by Ron Carter
Eli drew and released a great breath. “I’m sorry about it. I know there are half a dozen others in this thing. I doubt we’ll ever catch the man with the black seaman’s cap. He’s likely a long way up the river by now. I doubt we’ll get the mayor. I only hope we broke this whole thing up enough to stop it.”
Ulrich pursed his mouth, then spoke. “We’ll need those documents in there and that knife and weapons belt.”
Billy interrupted. “General Scott has copies of most of the papers.”
“We’ll work it out.”
Eli spoke. “Do you want us to come to the mayor’s house?”
“No need. Just be available to testify at his trial if it gets that far.”
Suddenly Eli looked around as though surprised. “What time is it?”
Ulrich smiled. “About four-thirty. Daybreak in another hour. Been a busy night.”
Thompson broke in. “I’ll be needed back at my command.”
Ulrich nodded. “I’ll see that General Washington gets a written report on all this. Your names will be in it. I’ll keep you advised.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Scott spoke. “I’ll stay until my pickets are replaced.”
Thompson bowed. “I’ll take my leave. May I borrow a lantern? I would like not to be shot in the dark by one of my own pickets.”
Ulrich smiled, Scott chuckled, the tension of the long night broke and began to drain, and they all laughed. Thompson led out the front door, lantern held high, Billy and Eli following.
Thompson spoke. “Where’s the body of the dead Indian?”
Eli led them through the muddy streets and stopped at the ditch where he had piled the windfall branches and limbs. Thompson held the lantern while Eli and Billy pulled the branches aside, and suddenly the body was there, face down, one arm under the chest. Eli eased the body over onto its back to show the face. Thompson lowered the lantern, and a strange, unexpected feeling crept over the three men standing in the mud and water in the dark, peering into the relaxed face of a man who only hours earlier had been vital and alive. A man like them, who had weaknesses and strengths, hopes and dreams, and an allegiance to the British empire. A man who had tried to kill a sworn enemy from behind, in a storm, with a knife, and failed, and who was now beyond the cares and pain and sorrows and joys that bind mankind. Beyond the torment of a world that keeps the final mysteries of life locked safely away, just past the yearning reach of mankind. Who are we? From whence? To where? Why?
For a moment the three men were overpowered by the impression that they were but tiny players on an endless stage, playing out a miniscule part that had meaning only to them. For a few seconds they were stripped of their pride and vanities and illusions and defenses. They saw into the very core of their own being, and were overwhelmed by how little was left of themselves when all things that are of this world were stripped away.
They stood in silence, not moving as they stared at the dead man with the great black gout of blood on his chest and the face finally at peace. Eli dropped to his haunches and carefully, almost tenderly, reached to touch the face, and then he rose and spoke and the mood faded. “Mohawk.”
“Know him?” Thompson asked.
“No. But he’s Mohawk, and if Joseph Brant was his leader, General Washington has more trouble than he knows.”
“You know Joseph Brant?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell General Scott. We better move on.”
The eastern sky was showing deep purple as they approached the picket lines of their own regiment. Thompson held the lantern high and answered the picket challenge, and they worked their way through the sleeping regiment to the command tent.
Thompson spoke to his aide. “Get the camp surgeon.”
Eli raised his bandaged arm. “No need. It’s all right.”
Thompson shook his head firmly. “We’re not going to risk it.”
Three minutes later the surgeon pushed through the tent flap, tired eyes blinking in the sudden light. In the glow of two lanterns he removed the bloody bandage from Eli’s arm and washed the open wound with alcohol. He sat Eli down at the table, straightened his arm on clean sheeting, and drew a curved suture needle and six feet of gut from his black bag. He soaked the gut in alcohol, threaded it through the needle eye, and spoke. “Want something between your teeth?”
Eli shook his head.
