Conceived in Liberty

by Howard Fast

  I shake my head. Maybe it seems to her that I’m going away, because she whispers:

  “Bide with me, Allen—for a while.”

  Very slowly, I stand up. I say aloud: “I should have known—it was such a distance for a woman to walk.”

  The cavalrymen take hold of me and lead me back. McLane is watching me, oddly. Kenton’s face is despair and nothing else. When I come close to him, Charley Green reaches out a hand for my arm.

  “Allen?”

  I say to myself, in all the crash of shooting, it might have been someone else. It might have been. I tell myself, We’re going back.

  “It’s no great horror—a dying like that,” Charley says softly.

  “I’m not sorrowing for her,” I say desperately. “I’m not sorrowing for her.”

  “Easy, Allen.”

  “Easy, sure—you’ll be with her soon enough,” McLane says.

  Kenton cries: “Leave him alone, God damn you! Leave off taunting him!”

  They march us back toward the road. I look round, and see that it’s still morning, a glorious cold morning. As we reach the road, we see a brigade coming on the run, panting. They must have heard the shooting in the encampment. The brigade gathers round. They keep telling the story.

  “Pennsylvania deserters——”

  Two men carrying Bess. They walk alongside of me.

  “It’s Wayne’s boast he has no deserters.”

  “He’ll take off some of his pride, Wayne will.”

  “We were walking to the Mohawk,” Kenton laughs. “God—we were walking to the Mohawk.”

  McLane hands us over to the officer of the brigade. “Take them to the redoubt,” he says, “and hold them. They’ve murdered one of my men. I’ll charge them myself.”

  “We’re no murderers!” Green cried. “We shot after your men fired on us.”

  “Take these swine away,” McLane says.

  They marched us back slowly. He was no hard man, the officer of that brigade, a young man whose name was Captain Kennedy. They were Massachusetts men. There were a few there whom Kenton knew, and they made things easier for us.

  Their officer saw how weak we were, and he marched us slowly. But it was a long way back, a weary way. Kenton came up and put an arm round me.

  “It was a good run last night, Allen,” he said. “I didn’t think it to end so soon. I didn’t think of no cavalry to find us out right away.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Kenton.”

  “The lass is dead. You’ll be blaming me for that, Allen? Her blood’s on my hands.”

  “No—I’m not putting the blame on any man.”

  We marched down the King of Prussia Road to the crossroads, then turned right toward the redoubt. As we passed between the dugouts of Varnum’s brigades, Kennedy stopped and had them send out a drummer. The men, part of the Pennsylvania and New Jersey line, flocked out of their huts to see us pass. The drummer beat a low, monotonous roll—for the condemned and dead. Some of the men dropped their heads. We went through slowly; I heard one man say:

  “Poor, damned devils.”

  All the time moving—the cold air, the sunlight glinting from the snow, half-blinding us; I didn’t think much. I understood that Bess was dead, but she was already part of all my memories of the army. They come and go, like the doctor had said, like Moss Fuller had died. I can’t think.

  We march into the redoubt. Into a cold, bare log hut, where Colonel Varnum sits at a camp table. Kennedy salutes. The guard stand at attention. But we’re used up. We stand limply, our hands hanging at our sides.

  “Deserters, sir,” Kennedy says. “Taken by Captain McLane. They resisted arrest, and one of Captain McLane’s men was killed. I have their muskets, all fired. McLane’s man had a ball in his head. They had a woman with them, and she was shot in the breast. McLane’s men fired a volley.”

  “What regiment?” the Colonel asked tonelessly. Too many incidents like ours had occurred for it to matter a great deal.

  “Fourteenth Pennsylvania.”

  “Wayne’s men?”

  We nodded.

  “Your names?”

  We gave him our names.

  “Ragged, filthy beasts, Kennedy. I’d tame a few of them. Maybe we’ll tame these.”

  Kennedy stood without answering.

  “Put them in the guardroom.”

  They took us into a room about six feet square. It had no windows, but there were chinks between the logs. It had a dirt floor, low roof, no fire.

