by Ron Carter
They stood in the sweltering heat, waving off flies and mosquitoes and wiping sweat that trickled to sting their eyes and soak their shirts. Half an hour passed, and Billy felt the muscles in his legs begin to stiffen and set. He studied the people and the soldiers and the ebb and flow of traffic on the common and the side streets; he saw the British flags in some windows and the dark looks of some people as they paused to look at the regiment; and slowly the realization struck into him. This town is divided against itself, half Tories, half Patriots! In a battle we’d have to fight half the people and the British besides! And with all those barricades and batteries, we’re in the middle of a powder keg waiting to explode.
Colonel Thompson called four of his officers with him back onto the grass of the common, and Billy watched an animated discussion before Thompson turned and walked north away from them. The other officers returned to the regiment, still standing on the flagstones, the sun beating down on their heads and shoulders.
An hour later Thompson strode rapidly across the common and once more took his place facing them, his face dark, sober. “You will come to attention!”
They brought their heels together, straightened their spines, brought their rank and file into alignment, and waited.
“We are going to move from here to the common, where we will camp for the night. When you dig your fire pits and latrines, save the sod. Within one hour, three hundred pounds of beef will be delivered to our campsite, together with two hundred pounds of fresh potatoes, three hundred pounds of carrots, two hundred loaves of bread, one hundred dozen eggs, two hundred pounds of coffee, and fifty smoked hams.”
He paused and open murmuring broke out.
“You are at attention,” he snapped, and continued. “There will also be two hundred plum puddings, three pounds each.”
There was a spontaneous outburst, and Thompson ducked his head until it quieted, and then he continued. “I do not know when we will get our next rations, so I instruct you to be judicious. Beef stew will be in order tonight, with bread and coffee and a reasonable portion of plum pudding. Tomorrow morning, fresh eggs with ham and coffee. There is good water at the north end. I leave it to the officers and sergeants to arrange portions, storage, and transport of the unused supplies. Each company to arrange its own cooking facility. Theft of food will result in severe discipline. You men will share and share alike. While we are on this common we will be in plain view of the citizenry of New York City. You will conduct yourselves as gentlemen and patriots. Offenders will be publicly disciplined. Am I clear?”
His face was severe as his eyes met those of his troops. He turned to his officers. “That is all. Carry on.”
They stood tall and their ranks were in line as they marched back to the lush, level grass of the common. They divided into companies, and the sergeants supervised setting up the tall iron tripods with the chains and hooks from which the fire-blackened stew pots were suspended. Officers led details of men to the docks and the barricades to gather scrap wood. Forty minutes later two freight wagons rumbled down Broadway onto the common, and the uniformed drivers quieted and held their mules while hundreds of eager hands emptied the wagons and officers and sergeants divided the supplies evenly among the companies.
In early twilight, sergeants stood at the kettles with dippers and filled pewter and wooden bowls to the brim, and grinned as they watched hungry men sit in the grass and scoop great spoonfuls of beef and diced carrots and potatoes, and stuff torn pieces of bread into their mouths and close their eyes as they washed it down with coffee. The men returned with plates to take their ration of rich, hot plum pudding. None of them touched it until they were once again seated in the grass, and then they ate it in small pieces, chewing slowly, savoring it as never before.
Lanterns were lighted in the deep dusk, when all heads turned to the clatter of shod horses cantering on the cobblestones of Broadway. The regiment rose to its feet as uniformed officers reined their horses to a halt near where Colonel Thompson and the regimental officers were gathered about a table at the command tent. The men saw the gold on the shoulders of the eight officers, and they watched Colonel Thompson rise to face them. The leader among the eight stopped a scant four feet from Thompson, eyes flashing anger in the light of the campfires and lanterns. “Sir, are you in command of this brigade?” he demanded.
“I am in command of this regiment.”
“Your name, sir.”
Thompson paused to examine the man’s uniform and the gold epaulets on his shoulders. “Colonel Israel Thompson, Boston militia, sir, under written orders of General George Washington. And whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
“Colonel Jonathan Landon, New York militia, and I too am under written orders of General George Washington.” His voice was high, piercing, and he raised his arm to point. “Under whose authority are you bivouacked here on the New York Common?”
“General Lemuel Hosking, Boston militia.”
The man’s head jerked forward and he fairly shouted, “A Boston general ordered you to camp on our New York common?”
Thompson didn’t hesitate. “A Boston general executed the written orders of General Washington. We were ordered here expecting your General John Morin Scott to meet us with directions to our campsite. He was not here. No one was here! I went looking for over one hour and no one knew where he was, so I presumed your General Scott intended us to camp on the common. If you feel otherwise, I will be profoundly delighted to accompany you to settle the question as to exactly who in his command utterly failed to execute the orders of General Washington. My officers and I are prepared to do so right now. Your decision, sir.”
Colonel Jonathan Landon puffed up like a giant frog, and he tried to speak but could not force a coherent sentence. Thompson stood facing him like something cut from granite, and waited. The Boston regiment silently gathered close by.
