“You flap your mouth too much, lad,” Bartholomew retorted.
There were several glances now toward their guest, as if he had intruded on a family argument, wondering if he would intervene.
“Did you ever think it would turn to this?” James asked sharply, directing his ire at Tom. “I had to listen night after night to my brother there reading your pamphlet. Listened to it so much that I even volunteered for this army out of Bedlam. So what do I have now? Ask the sergeant there how many of our men have died? Barely a one from a bullet, but God knows dozens, scores from the flux, bad food, rotting food while those bastards in Congress eat off fine china, and you encourage us to sacrifice all. And I ask, for what?”
Eyes turned back toward Tom. Even the admiring glances of Jonathan had dulled a bit.
He had not wandered out to do this on this night. He was more than a little drunk, and tired, and plain exhausted with trying to think what he should write, for that was what all of them would want by next morning and the day after.
“We’re here,” he finally said. “Out of so many, we’re the ones who are here. That says something about us, about what we believe in.”
“Believed in,” James replied. “Believed in, but now? This is beyond too much for any to endure. I’m sick to death of it, I tell you.”
“Who the hell isn’t,” Jonathan snapped back. “You think we like it any more than you?”
Bartholomew cursed under his breath as he lowered the ramrod toward the fire to cook the fish faster. The smell of the burning flesh wafted over them, stilling the argument for a moment.
“Shad. Now if only we had some shad,” Peter Wellsley said. “Where you from, Mr. Paine?”
“England, until two years ago. Trout there in the rivers, fat big ones. Would love to have a couple of them roasting now.”
“When the shad run on the Delaware in the spring, you can almost walk across their backs to Pennsylvania,” Peter sighed. “Stuff ourselves on them ’til we burst. Wish that was shad cooking, feel a mite better.”
They were breaking a taboo that had fallen upon the army of late. Talking of food they could not have.
“It’s carp, damned carp. Most likely sucked on the bodies of our men that drowned in that river,” James replied with a cold laugh.
“You don’t have to eat ’em if you don’t want to,” Jonathan snapped, coming to his feet.
James stood up, fists clenched. “You’re still my younger brother. If you want a thrashing, Jonathan, I’m the man to give it to you.”
“Both of you, shut up,” Bartholomew roared, “or I’ll knock both your heads together.”
The two glared at each other but sat back down.
“Mr. Paine.”
It was Jonathan.
“It’s Thomas, or just Tom. Hell, I’m no different than you, son.”
“You really meant what you wrote last year?” Reaching under his ragged blanket cloak and into his shirt he pulled out a tattered copy of Common Sense.
For a moment Tom couldn’t speak. All had fallen silent, staring at him.
What do they want from me? he thought. They seem to want more, more than I can give. Yes, I wrote it. I wrote it. I knew the struggle ahead would be hard, but never did I dream that it would come to this, to this level of suffering, filth, pain, and death. He prided himself on a certain cynicism, a sense of realism, about the bitter offerings of this world, which life had taught him so well; but now, among these sunken-cheeked men squatting around the fire, he wondered to himself, had he ever thought it could be this ghastly?
These were the last of them. He had long ago stopped shedding tears over the tragedies of life. He looked over at Jonathan, who was still clutching the pamphlet. That boy will die for the cause I wrote about. He had seen it in the faces of some, a precious few. They believed so fervently that they would die to make it happen. He felt his throat tighten. If there is a God, do I bear responsibility for what they believe in and will die for?
“I meant it” was all he could say.
“And that is why you are here now?” Jonathan pressed.
He could only nod in reply.
“I think they’re done,” Peter announced.
Bartholomew grunted and pulled the ramrod and the scorched fish out of the fire. He looked around and then set them down on a split log by Tom’s side. Pulling out his knife, he cut one into three pieces. He looked at Tom for a few seconds, and then without comment cut the other into four.
Now the old soldier’s ritual was played out. Jonathan came around to Tom’s side and squatted down as the sergeant turned his back on the fish.