For twenty minutes Eli sat with his head bowed, jaw clenched shut, and sweat forming on his forehead, while the surgeon took twenty-two stitches and slowly closed the deep gash, with Billy wiping the blood. The surgeon washed the arm with alcohol, shoulder to fingertips, waited for it to dry, then bandaged it.
He exhaled and began replacing his equipment in his black bag. “Not bad. Clean cut. You should be all right.”
Eli flexed his fingers
“Too tight?”
Eli shook his head.
“If your hand starts to go gray or numb, come get me. Keep that arm dry and don’t use it for a while. You tear out those stitches, we get to start over. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Eli nodded.
The surgeon looked at Thompson. “Do I get to know what this is all about? Knife wounds at night, you gone, coming back at dawn?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” Thompson answered.
The surgeon picked up his black bag and stopped at the tent flap. “You start to feel light-headed, get some hot coffee.”
Eli stood. “I’m all right. I better get back to my blanket.”
Thompson grunted. “Reveille in less than an hour. You two tell your sergeant you’re relieved of duty until further notice.”
“I’m all right,” Billy said.
Eli shook his head. “Why? I can still use my right hand. Rather be doing something than not.”
Thompson shook his head and his rare smile flashed. “Sometimes you men from the woods don’t have good sense. All right. Do what you can, but don’t abuse that arm.”
“I got to wash my clothes.”
Billy interrupted. “I’ll do that.”
Thompson said, “Brigadier Ulrich may want you both at the inquiry. Be ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Billy held the tent flap and followed Eli into the purple gray of a clear sky and a soggy, muddy, wet world. It took him half an hour to find enough dry firewood to build a fire to partially dry Eli’s blanket. He turned to Eli. “Strip off those muddy clothes and wrap in the blanket. I’ll wash the clothes and start them drying.”
Eli dropped his weapons belt on his blanket and then bent forward, and Billy pulled the wet, muddy buckskin hunting shirt over his head. Eli straightened and began working with the leather thongs on his breeches, and suddenly he froze. He slowly raised an arm to point south, down the Hudson River.
Billy turned, and at first there was nothing, and then he saw. In the hazy distance, past the south end of the island, he made out the billowed sails of four heavy ships, riding low in the water, three masts each, and even at that distance he recognized three decks with black specks at measured intervals. He felt his breathing slow for a moment as he narrowed his eyes and shaded them to study the flag they were flying.
The proud red, white, and blue of the British Union Jack.
He turned to Eli. “British men-of-war. Big ones. Three decks of cannon.”
They looked at each other and said nothing, and they both watched, mesmerized, fascinated. The great ships moved forward through the Narrows between Long Island and Staten Island into New York Bay, and the sails were furled and the ships slowed and stopped, dead in the water.
The bow and the stern of the second ship bore the name Greyhound, carved into the thick English oak hull and painted bold with royal blue and gold. Her captain extended his telescope and for several minutes studied the coast of Long Island, then the south end of Manhattan Island, and finally Staten Island. He turned and walked back to the officers’ quarters and rapped on a door, then entered the sumptuously appointed quarters of
his commander, and waited.
General William Howe was seated at a table in the center of the room, maps and books piled. He was tall, slender, angular, regular features, eyes slightly sunken beneath heavy brows. His speech was slow, artless, blunt, and totally unpolitical. He was dressed in his British officer’s uniform, with his tunic hung on the back of a nearby chair. He raised his eyes. “Yes?”
“Sir, we have arrived. Perhaps the general would like to come look.”
General Howe had endured the sea voyage from Halifax, facing the grinding daily monotony of inaction by sheer power of his will. He rose without a word, put on his tunic, and finished the last button as they walked out the door. He settled his hat onto his head in the bright, sweltering heat of the late-June sun.
The captain pointed and handed the telescope to General Howe. For a long time he glassed the islands to the north, then looked west at the New Jersey coastline, and finally south towards the protected waters inside Sandy Hook Bay on the New Jersey side.
