Adam and Nat’s men. They threw down their swords and cried out in
surrender. Adam would have none of it. He gutted the sailor in front
of him on his pike, put his foot on the dying man’s chest, removed his
weapon and would have killed another if Nat had not stopped him. The remaining British sailors from the prize crew were herded
below and locked in the same filthy pen that had held the freed
Americans. There were only seven of them, all simple sailors and not
an officer among them. 9
“Where are the others?” Nat asked one of Americans. “We were taken by a frigate and our Captain and the Lieutenant
were forced on board. Said to be hung from the frigate’s yardarm
when they reached New York.” He was obviously a Rhode Islander by
his accent and when the rescued Americans discovered that Nat and
Adam were Marblehead Mariners, they became more talkative. “We were twenty men plus our Captain and Lieutenant when we
sailed from Providence. We captured four merchant ships in the first
two weeks, left them in New London and resumed our cruise.” “Then, we hit a squall and saw no action for a while,” another
added. “Until we picked up this cutter and that little sloop. We were
heading for somewhere on the Jersey coast when we were overtaken
by the Fox, with its twenty-eight guns. We could not outrun her, nor
could we stand and fight.”
“That was a black day indeed,” another said.
Nat went up on deck as Captain Gradon approached in the brig,
his whaleboat tied to and trailing from the stern. The night was still
black as ink, but the brig was showing lights below through the gun
ports.
“Can you sail the cutter to South Amboy?” he shouted through
cupped hands.
“We will follow your course,” Nat yelled. “We have freed seven
American sailors. Any prisoners on the brig?”
“Eight for us. None on the sloop,” Gradon shouted back. Well, Nat thought, at least we have rescued fifteen good men
bound for prison ships or hanging.
With the addition of the recently freed Rhode Islanders and the
whaleboat crew, the cutter’s sails were quickly raised. Nat took the
wheel, feeling the salt spray in his face as the wind swiftly whipped
the ship toward the Jersey shore. She was trim and fast and would
have overtaken the brig, but for the skill of the crew and the ship’s
responsiveness. The little sloop trailed behind and the fleet made South
Amboy shortly after dawn.
Word had spread at the sight of the three sails making for the
harbor and a crowd of men greeted their arrival. Slaves, directed
by their masters, ran up and down the piers unloading the cargo of
cordage, sails, muskets and powder, mostly from the Rhode Island
brig, The Revenge; barrels of salt and butter from the little sloop
Mayflower; and rum, madeira, wine and brandy, as well as tea, coffee
and bales of cloth from the cutter, Hope. All was taken to one of the
warehouses on the wharf, to be counted and assessed in determining
the prize money to be awarded.
Adam kept a piece of the sailcloth from the cutter and wrapped
Titus’s body in it. Nat hired a wagon and together with the driver they
rode through the muddy streets to the church graveyard. It was not
much of a church to look at, with boarded up windows, no fencing
around the graveyard and many inscribed grey slate stones, broken and
lying shattered on the graves they were supposed to mark. “What church is this?” Nat asked the driver.
“’Tis St. Peter’s Episcopal Church.” He spat on the ground.
“Ravaged by the Redcoats and Hessians when they passed through in
’77. They used the gravestones to make their ovens. Baked their bread
on the names of the deceased,” and, thinking he had said enough, fell
silent.
Nat and Adam labored through the morning digging the grave
until they were satisfied it was deep enough and unlikely that the
site would be desecrated. They lowered Titus’s canvas-shrouded body
into the ground and filled in the site. Their work done, they donned their jackets, and with their tri-corns in their hands, bowed their bare heads. Nat recited a brief prayer and somberly they rode back into
South Amboy.
“If he had a good right eye, he would still be alive,” Adam said
gruffly.
“It is my fault for not keeping a better watch on the hatchway.” “No, Captain,” Adam insisted. “It was the loss of his right
eye, gouged out by some backwoodsman at General Washington’s
headquarters in Cambridge.”
“That was a brutal melee,” Nat recalled. “Many of us Mariners
suffered injuries. Poor Caesar died.”
The injuries you suffered, Adam thought, were because we stood
and fought together. But the backwoods bastards went after the
Mariners of color. That is why Caesar died and now Titus is no more.
He decided not to give voice to his anger. Captain Holmes was a good
man but he would not understand.
In the early afternoon, Nat and Adam, their uniforms and boots
encrusted with the dirt from the graveyard, found Captain Gradon
seated at a long table in the warehouse with a large ledger in front of
him, a quill and ink to the side. The cargo unloaded from the holds
of the three ships was stacked according to their nature in neat rows
of barrels and bales, alongside piles of sails, ropes and guns. Gradon
noticed them, standing against the wall near the large double doors
and strode over to meet them.
“Your man was the only fatality. We had two pretty badly cut
up on the brig. They are being sewn together somewhere in town.”
He waved his hand at the cargo stacked up in the warehouse. “The
calculation of prize money will require some time,” he said. “There are
no prize courts in South Amboy and the records must be submitted
to Perth Amboy for determination.” He was much more talkative now
that the raid was successfully completed.
