by Ron Carter
They made evening camp in a small meadow near a stream, and as Caleb finished wiping his bowl with the crust of his hard brown bread, a familiar voice interrupted.
“You came through all right?”
He turned to watch Charles Dorman stride by the evening cook fire to stand before him. Caleb did not expect the swell of emotion that welled up into his throat to choke him for a moment as he looked up into the lined face and at the gray wavy hair that was growing long.
“I’m all right. You?”
Dorman grinned one of his rare grins. “Hard to kill.” He sat down in the grass beside Caleb.
“Lose many from Third Company?”
“Some. Quite a few. Can’t find Captain Venables.”
Dorman was sitting with his elbows on his drawn-up knees, and for a moment he studied his clasped hands.
Caleb continued. “Fifth Company?”
“We were right in the middle of it. Lost some. Too many. Lost three officers.” They fell silent for a time before Dorman went on. “Were you there at the end? When Greene came up?”
Caleb turned to look at him. “You mean, did I run?”
Dorman looked back at him in silence, waiting.
“I was there.”
The slightest look of relief crossed Dorman’s face and was gone. “We stood ’em straight up five times,” he said. “They had twice the numbers, and we stood ’em straight up. It was a proud thing.”
Dorman saw the flat, dead look creep over Caleb’s face and waited a moment before he spoke again. “There are many reasons to take a life. Some good, some bad. Seems like we all have to make up our mind about which is which. I think freedom is a good reason.”
Caleb’s eyes dropped, and he would not raise them. Dorman continued, “I don’t think revenge is. It grows bitter with time.”
Caleb stared into the fire and would not look into Dorman’s face. The older man finally stood. “You need to do normal things. Come on.”
Caleb glanced at him. “Normal? Like what?”
“Get your hand wraps.”
Ten minutes later, fifty yards from the campfires, with the last arc of the sun sitting on the western horizon, Dorman raised his hands while Caleb started the slow circling, hands raised, chin tucked into the hollow of his left shoulder, eyes trained on Dorman’s chest, unfocused, to take in the entire man. His left hand flicked out, and Dorman slipped it, then caught Caleb’s right hand on his shoulder as his own right hand blurred, coming across to slap Caleb on his left cheek. Caleb settled and continued. Five minutes later Dorman stepped back. “Enough.”
“No. Let’s go.”
Dorman shrugged, raised his hands, and once again Caleb came circling, watching. Again his left hand flicked out; then he started his right hand across, and again Dorman raised his arm and shoulder to absorb it, and again Dorman started his right hand across. At precisely the right instant, Caleb checked his own right hand and cocked and swung his left in a perfect hook. Startled, Dorman saw it coming and had begun to check his own right hand to raise it but knew he was too late. Caleb’s left hook came in over his right arm and caught him on the temple, solid, hard. Instantly the familiar spots came dancing, jumping before Dorman’s eyes, and though he could see everything before him, he knew he was in that strange world of being conscious but unable to raise his hands to defend himself. He tried to step back, but his feet would not move. He saw Caleb cock his right hand, and he saw the fist start across the twenty inches that separated his jaw from the wrapped hand, and he knew he would not be able to stop it. And then he saw Caleb pull the punch and step back, concern springing into his eyes, his face.
“You all right? Dorman?”
For three seconds Dorman stood still, waiting for the spots to clear, waiting until his hands and feet would obey his commands.
“I’m all right.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s all right. It was good. Where did you learn that?”
“Learn what?”
“To start a power right and check it while you deliver a left hook? Not many can do it.”
“I didn’t learn it. It just came.”
In that instant, for the first time, Dorman knew. The boy had those peculiar, inborn instincts that cannot be taught or learned. They were there, or they weren’t there, and Caleb had them.
Dorman raised his hands. “Let’s go again.”
“Sure?”
“Sure. Go.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Don’t. I’m going to hit back a little. Time you learned how it feels. Keep your mouth shut tight, so your teeth don’t get chipped.”
