by Ron Carter
“Saying what?”
“No way to tell. The question isn’t what; the question is why.” Eli reached once more to poke at the fire with a stick and watch the orange sparks rise and drift back. “We already shot one turncoat. I hope we don’t have to do it again.”
The implication slowed Billy. “You sure those were men?”
“Certain.” He raised his face, and his eyes were points of light in the glowing embers. He rose to his feet, Bible in hand, adjusted his weapons belt, brushed the grass from his buckskins, and walked away with that peculiar swinging stride until he disappeared in the darkness.
Billy turned his face back to the dying remains of his fire, then glanced one more time into the darkness where Eli had disappeared. Inside he felt a strange rise of excitement at the brief time he had spent talking with Eli.
What does God look like—his name—where did he get those questions? What other questions are in his mind? What does he see that I’ve never seen—know that I’ve never known? What god did the Iroquois teach him about? What other reasons did he have to leave them and come into the white world?
Billy watched the orange glow of the fire embers blacken and die, and then lay back on his blanket, hands behind his head, staring into the endless blackness and stars above. From the north end of the camp came the quiet rattle of the regimental drummer sounding tattoo. Campfires out. Go to your blankets. Billy smothered his tiny fire with dirt, settled onto his blanket, and once more reflected on the strange time he had just spent with a white man raised Iroquois, whose simple questions about the Bible left him without answers.
We’ll talk again, he and I.
______
Notes
The Dutch word Breukelen (pronounced “Brurkeler”) is the original name for the city Brooklyn. It means “marshland,” since the Gowanus Creek that runs through Brooklyn broadens to create a great marshy bog before it reaches the East River. The bog was known as Gowanus Marsh (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 44–45).
Fort Lee on the New Jersey Palisades, Fort Washington across the Hudson River on Manhattan Island, and their strategic position as guardians of the Hudson appear on a map in Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 156–57. General Washington had boats filled with rock tied together and sunk in the Hudson River between the two forts, and a monstrous chain strung with them, intending to form a barrier against British boats in the river.
Buglers did not sound reveille and taps, morning and night, as they do now. A drummer pounded out reveille to awaken the soldiers in the morning and sounded “tattoo” to signal lights out at day’s end (see Wilbur, The Revolutionary Soldier, p. 47).
The Continental army consisted of men from all walks of life who had joined to fight for home, country, and liberty. They were not professional soldiers; consequently their camps and their military conduct fell far short of that expected of soldiers. For an excellent description, see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 122–24.
The novel’s description of the Boston regiment’s march south from the site of Fort Washington on Manhattan Island to the common at the south end of New York City contains several references to historic sites, street names, regiments, uniforms, barricades, gun emplacements, and the general layout of New York City, including population and number of buildings, all of which are described in Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 36–40, 84–92, 104–9. This source also includes an exceptional map showing the Post Road and many other roads.
The Iroquois longhouse and the role played by the Jesuit missionaries in the Iroquois culture are described in Graymont, The Iroquois in the American Revolution, pp. 330–31; see also pp. 5, 13, 17, 19, 26–28, 59.
Frictions sometimes developed between regiments from different colonies, resulting in arguments and, occasionally, fights, of which the clash depicted here between the Boston regiment and a southern regiment is meant to be representative (see Martin, Private Yankee Doodle, pp. 116–17, 135–36).
Sergeant Alvin Turlock, General Ballantine, and Colonel Jonathan Landon are fictional characters.
New York
Mid-June 1776
Chapter VI
* * *
The heavy rattle of wide iron-rimmed wheels and iron horseshoes on cobblestones brought the heads of the regiment up from pewter plates heaped with scrambled eggs and ham strips, and they watched a column of eight New York militia officers lead a team of mules pulling a freight wagon from Broadway onto the thick grass of the common, wet with heavy morning dew.
In brilliant six-thirty a.m. sunlight Billy glanced towards the command tent, where Thompson and his staff ducked through the flap and stopped to study the incoming entourage. The leader had gold braid on his shoulder, but no one in the Boston regiment recognized the rank. He stopped his men twenty feet from Thompson, dismounted, and walked forward to stop before the Boston regimental command.
“My compliments to you. I am General John Morin Scott. I presume you are Colonel Israel Thompson.” The man was average size, young for a general, energetic, charismatic.
Thompson’s face was noncommittal. “I am, sir. At your service.” The two shook hands perfunctorily.
“May I have audience with you in private?”
“Concerning what matter, sir?”
“Many things.”
“Follow me, sir.” Thompson led him into the command tent and gestured, and they sat down at the table. Thompson waited.
“My apologies for the fiasco last night about the common and the rations. I issued written orders that went astray. We think we have a spy somewhere. You did right by your men.”
Scott removed his hat. His hair was already sweaty, stuck to his forehead in the muggy heat. He leaned forward, focused. “Some things you should know. Boston is strongly Patriot, but New York is not. About half the people you see out there are Tories, loyal to the Crown. There have been open battles in the streets between them and the Patriots. About one out of ten people in town, man or woman, is a spy for one side or the other. Our pickets have been shot at during the night. One or two killed.”
