by Ron Carter
Eli nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
The column started, and Eli swung up onto the seat and cradled the sick man inside his arm while Mary clucked the horses into motion. She moved her wagon into the line and took her interval as they moved steadily eastward on the rutted dirt road, Mary peering intently in the starlight to keep her horses from overrunning the tailgate of the wagon ahead. The regiment marched on in the darkness, stumbling on the rocks and ruts and holes in the road, unable to hold a cadence, and not caring. They moved on in silence, with one thought foremost in their brains: One hundred seventy-nine ships. More than one thousand cannon.
In the darkness their imaginations tried to create one hundred seventy-nine ships in New York Harbor, and they could not make that many ships, that many sails, that many cannon and soldiers. They marched on, fighting their own demons in the darkness.
The column angled north before Eli spoke. “I am sorry there was no time to move him.”
“I know. It’s all right.”
Eli hesitated, then said quietly, “Colonel Thompson told us—Billy and me—about your husband and your baby. I wish I could say something. I surely do.”
Startled that he knew, Mary turned her face directly to him to stare, while in the deepest chamber of her soul, where she lived alone with her pain, her heart leaped at the sure knowledge that somewhere in his life, this man too had felt inhuman tragedy. He knew the hot tortures of the pit, the soul-destroying desolation of a world in which there was nothing left but the cold ashes of all he held close and precious. The overpowering need to know welled up from within and she did not try to stop it, nor could she, and she spoke with an urgency and a need Eli had never heard in another human being. “How do you know about pain? Tell me.”
There was no pretense, no barrier between them, nor at that strange moment did it seem proper there should be, and Eli spoke freely. “When I was two, the Iroquois came. I lost my family. The Iroquois took me and raised me. I think I have an older sister. I want to find her.”
“What is your name?”
“Eli Stroud.”
“Do you remember when the Iroquois came? what they did to your parents?”
“Yes. Both dead. Mother in the bedroom, Father in the kitchen with me.”
“You were there? saw it?”
“Yes.”
It was as though a dam burst inside Mary. Her sobbing was lost in the rumble of the wagons and the marching feet of the Boston regiment. Eli said nothing, and let it go on for a long time before he finally slipped his arm out of the sling and gently placed his hand on her shaking shoulder. After a time the trembling slowed, and then stopped. Words would have been a blasphemy, and neither of them spoke. Mary wiped at her eyes and face with her sleeve, and the wagon rolled on.
“There!”
The shout came from the front of the column, and in the distance they saw the faint points of light that became lanterns. Then they could make out men, and then they saw the tents and the blankets of a military camp scattered in the oak and maple and cedar trees and the underbrush. The pickets challenged, and the officers leading the column answered, and they marched on in.
With little talk, the bone-weary regiment followed directions to the bare ground where they were to make their camp. They built fires for light and began spreading their blankets by company. Eli and Billy moved the sick man from the wagon seat to the place where the regimental doctor was giving orders to men unfolding the infirmary tent. They sat the fevered man down and draped his blanket over his shoulders. The surgeon came to him while Billy and Eli brought the body from the top of Mary’s loaded wagon.
Then they returned to the wagon, and while Mary held the horses in the firelight, Company Nine methodically unloaded the iron tripods and the round black cooking kettles clanking to the ground. It was approaching one a.m. when they coiled the tie-down ropes, laid them behind the driver’s seat, and walked to their blankets, waiting further orders.
Mary began unsnapping the harnesses from the horses, and Billy and Eli came to help. They dropped the horse collars and unbuckled the trace chains, and Mary walked the horses forward away from the singletrees. She followed Billy and Eli to the stream at camp’s edge, and the big geldings buried tired muzzles in the clear, cool water. She patted the animals on the neck while she listened to the suck of the water and the sound as it passed up the rings in their gullets. They raised their heads dripping once, eyes wine red in the firelight, then buried their muzzles again and finished while Mary smiled in the darkness.
They walked the horses to where the officers had picketed their saddle mounts, and the two men hobbled them where strong grass was high. Then, with Mary between them, they walked to Colonel Thompson, who was directing the setting of the frame for his command tent.
