by Ron Carter
He gently picked up the letter and the document and walked out into the heat and the loud, ringing sounds of ships being built.
He waved to Matthew. “Gather the men.”
Five minutes later one hundred men had gathered, sweating, some stripped to the waist, axes and saws and hammers in hand while they waited in silence for their commander to speak.
“Men, the messenger brought a communication from General Washington.” He paused and his eyes dropped to the documents. “You need to know what these say. I’ll read them for you. First, the letter written in the hand of General Washington.”
His voice rang in the forest as he read. When he finished, there was not a sound from the men, and he continued.
“This is the declaration of independence he sent to us.”
The only sounds were the jays in the trees and the squirrels scurrying.
“ ‘In Congress, July 4, 1776. The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.’ ”
For a moment there was a hint of murmur among the men, and Arnold continued.
“ ‘When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.’ ”
Arnold paused for a moment to be certain of control before he continued.
“ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.’ ”
His chin quivered and he clamped his jaw shut and struggled for a moment.
“ ‘That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.’ ”
Again he stopped, and he raised his eyes to his command. Blacks and whites, professional men and craftsmen from cities standing beside farmers and illiterate backwoodsmen, shoulder to shoulder, sweating, hair plastered to their foreheads and shoulders, stunned by the words, feeling stirrings in their souls that none had ever experienced before.
He continued. “ ‘That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.’ ”
His voice held steady and strong as he continued, skipping over some of the words in order to focus on those statements that seemed to get at the heart of the matter. “ ‘Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes. . . . But when a long train of abuses and usurpations . . . evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government. . . . The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations. . . . To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.’ ”
He cleared his throat and continued. Institution of bad laws in defiance of good ones; denial of representation in government affairs; dissolving of Houses of Representatives at will and refusal to allow successor representatives to be elected; obstruction of laws allowing naturalization of citizens; refusal to allow the institution of judiciary powers; appointment of judges of the king’s own choosing; creation of oppressive offices; placement of the military in control of the civil authorities; keeping a standing army in the homes of citizens; cutting off trade; institution of illegal and oppressive taxes and tariffs—Arnold continued until he had finished the enumerated offenses of King George against the colonies, then paused for a moment as he approached the conclusion.
“ ‘We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States. . . .’ ”
Again he paused, and raised his eyes once more to those of his men. He worked against the lump in his throat. Matthew was five feet to his left, mesmerized.
Arnold finished. “ ‘And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.’ ”
He took a breath. “This was signed by fifty-six men whom most of you know, who put everything, including their lives, at risk to do it.”
He lowered the paper and looked at his men. His arms tingled with a feeling he had never before known or supposed existed, and he saw it rise in his men as the beginnings of understanding came into their eyes, and their hearts and minds leaped to grasp thoughts and feelings that were strange and yet somehow seemed to have always been locked away in some secret inner chamber, waiting, waiting.
No one knew how long they remained thus, seized by a spirit that bound them together in a newness of light. Strong men wiped at their eyes and looked about, unashamed.
Arnold wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “We will take one-half hour before evening mess to clean and prepare ourselves, and then we’ll assemble here for a short meeting and a prayer to the Almighty, to be conducted by the camp chaplain.” He lowered his head for a moment as though searching for words. “God bless you all. Let’s get back to work.”
He turned to the messenger. “You did well. Rest and care for your horse as long as you like; then draw provisions for your return trip and see me before you go. I’ll have a message for General Washington.”
Matthew followed Arnold into his tent, struggling to regain his voice. “General,” he blurted, “did you feel it out there? Hear it? All men! Endowed by our Creator. Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. The consent of the people. The common people. That’s where right government should derive its powers! Us! Not a king!”
He stopped, and Arnold remained silent, eyes locked with Matthew’s as Matthew continued. “Fifty-six men! Our lives, our fortunes, our sacred honor, they said! Everything they are, everything they own, their sacred honor! Risked everything. Everything.”
Arnold dropped his eyes for a moment. “I felt it out there. I never read anything like it in my life. You know it’s right when you hear it, and when we meet with the men, I’ll put it to their vote as to whether we will make the same pledge as those fifty-six men did.”
He slowly rose. “Right now the whole of it rests on our shoulders. We can do no less than those fifty-six men. Let’s be about our business outside. You come back to my tent tonight and we’ll talk.”
The men hunched forward to pass from the tent into the noon heat and the sounds of men building ships.
The morning star was still bright when Matthew slipped out of his tent and walked silently to the lake’s edge. The surface was a mirror of the starry heavens. Sounds came strangely unreal from far distances over the water. He heard the faint splashing of something big and four-legged walking through shallow water on the far shore, and then it stopped. Nighthawks did their incomparable acrobatics taking the numberless insects that flitted.
