I Survived the American Revolution, 1776

by Lauren Tarshis

Kaboom!

  The world around Nate seemed to shatter apart. And then, whoosh! In the same instant, Nate was ripped up off the ground.

  There was searing heat. Blinding light.

  And then … darkness.

  Nate opened his eyes.

  Where was he? He seemed to be inside a big, deep hole. There was dirt and grass everywhere, even in his mouth.

  He must be in his grave! He’d been buried alive!

  He sat up, coughing and gasping.

  No. This hole was not a grave. And Nate was still alive. Explosions and the smell of gunpowder smoke helped clear his mind. And he remembered. The Redcoat attack. Samuel. Hessians charging over the hill. That grunting soldier with his bayonet. The explosion.

  It must have been a shell … one of those new exploding cannonballs. It had blasted this crater in the ground. Somehow Nate had tumbled inside it.

  Nate struggled to his feet and checked himself from head to toe. His pants were ripped. The cut on his face was oozing blood. He felt like he’d been run over by a horse wagon. But amazingly, he was in one piece.

  He spat the dirt from his mouth and turned around, then reeled back in fear.

  There was a hand — a bloody hand — hanging over the edge of the crater. Nate crept closer until he could see that the hand was attached to a man — the Hessian.

  The soldier was splayed out on his back, with one leg twisted in a way it shouldn’t be. His silver cap was next to him, the musket and bayonet near his feet.

  His eyes were opened wide, unblinking.

  He was dead.

  Nate wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. The Hessian’s eyes seemed to grab hold of Nate’s, forcing him to look. He was very young, Nate could see, around Paul’s age. He didn’t look like a bloodthirsty killer anymore. He looked like someone’s son, an older brother. Nate stood there until finally a cannon blast from somewhere very close jolted him out of his trance. The battle was still raging. He felt like he’d woken up from one nightmare, only to be locked inside a new one. Cannons and musket fire seemed to be crackling on both sides of him. The air was thick with smoke.

  What had happened to Paul and the men? How would Nate get back to the fort on Brooklyn Heights? That’s what Captain Marsh had told him to do. But how? He couldn’t just stroll through the woods. There were Redcoats and Hessians everywhere. Nate might not be a real soldier, but he sure looked like one. He was tall for his age. He was wearing the frontier shirt that James had given him. He looked like any young American soldier, desperate to escape.

  Terrifying thoughts screamed through his mind.

  He’d be shot!

  Crushed by a cannonball!

  He’d be caught and locked away in a rat-filled British prison.

  The men had told terrible stories about how the British treated their American prisoners. They crammed them into filthy basements or old, rotting ships. Most men died slowly of starvation or fevers. Paul said he’d rather get shot on the battlefield than starve to death in a British prison.

  Nate started to shake. He looked at the big hole in the ground. Maybe he should just climb back down and curl up into a ball.

  What else could he do?

  And then, once again, his mind flashed to the pirate Slash O’Shea. He remembered a story Papa had told him, about a time Slash was in London. He’d been working as a pirate for a few years. He’d come ashore to hand out gold coins to poor kids on the streets. A policeman spotted Slash and started to chase him. Slash managed to duck into a tavern. Inside was a man wearing a fancy blue velvet coat and a top hat.

  Slash dug into his pockets and pulled out a handful of gold coins. He slapped them on the table in front of the man.

  “For your coat and hat!”

  A minute later, Slash was strolling out of the tavern in that fancy outfit.

  He strolled right past a group of policemen, tipping his hat like a gentleman.

  Slash escaped from London that night, and was soon back at sea.

  Nate looked at the Hessian, lying on the ground, and he knew what to do.

  He knelt down and unbuttoned the brass buttons of the green coat. It was wrong to steal from a dead man. But this dead man had tried to kill him.

  Nate carefully slipped the coat off the man’s body. He shook it out and tried it on.

  It hung down past Nate’s knees.

