by Ron Carter
“Did you accuse them of desertion?”
“We did.”
“What did they say?”
“They said they were going to Philadelphia to get help for two of them. Their feet were frozen and going bad and they were afraid they’d lose a foot or a leg—maybe die. They’d already cut off some toes that had gone rotten.”
Broderick hunched forward to peer intently at the notes on the paper before him for half a minute, traced a line with an index finger, then raised his head.
“We have that in the record. Did you tell them there were other men in this camp in the same condition?”
“No, sir.”
“Anything else?”
Billy paused for a moment. “Only that some of them are kin to each other.”
Broderick eased back in his chair. “That’s in the record too.” He turned to Eli. “Anything to add?”
Eli looked Broderick in the eyes. “One man’s the uncle of Pratt. A younger one’s his cousin. Pratt was looking out for his kin.” He paused for a moment, arranging his thoughts. “They were on Long Island when we got overrun and they came on through all the other trouble after, clear down to here. If they were truly deserters I think Billy and me would have had a fight on our hands out there last night. They had ten muskets among them when I told them to stop, and if their hearts had been bad, some of them would have made a break in the dark, but none did. Once we got their muskets, those who could helped the crippled ones and they came on in peaceful. I don’t think they meant to be deserters. I think they meant to get their kin to Philadelphia for help.”
Eli stopped for a moment and the room fell silent while he finished. “Has anybody asked them if they would have come back once they got the sick ones to a hospital?”
Broderick’s eyebrows arched. “No.” He turned to the prisoners. “Sergeant Pratt, you heard the question. If you had gotten help in Philadelphia for the disabled, would the rest of you have come back?”
Pratt’s eyes lowered and he stood still, not moving. For a long time he stared at the floor, searching his soul. “I never thought that far, sir. I only knew how bad I wanted to try to save the feet and legs of my uncle and my cousin. How hard it would be back home trying to work their farm without legs. I didn’t mean to run out on no duty, or no battle. I was at Long Island, and then New York and White Plains, and on through Fort Washington and Fort Lee, and then across New Jersey, runnin’ the whole time, tryin’ to keep the company together. We all got our feet froze on night guard, and it was me had to cut off the toes when they went putrid. If you’re askin’ me now would I have come back when I got them to a hospital … I can only tell you I been waitin’ and watchin’ for a chance at a fair fight with the British where we can show ‘em we can do somethin’ besides run. I didn’t come all this way to quit. I think I’d have come back. I think all of us who could, would have.” Pratt stopped and for ten seconds the only sound was the crackling of the fire.
All eyes shifted to Broderick. His shoulders slumped and he raised a hand to rub weary eyes, then gathered his papers. “That’s all. This hearing is concluded. The court-martial panel will reconvene and announce its decision tomorrow morning.”
“Sir, may I say something?” Billy stepped forward.
Broderick sighed. “Make it brief.”
Billy licked his dry, cracked lips. “Eli lost his family to Iroquois when he was two, except for a sister that he thinks is still alive. The Iroquois raised him and seventeen years later he left them to go find her. She’s the only kin he has. I doubt there’s a man in this room who knows what Eli does about the pull kin can have. Sometimes it’s stronger than duty. I believe Pratt would have come back once he got his kin to a doctor. I believe that, sir.”
Broderick leaned forward on his elbows, eyes narrowed. “Are you defending what these men did? Arguing in their favor?”
“No, sir. I’m just saying I don’t think it would be right to shoot these thirteen men for what they did. I think they’ll do their duty if they get a chance. I would not be afraid to fight beside them.”
Broderick gathered his papers. “That’s all. This hearing’s concluded. We’ll have our findings in writing by morning.”