Matthew ran nervous fingers through his hair and paced on the sandy, rocky shore. Too long—over two weeks. Have they caught him? Impossible—British can’t catch him. Then where is he? Where?
The stars faded, and the camp cooks pounded on the big brass kettles to awaken the camp and soon served steaming oat porridge with honey and brown bread. Shortly after six o’clock the sounds of the saws and axes and hammers resumed, and the squirrels and chipmunks became bolder as they darted to the rough-cut mess tables to snatch up bread crumbs.
Matthew settled in to the
critical task of laying the deck of the number six ship, thick enough and braced well enough to bear cannon and men but no more. His eyes were incessantly moving, nervous, probing, watching, waiting for movement in the trees or on the lake that would be Tom returning.
At ten minutes past nine o’clock the carpenter next to him raised his head and shaded his eyes and pointed. “Is that something on the lake?”
Matthew stood and located the speck on the horizon, then leaped to the ground to sprint to his tent for his glass. One minute later he was at the lake’s edge, hunched forward, studying the distant fleck, watching it grow with each passing second.
“Tom,” he shouted. “It’s Tom.”
Arnold walked to his side. “He’s back?”
“Yes, sir. In a canoe.”
“A canoe? Sure it’s not a Huron?”
Matthew shook his head, grinning his relief. “No, that’s Tom.”
Tom beached the canoe, and Matthew helped him drag it twenty feet ashore, and then, with half the camp watching, General Arnold led Tom and Matthew into his tent and gestured to chairs.
“Glad to have you back. Did you reach the British?”
“Yes.”
“Report.”
Tom laid four sticks on the table, each with notches. “They’re up there, and they’re building ships.”
He picked up the longest stick and carefully ran his knife blade along the notches, counting. There were thirteen clicks.
“About thirteen thousand men in a big encampment, four miles north of the head of the lake.”
He picked up the next stick and ran his knife blade over the notches. It clicked six times, then three more times.
“Six hundred more men at lakeshore, building thirty ships.”
He picked up the next stick and counted twelve clicks. “Twelve hundred Huron up there in a camp. The British use them for scouts. They’re not building anything—just waiting to come south and get into a fight with anyone the British say.”
He ran his knife blade over the last stick. Two clicks, then eight clicks. “Two hundred cannon, and about eight hundred kegs of gunpowder, so far. More trickling in all the time.”
Arnold leaned back in his chair, working with the facts.
“How big are their ships?” Matthew asked.
“One big, the rest smaller.”
“How small? Any as small as ours?”
“No. Bigger. Mostly a lot bigger.”
“Do they look like men-of-war or schooners?”
“Heavy timbered, heavy lines, like men-of-war.”
Arnold asked, “How close are they to finishing work on their ships?”
“Half the hulls are done. Maybe five got decks in.”
Arnold turned to Matthew. “When will they be ready to launch?”
Matthew shrugged. “If Tom’s right, October, earliest. About like us.”
Tom interrupted. “Those Huron got about two hundred war canoes up there, beached. I don’t think they’re too anxious to get onto those ships because they don’t know how to sail one, and they hate not being in control.”
Matthew leaned forward. “Do they know you were there?”
“No.”
The questions and answers and discussion went on for half an hour before Arnold exhaled and leaned forward with his arms on the table. “Anything else?”
“Nothing more on what I saw.”
“Mr. Dunson, has this changed your thoughts at all?”
“No, sir. Pretty much what we thought.”
Arnold started to rise and Tom stopped him. “Might be one more thing we could talk about.”
Arnold settled back onto his chair.
“Late September someone ought to go back up there. I think some things can be done to slow them down—maybe save us a lot of misery.”
“Like what?” Arnold waited.
“Blow up some gunpowder. Maybe wreck a ship or two. Knock some holes in the bottom of two hundred war canoes. Fall storms start up there in late September—shouldn’t be hard to do on a stormy night. Late September or early October wouldn’t leave them time to do anything about it before spring. Might cut down their forces some.”
A wry smile crossed Arnold’s face. “Know anybody who could do that?”
Tom hunched his shoulders against the raw wind driving the freezing rain slanting in from the northwest and studied the dark camp.
For five days and five nights he had moved like a shadow among the trees, memorizing every detail of the British installation: the location of the regulars and the officers and the sentries in the big camp; the location of the Huron camp; the location of the construction camp and each of the thirty ships, now nearly completed; the cannon; the four powder magazines, buried and covered at two-hundred-yard intervals near the ships so one accident would not destroy it all; the latrines; the cook tents; the commissary and water barrels.