He returned the glass to the captain. “We stay here and wait for Admiral Howe.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain turned and gave sharp orders. The yards turned, the sails unfurled, and once again they billowed bright in the hot east wind. The great ships swung around and moved south, back through the Narrows whence they had come. They spilled their sails and lashed them to the arms and once again slowed and stopped dead in the water, and their six-ton anchors plunged into the still waters of Sandy Hook Bay, within sight of the New Jersey shores.
______
Notes
The plan to assassinate General George Washington by placing gunpowder beneath his quarters was discovered in time. One of the participants was a personal bodyguard of General Washington named Thomas Hickey. The plot is generally known as the “Hickey Plot.” The plan to assassinate General Washington, as well as other American officers, and to blow up American magazines of gunpowder was largely calculated to cause Americans to abandon the Revolution and take up the cause for the British. The use of gunpowder to destroy General Washington appears in some reports, as well as poison in other credible reports. The “Hickey Plot” as depicted in this chapter has been somewhat abbreviated to accommodate this novel (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 92; part 2, pp. 129–30; Godfrey, The Commander-in-Chief’s Guard, pp. 21–34).
On June 25 and 26, 1776, four British men-of-war sailed into New York Harbor, then retreated to Sandy Hook on the New Jersey coast to await further arrivals. One vessel was named Greyhound, and General William Howe was on board to take command of the British forces (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 94).
New York City
June 28, 1776
Chapter VIII
* * *
Attention to the reading of the articles of sentence.” General John Scott’s voice rang out over the New York Common.
In the late June heat the entire Continental army stationed on the southern end of Manhattan Island, seven thousand strong, came to rigid attention, jammed together, sweating in the eleven a.m. sun. Civilians from as far away as New Jersey crowded the side streets, silent, wide-eyed, unable to resist the tantalizing draw of watching a human being hanged by the neck until dead.
They heard the words of General John Morin Scott standing on the raised platform at the north end of the common, but their eyes never left the high scaffolding to his right, cut from pine and hammered and bolted together twenty-four hours earlier. They had counted the thirteen steps from the grass of the common up to the deck, and they had looked at the one-inch rope with the noose formed by thirteen windings dangling from the heavy cross arm. They looked away, then back at the deadly noose, again and again, high in the sun, moving slightly in the occasional stir in the air.
A dog barked and fell silent. A horse whickered and someone grasped the bit and it stopped. A child whimpered and a hand covered its mouth. An unreal silence settled over the entire common and into the side streets, where more than twenty thousand human beings waited and listened.
General Scott looked down at the large ledger he held and again raised his voice. “ ‘By His Excellency George Washington, Esquire, General and Commander-in-Chief of the army of the United American Colonies.
“ ‘To the Provost Marshal of the said army:
“ ‘Whereas Thomas Hickey, a soldier enlisted in the service of the said united colonies, has been duly convicted by a general court-martial of mutiny and sedition, and also of holding a treacherous correspondence with the enemies of said colonies, contrary to the rules and regulations established for the government of the said troops; and the said Thomas Hickey, being so convicted, has been sentenced to death, by being hanged by the neck till he shall be dead; which sentence, by the unanimous advice of the general officers of the said army, I have thought proper to confirm. These are, therefore, to will and require you to execute the said sentence upon the said Thomas Hickey this day, at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, upon the ground between the encampments of the brigades of Brigadier-Generals Spencer and Lord Stirling; and for so doing this shall be your sufficient warrant.
“ ‘Given under my hand this twenty-eighth day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-six. George Washington. Headquarters, New York.’ ”
Murmuring broke out and Scott waited. Billy stared straight ahead, sweat forming on his forehead. He forced his eyes away from the hangman’s noose and glanced at the men ahead of him, all in rank and file, all at rigid attention to watch the proceeding, as ordered by General Scott. The backs of their necks were red, and sweat was trickling from beneath hatbands of those who had hats.