  But Nate could easily fix that. He shrugged it off, and used the Hessian’s razor-sharp bayonet to help him tear off the bottom of the coat. He tried it on again.

  Better. Next he put on the helmet. He had to push it back so it didn’t cover his eyes. Finally he picked up the Hessian’s musket and bayonet and put it over his shoulder.

  Nate stood there, too scared to move.

  He just had to get out of the woods and across the field to the fort. It was only about a mile from here, Nate guessed. If he walked quickly, he’d be back inside the fort in fifteen minutes.

  But looking ahead, Nate felt like he had to cross an ocean.

  Without a boat.

  In a storm.

  By himself.

  He closed his eyes, and there it was: the feeling of Papa’s hand on his shoulder. He moved his fingers, and imagined Eliza’s hand in his.

  And he started walking.

  Nate moved slowly through the forest, his eyes scanning, his ears open for pounding footsteps and evil cannonball sizzles and musket ball hisses. Explosions and musket cracks filled the air. But the sky over the forts was still clear of smoke. Nate hoped that meant that the British had not made it that far.

  Nate passed two soldiers, both dead from musket shots. One was an American, about Papa’s age. The other was a young Redcoat. Nate whispered prayers as he went by each one.

  He kept moving. He saw no more soldiers — alive or dead.

  But a few minutes later he heard voices.

  There, not far ahead, up in the hills. Four Redcoats.

  Every one of Nate’s muscles twitched.

  Run!

  But Nate thought of Slash, tipping his hat at the policemen as he strolled by.

  Nate reminded himself: He was not a terrified young boy. He was a brave Hessian! Hopefully the soldiers were far enough away so they wouldn’t notice the coat’s torn bottom and how it sagged off Nate’s shoulders.

  Nate gritted his teeth. He walked along, waving stiffly like a Hessian might.

  To Nate’s shock, the Redcoats waved back.

  Soon they were out of sight. And Nate made it to the road. It would lead him out of the woods and right back to the fort.

  Nate quickened his steps.

  Explosions pounded his ears. Smoke burned his eyes and nose. The booms and crackles were getting louder.

  Just get to the fort, Nate told himself. Just get to the fort.

  He came to the edge of the woods. Now just about half a mile of open fields stood between him and his fort on Brooklyn Heights. The Americans had a wide-open view of anyone approaching the forts. They’d see Nate and think he was a Hessian. They might shoot him by mistake. Nate quickly ripped off the coat and silver hat and tossed them into a bush, along with the musket and bayonet.

  He had taken just a few steps when he heard that nightmarish sound.

  RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat.

  RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat.

  Nate looked slowly to his right. And what he saw in the distance turned his blood to ice.

  There were thousands of men, a sea of bright red spreading as far back as Nate could see.

  RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat.

  RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat.

  Before Nate could figure out what to do, he heard pounding footsteps and panicked voices coming from the woods behind him.

  “They’re coming!”

  “They’re right behind us!”

  “Get to the fort!”

  Men burst out of the woods — dozens and dozens of American soldiers running for their lives. Some were bloodied. All wore wild looks of fear. Before Nate knew it, he was running, too.
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  He glanced behind him, and saw some Redcoats and Hessians trying to catch up.

  And to the right, that huge Redcoat army was on the march.

  Their drums beat louder.

  RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat.

  Shots rang out. Cannons boomed. Balls whizzed by.

  Nate tried not to imagine the blinding pain of his guts being torn open, his bones splintering, his clothes soaked with blood. Any minute he expected a cannonball to plow through the crowd, for an explosion to blow them all into the smoky sky.

  Kaboom!

  Kaboom!

  KI-crack! KI-crack!

  Sizzle.

  Hiss.

  The sounds all melded together — the explosions, the shouts, the footsteps, the pounding of Nate’s heart. It was like the night of the storm that had taken Papa, a wild swirl of terror.

  But Nate was not hit.

  And there was the fort, with hundreds of American soldiers waiting for them. Nate ran with the crowd to the back of the fort, where there was a small break in the wall.