“You will have to wait for your share. Will you claim a share for
your dead man’s family?” Gradon asked, knowing that the rest of his
crew would receive more if the prize money were divided among fewer
officers and sailors.
Nat looked surprised. It had never even occurred to him to
claim any prize money. He drew himself erect. “Captain Gradon. We
went on this raid in the uniforms of the 14th Continental Regiment,
formerly the Marblehead Mariners. Had we been captured, we
would have asserted our right to be treated as prisoners of war, not as
privateers whom the British consider pirates. Not having run the risk
as privateers, we decline to receive shares of the prize.”
Gradon arched his eyebrows. When he saw that Nat was serious,
he clapped him on both shoulders. “Very well said, Captain Holmes.
You are an honorable man.” He looked at Adam’s somber face and
attributed his demeanor to the death of his friend.
What have you done? Adam wanted to shout. Holmes had just
given away the prize money he needed to purchase Sarah’s freedom.
Adam had done some rough calculations, having an appreciation of
the value of ships from their ye
ar privateering off the Massachusetts
coast. With the cordage, cannons and guns, he estimated his share
would be close to one thousand dollars in hard coinage, not to mention
whatever price the cargo would bring. And it was all gone. In the time
it had taken for Holmes to make his fine speech. True, they would
have claimed the privilege of uniform and the right to be treated as
prisoners of war. But they had not been captured. They had returned
safely to port with three ships and a valuable cargo. He was entitled to
his share. It meant Sarah’s freedom.
“All we need,” Adam heard Holmes saying, “is a transport to take
us up the Raritan as far as New Brunswick. “From there, we will find
our way back to the army we left north of White Plains.” Will Sarah be at Camp? Adam wondered. Has she been returned
to Reverend Penrose? What was he doing fighting in this war when the
woman he loved was no more than a barrel of rum, a horse or cordage
from a ship, all property to be disposed of by its owner. Adam thought
the return trip without the hope of purchasing her freedom would be
the longest and most miserable journey of his life.
Chapter 12 - Ambush and Betrayal
Philadelphia 21st October, 1778 (Letter No. 11)
My Dearest Will , My Love, my Husband - The four months we have been apart now represent One Month for each of the Four Precious Days we were together. I long for the Luxury of being with you day after day, instead of this endless and uncertain separation.
In your latest Letter you wrote about the dinner with General Knox and his Officers. Or I assume it was your last letter. My Love, Please copy my habit of Numbering your Letters. It would pain me so much to miss any one of them. How I wish I could be there to enjoy the Friendship and good cheer evident from your description. Venison stew is not our usual fare here although the Shad run has been plentiful and the fish fresh and succulent.
We agreed when we parted to be Honest in our letters. I cannot write of Inconsequential Things when I am overwhelmed by Despair due to recent events. The Civil Administration here is vindictive and mean spirited against those who, before this War, lived in peaceful civility with their neighbors. 1 Our Friends the Ls have suffered grievously from the harm to their Community. Their neighbors, John R and Abraham C were taken to jail in August, accused of treason, tryed in October and found guilty. They were hang’ d on the Commons two days ago. Together with the Ls I visited the widows who are wonderfully supported by the Quaker Community while they and their little ones suffer with their Grief. 2 The unjust verdict and their punishment is particularly Evil when well-connected Loyalists like the wealthy merchant, Mr. T.C., merely take the Oath of Allegiance to the Government of Pennsylvania, after profiting from their business with General Howe, and are Acquitted. The stench from this miscarriage of justice pollutes the Air of our City, although General A’s Administration has Finally Cleansed it of the carcasses, offal and waste the British left us as their departing gift.
General A’s courting of Peggy S. continues undiminished. If anything, his Ardent Pursuit has increased in intensity. The wags assert that since the General has Successfully Stormed every Fort he has assailed, he will conquer the heart of his desires and overcome any reservations of her Father. The principal one appears to be the General’s lack of substantial means to Support the Judge’s Daughter. There are accusations from the Civil Government, as yet unproven, that Monthly the General becomes more wealthy through private dealings.
As I have previously written, many of my hours are taken with care of Little Lucy, who lovingly calls me Lisbet. She is a most active child, very Inquisitive and continually asks many questions. Mrs. K and baby Julia are thriving as well, receiving many Visitors and Well-Wishers. I will not bore you with the many sweet words Little Lucy has to help quiet baby Julia when she is fitful. Children are so lovely in their Kindness and Innocence.
As we approach the end of October, I am Hopeful the Army will soon seek winter quarters in either Pennsylvania or New Jersey and you and I, my Love, will be together again. I am assured by Mrs. K that she will not spend one day more than necessary away from her Dear Harry and I intend to travel with her. I only Pray that you will remain with General K and not at some distant encampment in northern New York.
I conclude this in haste as Mrs. K has penned a letter in time for a Courier leaving Philadelphia and it is my fervent wish my letter accompanies hers, which travels with the utmost speed and is more certain to reach you. My Dearest Husband, I hope this letter finds you in good Health and as eager as I am to be reunited. It gives me great Pleasure to sign this letter as always.
