by Ron Carter
When the last officer stepped back from Washington, the tall man walked to the door, stopped, and turned. His jaw was quivering, and he could not speak, nor did he try. He raised his arm and as his eyes passed around the room, pausing for a moment on each of them, he gave them a final salute, turned, and walked out of the room.
Notes
For a concise summary of General Washington’s final farewell to his officers at Fraunces Tavern, see Freeman, Washington, p. 507.
For an excellent, famous painting of the scene, see Fleming, Liberty! pp. 340–41.
Boston
Early December 1783
CHAPTER XVIII
* * *
A thick, wet, silent snow was falling to muffle and distort the early evening sounds of Boston harbor. Caleb Dunson slipped the tie-rope of his bedroll over his shoulder, picked up his Deckhard rifle wrapped and tied in a blanket, and took his place in the small cluster of passengers working their way across the wet deck of the French frigate Jeanette, to the gangplank slanting down to the dock. The first mate checked Caleb’s name off the passenger list, nodded, and Caleb walked down the slick, snow-covered planks, using the cleats to set his feet against slipping.
An odd feeling of something missing, something wrong, hung in the air. Walking away from the frigate on the heavy, ancient timbers of Clarke’s Wharf, Caleb slowed to peer both directions, noticing for the first time through the curtain of huge snowflakes the number of ships tied to the wharves, and the number of masts of ships anchored in the harbor, undulating on the gentle sea swells. He spent a moment studying the dock laborers loading and unloading the ships, wet snow on their shoulders and in their hair and beards and eyebrows. There were too few ships, and too few men. He looked at the dark doorways and the alleys where men stood in the shadows in wet, tattered coats, desperation plain in their faces and sunken eyes. He could not recall a time when the Boston harbor was not alive with the swaying masts of ships and the echo of the shouted orders of the bos’ns and the freight masters and the profane clamor of the dockhands and the bellowing of captains of pilot boats and ships on their huge, brass horns. The heartbeat of Boston was the harbor, and it was half-deserted, dying.
With the wet snow sticking, he strode steadily west along the waterfront, watching the fronts of the old buildings with peeling paint, counting the windows that were dark and the doors that were chained shut with court papers tacked to them. Black silhouettes stood to watch him pass. He came to Long’s Wharf, then on to Griffin’s Wharf, with a growing knot in the pit of his stomach. One in three of the shipping firms were out of business, either by choice or by court-enforced bankruptcy. Either way, the truth was that the town in which he had been born and raised was in deep, maybe fatal, trouble. In his life such a possibility had never occurred to him, and as he turned north toward home, a feeling of dread rose in his chest.
He passed from the sounds of ships and men into the quiet stillness of heavy snow in the narrow cobblestone streets with his thoughts turning to home. Mother. The other children. How long had it been? Four? Nearly five years? One letter. In five years, one letter to his mother. For a moment he felt guilt, and he bowed his head, wishing he had written to his mother more often. What distance would there be between them? What would she say? What would he say? What would—
In the eerie silence of falling snow he felt more than heard a faint sound from behind, and he moved with a survival instinct honed to the finest edge by years of mortal combat. He spun to his left, feet spread slightly, the wrapped rifle grasped before him with both hands, balanced, ready to move any direction, seeing all before him in an instant. Through the snow a bulky shadow eight feet away was hurtling toward him with a second shadow ten feet to his right, moving slower. Caleb swung the rifle butt and he felt the solid hit and the first man went down and Caleb twisted to his right to bring the rifle barrel around hard and in the instant before the impact of the hit on the second man he saw the knife coming up and the rifle barrel hit first and the knife stroke missed and the man staggered back and Caleb was on top of him, plunging the rifle butt once, twice, and the man lay still. Caleb pivoted back to the man behind him, who was on his hands and knees, trying to get his feet under him but could not, and Caleb put his foot against the man’s shoulder and pushed him over sideways in the snow, and the man threw an arm upward to protect his head, his voice sounding high, fearful, thick with a Scottish accent.
“Don’t hit me no more! Don’t hit me!”
“Who are you?”
“Don’t matter.”
Caleb raised the rifle butt over the man’s head. “Who are you?”
“McKinrow.”
“Who’s he?” Caleb pointed to the still form, black in the white snow.
“My brother.”
“He had a knife.”
“I didn’t know that. He’s not right in the head.”
“He meant to kill me.”
“He don’t understand things.”
“Who sent you?”
“No one.”
“Then why?”
“Get money for food. Nothin’ to eat in four days. I got a wife and three children.”
“Get up.”
“You won’t hit me again?”
“Get up. Get your brother on his feet.”
The man rolled onto his hands and knees, then got one foot set in a kneeling position, and rose, unsteady at first. He stumbled to his brother and rubbed snow on his face until he moved and groaned.
“Lon, git up. Git up.”
He caught his brother under his arms and heaved him to a sitting position, then onto his feet, still groaning, moving his head, trying to understand where he was and what had happened. McKinrow looped his brother’s arm over his shoulder to hold him upright, then turned to Caleb.
“We goin’ to the jail?”
“Don’t move.”