  He collapsed onto the ground. But he sat there just long enough to catch his breath. And then he walked all around the fort, searching the crowd of dazed and terrified men for Paul, Martin, Captain Marsh, and the rest of the Connecticut 5th.

  They were nowhere to be found.

  Reports trickled in from the hideous battle raging outside.

  Hundreds of Americans had been killed and captured already. British and Hessian soldiers were getting closer to the fort.

  The attack would be brutal.

  The Americans were doomed.

  Hours crawled by. More and more American soldiers staggered in. Many were covered with mud from escapes through swamps. Others were soaking wet and half-drowned from swimming across ponds and creeks. Some clutched arms that had been shattered by British or Hessian musket balls. Others were bleeding from the bayonet gashes.

  Dawn came, and still the British didn’t attack. Some said they were waiting until they could sail their warships into the East River. This would let them attack from two sides, and stop the Americans from trying to escape back to New York City.

  American soldiers stood at attention in their trenches. The cannons were loaded and ready to blast. It seemed like everyone in the fort was holding his breath, waiting.

  Meanwhile, all Nate could think about was the men of the Connecticut 5th.

  Just before dawn, the skies opened. It rained all day, soaking the men and turning the fort into a sea of mud. But Nate barely noticed the cold rain and wind. He stood outside all day, shivering and waiting.

  It wasn’t until the late afternoon that a last group of American soldiers made it to Fort Greene.

  Their clothes were tattered. Their faces were caked with dirt. But there was no mistaking the man in the hideous green hat.

  Nate’s heart leaped.

  Paul and the men of the Connecticut 5th had made it back.

  Nate walked quickly along the quiet dirt road. It was very cold, but the sun was warm on his back. He’d been traveling for three days. He’d journeyed first by boat, then by wagon. Now he was on foot. Very soon his long journey would be over.

  Nate’s mind was filled up with memories of all that had happened to him over these past seven months. He thought of the scared and lonely boy who had run away from Storch’s house. Had that really been Nate? Somehow he’d left that boy behind, maybe in that bloody forest in Brooklyn.

  Oh, that terrible battle!

  What a disaster it had been for the Americans.

  The British had outmanned them, outgunned them, and outsmarted them. Hundreds of Americans had been killed. Many more had been injured and captured. It could have been far worse. The British could have captured most of the American army, including General Washington!

  But they kept delaying their attack on the American forts. The stormy weather kept the big British warships from laying their trap in the East River. The delay gave General Washington a chance to pull off a miracle. On the dark and foggy night of August 27, almost ten thousand American troops snuck off Brooklyn in a fleet of small boats. They made it safely back to New York City. When the British finally attacked the forts, they found them empty.

  Most of the American army had managed to survive the Battle of Brooklyn.

  But General Washington’s troubles were just beginning.

  Within weeks, the British had attacked New York City. By the end of November, all of Manhattan Island was in British hands.

  America’s fight for freedom was melting away. Soldiers fled the army until there were only about three thousand men left. The Connecticut 5th had dwindled down to just thirty men.

  But Paul never gave up hope.

  And neither did General Washington.

  On December 26, the Americans launched a surprise attack on a Hessian camp in Trenton, New Jersey. A week later, the Americans battled the British in Princeton, New Jersey — and won. Those small victories put the spirit back into the American fight. Even Captain Marsh smiled a little.

  Nate had planned to stay with the Connecticut 5th. He’d moved with them to the American army’s winter camp, in Morristown, New Jersey.

  But then, just seven days ago, Nate had received a letter. It was from Mr. Marston, Storch’s friend. Somehow word must have gotten back to Norwalk that Nate was in the Connecticut 5th. Mr. Marston had managed to track Nate down.

  Nothing could have prepared Nate for what that letter said.

  Storch was dead, of smallpox. Returning American soldiers had brought the disease back to Norwalk. More than one hundred people had died.

  But the truly shocking news came at the end of the letter.

  Mr. Marston explained that Storch had left no will — no letter saying what should be done with his property.