  They barred the door. I heard Kennedy say: “Poor devils——”

  We sit on the floor in silence. Light comes in thin bars through the cracks between the logs. It splatters us with gold, gold on Kenton’s yellow beard.

  We’re cold. Unconsciously, we move toward each other. But we don’t speak.

  My feet pain me. I stretch them out before me, to ease the pain. I find myself trembling, perhaps from the cold.

  “I never thought to hang,” Charley says—like a child would say it.

  X

  THE LIGHT goes; the bars it made throughout the guardhouse vanish, and a deep dusk replaces it. A slow afternoon, and then quick falling of night, with increasing cold. A wind that blows through the spaces between the logs. The floor is cold as ice. Our arms and legs stiffen. We try to find some relief in movement.

  Three times the guard outside changes. We can look through cracks in the door and see him, a ragged, lean soldier.

  We are given nothing to eat. At first, the pain of hunger drives us half-mad. That’s the way hunger is at the beginning. It eases off afterwards. The dull gnawing in your stomach becomes desire, desire for all things. It’s not so hard to bear as the thirst.

  We pound on the door. “Guard—guard—for Christ’s sake, bring us a little food and water!”

  He comes close to the door, looks at us curiously.

  “A drink of water——”

  He says: “A waste of good food.”

  “Anything—a little water.”

  “Do you think I’ve been eating fine today?” he asks us. “Do you think I’ve tasted meat in a fortnight?”

  “Bring us some water.”

  He brings us a pot of water, watches us as we drink it. “A sight of wretched men you are,” he says. “I heard it was nowhere so bad with Wayne’s men.”

  “Why are they keeping us here?”

  “I haven’t asked them.”

  Night comes. I lie on the floor. Kenton’s close to me for warmth. Charley stands up against the door, a dark blur. Closing my eyes, dozing, I can imagine the body next to me as Bess. I can imagine the place as the dugout, and I wait for Bess to make a movement, to touch me, to put her hands on my beard. I wait for Bess to speak, her voice breaking through my slumber. Bits of her voice at first, and then more and more.

  I shake Kenton, and ask: “Bess? Bess?”

  “Allen—you’re losing yer mind.”

  “No—no, I dreamed a little. I’m hungry, Kenton. You don’t suppose they’ll bring us food? Men can’t live long without food. If they’re meaning to hang us, they’ll bring us some food.”

  Charley growls: “I’ll not hang. By God, Allen, I’m meaning to take my life before I let them put a rope around my neck.”

  “We shouldn’t have fired,” Kenton groans. “They were well on to take us, and we shouldn’t have fired.”

  “They shot Bess,” I mutter.

  “A poor fool to think she could walk through five hundred miles of snow and ice. She was no woman to go walking the length and distance to the Mohawk. I wonder to think that you shoulda brought her along, Allen.”

  “A man ’comes attached to a woman, sleeping with her night after night. You can’t bear away the cold, bitter nights without a woman.”

  “I had a woman,” Kenton says, “but she was no legal wedded wife of mine. If I made my mind to go a great distance over the snow, I would not take a woman to drag on me.”

  “Leave off Allen,” Charley snaps. “He�
�s got sorrow enough. The woman’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Then leave off Allen.”

  “I’m holding no hate for Kenton,” I say wearily. “I wouldn’t be sorrowing over the woman. She was no lawful wedded wife of mine, and she was no fit woman for a man—” I can’t say any more. I put my face in my hands, and in the awful, complete silence of the place, I know they’re listening to my sobbing.

  There’s a long while of silence after that. A crunching in the snow outside where the sentry paces up and down, a wash of the wind over the top of the redoubt. A wolf’s howling from down the Schuylkill.

  I grope back for a time when we were not in the encampment. There was a battle at Brandywine, where three men of the Fourth New York Regiment were killed. That left nine men. Moss Fuller and Edward Flagg and Clark Vandeer. Six men. Allen Hale; Charles Green; Kenton Brenner. Henry Lane was dying. Clark died, and he put a curse on me as he lay dying. Jacob burning like a fire, a black fire. The Jew had died in peace, with knowingness in his eyes. Suddenly, I hate the Jew, envy him. I make a picture of Jacob kneeling by the Jew’s bed. Ely is left, only Ely.