Thompson leaned back in his chair. “What are your orders to your pickets?”
“At night, challenge once, then shoot to kill.”
Thompson gaped. “That bad?”
“That bad. Check any rations you get. We found some poisoned flour and some bad turkeys and mutton.” An unexpected smile flashed. “The beef and ham are all right.”
Thompson dropped his face and smiled.
“We’ve received death threats. You’ll get some if you’re here very long. Keep pickets posted day and night, double if you feel the need.”
Thompson pursed his mouth. “Is General Washington here?”
“He was at 180 Pearl Street, but moved a few days back. He’s headquartered at the Mortier house, over near Richmond Hill, not far from McDougall’s Battery and the Oyster Battery. You passed the battery coming in.”
“I remember. Any death threats against him?”
“Every day.”
“Do you have written orders for this regiment?”
“In a minute. First, about your cooking fires and latrines.”
“We saved the sod. We’ll leave the common in good condition.”
Scott nodded his head. “Rations are short. Few blankets, no tents, little food. We’ll do all we can, but we have a large force to maintain. Be prudent.”
“What’s your strength now? from where?”
“About twelve thousand, but we don’t know exactly because some are coming and going all the time, from all over, every colony. Mostly without uniforms or supplies.” He shook his head. “Different manuals of arms, different officers, different dialects. Sometimes it’s total chaos. Been a few fights between regiments. You could be combined with a regiment from anywhere. Caution your men to be patient and tolerant.”
“I understand. I noticed barricades and batteries everywhere when we came in.”
“General Washi
ngton knows that the British plan to invade New York soon, but he doesn’t know where. British regulars are on Staten Island right now staging. We have a force on Long Island digging trenches and throwing up breastworks if the assault comes there.”
“What’s the British strength?”
“We don’t know. Much more than ours.”
“Which side will the local population support when the fighting starts?”
Scott sighed and shook his head. “Probably half them, half us.” His eyes narrowed. “Right now New York is hanging in the balance. There’s open talk that whichever way the battle goes, the other side is going to burn the city to the ground.”
Thompson rounded his mouth and slowly blew air.
Scott reached inside his tunic, and his demeanor sharpened. “Here are your written orders, signed by myself, according to my written orders from General Washington. Do you wish to see my orders?”
Thompson shook his head as Scott handed him the document.
“Your regiment is to report to the Jersey Battery at the end of Reade Street, just west of Greenwich. They’ve put two twelve-pounders and three thirty-two-pounders in there to cover the North River. Your men are to help haul rock and cut timbers for the breastworks. The map inside will show you where.”
“The North River?”
“Hudson. West side of the island.” He pointed.
“When do we report?”
“As soon as you can. I’ll leave the wagon and some men and an officer to transport your remaining rations. The officer can help with any problems. He’ll respond to your orders. Name’s Jacob Truman. A captain.”
Thompson nodded.
Scott dropped one palm flat, smacking on the tabletop. “General Washington has to make all this work. Try to smother any problems before they start. I think that about covers it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Scott stood and ducked out the tent flap. Thompson followed as the general walked to his waiting horse, and as Scott mounted, Thompson called the regiment to attention. “Thank you, sir.”
Scott looked down, a regiment of Boston faces looked up at him, and Billy saw him struggle with an impulse. His eyes crinkled and a grin spread and he said, “How was the plum pudding?”
Men grinned and there were stifled comments. Thompson said nothing, while Scott’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh. “And you thieves didn’t invite me to the party!”
Open guffaws rolled out over the common. Scott raised two fingers to his hat brim, then smartly reined his mount around back towards Broadway, followed by his officers.
Thompson turned to his officers. “Have the men strike camp and then assemble them on the common for orders.”
At eight-thirty a.m. Thompson faced the regiment as they stood at rigid attention. “Our orders are to report to the Jersey Battery at the west end of Reade Street to assist in constructing breastworks for cannon. General Scott informed me of some things you need to know.”
The regiment listened, eyes growing ever wider as Thompson described the chaotic conditions into which they had been thrust—Tories, dead pickets, spies, death threats, poisoned food, sabotage. Billy licked suddenly dry lips as the thought flashed, Owls talking at night—about what? more dead pickets? more sabotage?
Thompson paused to organize his thoughts and conclude. “We will have double pickets at all times, day and night. Watch the rooftops and windows and all people you see. At night, challenge once, and then shoot to kill.”
He looked at Major Bascom. “Move the regiment to the Jersey Battery.”
They marched out, silent, watching the roofline, the side streets, everyone that moved. They passed barricades with narrow-eyed pickets holding primed muskets at the ready. Children darted out, some to wave, some to throw sticks and run. They turned left, with the rhythmic sound of their marching feet echoing slightly as they wound through the crooked, narrow, cobblestone street, and then they saw the broad, dark expanse of the Hudson where the buildings stopped. They crossed Greenwich Street and moved out onto the sandy, rocky shore of the Hudson near a regiment of men stripped to the waist, sweating with axes and picks.
