogden stumbling so that he could hardly walk. Outside, I picked up the sentries for a guard, and we went across the road to the inn. It was dawn now, a cold and cloudy winter morning, and when I rapped on the tavern door, Gonzales opened it to me.

  We herded Ogden and Mason in, and I told Gonzales: Wake up Wayne and tell him I must see him here immediately.

  He won’t like that, said Gonzales uneasily.

  The hell with what he likes!

  So Gonzales went upstairs, and we stood in that cold and sour-smelling taproom and waited. Jacob Hyer came in while we stood there, but when he saw my face, he said nothing but went about building up the fire in the hearth. One of his women came in rubbing her eyes, a big woolen wrapper coiled around her. Morning, Sergeant Jamie, she said, to which I answered surlily, Go to the devil and begone. Then Gonzales came back with the officers.

  They had pulled on their boots and thrown their greatcoats over their nightshirts. With the sleep still in their eyes, without their big white wigs, they were less formidable and less proud, closer to life and closer to death. Death was around. That big, cold, sour room smelled of death that morning.

  What does this mean, Sergeant? said Wayne.

  Absorbed in himself, he was, but the other two saw Mason and Ogden, and they knew what it meant. I gave Wayne the piece of lead foil, and he opened it and read what was written on the paper. He passed it to Butler and Stewart. />
  When did it arrive? he asked finally.

  A few hours ago.

  With these two swine?

  With them, I nodded.

  White and quiet, they stood there, quiet and dreadful and hopeless – and it ran through my mind what an awful, monstrous thing war is, but more awful than anything the war where men strike for freedom – for there is no forgiveness, not by the masters and not by the slaves; and I knew more than that: I knew with deep finality that my dreams – wherein this kind of hatred and cruel practice would be no more – were not for accomplishment in my time or my children’s time, and I knew what it was to be of a Committee of Sergeants which led men into a future that wasn’t. Hate went out of me, and I was only tired and forlorn and young, thinking that there are always strange men like myself – and a little of the strangeness in Wayne too – who must chew the bitter cud of freedom and find some nourishment in it. The fruit was not ripe, but it was our sustenance, our only sustenance.

  What are you going to do with them? Wayne asked.

  What are you going to do with them is more to the point, I said. They are a gift from the Committee to you. Take them and be damned.

  And I turned around and walked out.

  PART EIGHT

  Wherein I tell of the fate of the two spies, and certain details concerning the Philadelphia Light Horse Troop and the New Jersey Line.

  WHAT WAYNE THOUGHT, I did not care, for I had no desire to be an honest or loyal man according to his lights. Later that morning, he wrote a note to the Committee, in which he used a good deal of fulsome language and said that his heart had been warmed and reassured by this deed of honor, and he also pledged, in the name of the Congress, an award of fifty gold guineas to each of the sergeants involved in the capture of Ogden and Mason. There was a price on the blood of two miserable wretches, and fifty gold guineas, which made more thousands of Continental dollars than you could count, was the kind of money that no soldier of the Line ever hoped to have, even in his wildest dreams. There I was, a rich man, and Benny Clapper too – but we talked it over and threw the offer back in Wayne’s face; and there’s the answer for those scholarly historians who have been so hard-pressed to comprehend how two such dirty and mean articles as ourselves could turn away a fortune in terms of gentlemen’s honor. Well, we were not gentlemen and it was not gentlemen’s honor, and nothing is paid for but something is bought. We didn’t like that kind of deal, and when Benny Clapper and I had talked about it for fifteen minutes, we agreed that Bowzar should tell Wayne and the rest of them to take their dirty blood money and use it elsewhere. For myself, Jamie Stuart, this was not so hard, because I had neither kith nor kin and no lien on tomorrow, but was a wild and headstrong lad; but Benny Clapper had three kids and a wife in Bristol, and when the gentry boasted to Congress over the hundred guineas they had saved, they were by no means able to comprehend what it meant to a family man to give away security and free land and beasts and tools. But the devil with that, for Benny Clapper was subsequently slain at Yorktown, and no one except myself, an old and feeble man, knows his name today or remembers anything about him; and let the dead sleep, for they will not be awakened or honored in this time.