  I groan aloud.

  Charley says: “Be easy, Allen. There’s nothing for men to fear who’ve seen what we’ve seen.”

  “Nothing,” I repeat.

  Kenton says: “I’ve no fear of dying—only of hanging. They put a man on Mount Joy to hang, a man who went mad and killed his lieutenant officer. They put him there to hang, and I swear to God that when I stood on sentry duty I saw the wolves leaping for his body.”

  Charley laughs. “You’re a man to see things, Kenton.”

  “As God is my witness, I saw them—wolves leaping high in the moonlight.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it!” I cry. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  The silence after that makes a tension; I can see how it is: if they’re thinking the way I’m thinking—every move since we left the dugout. Kenton’s idea—but without Bess we might have gone miles farther from camp. If her blood is on Kenton’s hands, then his is on mine.

  It comes to me that if Bess were here this night, she wouldn’t be afraid. She’d have no fear; she’d only want to abide with me. Her face would be calm, and I would only have to pass my hands over her face to realize the calm.

  I say to Kenton: “Did she die with pain? You saw her fall, Kenton. Did she die with pain?”

  “There’s no pain in her now,” Kenton says.

  “I couldn’t rest again if I thought she died with a great pain in her heart.”

  Charley says: “I had a brother die—I was twelve years then. He died of the pox. He said there was no pain to dying—he kept saying there was no pain to dying.”

  “It’s different on the gallows,” Kenton says bitterly.

  There’s a movement at the door; it opens, the sentry and another man bulking against the lighter darkness outside. We watch—wondering who it is. Then I know it’s Ely. I don’t doubt any more. I feel a restfulness that I haven’t felt since I left the dugout. My muscles relax. I sit there on the cold floor, my arms hanging limply by my sides; I feel tears come into my eyes.

  Kenton knew. I guess we all knew. Kenton said: “Come in, Ely.” His voice was lighter.

  “Only a while,” the sentry said.

  Ely came in and stood by the door. “Allen’s here?” he asked.

  “All of us, Ely,” Kenton said.

  It was dark where I sat. I got on my feet and went over to Ely. I went close to him—tried to make out his face. I touched his coat. I said to him:

  “Ely, I’m glad to see you. You’re not hating or despising us, Ely?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t be brought back,” he said slowly.

  “Give me your hand, Ely? You won’t hold your hand from us?”

  He put out his hand, and I clung to it. I put it between mine, and tried to feel the flesh under the mitten he wore.

  “It was good of you to come,” Charley said. “A long walk through the snow. It was mighty good of you to come, Ely.”

  “I thought I’d see how you were faring. It’s no matter of a walk.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “They brought word that you were taken—one of you shot.”

  “They shot Bess.”

  “She’s dead?”

  “She died out there. She never knew what would happen. She died in my arms, Ely.”

  “She’ll rest easy, poor child.”

  Kenton had stood back. Now he stood against the further wall. “Ely,” he said, “did you come in hate?”

  “No——”

  “If you came in hate, Ely, I’ll tell you that I was the leader. I made Allen a plan to desert, and the woman said she’d die if Allen didn’t take her, and Allen had given me his word to go. The woman’s blood is on my hands, Ely.”

  Ely said, softly: “Don’t burn yourself, Kenton. The poor girl could not have the peace she has now.”

  “We shot a man, Ely. They’re going to hang us.”

  Ely didn’t answer.

  “They say we murdered a man, Ely,” Kenton went on, dully, no heat or feeling in his voice. “There was no murder. We fled across a field and McLane’s men loosed a volley at us. Charley and I turned to wait for Allen and the girl. I saw the girl shot, and I saw her fall. Then I killed one of McLane’s men——”

  I forced myself to say: “He didn’t—we don’t know whose shot it was killed him.”

  Kenton went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “You know, Ely, I draw a good bead with a musket. There was no man in all the Mohawk country could outshoot me. You’ve seen me take my mark and bring down my mark, Ely. I shot the man, Ely. I want you to remember that. I swear to God.”

  “He’s lying,” Charley whispered.