Once again they faced each other, and the wary circling commenced. Within three minutes both men were sweating. Within five, Caleb’s eyes were narrowed with intensity. Within eight minutes the war, the Brandywine battle, the dead, the wounded, were forgotten as he bore in, testing Dorman, dancing, moving, giving, taking. At fifteen minutes, Dorman had a swelling over his right temple where Caleb’s hook had landed. Caleb had a purple bruise on his left cheekbone, and it was swelling. Dorman backed away.
“That’s enough for now.”
Caleb dropped his hands, chest heaving, shirt soaked and clinging. “You hurt?”
Dorman shook his head. “You?”
“No. Feels good. Feels fine.” He used his teeth to work at the knots in his hand wraps. Only then did he notice that soldiers had gathered in clusters, three here, four there, half a dozen another place, silently watching. They turned and walked away, talking among themselves with Caleb peering after them, searching. Conlin Murphy was not among them.
Caleb folded the long strips of canvas once and draped them over his shoulder. “Again tomorrow?”
“Depends on where we are. What we’re doing.” Dorman had recovered his breathing. “You having any nightmares?”
Caleb stared for a moment. “How did you know?”
Dorman shook his head. “After my first battle I had ’em for a year or more. Still do, sometimes.”
Caleb’s eyes widened. “You do?”
Dorman bobbed his head. “Better have a good reason for killing a man, even in a war. Better be right. It’s bad enough at best, and the only relief is knowing you did right.” He said nothing, waiting for Caleb’s reaction.
Caleb dropped his eyes and studied the ground for a few seconds, weighing, pondering. He looked back at Dorman but didn’t speak.
Dorman broke the silence. “Better get back to camp. Tomorrow could be a hard day.”
They separated in the purple shades of twilight, Dorman back to Fifth Company, Caleb back to his bedroll. The boy stuffed his hand wraps among his things and drew out an oilskin and unwrapped a badly frayed pad of paper and the stub of a lead pencil. He thought for a time, then in the fading light began to write.
September 15, 1777
My Dear Mother:
I know you will hear of the battle at Brandywine Creek and will worry that I was there and that things did not go well for me. I was there, and I remained until General Washington ordered us to fall back. I am fine. I was not harmed. You will hear that we were defeated at Battle Hill; however, we held the hill through five heavy assaults, although we were outnumbered two to one. General Washington ordered the retreat, but our army takes pride in the fact we held them through most of the day. Had our army been as large as theirs we would have driven them off. In the retreat, our army was scattered, but we are mostly back together, and General Washington has ordered us to cross the Schuylkill River. We were not told why, but most of us believe he intends trying to stop the British from capturing Philadelphia.
I would like to know if you have heard from Matthew. I trust Brigitte and the twins are safe, as well as yourself. I have thought of you many times and send my best wishes to you all. You are not to worry about me. We have a good sergeant and good officers who look after us.
I do not know where I will be after tonight. I will write you again as soon as I can, and whe
n possible I will give you an address where I can receive your mail. I miss you all.
Your son,
Caleb.
Holding the pages to the flickering firelight, he read what he had written, then laid the pencil down and for a time sat motionless in the deep gloom of the darkness that had gathered. Mother will look for a mention of the Almighty—thanking Him, somehow acknowledging Him—but I can’t do it. I can’t! Where was He when the cannonballs were blowing off arms and legs? The bayonets were working? If this is His war for freedom, why are we outnumbered two to one?
He folded the letter and carefully wrapped it inside the oilskin with his pad and pencil and put it with his things.
In full darkness, tattoo came echoing through the trees, and the camp quieted. The waxing quarter-moon rose in the east and had made half of its nocturnal journey toward the west when clouds came drifting to blur the stars. By morning the heavens were a dull gray overcast, and sunrise was but a brightening of the clouds in the east. By seven o’clock the army was once again marching southwest on the rutted dirt road that wound through the Pennsylvania hills.