Landon spouted, “Were you responsible for the theft of two wagonloads of beef and fresh vegetables? Bread? Eggs? Ham? Plum puddings?”
“There was no theft. My orders stated we would receive rations and a campsite when we arrived and an assignment to assist in the fortification of New York City. There were no rations, nothing, so I concluded your General Scott intended we forage, which I did. I discovered the rations at a commissary near the docks. I filled out the requisition, signed my name, and had them delivered here. We thank you for your hospitality.”
“You signed the requisition?”
“My own name as commander of the Boston regiment. Your men delivered.”
“Preposterous! My men delivered on a requisition signed by a Boston colonel?”
Behind Thompson, half the regiment had their heads ducked with their shoulders shaking. Thompson’s face did not change. “They did. I am not certain your man could read, sir. Perhaps someone should also bring that to the attention of General Scott.”
From behind, Thompson heard sounds of men choking, strangling, and dared not look back. The veins in Landon’s neck extended. His eyes protruded and he shouted, “Criminals! You have stolen government stores! The penalty is hanging! I’ll return with a warrant—”
Thompson cut him off. “Stolen? No one in this command stole anything. Your men delivered the rations. If hanging is in order, perhaps you should begin with them. You swear out a warrant against anyone in this command and I’ll have you court- martialed for bringing groundless charges.”
“You forged a requisition!”
Thompson’s eyebrows rose. “I forged nothing. I signed my own name and rank. I have my receipt, sir, if you care to examine it.”
All the air went out of Landon and he stood silent, deflated.
Thompson spoke. “I will need your answer, sir. Do you want me and my officers to meet with you and General Scott right now to put this whole matter to rest? Or do you want to wait for a more opportune time?”
Without a word Landon turned on his heel and he and his men mounted their horses. Thompson called to him, “My complime
nts to your General Scott, sir. The plum pudding was delicious.”
He watched the rigid backs of all eight men disappear in the firelight before he turned to walk back to his table among his officers. The faces of the men behind him were contorted while they fought a losing battle to stifle laughter. As he passed, Sergeant Turlock spoke. “Colonel, sir, beggin’ your pardon.”
Thompson stopped. “Yes, Sergeant?”
The tough little sergeant looked up into his face. “Sir, that plum puddin’ was sure good, sir. It surely was.”
Thompson showed no change in his demeanor at the spontaneous outburst of uproarious laughter and the remarks that followed from behind Turlock. “Fine pudding, sir.” “The best, sir.”
For a moment Thompson looked at his men, and the slightest hint of a smile passed before he spoke to Turlock. “Carry on, Sergeant. Take care of your men.” He walked on through the regiment to his own campfire and table, while Sergeant Turlock grinned his wry grin and murmured, “Yes, sir, sure good puddin’.”
In the flickering light of dwindling campfires, the men of the regiment spread their blankets and one by one sat down to stare into the low, dancing flames and glowing embers. A quiet, somber, reflective mood seemed to settle in. The only sounds were those of crickets chirping out their nightly round and the throaty song of frogs near the creek at the north end of the common. Fireflies left tiny glowing trails, like shooting stars. Night insects buzzed, and nighthawks pirouetted on silent wings to catch them.
Billy lay on his blanket, propped on one elbow, staring into the ever-changing flames of a low fire, with others sitting or lying nearby, eyes reflecting the dancing light, each unexpectedly caught up in his own reveries, his own inner reflections.
Billy pulled a long blade of grass and for a moment glanced at the clean white root before he took it into his mouth and slowly worked it with his teeth, and let his mind run unchecked with its own thoughts.
The fight this morning—deadly—too fast—no time to think—Eli quick, sure—the broken wrist—the second man thrown to the ground—if that knife had hit Eli—maybe killed—too fast, too fast.
Without guidance, his thoughts changed.
British flags in the windows, on poles—some people staring ugly—trouble coming from it—certain.
He carefully pulled a second blade of grass.
How many different uniforms today? different signs on different regiments? Can Washington make one army out of thirteen different armies? different rules? different laws? different officers? Maybe—maybe—he better—he has to.
He shook his head.
Did mother get my letter? Did she share it with Margaret? and Brigitte? Brigitte—how is she? Did Mother deliver Eli’s message to that other woman, Beatrice McMurdy? Are they all right?
In his mind he saw Matthew—tall, handsome, intense—and felt a rise in his breast.
Is he all right? God, please let him be all right. Kathleen—where is she? How is she? Can she rise above the shame of her father’s treachery? Can she find her way back to Matthew? Can she? She has to—has to—their hearts are one—they’ve got to find a way back—no good without each other.
He moved his legs and settled back down.
We shot a traitor—hard to watch—was he the only one? Are there others in the regiment?
He was suddenly aware of a presence from behind and turned his head. Eli stood with the firelight making soft shadows on his shirt and face. His Bible was in his hand. “Could we talk?”