“Who shall have this?” Jonathan asked, pointing at the midsection of the smaller carp.
“Peter,” the sergeant replied, back turned so he could not see what piece had been selected.
Peter, smiling, picked up his piece, cursing softly and kissing his singed fingertips as he carried off his prize.
“Who shall have this?” Jonathan announced, pointing to the head of the larger fish.
“Myself.”
Laughing, Jonathan handed him the head with a bit of meat to the gills. The sergeant cursed under his breath.
The rest was thus doled out, James cursing for getting the tail of the bigger fish, saying it was his luck, Thomas saying nothing when he got the head of the smaller one, though the sergeant had cut it in such a way that there was still some meat to be had from it.
“Watch the bones there, Tom,” Bartholomew said. “These ain’t no fancy English trout. Carp are nothing but fat and bones.”
“Still fill you a bit, though,” Tom replied.
Peter did momentarily choke on a bone, gasping until he coughed it out. Almost instinctively, Tom reached into his jacket and pulled out the half-empty sack of rum.
There was complete silence at the sight of it.
“Go on. Take a drink.”
“What is it?”
“Rum.”
Jonathan laughed.
“He don’t hold with drinking liquor.”
“I do now,” Peter replied. He took the flagon, tilted his head back, and seconds later the others laughed as he gasped and choked even more.
He handed the leather sack back to Tom, who saw the others gaze longingly at it.
Oh, damn it all to hell, he thought, there goes a good drunk for tonight.
“Take a round, brothers. Take a round.”
The sack did go around. He tried not to watch, only nodding as each of them gasped a thanks. The last of them, Sergeant Bartholomew, held it to his ear, shook it, looked over at Thomas, and then, to Tom’s amazement, made a gesture of taking a swallow and handed it back.
“Last one’s for you, sir. Drain it now.”
Again that tightness in the throat hit him. He could see it in the man’s eyes. How long since this sergeant had had a good drink, and yet he would be damned if he would take the last one from Tom Paine.
There was a strange sense of ceremony as he held the sack, feeling there was just enough inside for one more good pull.
He stood up, wiping the grease from the fishhead on his thighs, tossing what was left of it into the fire.
He held the sack up.
“To us, my brothers, to freedom, and to America.”
“To America,” most of them replied.
He tilted his head back and drank. Strangely, it was one of the sweetest he had ever tasted. I would rather have this moment, he thought, than dine with a king or even with the General. I would rather have this.
Then there was an awkward moment of silence. He had learned much in the short time he had been with this army. These soldiers were unlike any the world had ever seen. An army of farmers, shopkeepers, mechanics, sailors, fishermen, laborers, runaway slaves. And yet most were literate, and nearly all, at least at the start, could debate for hours on end the intricacies of why they fought. In fact, the debating was something like a sport, an openness of dialogue no army of Europe would ever tolerate in the rank
and file. If they felt the urge, they’d shout down an officer, call him a dog if he could not hold his own in a debate or a match of fisticuffs, but later that night share the last of their rum with him if they thought he was, nevertheless, a man of courage. Yet when it came to sentiment, to open expressions of patriotism, especially now, there was a hard edge. He sensed that somehow they saw he was the man who could write down the words burning in their hearts that their own scribblings could not capture. It was not the high-flown, educated language of men such as Washington or Rush or Jefferson. It was the new language of common men who stood defiant for the rights of other common men.
That is what they want of me, Thomas Paine realized. That is why I am here on this rainy night, and, by God, that is why I must figure out what to write for and about them.
At this moment, though, he felt himself an utter failure. For how could he ever find words to write about this.
“America, you say?”
It was James.
He looked back across the river. The rain had all but stopped, the cold wind now sweeping in, blowing clear some of the smoke and mist . . . and now the first flakes of snow were dancing down.
They could see the fires on the far shore, hundreds of them.
“They’re warm over there tonight,” James said. “They have tents, food. Tomorrow the people of this town will hang out their flags for England and cheer. Even for the Hessians they’ll cheer.
