The Proud and the Free

by Howard Fast

  My good friend, what can I do for you?

  And he told me. afterwards that in this skinny, ragged soldier who stood upon his doorstep there came to him, all at once and like an accusation, the voice of a handful who like men accursed went on without end; but there was no accusation in my thoughts or my voice, and I must have sounded like a little lad when I said to him:

  Pastor Bracken, this is Jamie Stuart, come back again.

  Dreadful to me was the long, lasting moment of silence, while he stared and stared – and fear came; for how did I know that here was where I belonged, and how did I presume on those I knew so little? To older folk, five years is very little indeed, but the five years from seventeen to twenty-two are a whole lifetime.

  Jamie Stuart, he said slowly and thoughtfully and wonderingly. In all the mercy of God, is this him? Come up here, my son.

  He held the door open and I passed in and followed him to his study, where a lamp burned. The wick of this he turned up; and then, putting a hand on either arm, he faced me and examined me searchingly all over, but warmly and fondly.

  Jamie Stuart … he repeated … Indeed it is he. A boy goes away and a man comes back, and I am glad to see you home, my son.

  Not being able to talk, I just stood there and faced him and let the warmth of the room, the golden light of the lamp and the curling flames of the fire sink into me.

  Then sit down, he said. Sit down and rest, and in a while, you will be yourself.

  He led me to a chair close to the fire, and I sat down there and I began to cry, ashamed of myself and hiding my face in the wing of the chair. But I had walked thirty miles that day, and never a bite of food had I eaten, and this was unreal and uncertain; and I wept because it would vanish as dreams always vanish, leaving behind them only the aching memory which in turn grows dim and unrecognizable.

  I am ashamed, for a man should not weep, I told him.

  And how else will you rid yourself of your sorrows, he answered, and make yourself clean again? How else, Jamie Stuart?

  He poured a glass of wine from a bottle on his table and handed it to me. I drank it and felt better and wiped my eyes and sighed, for the generous heat of that place was all over me and through me.

  Now I will tell Molly, he said, who is in the kitchen this minute, and what will she think to know that Jamie Stuart is back here, safe and sound and whole!

  He would ask me no questions, I realized, but I stood up and begged him, She should not see me this way —and do I know her even? I am afraid.

  You know her and she knows you.

  Is she married?

  No, he said. Why should she marry, when she considered so much of you?

  But she should not look at me the way I am! What a sight I am!… Yet I could not explain to him how in Philadelphia a citizen would cross the street rather than pass by a soldier of the Line. I stared down at the ragged ends of my overalls, at the broken shoes that showed below them, at the frayed cuffs of my threadbare coat. Months had passed since I had bathed, and after the Line dissolved, I never shaved, but let the corroding ruin of it show all over my body.

  And I have nothing, I said. To show for it all, I have nothing, not even a copper penny to buy a clean shirt, nothing, and I am here like a beggar …

  Make your heart easy, Jamie Stuart, he said, and come with me. You are right, and she will not see you the way you are.

  Then he took me upstairs to his own room, and laid out his own razor and a clean shirt and an old but clean pair of brown britches and good woolen stockings, and then left me there by myself for a little. But while I was still shaving, he came up with a wooden tub and then with a great kettle of boiling water, and a washcloth and soapstone and a dish of oil – for in those days we had no soap such as there is now – and he added to the wardrobe underclothes and a handkerchief, which I had to touch and handle, so unused had I become to the sight of such things.

  Does she know that I am here? I asked him.

  Now wouldn’t she know, Jamie Stuart? Who is this for and who is that for? she asked me, so I told her, and she stood looking at me the way you looked at me before. Is the war over? she asked me, but I did not know the answer to that, and after you have eaten, you may tell us what you desire to, and if you want to speak of nothing at all, well that is all right too.

  I nodded, and then he closed the door behind him and left me alone. I finished shaving, and then I stripped off all my clothes, so that I stood naked for the first time since the winter began, and there was a great strangeness concerning the sight of my body, the white skin which turned black at the line of my boots, so that I wore stockings of ancient filth, the knobs of my joints, the long, stringy muscles, and the long lack of intimacy that made me ashamed, as if I were peeping surreptitiously at another. Standing in the tub, I poured the hot water over myself, and then scrubbed and scrubbed, oiling myself where the dirt was heaviest and working it out, scrubbing my hair too, every bit of me, until for the first time in so long I stood clean and fresh and sweet-smelling. Then I dressed myself in Jacob Bracken’s clothes, with only my old boots to remind me of what I was once. From my own clothes, I took the few papers and documents which I had saved, my warrant from the Committee of Sergeants and the one or two other things I valued, and then folded the ragged bits of uniform together and placed them in one corner, thinking that the next day I would wash them, since they were all that I had.

  Then I went downstairs into the low-ceilinged parlor of the manse. There Jacob Bracken waited for me, and he said:

  This way, I would have recognized you, Jamie. You are not so different.

  But inside – I thought to myself – there is a deep and profound difference, and how shall I explain that to anyone? And less and less able would I be, now that the events of Morristown and Princeton were so far away.…

  It will snow tonight, Jamie, said the Pastor Bracken, and it is good that you are here under our roof.