Billy swung to a sitting position and pointed, and Eli sat down, legs crossed, elbows on knees, and for long moments he stared into the glow of the fire, then spoke without shifting his gaze. “Did your mother deliver that letter to the woman in Charlestown?”
Billy shrugged. “I haven’t heard. She’ll do it.”
“It will be hard for that woman. Son a spy, shot.”
Billy read the pain and compassion in Eli’s face and felt an unexpected stir inside, but said nothing.
Eli came directly to it. “Do you read the Bible?”
Billy paused in surprise at the abrupt change of direction. “Yes. Mother and I.”
“Do you mind talking about it?
“No.”
The purring sound of an owl call came from a distance, and Eli paused and his eyes narrowed as he listened. Then he drew and exhaled a great breath and continued. “Back there today, that man with the knife intended to kill me.”
Billy nodded.
“I broke his arm, and you threw a man down hard. We were close to a fight, and their men had knives. Things could have gone wrong and a lot of people could have been hurt bad, some killed.”
“That’s true.” Fascinated, Billy watched Eli’s face intently, waiting to see where his thoughts were taking them.
Again the sound of an owl came in the dark, closer, and Eli closed his eyes to concentrate. The sound stopped and Eli continued. “Did we do right?”
Billy’s forehead wrinkled in astonishment, and for several seconds he did not speak. “I hadn’t thought about that. It stopped some bad things long enough for Thompson to ride in. It was probably right.”
Eli nodded agreement, then opened his small Bible. Billy saw the scarred, worn leather cover and the dog-eared, smudged pages as Eli turned them, then stopped and faced the book to the firelight.
“The book of Matthew, chapter five. Starting with verse thirty-nine—no, thirty-eight.” His eyes narrowed in deep concentration, and he read slowly, sounding out each word with care. “ ‘Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away. Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.’ ”
He stopped and quietly said, “I’m not sure what ‘twain’ means.”
“Two. It means two. If someone asks you to walk one mile with him, walk two.”
“That’s what I thought.” He turned directly to Billy, open, frank. “When that man brought that knife up, he meant to kill me. What would Jesus want me to do?”
Billy’s eyes widened at the abruptness of the profoundly simple question, and he opened his mouth to answer, then stopped and did not speak for a time. “Stop him.”
“Then what did Jesus mean in Matthew about turning the other cheek? going a second mile?”
“I think he meant try to avoid trouble. Go a long way to avoid trouble.”
“Why didn’t he say that?”
“He spoke in parables.”
“Sometimes they’re hard to understand.”
“You have to work with them. Think on them.”
Eli’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “But two men can get two different thoughts from the same words.”
“Not if they work with it long enough.”
“Maybe.” He reached to poke a fresh stick into the fire, and a quiet time passed while they watched the sparks dance and cascade. “What did he mean, love your enemies?”
“I think he meant hate is a poison that will hurt you. Don’t hate anyone.”
“He didn’t say don’t hate. He said love them. There’s a difference.” He reached to touch the scar on his left jaw with his thumb. “The man who did that to me was trying to kill me. I killed him because I had to. I don’t recall hating him, or loving him. I only recall his tomahawk, and then mine.” He raised his eyes to Billy. “Was I wrong?”
Billy remained silent, grappling with questions for which there were no ready answers. “I don’t think it means you have to be foolish, but I do think it means we should
have a feeling of charity for everyone. Maybe more for our sake than theirs.”
Eli closed his eyes and for a time did not move. “I hadn’t thought about what that would do for us inside. I’ll have to think on it.” Once more he looked directly at Billy. “What does God look like, the one in the Bible?”
Billy recoiled. He could not recall anyone ever asking that question, or answering it. “Do you mean Jesus?”
“No. Jesus says he’s the Son. His Father is God. If that’s true, then does God look like Jesus? and us?”
The profoundly simple reasoning and the provocative question stopped Billy, and he had no answer. “I don’t know.”
Eli shook his head and a look of disappointment passed over his face. “Do you know God’s name?”
“What do you mean, name?”
“Jesus is named Jesus. What’s God’s name?”
Again Billy pondered, searching for an answer, and none would come. “I don’t know if he has ever said. I think he said once that he was the great ‘I AM.’ ”
“That’s a title, like King, but it’s not a name.”
Billy shook his head, confounded by the startling, clear reasoning that left him without comment or answers. “I don’t know if he has a name.”
Eli shook his head and remained silent, a sadness in his eyes.
The faint sound of another owl came drifting in the warm night air, far to the east, and Eli suddenly raised his head, face caught in deep concentration, the scar on his left jawline prominent in the flickering firelight. From closer, the louder answer of another owl, and then the distant sound came once more, and then there was silence. A full minute passed before Eli lowered his face to stare once again into the fire.
Billy broke the silence. “Owls bother you?”
“Those were not owls.”
Billy started. “No?”
“Those were white men. White men learned night talk from the Indians, but not good enough. Two white men are out there now, more than a mile apart, talking.”