The midmorning halt had just been ordered when a rider carrying a musket and with a tricorn pulled low came galloping past Third Company on a grunting, winded mare, heading for the front of the column. Twenty minutes later an excited Colonel John Laurens came pounding up on his bay gelding, and the officers of the Ninth New York Regiment gathered around as he pointed and exclaimed, while Third Company listened in rapt silence.
“There’s a column of British marching east on the road from Lancaster to Philadelphia—about eight miles from here. They’re strung out for two miles, the worst position possible to defend themselves, and they don’t know we’re here! General Washington is certain we can hit them hard if we move fast. He’s picked out a place called Warren Tavern for the attack. We’re going to have to march double time. Get your men back into ranks immediately and have them load their muskets. When we move, it will be at a trot. Understood?”
“How do you know all this?”
“You saw that rider come in? A militiaman from over there. He was sent with a message to General Washington. Get ready!”
Laurens rammed his blunted spurs into his horse and galloped on to the next regiment.
Half an hour later the entire column was moving south at double time, muskets loaded, men silent as they worked to prepare themselves for another battle. At noon the first breeze came stirring the leaves in the trees. At one o’clock the breeze was a high wind. At half past one, it was a howling gale from the northeast, ripping leaves and limbs from the trees, and twenty minutes later torrential rains came whipping down on the hunched backs of the soldiers. Within minutes the dirt road was a quagmire.
Every man in the Continental Army had learned to shrug off the seasonal nor’easters that came roaring in from the Atlantic, and none of them faltered as they hurried on through the thick mud, but suddenly the officers realized the threat was not to their men—it was to their ammunition. A halt was called as they shouted orders above the screeching wind.
“Check your gunpowder! Check your cartridges!”
Half an hour later the reports began coming in from the companies and the regiments, to divisional officers and finally to Colonel Laurens, who turned his horse back to the southwest and rode through the cloudburst, splashing mud in all directions, to deliver the message to General Washington.
“Sir, some cartridge boxes turned the rain, but most of them did not. Poorly made. Tens of thousands of paper cartridges are soaked. Worthless. Tons of gunpowder are soaked. At this moment we are an army that cannot fight!”
General Washington stared in disbelief. He could not recall an experience in his life when an entire army was stopped in its tracks because of poorly constructed cartridge boxes that would not turn the rain.
Laurens continued. “Sir, there’s more. We have more than one thousand men barefooted. No shoes. No tents. No shelter. Our food is nearly gone. If this storm holds, I suggest we would have no chance in a fight with the British.”
Reluctantly Washington gave the only order he could. “We camp here until the storm breaks. Get patrols out.”
“If the British discover us?”
“I expect they will, and we’ll have to handle that when it happens. In the meantime, tell the men to make whatever shelters they can from the trees hereabouts and search for dry firewood. Try to dry the cartridges and gunpowder through the night.”
There was no dry firewood. They ate cold rations for their meager suppers and built crude lean-tos as a partial shield against the rain and wind that held through the night. The men slept sitting up, shivering, with soaked blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Morning broke gray with the wind still driving the slanting rain. Camp was a mass of sodden men in sodden blankets, slogging through mud to get a ration of cold pork and one soggy biscuit per man to appease their gnawing hunger, while they listened to their officers call out the orders of the day.
“Remain here. Improve your lean-tos. Dry your cartridges if you can.”
The soldiers shook their heads wearily as they made their way back to their dripping blankets and set about cutting branches to heap onto their lean-tos. In the afternoon the wind died, and with evening coming on the rain was falling straight down. All eyes followed a rider as he passed, loping a mud-splattered horse toward the front of the column, throwing dirty water twenty feet at every step. The man reined in the steaming gelding ten feet from the entrance to General Washington’s tent.
“Message for General Washington. Urgent.”
“From whom?”
“General Pittston. Pennsylvania militia.”