As the murmuring died, Scott turned to his right to face four soldiers wearing the green uniforms of Colonel Lasher’s New York brigade. They stood at rigid attention in the form of a square, muskets at the ready, bayonets mounted. Inside the square was Thomas Hickey, dressed in homespun. His face was ashen, but his head was high, mouth set, defiant.
Scott drew and released a great breath and nodded to the chaplain standing behind the soldiers. “The chaplain will attend the prisoner.”
The chaplain stepped forward, taller than Hickey, stooped, gray haired, round faced, a large Bible under his arm. He faced Hickey and his words were soft, low. “Be at peace. You will soon be free of this world of pain. Is there anything you wish to say? any confession you wish to make?”
Hickey’s chin trembled and he shook his head.
“Do you wish me to carry any last words to your loved ones? your family?”
Again Hickey shook his head.
Impulsively the old man reached to tenderly take Hickey’s hand into his own, and suddenly the dam burst. Soundless tears streamed down Hickey’s cheeks and onto his shirt. He gasped and battled, but said nothing. Half a minute passed, and then Hickey shuddered and shook himself and gained control. He wiped the tears with the backs of his hands and turned towards Scott and raised his voice, eyes flashing his defiance. “We failed to get Washington, but I tell you now, unless Greene is cautious, we will not fail to get him.”
The chaplain returned to his place.
Scott spoke to the sergeant in charge of the soldiers. “Tie the prisoner’s hands.”
Hickey’s hands were brought behind, and a rope was quickly looped and tied.
Scott licked dry lips. “Take the prisoner to the gallows.”
The four soldiers climbed the thirteen stairs, their boots thumping loud in the silence. They stopped, turned, and looked down at Scott, waiting.
“Prisoner, do you wish to have a hood?”
Hickey shook his head.
“Bind his ankles.”
Quick hands wrapped and tied a rope.
“Place the noose.”
The soldiers moved Hickey squarely to the center of the trap. The loop settled over his head, and the sergeant pulled the slack out.
Billy stared, struggling to comprehend the enormity of the act he was about to witness. Eli c
losed his mouth and for long moments stared at the ground before he once again raised his eyes.
Scott exhaled and his shoulders slumped, and in that split second both Billy and Eli sensed in small part the price paid by those who bear the heavy burden of command. Scott stared hard at the sergeant, and then he drew a deep breath. “Execute the sentence.”
The sergeant grasped the heavy lever and quickly shoved it towards the trap. The pin holding the trap in place withdrew, the door fell open, and the body of Thomas Hickey dropped out of sight into the yawning space beneath his feet, and a gasp swept through the common. The rope snapped tight, then began to swing, twisting.
Scott counted off three minutes while murmuring rose in the common, and people moved their feet and turned their eyes. He turned to his regimental surgeon and nodded, and the small, erect man walked behind the scaffolding and through a door into the chamber with the body. Thirty seconds later he made his way back to Scott on the platform, checked a large pocket watch, wrote down a time in Scott’s large, leather-bound ledger, and signed his name. He laid the quill on the page, faced Scott, bobbed his head once, turned on his heel, and walked away while Scott closed the book.
Scott walked to the front railing of the platform and for a moment looked over the sea of faces peering upward, some at him, some at the rope that was still twisting. “Officers, take command of your regiments. Clear the common at once and resume your assigned duties after completion of the noon meal. That is all.”
Orders rang out and the regiments worked their way through the crowded streets, trying to hold the cadence as they slowed from time to time while people made way for them to pass. Colonel Thompson moved the Boston regiment straight north, then west onto Reade Street.
Billy marched mechanically, eyes straight ahead, still seeing a man drop from sight and a rope jerk, then swing slowly back and forth. He was not expecting the sudden eruption of sound and action towards the front of the column, and he craned his neck to look. On the right side of the narrow cobblestone street, in the dooryards of two houses, civilians were clustered around something on the ground, shouting, angry, arms flailing.