Captain Jacob Truman led them to their campground, and they unloaded the supply wagon. Truman saluted and led his small detail back the way they had come. By ten o’clock they had established camp where the rocky beach met the grassy slopes at the end of Reade Street, and received their orders. By ten-thirty the regiment was divided into four work crews, stripped to the waist, sweating.
One trimmed and cut logs to measured twelve-foot lengths, sharpened at both ends. Another loaded them onto wagons to be hauled to the battery and set upright and packed solid in two trenches six feet deep, three feet apart. The third drove oxen or mules hitched to great sleds. And the fourth loaded the sleds with stones to be skidded back to the breastworks and dropped in the three-foot gap between the two rows of logs anchored in the rocky soil at town’s edge.
They broke for one hour at noon, ate their ration of beef and vegetables, drank river water, and lay down in whatever shade they could find. At one o’clock they went back to their workstations and once again doggedly settled into a steady rhythm. Soft hands blistered on shiny axe and pick handles, and the water blisters broke to expose the tender pinkness beneath and leave small flaps of skin hanging loose in their palms. Men paused to pull off the hanging skin, then tear strips of cloth and wrap their hands; and they grimaced as they continued the relentless work. At three-thirty a wagon rattled to a stop near the battery, with six barrels of fresh cold water, and they took turns drinking from wooden dippers and pouring the chill water over their heads.
At six o’clock, with the sun dropping towards the New Jersey skyline, the order came to cease work and prepare the evening mess. Tired men walked to the river and stripped off their shirts before they dropped to their haunches to wash sweat and dirt, then get their shirts and shrug into them. Some walked to the commissary for lard to work into the raw blisters, and the farmers, with hands hardened by a lifetime of work with axes and picks and hammers, stopped them. “Not lard. Keeps them soft. Rub salt. Burns, but heals and hardens.”
Billy rose dripping from the riverbank and pulled his shirt over his head and tucked it in. He smoothed his long reddish hair back as best he could and retied the leather thong. He paused to look at the twin rows of logs of the breastworks and at the stones he and his crew had hauled from the sleds to drop thumping between. The fortifications were taking shape.
He looked south towards the Connecticut regiment they had joined, where the men were moving into their established routine of evening mess and blankets, occasionally looking north at the Boston regiment. Almost no words had passed between the two camps throughout the day; each had done its work with no interference from the other. Billy drew and released a great breath. Maybe there’ll be no trouble.
Driftwood cook fires were lighted beneath huge black kettles hung from chains on tall iron tripods, and river water was poured in from wooden buckets. The last of the beef and potatoes and carrots was diced and dropped into the steaming pots. Cooks grasped handfuls of salt and slowly sifted it in while they stirred with long-handled wooden spoons.
Billy walked to his blanket and knapsack, looking closely at the skin of his hands, roughened from hauling river rocks but not blistered. He got out his plate and spoon and sat down, waiting for the call from the cooks. It came and he waited his turn in line, then held his plate while the cook loaded his portion and laid a thick slice of bread with it. Billy returned to his blanket and sat down cross-legged. He took the first smoking spoonload and blew on it before he gingerly tested it with his tongue, then took it into his mouth and sucked air with it to cool it. He savored the richness as he loaded his spoon again.
The sound of an incoming horseman brought his head up, and he watched a rider with a large pouch tied to his saddle walk his horse from the end of Reade Street and angle towards the command tent. The man dismounted, untied the white canvas sack and settled
it onto the tall grass, and spoke to the picket. “Mail for the Boston regiment. Is this the right place?”
“It is.” The picket turned and lifted the tent flap. “Sir, mail has arrived.”
Thompson came out immediately, signed the receipt, and asked, “Is there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you.” Thompson gestured to the picket, who seized the mail sack and followed him into the command tent.
Most of the regiment had seen the incoming rider and the conspicuous sack and guessed that mail had arrived. They began putting down their plates and rising to their feet to gather at the command tent, hoping against hope they would have something from home. The boys from the farms lined up first, with both fear and hope in their faces, all thoughts of food lost in their deep longing for mother and family and home.
Billy raised his spoon and continued his supper. It’s too soon—no letter from Mother.
Inside the tent Thompson quickly sorted out all the mail addressed to him and the officers, pushed the remainder back into the bag, ducked out the tent flap, and handed the mail pouch to the picket. “Have Major Bascom distribute this.”
Ten minutes later Billy jerked his head up, startled at the call of his name, and trotted to get a thick brown packet. He turned from Major Bascom and read the neatly written name in the upper left corner of the face of the heavy packet and stopped in his tracks, gaping. His breath came short and his heart leaped as he read the neat, beautifully scrolled writing: “Miss Brigitte Dunson.” For a moment he was transported back in time and again saw her on the day of farewell when she had impulsively thrown her arms about him and held him as one dear, and he once again felt the lift into a world he never knew existed when he dared put his arms about her and hold her for a moment.
He broke into a trot to his blanket and dropped to his knees. With trembling fingers he broke the seal, opened the packet, and sorted through the maps until he found the letter written by Brigitte, and suddenly the thought struck him: Why Brigitte? Is Mother all right? He calmed his racing thoughts and read.