He had memorized the routine of each camp around the clock—where the sentries were located, how many, who, when they changed shifts, and which were British regulars and which were Huron. And he had waited for a storm.
The afternoon of the fifth day the temperature began to drop, and Tom watched monstrous purple clouds, bellies bulging with rain, move over the incredible beauty of the Adirondack Mountains on rising northwesterly winds. The British started their evening mess in early twilight and finished it in mud, with the wind tearing at their tents and the rain turning their camp into a morass of mud and puddles. Patiently Tom waited until the bugle sounded and the lights went out, and then in freezing rain so heavy he could not see five yards, he crept forward.
The first buried powder magazine—British sentry—one swing of a heavy pine stick—pry up the lock with the tomahawk—down eight steps into the magazine—four feet of fuse from the oilskin inside his shirt—flint and steel—the fuse hissing—back up the stairs—close the door—one hundred eighty paces in the dark—second magazine—sentry—pry up the lock—eight steps—second fuse—hissing—back up the steps—door closed—two hundred ten paces—third powder magazine—sentry down—lock broken open—down into the magazine—third fuse sputtering—up and out and close the door—fourth powder magazine—located between the cook tents, the latrines, and the tents of the sleeping construction gang—too many sentries—too much risk—still work to do.
Ninety paces to the construction site—pick a broadaxe from the rack—two hundred paces south into the trees—drop behind a great rock—wait—count breaths—watch.
He counted eighty breaths before the first powder magazine blew. Flame leaped two hundred yards into the air as nine tons of gunpowder packed in fifty-pound kegs erupted, six in quick succession, then all the remainder at once. The concussion wave knocked tents flat for two hundred yards, and two of the ships were knocked rolling, masts smashed, hulls cracked wide open. In the fires Tom saw men scattering in total, terrified disorganization, shocked, disoriented.
Twenty more breaths and the second powder magazine blew. Twelve more tons of gunpowder lifted flames into the rain-swept heavens, and the concussion wave knocked scrambling men thirty feet, sliding in the mud. Two more ships were lifted from their ramps and thrown like eggshells, smashed, gone.
Twenty-five more breaths and the third powder magazine exploded. Total panic seized the entire installation as eight more tons of gunpowder levelled half the tents at the construction site and blew running men in all directions. Two more ships were thrown down, hulls cracked, masts shattered.
For more than a minute Tom studied the pandemonium in the fires of the British camp and counted the ships destroyed. Then he crouched low and started south through the trees, the heavy broadaxe clutched in his left hand, right hand swinging free. He counted three hundred paces on the path through the woods and then angled left towards the lakeshore, where the two hundred Huron canoes were racked, bottoms up, along the shoreline. The fires at the camp cast a dull, eerie glow into the wet pines and the rain, and he slowed and crouched low and closed his eyes to liste
n.
He heard it. The sound of moccasins on soaked pine needles, moving fast, and he dodged off the path and dropped amid a tangle of windfall tree branches. In the dull glow he counted five Huron sentries trot past him going north to the fires.
The sixth one—they have six—where’s the sixth one! He waited in the rain, breathing light, watching, and then suddenly the last one was there, crouched forward, moving cautiously, head swinging from side to side as he peered into the darkness.
Tom braced himself, ready, and drew his tomahawk. He senses something—wait—wait—wait—let him pass—he’ll pass—wait.
The Huron stopped less than ten feet from Tom and suddenly turned his face towards the scramble of branches and Tom leaped. The Huron half turned before Tom’s hurtling body knocked him backwards. The Huron grabbed frantically for his belt knife as they hit the ground, and it cleared the sheath at the moment Tom swung his tomahawk. Too late the Huron caught the flicker of firelight off the iron, and then the blade struck and he jerked and grunted and his body relaxed.
Instantly Tom jammed his tomahawk back into his belt and in two strides was back among the windfall trees. He seized the broadaxe and trotted to the lakeshore where the war canoes were lined, bottoms showing dully in the fires from the north.
For an hour Tom swung the broadaxe, chopping two gaping holes in the thin birch-bark bottoms of each canoe, then stopped to look and listen.
The Huron will miss the sixth sentry—come looking—seventy canoes left.
Forty minutes later he turned and for three seconds looked north up the quarter mile of canoes with their bottoms destroyed, except for the last one, beneath which he had cached his musket, bullet pouch, and powder horn. He heard the pounding feet one hundred yards north and spun and turned the last canoe over, dropped his musket and bullet pouch and powder horn and the broadaxe inside, grasped a cross-brace and threw all his weight against it, head down, legs driving, and rammed the canoe scraping into the water. When it floated free he leaped inside, settled onto his knees, and dug the paddle blade into the black, rain-whipped water with all his strength.