Inside, the messenger stood at attention while General Washington unfolded and read the hastily scrawled lines, then spoke.
“Do you know the contents of this message?”
“I know what it’s about.”
“What is that?”
“The British have scouted this column. They know you’re here, and they’re coming to get you. I’m the one who saw them. They split their command. Looks like they mean to hit you on both flanks at the same time as soon as the weather breaks. Maybe before. I told General Pittston, and he sent me here with that message.”
“Are we in danger tonight?”
“No, sir. Not a chance. Their cannon are mired down to the axles. They can’t march fast enough to get here before tomorrow noon, earliest.”
“Go back to General Pittston and tell him we’ll take evasive action. Thank him.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Washington watched the man disappear through the tent flap, then stood with his head bowed while his mind raced. He forced his thoughts to a conclusion and strode outside to the pickets. “Get Colonels Laurens and Hamilton here at once.”
Minutes later his two aides were standing before him, soaked to the skin, dripping tricorns in their hands.
“We’re discovered. The British are coming in on both our flanks, probably midday tomorrow. We’re going to move the army back across the Schuylkill River at daybreak. We’ll cross at Parker’s Ford. We will leave General Smallwood and his brigade on this side of the river, with General Wayne and his division. Their orders will be to find the British and harass them. Delay or stop them if they can. Try to get their baggage train.”
He gestured to Laurens. “Pass those orders verbally at once.” He turned to Hamilton. “Prepare them in writing for delivery as soon as possible.”
Making cook fires or campfires was impossible. The soldiers ate cold sowbelly and gnawed on hardtack, then huddled under makeshift lean-tos, which did little to shelter them from the incessant downpour. With soggy blankets wrapped about their shoulders, they shivered through the night. At midnight Caleb stood his two-hour picket shift on the edge of camp, then returned to his lean-to. At four o’clock the clouds thinned. By four-thirty the rain stopped, and the moon and stars were visible. Sunrise was a spectacular light and shadow show. At six-thirt
y the heavens were a cloudless blue.
The soldiers of Third Company were finishing the remains of a breakfast of one chunk of cold mutton and a crumbling, wet biscuit when O’Malley returned from receiving the marching orders of the day.
“We march at seven o’clock. They’re leaving Smallwood and Wayne on this side of the river to cover our crossing and harass the British. Wayne’s division is short of men. He needs more, bad. They’re asking for volunteers to stay with him. Anybody want to stay with Wayne? He’ll catch up to us later.”
Caleb watched two men step forward, and then for reasons he himself did not understand, he walked forward to stand with them. Three more men followed.
O’Malley turned puzzled eyes on Caleb, then spoke to the six of them. “You sure?”
They all nodded, and O’Malley turned, pointing. “Down there, maybe three hundred yards. Ask an officer for Wayne’s division. General Anthony Wayne. When he comes across the river and joins us, all you report back here to Third Company.”
By eight o’clock the army had begun their crossing of the Schuylkill River at Parker’s Ford: a long, serpentine line of men in wet clothes, with wet bedrolls strapped to their backs, carrying wet muskets and wet cartridges that would not fire. Half of them were bare-legged and barefoot. Some paused at the crossing to look back for a moment at the place they had left Generals Smallwood and Wayne with what remained of their commands.
Caleb watched the New York Ninth Regiment, with his Third Company, march away and out of sight around a bend in the road that wound its way through the woods to the river. Only then did the realization seize him that he was in unfamiliar country, alone among strangers, under orders to find and fight the dreaded British and Germans. A moment of overwhelming loneliness washed over him as he stared at the disappearing column. Suddenly it was important that he explain to himself why he had volunteered to remain behind with Wayne’s command, and there was no answer—nothing. For an instant, hot panic seized him. He battled the need to cry out, to run, to catch the column and the safety of Third Company and O’Malley and those he knew. He flinched at the voice that came booming from behind and turned to face a major he had never seen before.