  But where, I wondered, would Jack Maloney be when the snow fell, and where Billy Bowzar and Danny Connell and the Jew Levy and all the rest? Where would they be?

  Taking my arm, Jacob Bracken led me into the little dining room, where the round table was set for three people, and where Molly Bracken waited.

  Here is a man to see a woman, said the Pastor, and I said:

  Good evening to you, Molly Bracken.

  Good evening, Jamie Stuart, said she.

  And then she gave me her hand, which I held for a moment, but more than that I could not do, and what I would say, I did not know. This and that out of the past is unclear and indistinct, but I see Molly Bracken plainly enough as she was on that evening when I came home, with her black, black hair so shining and lovely, and with her eyes so blue, the fullness of her womanhood lessened only a little by the size I had gained in growth; and this was the dream I had over and over for five long years. Well, my throat was big and my voice was hapless, and overgrown and awkward I stood, like a large and hapless lad, until she asked me, simply enough:

  And are you hungry, Jamie Stuart?

  Never a bite of food did I taste today.

  Then sit down and I will bring you my cooking, and you can see what a fine cook I am.

  So the three of us sat down at the round pine table, with its pretty painted top and its four pewter sticks, which I remembered so well, and the pewter mugs and the yellow dishes that were made by the Dutch folk in Philadelphia, and the two-pronged forks that had come over from the old country; and the Pastor bent his head and said:

  Lord God of Hosts, Who is merciful in His strange ways, we give Thee thanks this night not alone for bread which we eat, but for bringing home to us this lad who, without kith or kin, is dear to us and close to our hearts.

  Then Jacob Bracken looked up and smiled and said, Bring in the food, Molly lass, and we’ll see if the lad has improved his appetite along with his ways.

  But I sat there with my head bent and the tears coming again, hating myself for my weakness, for I had been a st
rong man and a hard one, hearkened and respected by the soldiers of the Line. Not until Molly had gone for the food did I raise my head again.

  In those times, the South Country of Pennsylvania was fruitful, and even a poor Lutheran Pastor set a good table, and if as a boy I ate poorly in my apprenticeship, it was less for the lack of food than for the contempt of men, child or otherwise, that the whole system of master and servant bred. Tonight, there was fresh baking, suet pudding and boiled beef with turnips, with pickled apples on the side and small beer. It was good and filling food and I ate well, but mostly with my eyes on the table, and almost as little as I spoke, Molly spoke; but the Pastor kept up a running history of the five years in the town, who was born and who died, and what had taken place when the Congress fled Philadelphia and came here to sit. In this very manse had sat Peytons from the Virginias and Schuylers from York colony and such other men as Stewart and Adams and Reed and great gentry of like kind, and what would Molly Bracken think of me sitting here now, the orphan child of Scottish bondslaves who did not even know his own grandfather and was owner not even of the clothes that he wore? But Jacob Bracken had no mind for that, and on and on he went; a sawmill had been set up, and with the new loan from France, it was turning out wood for muskets day and night, and it was done on shares, so that Tumbrill was no longer merely a cobbler, but held a percentage of stock in the mill, as did Jackson Soakes, who had set up a banking establishment here when Congress came – which bank still flourished; and there was talk of iron molding, since if campaigns were to be fought in the South, why should not ball ammunition be dropped here? Many were the changes that I had never noticed, and he said:

  These are new ways, Jamie, but I can’t say that I like them. It troubles me that the war, which we never see or feel, brings us wealth so strangely …

  Father, said Molly Bracken, never a word can Jamie get in when you go on like that.

  I am merely filling in the years.

  Yes, Father, said Molly Bracken patiently, that you are, and he comes straightaway from where there are things doing and battles fought and grand encampments and cities – but never a word of this will you give him a chance to tell.

  When he wants to tell it, he will tell it, said Pastor Bracken. When my son comes home, I do not ask him why he comes. It is enough for me that he is here. When I opened the door, Molly, and saw a soldier of God’s own angry army standing there in the cold winter night, with the ragged overalls that Christ’s soldiers wear, I did not think to catechize him on where he was from or where he was bound for, or whether he was coming from the battle or? going to it; for who am I here in the comfort of mine own house to question those who freeze in the open wintertime and march all footsore and weary? I think, sometimes, that we are too proud, too proud, and such as we would not hasten to lighten Christ’s burden if he came by with the great weight upon his back, but would rather point out that his clothes were ragged and his face unshaven. So if I would give shelter and comfort and confidence to a stranger – which no man is in all truth – should I do less for my son here?

  I didn’t ask for a sermon, Father, said Molly patiently, but simply for a moment for someone else to get a word in.

  Jamie, he said, these are new times, with less respect from a child than my father got from his. Is the war over, Jamie?

  No, I answered, and then I told them what had happened. Wholly and completely, I told it, keeping nothing back, and there we sat at the table while the candles burned down, with no interruption except when Jacob Bracken rose to throw a stick of wood on the fire, and all of it came out of me, even to the last betrayal of my comrades. So I finished and said:

  This is what I did, and I came home to the only place I knew as home, and as to whether what I did was right or wrong, you can judge.