The snow had stopped and the clouds overhead had thinned to show patches of the black velvet heavens, studded with diamonds, and an almost full moon hanging just above the southeastern skyline. The trail left by Billy and Eli and the three soldiers was but a faint trace in the fresh-fallen snow. The two men walked east from the Keith House into the great open field in the strange, hushed wonderland with only the sound of the snow squeaking beneath their feet as they passed. An unexpected sense of awe settled over them and they slowed to look about.
Ahead four hundred yards were the woods that gave partial shelter to the Continental army, and in the trees they saw the campfires, small points of light in the darkness. Behind them the lights of the Keith House were yellow behind drawn blinds. Around them the white blanket of new snow turned the blackness to a deep, soft gray that transformed the world into a thing of beauty and deep, quiet peace. They said nothing as they moved on, each humbled by his own sudden awareness of the wonder of life, of the earth, of his own being, his smallness, and each let his own thoughts run. In the deep quiet, new feelings arose inside Billy.
So vast! Limitless. Nature knows the secret—peace—that’s the secret—peace. Who are we? So small in the vastness—unable to find the way—forever looking—never finding. Why can’t we learn peace? We learn war—killing each other—thirteen men back there—will they be shot in the morning? shot in the name of seeking peace? No one speaks of the foolishness in shooting men to make peace—is peace the opposite of war? Maybe—in part—but that’s not the peace each man yearns for—peace in his heart. Lord Jesus had it right—peace not as the world—my peace, my peace—that’s the secret—Jesus knew—nature knows.
They came to the woods and then their own lean-to, and they blew on the embers of a fire nearly dead and added twigs, then logs. They sat on the pine-bough floor of their lean-to with their hands to the fire, staring silently into the dancing flames. Billy was still lost in the unexpected impressions that had overcome him as they walked through the great field of snow in the dark of night.
There was a sound and both of them turned their heads to peer as the diminutive form of Sergeant Alvin Turlock took shape in the darkness. He walked to their fire and Billy moved to make room for him under the lean-to. He sat on the pine boughs, sensing the quiet between the two men, and he waited for a time before he spoke.
“You were at the hearing?”
Billy nodded.
“They going to shoot those men?”
“They’ll decide by morning.”
“You tell ‘em those men fought from Long Island on through?”
“They know.”
“They know they was only tryin’ to save family?”
Billy glanced at Turlock and for the first time realized that beneath the tough crust of the little man, he yearned to belong to a family. Billy answered, “We told them.”
Turlock reached with his sleeve to wipe at his nose. “If they decide to shoot ‘em, I think it’s got to go to General Washington for approval.”
Eli spoke quietly. “General Washington? If it goes to him, I’ll talk to him.”
Turlock’s eyes widened in surprise. “The general know you?”
Billy answered. “The general knows Eli.”
Turlock did not inquire.
Morning came clear and the bright sun glistened off the white blanket that smoothed and covered the flaws of the world. By nine o’clock the first drops of melt were making tiny holes in the snow beneath the barren tree branches and faint wisps of steam were rising from places where direct sunlight bore down warm. At ten o’clock Billy raised his eyes to study the skyline north and east as he walked with Eli from drill towards the lean-to.
“Storm clouds a long way over there,” Billy pointed.
“Heavy.
We get a northeast wind, we’ll have more snow.”
They dropped to their knees to wrap their weapons in an old piece of cast-off canvas under cover of the lean-to, then stood and Billy led out, walking towards the camp wood yard. Turlock’s high, nasal voice stopped them, and they turned to wait for him, trotting to catch up.
His eyes were bright, words coming fast. “Heard about those thirteen men?”
Billy shook his head.
“The court-martial decided. No one’s getting shot. Four was declared disabled and they got a doctor looking at their feet. The other nine have to stand night picket for one week for punishment when they’re able.”
Billy rounded his mouth and blew relieved air. “Who said?”
“That sergeant that came to get you. Culhane? Was that his name? I seen him at drill.”
Eli looked at Billy, relief flooding.
Turlock shrugged. “Thought you should know.” He glanced at the nearby wood yard. “Got wood detail?”