“You talk of America? What in hell are you talking about? If we are America, then I say we are nothing but damn fools, and you, Tom Paine, are one of the bastards who talked us into this madness. When the end comes, Congress will run or cower and crawl back to save their own skins. And since so many of them are gentlemen, they will shake hands like gentlemen with Howe, while any of us dumb enough to still believe will be shoved into the prison ships or hanged.
“What will you do, Paine, when the end comes? For God’s sake, man, can’t you see that this is the end of it?”
“I’ll die,” Tom said quietly. “If it is the end, I’ll die, but I don’t believe it is over yet, not with men like you here around this fire.”
He paused.
“Or men even like me or men like Greene or General Washington.”
James snorted derisively and spat into the fire.
“God damn all gentlemen like them! Especially that Washington, who led us into this mess.”
And now Jonathan did spring, stepping around the fire, slamming into his brother, knocking him over.
Seconds later all had piled in, several trading punches, Bartholomew, Tom, and Peter struggling to separate them.
Tom got his arms around Jonathan and pulled him away from James, who tried to lunge for him, but the sergeant blocked him, shoving him back.
“You’re nothing but a damned Tory,” Jonathan screamed, his voice breaking.
“I should never have listened to you,” James roared. “Our parents were right. We’re fools. Our brother and parents are safe at home. No matter who wins, they’ll be warm and prosper. We’re all fools!”
“Then if that’s how you feel,” Bartholomew snapped. “Go, damn you! I’ve listened to your bellyaching for the last month. Just go. Get the hell out of here and go home to Trenton.”
Bartholomew let go of James, shoving him away.
James glared at him.
“I’ll go then, you fools. You’re all madmen, and you, damn you”——he pointed, and Tom wasn’t sure that it was straight at him or at Jonathan, whom he was still holding on to——“you’re the worst of the lot.”
James went over to where their packs were stacked, fished his out of the pile, and slung it over his shoulder.
He glanced at the others.
“Anyone else here with me?” He paused and grimaced sarcastically at Tom. “Anyone with some common sense?”
“I’m with you.”
It was Elijah Hunt, who picked up his pack and stepped over to James’s side.
“They could shoot you for desertion,” Peter cried. “Elijah, not you, too.”
“Why bother?” Bartholomew said coldly. “Let them go. Desert. Go ahead. You’re not worth the effort of forcing you to stay.”
He turned his back on the two.
“They’d run anyhow come the next fight.”
James laughed in reply.
“Hell. Run? It’s what we’ve all been doing for months. At least I’m running back to something. While the rest of you, you’ll just run away and keep running until you’re all dead.”
“I’d rather be dead than a coward,” Jonathan retorted bitterly.
James bristled at the accusation, balling his fists, but the sergeant was now between the two, and he could easily hammer any and all into submission.
“Damn you! Just leave,” the sergeant retorted, his voice suddenly grown weary.
James started to pick up a musket.
“The guns stay,” Bartholomew snapped. “I’d rather throw them in the river than have you take them.”
James, held the gun for a moment, looking down at it, and then let it fall into the mud.
“James.”
It was Jonathan, his voice choked with emotion.
“What now?” and then James softened for a moment. “Little brother, can’t you see it’s over? Come with me. Mother and Father said it would come down to this. We can still go home.”
There was a note of pleading in his voice, but Jonathan shook his head in reply.
“You were nothing but a patriot when the sun was shining, but now that winter is here? My God, James, how you try my soul. Some day, when others give thanks for what we endure, your name will be forgotten. As I have already forgotten you.”
James could not reply. Tom could see his anguish as well, for Jonathan’s words had cut to his soul.
“To try one’s soul. The sunshine patriot . . . to try one’s soul . . .”
James turned away, Elijah following him.
“James.”
He looked back.
“Tell Mother and Father I love them.”
James nodded. “And our brother? What word for him?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Tell him . . . ,” he choked back a sob. Tom, who was still holding him, could feel him shudder.