  I cannot judge, said Jacob Bracken, and that is something that only the Lord God can do, so I will not judge, Jamie. Meanwhile, go into my study and pull up a chair to the fire, and while Molly finishes the women’s work, I will burn some rum and we will drink a glass with butter and talk as friends, which is what we are, Jamie Stuart. So go on in there, Jamie, and build up the fire and draw the chairs close, and soon we will join you.

  This I did. And then with the dry wood spluttering in the hearth, with the little room just as warm and cuddly as a squirrel’s nest, I went to the window and watched the first real winter’s snow begin to fall. You know when it is the real snow, the deep snow, the abiding snow that comes to blanket the ground and remain. Each flake is large and firm and turns and twists with great assurance as it comes to the ground, and then for a man indoors there is the mighty security of roof and fire, but for a man out in the field it is an awful thing to see the whole world turn white and cold and silent. So for all that I was here, with the fire blazing and the books lining the walls and the stuffed wild goose sitting popeyed and proud on the mantel, I was neither restful nor at ease; for the best of me was elsewhere, and what was I doing by the fireside with all of my good comrades gone away from me?

  I was glad when Jacob Bracken came in, for I feared my own thoughts and had no desire to be alone with them. He gave me a mug of hot flip, and we sat down before the fire, and he said:

  Well, Jamie, here we are, myself and you too, snug and safe in front of the fire —which in a way is God’s judgment for whatever small good we did in our lives. Do you believe in God, Jamie?

  It took a while for me to answer that, for in the flames and come to life, as pictures do when you sit and ponder a burning log, were all the troubles I had known in my own young life, and all the little bites of glory, and all the faint heart and fears, and all the marches and countermarches since that long ago time when the 1st Regiment of the Pennsylvania Line had paraded through the streets of Philadelphia and then set out to join the Yankee farmers outside of Boston town, each of us with a sprig of May finery in our hats, each of us with something or other in our hearts. Thus moved the possessed and the dispossessed and we were one together, but I was not one with them any longer; and here was a man of God asking me if I believed in his Master.

  I think not, I said finally and unhappily, for I never saw any judgment between the good and the bad which was not either the whim of chance or the working of the gentry. There was a little drummer lad in the beginning of this revolt, and his name was Tommy Mahoney, and while some drummer boys become mean and sly and bad in every way – which is not so strange, when you consider the terrible life they live – this one was good and pure, and he died without cause or reason, as did so many of my comrades in all the years of this bitter war.

  And was the Revolution no reason, Jamie? asked Jacob Bracken.

  Sure – reason enough, if you say that what we went away to strive for might have been. But soon enough we discovered that the grudge and gripe of the officer gentry was not our grudge and gripe, and it was only to serve their purpose that we existed. There was one class in the Line of the foreign brigades, and there was another class who led us, and never was there a meeting between the two or any kind of understanding. They turned us into dogs; it was the whip and the cane, week in and week out, with no pay and no food and no clothes – and soon that became no hope, which could not be otherwise, it seems to me. We in the Line were Jew and Roman and Protestant and black and white, and we learned to fight and live and work together; so when you ask me if I believe in God, what should I think about the big Bantu Nayger, a slave and unbaptized without grace or salvation, and he came into the Line with blood on his hands and a heathen name, Bora Kabanka, a great black man who had slain his master? What should I think about him, when at Monmouth he picked me up in his arms and bore me from the field under fire, like I was a little babe – and if I had a guinea for every lash he took from the officers because he was a proud black man, then I would be rich indeed? There is dying for a cause, which is one thing, and there is dying for the proud folk who do not give two damns for us. I leave that. I will not go back and serve under them again, and I will not believe in a
God who stands firm behind the man with property but has only a curse and a blow for men like me.

  Well, Jamie, Jacob Bracken said thoughtfully, there’s a way of looking at things, and belief in God is not an easy matter to argue, is it? I don’t hold with those who say Don’t discuss religion — for what is better meat for chewing than the food of one’s own soul? Now I believe in God and in the Lord Jesus Christ the way I believe in my own right hand, and I attempt to serve Him, you know; but consider that I who talk of God with such certainty have never ventured in His behalf any more than a little speech and now and then a bout with a sinner, whereas you who deny Him, Jamie, have given five years of your life in His holiest service.

  Have I? I said.

  Indeed you have, Jamie, and on that point I am completely clear.

  Well, I wondered, what of the King’s soldiers, who are blessed with the blessing of God when they put on that lobster suit of theirs?

  Now, for the first time, Jacob Bracken lost his calm manner; a flush came over his long, narrow face, and the broad mouth roared out:

  Who said?

  The Archbishop of Canterbury, for one.

  The servant of the Devil! he cried. On his lips, the word God is an abomination! Ye hear me, Jamie? An abomination! Every sacred martyr of Protestantism is proof of that! Cursed is the Church of England as the Church of Rome is cursed –

  But, I interrupted, a great many of the lads in the brigades were Romans.