  You are your uncle’s only living family member. Because he left no will, all of your uncle’s assests go to you.

  Nate read that sentence about twenty times until he fully understood what this meant for him — and for Eliza and Theo.

  They could be free. That’s why Nate was heading back to Norwalk. So he could get Eliza and Theo their freedom papers.

  Captain Marsh, Martin, and Paul had helped Nate plan his trip back to Norwalk. They’d hugged him good-bye, even Captain Marsh. Paul took his ugly green hat and put it onto Nate’s head, to bring him luck.

  “You better come back soon!” Paul had said, the flash in his eyes brighter than ever. “We’re going to win this fight!”

  Nate didn’t doubt it. The Americans would keep fighting for as long as it took. But for now, at least, Nate’s army days were over. He’d seen enough blood. His dreams were filled with horror — of unblinking Hessian eyes, Samuel’s body crumpled on the ground, the explosions of cannons and muskets.

  And he never stopped hearing those British battle drums, that ghostly RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat. Even when he was awake that terrible rattle echoed through his mind.

  Nate walked more quickly now. He could see the roof of the house in the distance.

  What would happen next? Eliza would have plans of her own. She’d want to find her husband, Gregory. Maybe Theo could go to school. As for Nate, he wasn’t sure. Papa had been right: You never knew what was ahead in life. And these past seven months had taught Nate something else: that nothing was impossible.

  A group of ragtag soldiers could take on the most powerful country in the world.

  One man’s words could lift a thousand soldiers right up off the ground.

  A terrified boy could become a brave American fighter.

  And just ahead, the most impossibly happy sight of all: Eliza and Theo, standing under the cherry tree.

  Nate started to run toward them. His knapsack slipped off, but he didn’t stop.

  For the first time in months, the RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat of war faded from his mind.

  All Nate could hear now was Theo’s voice, joyfully shouting out his name.

  Dear Readers,

  I’m writing
to you on my laptop computer from my office in Connecticut. I’m wearing a pair of red sweatpants and munching on potato chips.

  But in my mind, I am still in colonial New York City. Instead of a computer, I’m scribbling away with my feather quill dipped in ink. I’m wearing a long flowered dress and a white bonnet (very flattering!). I’m chewing on some roasted ox.

  Every I Survived book takes me on a journey through time. But the journey for this book has been especially long and thrilling. It’s taking me a little longer than usual to feel like I’m back home.

  For years I Survived readers have been suggesting a book about the Revolutionary War. But the war was long — it lasted from 1775 to 1783. I wasn’t sure what to focus on. I knew I would have to do an enormous amount of research to understand this complex event.

  And so I kept avoiding the topic.

  Then one day I was at a park in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. There’s a huge monument there — a towering column topped by a metal sculpture. I was shocked to learn that it was dedicated to Revolutionary War soldiers who died on British prison ships.

  British prison ships?

  I sat down on a bench and did some instant research. I learned that 11,500 American soldiers died on prison ships docked in the waters around Brooklyn. Many of them were captured during the Battle of Brooklyn (also known as the Battle of Long Island), the biggest battle of the Revolutionary War.

  The Prison Ship Martyrs Monument, in Fort Greene Park. This picture was taken in 1909, a year after it was built.

  I was even more shocked. I had never heard of the Battle of Brooklyn. It turned out that most people I knew hadn’t heard of it, either.

  I knew I had the topic for my book about the Revolutionary War.

  That trip to the Brooklyn park began a research project that included reading about thirty books, plus dozens of letters, diary entries, and battle reports written in 1776. I went to Brooklyn, Mount Vernon, Boston, and two Pennsylvania battlefields. I learned how to fire a musket (on YouTube). I picked up a cannonball (at a museum in Brooklyn). I interviewed historians.

  I learned that the Revolutionary War was far more terrifying, complicated, messy, and miraculous than I’d ever imagined. I spent more than six months researching this topic, and for the entire time I felt a sense of wonder and fascination.