“If Allen has gone over to the damn Loyalists as I suspect he has, tell him he is no longer my brother . . . nor are you.”
James said nothing more, and with Elijah by his side, he disappeared into the darkness. Jonathan broke into sobs then, the others around him silent. Tom held him until the boy, as if embarrassed and shamed, broke away, wiping his face with the dirty sleeve of his blanket.
“To try one’s soul,” Tom thought again, looking at the lad, who stood shamed but defiant.
And he knew it was time to go.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said softly, backing away from the fire.
The sergeant nodded curtly.
“Peter, you take picket down by the river. I’ll relieve you in the middle of the night,” Bartholomew announced. “Jonathan, why don’t you try and get some sleep.”
The boy did not reply.
“Write about this,” Jonathan said to Tom. “Write about us.”
Tom nodded. “I will, brother.”
He turned and started up the mud-slick hill, the fire behind him disappearing into mist, smoke, and snow.
It took awhile of wandering to find his tent, staggering past groups of men huddled around their fires, the long cold night still ahead as they drew closer to the feeble heat that their green firewood gave out.
He was eager to write, afraid that what was forming would evaporate and slip away if he did not get back to his tent at once. At last he found it.
Curled up in the mud nearby was a drummer boy, wrapped in a soggy blanket, shivering in his sleep, drum by his side.
Tom picked the drum up and carried it into his tent. The candle he had left lit was still burning. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out two more, t
he last he had. He thought about it for a moment, cut one in half with his penknife, and lit the two pieces.
He sat down on his cot, the canvas wet as was the blanket atop it. He drew out a small ink pot. Thank God it wasn’t frozen. He found a quill in the bottom of his pack, and used a penknife to sharpen the point. Carefully, he drew out a sheet of dry paper wrapped inside an oilskin, a gift as well from General Greene.
He spread the paper on the head of the drum and now, though he was still a bit drunk, there was no hesitation.
“These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it NOW, deserves the love and thanks of every man and woman.”
So he would write through the night.
McConkey’s Ferry
7:00 P.M. December 25, 1776
The sleet against the windowpane sounded like the tinkling of a shower of broken glass . . . and then an explosion.
George Washington, drifting on the edge of sleep sat up with a muffled cry, the others gathered around him by the fireplace in the ferry house were silent, giving him furtive glances but saying nothing. He suddenly felt embarrassed. In the warmth of the fire he had drifted off to sleep for a few minutes, and was awakened by a loose shutter slamming closed.
He had been dreaming. Back on the Monongahela River with Braddock. A strange dream had haunted his sleep for twenty years. In the dream he already knew the ambush by the French and Indians lay ahead. In some ways, though, it was not a dream, not a nightmare, at all. On that terrible day, on that Pennsylvania frontier near Pittsburgh, a column of more than two thousand British troops and colonial militia was all but annihilated. On that day, everyone familiar with life beyond the frontier had sensed the trap. Throughout the morning, as the lengthy column pushed through the forest, those who knew the land were reporting in, and Braddock was ignoring them. After all, they were only rabble, foul-smelling colonials who came bearing warnings, and he was a professional soldier from Europe, immune to rumormongering and panic.
Scouts ranging around the advancing column of British and colonial militia reported signs, a low-hanging bough broken, sap from the white pine tree oozing from the break and not yet solidifying, leaves scuffed up to reveal the damp mulch underneath, mushrooms trampled by a human foot, a tree someone had urinated against. No Indian would be so stupid as to do that; it obviously had to be a Frenchman. There was even a particular scent in the air, that scent of unwashed human bodies that lingered long after men had moved on. Anyone who lived on the frontier could tell the difference between an Indian and a Frenchman a hundred yards off; some even claimed they could tell which tribe. Anyone, at such a moment, foolish enough to be smoking tobacco, could be sensed a hundred paces away if the wind was right, and more than a few claimed they had smelled the tobacco the French were fond of smoking, along with gobs of spittle from those who chewed it.
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