“Got to cut and split three cords.”
Turlock’s eyebrows raised. “Not the usual two?”
“The cooks got some sort of special orders. They need three today.”
Turlock was instantly focused. “For what?”
“No one said. I only know a couple wagons rolled in from the west and unloaded in the night. No one said what.”
Turlock scratched his scraggly beard for a moment, then shrugged. “I got to get back to the cannon. Orders are to clean ‘em, plug the muzzles and touchholes, and grease the axles with anything we can find. Sounds like something’s stirring. I just come to tell you about those men.”
“Glad you did.”
“See you later.” He turned and strode away.
The camp wood yard, a one-hundred-yard-square clearing carved out of the center of the deep woods rang daily with the sound of axes and the grinding of six-foot crosscut saws as men sweated in the cold to keep ahead of the forty cords of wood that fed the cook fires each day. For half a mile in all directions, whips cracked and men barked orders to mules that dragged windfall trees into the clearing where the animals stood with steam rising from their hot hides while soldiers unhooked the chains from the trees and swung the mules around to go back into the snow for the next load. Yellow wood chips and sawdust lay in a scatter on top of the fresh snow.
The two men walked into the wood yard among twenty others working with axes and saws. Each picked up a broadaxe and went to the nearest pine tree lying in the snow. They started at opposite ends, lopping off the dead branches and piling them nearby. Forty minutes later the stripped tree had been cut into seven sections, six feet long. They carried the first section to the nearest cross-armed sawhorse, laid it in the “V’s,” and with one man on each side, began the rhythmic pull on the six-foot crosscut saw, back and forth while the teeth dumped sawdust on both sides.
With the tree cut into fourteen sections, three feet long, they laid the saw aside and took a section to the nearest chopping block to set it upright. They picked up their broadaxes, took a deep breath, and began the work of splitting each three-foot section into quarters for kindling.
At one o’clock they stopped to wipe sweat while they drank a bowl of hot, thin, greasy gruel, then sat down on the stacked firewood to gather themselves for the effort of working with saw and axe until dusk. A little before four o’clock, with the sun reaching for the woods on the western skyline, both men stopped, sweat dripping from their chins and noses, breathing heavy, and raised their heads at the sound of a horse cantering west, thirty yards away, and they squinted to watch a horse and rider disappear into the woods.
“Was that a colonel?” Billy asked.
“Looked like it.”
Two minutes later they turned at the sound of another horse, paced at a trot, working its way west through the trees at the far end of the wood yard. The rider wore the gold braid of a brigadier general.
Eli wiped at his face. “That’s two in two minutes. Wonder what’s going on over at the headquarters building?”
Billy shook his head. “Two wagon loads of something got here in the night, we’re cutting extra wood for the cook fires, and Turlock’s cleaning and plugging the cannon while officers are gathering.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Something’s stirring.”
To the west, five hundred yards into the huge open field, shadows were slanting long as the officers reined their mounts to a stop at the stables in the dooryard of the large, two-storied house owned by Samuel Merrick, where General Nathanael Greene had been invited to set up his quarters. One hundred fifty yards north and west, the Keith House, where General George Washington had his quarters, glowed golden in the setting sun. White snow clung to the long winter hair on the legs and bellies of the horses and vapor rose rhythmically from their belled nostrils as they breathed, moving their feet, anxious to be free of saddle and bridle and in a stall with feed and water.
While soldiers led the horses to the stables, the arriving officers walked in the paths shoveled through the snow to be met at the door by Samuel Merrick, aging, portly, kindly, dedicated to the overthrow of the British.
“Welcome, welcome.” he exclaimed. “Do come in and let us take your cloaks and hats. General Greene is expecting you just down the hall in the library. General Washington will be along directly for dinner. You’ll find wines and nutmeats in the library for your pleasure while we’re waiting.”