  For a while, Ely stands there and says nothing. I can feel what’s going on inside of him, how hard it is for him to make the effort to speak. He takes a few steps toward us.

  Finally, he says: “I brought you a few bits of salt meat—I had it from the meat Kenton killed when we built the fire—you’ll remember that?”

  “I remember,” Kenton says mechanically.

  Ely puts the meat in my hands. He stands a moment, as if he’s trying to see my eyes in the dark. Then he turns around and goes out.

  We divide up the meat and eat it slowly. We sit down again, with our backs to the log walls.

  Charley says: “You didn’t aim to kill, Kenton. You shot from your waist. There’s no man can aim to kill shooting from his waist.”

  Kenton doesn’t answer. I reach out, put my hand on his knee. His hand covers mine.

  XI

  SOMEHOW, we endured through the night. Man’s power to endure pain is only exceeded by his ability to forget. We had some water left in the pot; it froze into a solid block. The guardhouse was like a sieve; we lay on a cold floor, close to each other for warmth. The morning came, and we were more dead than alive. We tried to rise off the floor, but we couldn’t. Our limbs were as stiff as if death had already laid hold of us. We crawled to the door and hammered on it. But nobody answered, and after a while we stopped. We lay there, making the least noise we could of our own pain.

  Charley said: “A night more of this—and we won’t fear the gallows.”

  Finally, the door was opened. A guard stood there, and a strange officer. He told us to get up.

  “We’re fair stiff—we’ve eaten only a bit of meat in two days.”

  We managed to crawl to our feet, and they took us to the same log building where he had spoken to Varnum the day before. We could barely walk. There were some chairs there, and we slumped into them. A fire was going, and the heat of it was like nothing we had ever experienced before; the heat was new and wonderful. We were afraid to go too near the heat at first; we went to it slowly.

  “You don’t look like you’ll wait for the gallows,” the officer said. “God, what a sorry mess—” He stared at us. “How long since you’ve eaten?�
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  “We had a little meat——”

  “I’ll have some stew sent in.”

  The stew was of corn and potatoes, in wooden bowls. We gulped it eagerly.

  “I’ve tasted no food like this in many days,” Charley said. “They eat well here.”

  “It warms you.”

  We crowded up to the fire, stretched out our feet to bake. We opened our coats.

  “A rare, fine fire,” Kenton said. He seemed more at ease now, hardly worried.

  “They’ll hang us today, do you think, Kenton?”

  He shrugged. Charley stared into the fire. We sat that way, without talking, until the door opened. A young officer came in, not much more than a boy. I thought I recognized him, but dulled as my mind was, I couldn’t recall his name. He came in and stood at the table, studying us. He was remarkably well dressed: some of the officers were as ragged as we. He wore a blue uniform greatcoat with black facings, a silk scarf, a black cocked hat, brown leather breeches and good highboots of black leather. He held a riding crop in his hand; and hooking one leg over the table, he beat the crop against his thigh.

  He was tall and thin—deepset dark eyes. He had a way of staring from under dropped lids.

  “You’re the Pennsylvania men?” he asked us.

  Kenton stared at him sullenly. I could see he didn’t like the young swell. I didn’t have much interest in him; I was forcing myself not to think—not to think at all. I was trying not to see a gibbet on Mount Joy. Charley Green hummed a song.

  He asked us again: “You’re the three deserters?”

  “Colonel Hamilton?” Charley asked. He hated officers the way only Boston men can hate. He smiled a little as he spoke. He had nothing to lose. Not even fear. It made me sick at myself to see how little fear he and Kenton had. As if they had lost all human quality that related them to me, leaving me alone.

  The boy nodded, still looking at us curiously. I recognized Washington’s favorite, Alexander Hamilton. I might not have hated him in another situation. As it was, I despised his smug, well-dressed complacency. I looked at his fine black boots, and I thought of how we had taken the boots off Moss Fuller when he died.

  “If I have the story right,” Hamilton said, “you’re three deserters from the Fourteenth Pennsylvania. Deserted with arms and killed one of Captain McLane’s men. By God, you’re a pretty, filthy bunch of beggars. I’d let you desert; I’d see you all in hell before I’d have you in my army.”