Your loving wife,
Elisabeth Bant considered himself lucky to have left the winter quarters at Middlebrook. The huts, this time constructed with wooden floors, hinged doors and proper windows, as well as hewn slabs of wood to cover the roof timbers, were completed by mid-January. The seven-foot high walls pleased McNeil, who was tall. It mattered not to Bant. He felt confined by the wood framed beds, one on top of another along the walls, twelve men to a cabin.
Had he been in a more accepting frame of mind and not fearful of another long winter of confinement as at Valley Forge, Bant should have been content. It was an area he was generally familiar with. The camp was near Bound Brook. Unlike Valley Forge, the Middlebrook encampment gave the impression of dense orderliness, the straight lines of huts, with the officers’ cabins, according to their rank, situated in front of those of the soldiers, the company kitchens in the rear, all snuggled up against the base of the Watchung Mountains. Roll-call and sometimes drills and parades were held in the open ground in front of each Regiment’s line of huts, the ground being swept clean every morning. Food, while not plentiful, was adequate. The men received their allotted rations on time and the local population welcomed the Army as protection against Loyalist militias and raiding parties, and contributed their harvests of fruit, vegetables and flour, for a price of course.
Yet, Bant would have none of it. He did not see himself engaged in senseless exercises or menial duties day after day for six months, until the campaign resumed. No sweeping of the parade grounds one day for him and filling in the offal pits another. The close confinement of the mess and sleeping intimidated him. He still had his nightmares and his seemingly irrational rages that caused the men to avoid or taunt him, depending on their mood. Only McNeil stood by him.
The local militias were fighting Loyalist bands and conducting their own punishing raids on Tory farms and towns. Further north, closer to the coast, there were said to be large British and Hessian foraging parties, confiscating food, flour, and hay for the Army in its winter quarters in New York and Staten Island.
When the call came for a company of Continental riflemen to volunteer to support the Somerset County militia, Bant had been the first to step forward. They were once again under the command of Colonel Hand. After a few weeks alongside the militia, scouring the countryside for signs of the enemy without any action, Bant was beginning to think he had made a mistake. He had not fired his rifle in weeks, except to kill a wild turkey several days ago. Still, he acknowledged to McNeil, it was better to be camping in the woods or sleeping in the barns of sympathetic farmers, than to be back at Middlebrook.
“Best hope this mild weather holds. You will be singing a different tune when there is snow above your knees and your stomach growls in protest for lack of food,” McNeil said, arching his back against the tree trunk and flexing his shoulders. “Of course, you being so short, the snow would only be up to my ankles and no bother for me.” He laughed at his own joke and Bant granted him a smile. They had been together since Trenton and McNeil was the only person Bant could call friend in the entire army.
Early next morning, Lieutenant Stringfellow led twenty of the riflemen northeast on a quick march. The weather was cris
p, perhaps a bit warmer than one could expect for early February. At sunset, Bant estimated they had covered almost twenty miles. The next morning dawned colder with an overcast grey sky. Approaching a bend in the road in the late afternoon, they were challenged by dismounted pickets of Continental Light Dragoons, who were camped in the farmhouse and barns beyond. Once inside the split rail fences, they lounged about until the Lieutenant directed them to one of the barns, a weathered shingled low A-frame, with a sharply pitched roof and barely enough space to stand up, except in the center. The fresh hay in the loft smelled pleasant enough but Bant preferred to sleep outside. He scouted around behind the barn and found a small overhang, sheltering a stack of firewood from the elements. When night came, he could move some of the logs and curl up there, he thought. He ambled along the split rail fence around the yard, poked his head into the other barns where the troopers had stabled their horses, and then simply settled himself against the stone wall that surrounded the well and waited, which is where McNeil found him.
“The talk is there are British troops in the vicinity,” McNeil said, not expecting a response. “Maybe cavalry. Our dragoons have been out scouting but have not found them yet.” Bant grunted. “I guess when they do locate them you will have your opportunity to bag a cavalry officer.”
“It has been a long time,” Bant said, rubbing the stock of his rifle. McNeil knew his friend would say no more.
That evening, before the men bedded down, Bant was seized with stomach cramps. Grasping his rifle in one hand, he rushed into the bushes. His shit came out in liquid bursts, leaving him feeling weak. He returned to the fire, laid his rifle across his knees and bent over feeling the gas moving within him. As the men ambled toward the barn, Bant found the shelter for the firewood, moved enough of the logs away to make a niche for himself, pulled his blanket over his shoulders and shivering, curled up in a ball. He left his rifle leaning against the remaining stack of split wood, stock within easy reach.
Sometime in the night he awoke with a sudden urge to relieve himself, so strong he feared he would not make it to the bushes. He grabbed his rifle and ran in a crouch as if that would delay his shitting, slipped through the split rail fence and managed to drop his breeches in time. Groaning softly, he pulled up his breeches and squatted with his back to a tree. It helped ease the cramps coursing through his lower stomach.
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