The house was filled with warmth and the rich, pungent aroma of roasting ham, beef, stuffed fowl, puddings, custards, and mince and fruit pies. The officers cleaned the snow from their boots and made their way down the hall, boot heels clicking on the hardwood floor while servants disappeared with their cloaks and hats. They entered through the double doors where General Greene was waiting in the library. Two walls were lined with oak shelves and books, a great stone fireplace with oaken mantel covered a third, and large windows with drawn shades filled the fourth. General Nathanael Greene rose from a maple table surrounded by matching upholstered chairs.
“Gentlemen, you are most welcome.” He gestured to a table in one corner. “Wines and dainties are there. There are a few more officers yet to come, and General Washington will be along directly.”
They gathered to pour red wine into crystal goblets and take nutmeats from engraved silver bowls, then sat down at the table while warmth from the fireplace reached every corner. Talk flowed, but contrary to their expectation a sense of restraint, of uneasiness, crept in. Each had received sealed, written orders from General Washington to attend, but the curt message had said nothing of the purpose of the meeting or who would be in attendance. The feeling of slight tension grew as others arrived, including the Reverend Alexander MacWhorter of the Presbyterian Church in Newark, New Jersey. A confirmed Patriot, the reverend had opened his church to the Continental army as it passed through Newark, then packed a knapsack and left his duties to his subordinates while he traveled with the army through their darkest hours, and remained with them in the camp on the Pennsylvania riverbank.
In deep dusk Sam Merrick excused himself to answer a knock at the door. Minutes later he returned to the library and stepped aside while General George Washington entered. Instantly talk ceased and every man came to his feet facing the general, waiting. He towered over everyone in the room, and his face was set like stone while his eyes swept the room, missing nothing.
He laid a large leather valise on the table, then spoke with a sense of disciplined dignity. “I thank you all for your attendance. Please continue with your conversation until dinner is served.”
Ten minutes later a servant rapped at the door. “Madame Merrick invites you to the dining room.”
As the officers took their places at the dining table, their faces were those of boys, wide-eyed at the feast spread before them. Half a dozen engraved silver candlesticks with great, scented candles were spaced up the center of the table. Gleaming china with polished silver and embroidered linen napkins sparkled at every chair. Platters of smok
ing ham, beef, and fowl were mixed with bowls of steaming carrots, turnips, potatoes, and cabbage, with small silver bowls of pickles, relishes, jams, jellies, and garnishments of every kind tucked between.
General Washington, leaned his leather valise against the leg of his chair, nodded to Reverend MacWhorter, who bowed his head and in a firm voice gave thanks to the Almighty for the bounties of the table and the blessings of life. The ravages of war and the bitter winter faded from their minds as they raised their heads in anticipation, and for a time the only sounds were those of eating and asking for the platters and bowls to be passed once again, while Mrs. Merrick hovered nearby, ecstatic at the utter joy she saw in her guests. The eating slowed and pies and custards were wheeled in on wooden carts with ornate designs carved on the sides and handles.
The big clock on the dining room mantel showed half past eight when the men wiped their mouths on their napkins and General Washington stood and bowed to Samuel Merrick and his wife.
“Accept my thanks and gratitude for this sumptuous dinner. I cannot recall the last time I was privileged to sit at such a table.”
Samuel shrugged. “It was the least we could do.” His wife dropped her eyes becomingly, blushed through her broad smile, and said nothing.
Washington continued. “May we trouble you for the use of your library for the evening?”
“It would be an honor. General Greene mentioned it.”
Merrick led them back to the library, and while the officers were taking their seats, General Washington shook his hand warmly. “Your service tonight will not be forgotten.”
“It was nothing. I shall take my leave now. You gentlemen have the library and the first floor of our home to yourselves. Should you need anything, I will be upstairs.”
Washington did not speak until the footsteps in the hall faded and died and there was total silence.
“Reverend, would you seek the guidance of the Almighty?”