It took Caleb two minutes shuffling his feet in the snow to find the homemade knife. The wooden handle was cracked, and the blade rusted and dull. He picked it up and the man spoke again.
“Mister, I need to know. Are we goin’ to jail? I got to git word to my wife and children somehow.”
Caleb shoved the knife in his coat pocket. “Where are they?”
“Over on the Mystic River. Across the Back Bay.”
“Why did you try to rob me?”
“Lost our farm. Bank took it. Been tryin’ to get work anywhere—farmin’, fishin’, on the docks—anywhere. Seems like the banks and the courts has closed down half the state. Nobody got no work for us.”
“What’s wrong with your brother?”
“Got a piece of a British cannonball in his head. Yorktown.”
Caleb’s eyes widened. “He was at Yorktown?”
“Both of us. He got hurt at Redoubt Number Nine.”
“You were there? At number nine? When we took it?”
“Yes. Both of us.”
“Who commanded the charge?”
“That Frenchman. Lafayette. We was assigned to him that night. Fought alongside the French. They dressed too pretty, but they fought good.” McKinrow paused for a moment before he continued. “Was you there?”
“Across the river. At Gloucester.”
There was surprise in McKinrow’s voice. “You with the ones that drove out Tarleton?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I wish I could’ve seen that. I wish I could’ve.”
For a few seconds they stood facing each other in the silence of the falling snow, confused, groping for what either of them should say next. Caleb broke the awkward silence.
“You discharged?”
“Both of us.”
“You get your pay?”
McKinrow shook his head. “A promise on a piece of paper. Wasn’t worth nothin’. Traded it in for food for the family. Lasted three days. Haven’t had much to eat since.”
“You have a house? A place to live?”
“A shed. Part of a barn. Over near Winter Hill. Farmer says we c
an stay there if I keep the barn cleaned out and feed and water his animals.”
“Five of you?”
“Five.”
“You robbed anyone before?”
“No. Never tried. Don’t know how to rob.” Caleb sensed shame and a pleading in the man’s voice as he continued. “If it wasn’t for the children . . . I had to do something.”
The brother groaned, and McKinrow shook him lightly. “You all right?”
The man’s speech was halting, slurred. “Them cannon . . .”
McKinrow held his face close to his brother’s. “No cannon. We’re in Boston. Boston.”
“Boston? . . . I thought we was . . .”
“It’s all right.”
McKinrow turned back to Caleb. “He’ll be all right. Sometimes he hears and sees things, since Yorktown.”
Caleb shook the snow from his coat and worked a leather pouch from his trouser pocket. He picked at the knotted leather thongs until the pouch was open, then drew out four gold coins. He looked at them for a moment, then thrust them at McKinrow.
“Take these. Get some food. Take care of your wife and children. Get him to a doctor if he needs one.”
McKinrow gaped. “You aren’t takin’ us to the law? Jail?”
“Go home.”
McKinrow took the money in his hand, and his eyes widened. “Mister, there’s more’n twenty pounds sterling here. That’s more money’n I seen in three years.”
Caleb jerked the drawstrings on the purse, knotted them, and thrust it back into his pocket. “Go home.”
McKinrow stammered, “After what we done? How do I pay. . . . what . . . who are you, mister? The Almighty answered our prayers, and I got to know your name.”
The thought flashed in Caleb’s mind—The Almighty? He had nothing to do with it. I did.
He hitched his blanket roll on his back, turned on his heel, and walked away in the hush of the falling snow with his wrapped rifle in his hand and an old, useless knife in his pocket. He dug the knife from his pocket and threw it in a snowbank and did not look back. In his mind he was seeing and hearing the night attack on the British Redoubt Number Nine as he saw it from Gloucester, across the York River, the night of October 17, 1781. The heavy guns blasting, the cannon flashes lighting the black night sky, and the distant shouts and cries as two armies clashed across the river. He saw it in his mind, and then he saw a Scot holding up his brother in the snow in Boston because his brother had come away from the battle with a piece of a British cannonball in his head, and he heard the desperation and the shame in the voice of McKinrow because his country could not pay him, and he lost his farm, and then his pride, and had tried to rob to feed his children. Walking in the beauty of a gentle snowfall that turned the trees and fences and buildings of Boston into a white wonderland, Caleb saw it all, and he walked on toward his home where his mother would be waiting, and his brother and sisters, in a home with a fire in the fireplace, and food.
He had not expected the stir that rose in his heart at the sight of lights in the windows, nor the rise of excitement as he pushed through the front gate and walked to the door. He reached for the latch, then paused, and knocked. He heard the familiar rapid footsteps inside, and then the door was open, and the warmth and smells of wood burning and a supper finished an hour earlier reached to enfold him, and his mother stood before him. She threw her hand up to cover her mouth, and for an instant could neither move nor speak, and then she seized him and clasped him to her with all her strength. Caleb held his rifle with his left hand and wrapped his right arm around her to hold her close and they stood thus for a time before she began to murmur, “Caleb . . . Caleb . . . Caleb.” Then she drew back from him and wiped at her tears.
“You’re all wet! Come in! Come in!” She stepped back and while Caleb shook the snow from his hair and his coat and bedroll, Margaret turned to call, “Brigitte! Bring the children! Caleb’s home!”
Caleb had time to close the door, drop his bedroll, lean his rifle against the wall, and shrug out of his coat before they came through the archway into the parlor, slowing at the sight of him. Brigitte stopped for a moment, struggling to connect the man before her with her younger brother whom she remembered when he was sixteen. Then she walked to him and threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder, and he held her close.
“Caleb. Oh, Caleb! We didn’t know if you were dead or alive.”
He smiled. “I’m alive.”
Margaret was standing to one side, beaming, hardly able to contain herself when the twins came walking across the parlor, wonder in their eyes. They had been nine years old when Caleb had disappeared, a sixteen-year-old boy who was shattered and embittered at the killing of his father by the British in the battle of Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1775. Before them now was a man, strong, striking, confident, with eyes that masked remembrances of terrible hardships and battles and life and death.
Prissy walked to him with a sense of hesitancy. “It’s good to have you home.” She didn’t know whether she should embrace him or shake his hand, and he grinned and reached for her to pull her inside his arms and hold her tight. She threw her arms about his neck and held him as he spoke.
“Prissy. Grown up. Beautiful. I can hardly believe it.”
She stepped back, head ducked while she fought to control a tight smile of purest pleasure at his words.
Adam stepped up. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple seemed to distort his entire neck. “Caleb, I’m glad to see you.” He knew it sounded wrong, and for a moment he fumbled and then blurted, “It’s good to have you home.” He thrust out his hand.
Caleb looked at him and understood Adam did not think it seemly for men to embrace each other, and he reached to shake the hand firmly.
“I hardly knew it was you. You’ve grown up. Done right well. I’m glad to be home.”
He released Adam’s hand, and Adam stood there with his too-long arms hanging at his sides, not knowing what to do next, and Caleb read him perfectly and he stepped close and threw his arms about him, and for a moment Adam stood startled, motionless, before he raised his arms and put them around his brother.
Margaret stepped in. “Bring your things. Your room’s ready. Get into some dry clothes.” She turned to the girls. “Get out the supper ham and potatoes and set a place at the table.”
Minutes later, warm ham and potatoes and peas, with thick-sliced bread and home-churned butter and Brigitte’s berry jam were waiting on the table, beside a pitcher of buttermilk. They bowed their heads while Margaret said grace, and then time was forgotten as Caleb reached for the ham platter. He began to eat slowly, savoring every morsel with a reverence known only to those who have seen and endured near total starvation, while the women watched with deep pleasure. Talk began and then came like a flood, with everyone asking questions of Caleb while he tried to chew and swallow and answer. Margaret joined in, but in the exhilaration of having Caleb home, no one noticed that she was intently watching every expression that passed over Caleb’s face and in his eyes, listening to his every word and how he said it, silently probing for an answer to the question that had been in her heart since that night long before when he had tried to leave without her knowing. With a mother’s instincts she had surprised him in the darkness of the parlor as he opened the door to go, and they had shared their embrace and said their farewell. She had given him her blessing, and he had walked out into the starry night, a boy filled with confusion and anger, blaming the Almighty for the death of his father and the leaving of his brother, Matthew. A boy distancing himself from God, moving steadily toward a world filled with bitter, black hatred for many things his father, and his family, held sacred. From that day, there had been an urgent need in her to know that he had found his way back. She listened with her mother’s heart, waiting.
The talk went on until she said, “Here we are, Caleb finally home and we won’t let him eat. Brigitte, pour him some more buttermilk, and let’s be a little more considerate.”
Adam interrupted. “Can I ask a question?”
Caleb nodded.
“That long thing in the blanket. Is that a musket?”
“Rifle.”
“Where did you get it?” Adam’s eyes were wide, expectant.
“South Carolina.”
“You were down there?”
“With Francis Marion.”
Adam started. “The Swamp Fox? You were with him?”
“Yes.”
“In any big battles?”
Only Margaret caught the subtle change in Caleb’s face.
“There was some trouble.”
“Any battles?”
“There’s time for that later.”
Adam fell silent, wondering why neither Matthew nor Caleb would talk about the great, thrilling battles.
Prissy pointed. “Brigitte made the berry jam.”
Brigitte grinned. “Prissy baked the bread.”
Caleb smiled at both of them. “Three women in the family. Best cooks in Boston.”
The women all laughed, and Adam reached for a slice of bread. Margaret raised a hand to correct him, then let it drop, and Adam reached for the butter plate and jam bowl while Margaret ignored him. Caleb was home, safe and whole. The house rule against eating after supper would wait until tomorrow.
With supper finished and the dishes washed, dried, and in the cupboard, Caleb went to his room, turned the wheel on the lamp, and unwrapped the Deckhard rifle. He wiped it with a dry cloth, then set it in the far corner of the closet. He gathered the wet blanket with his damp coat and clothes and carried them out to the parlor where he and Margaret hung them on the backs of chairs and set them on the hearth to dry. Caleb added more wood to the fire and they all drew up a chair to sit near the warmth.