“Sir,” Billy said, and Thompson stopped. “Is there a tent for Mrs. Flint?”
The colonel straightened and removed his hat and addressed Mary. “Mrs. Flint, did you assist in moving the regiment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I doubt I can thank you enough for all you’ve done. We have the wives of two New York militia officers staying the night. They have their own private tent, large enough for four, and there will be pickets throughout the night. I know the ladies would be honored by your presence. Would that be agreeable?”
“Of course.”
“May I have the honor of escorting you?”
Thompson offered his arm and Mary slipped hers through his, and Billy and Eli fell in behind. Thompson walked Mary through the camp. Work slowed and men stood erect and removed their hats and silently nodded to her as she passed. Thompson spoke with the officer at the tent and he invited the ladies outside, where he introduced Mary. They exclaimed their delight and took her by the arm and were entering the tent flap when Mary stopped and turned.
She looked back at Thompson and Billy and Eli, and she said, “Thank you. So much.” And she disappeared inside the tent with the two other women in a flood of questions and exclamations.
In darkness, exhausted cooks sliced cold mutton from their noon meal, and silent men gratefully ate it with hardtack, drank from their canteens, and dropped onto their blankets fully dressed, asleep the moment their heads came to rest on their arms.
Eli settled cross-legged onto his blanket, slipped the sling from his left arm, and drew his belt knife. For ten minutes he patiently worked the knifepoint under the stitches, cut them, and tugged them from his arm. He rinsed the tiny pinpoints of blood with canteen water and blew his arm dry, then clenched and unclenched his fist several times. The long pink scar held. Satisfied, he lay on his back for a time, hands behind his head, staring into the endless heavens, and his thoughts drifted back to the wagon and Mary Flint sobbing her heart out in the darkness at her own pain and the pain she felt for Eli when she understood what had been taken from him as an infant.
A deep sadness welled up to wrench inside, and he clenched his jaw against the remembrance of the need in her dark eyes. Why the suffering? The common lot of mankind. Why? Why? Jesus talked against it but he suffered most. My people fought the Iroquois and suffered. The Iroquois fought the French and suffered. We’re waiting on a battle right now, and men and women will suffer. Why does it have to be? The Good Twin and the Bad Twin. Is that the answer? There has to be bad? I don’t know. I wish I knew. Jesus promises a place after this life where there is no suffering. How blessed. How blessed.
He turned on his side and once again saw the dark eyes, open, frank, begging for help, relief. I hope she can find peace. I hope so.
Billy sat quietly on his blanket and finally, by force of will, dug his pad and pencil from his knapsack.
My dear Mother:
It is late and I have little time. Today forty-five more British ships arrived. We moved our camp from New York to Long Island, near Brooklyn. Gen. G. Washington said there are one hundred thirty more such ships coming to New York within two days. I believe the great battle is preparing. You are not to wo
rry, for we will be ready. My health remains good, although fever is beginning in camp, and dysentery. However, I have not yet contracted either. I also mention that women here take a large and often heroic part in the Patriot cause by tying cartridges and gathering blankets, clothing, and so forth. One or two drive freight wagons with supplies and munitions. When you write, please tell me what you can about Matthew and Kathleen. Also, please share this with Margaret and Brigitte. I cannot send my pay because they have not paid us. I send my love to Trudy and ask her to help you all she can.
Faithfully your son,
Billy Weems
Billy sealed the letter, tucked it into his knapsack, shoved the pencil in beside it, and laid his head on his arms. His eyes closed, and the last thing he saw before he fell into exhausted sleep was his mother working in the kitchen at home, and Brigitte was there.
______
Notes
New York colony governor William Tryon, together with a Sergeant Graham, met with General William Howe and others on board the Greyhound anchored off Sandy Hook on the New Jersey coast and there gave Howe detailed information regarding the fortifications, deployment, roads, and passes on Manhattan and Long Islands (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 139, footnote; see also Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 152).
The peculiar and deadly Hell Gate was a whirlpool that resulted from the meeting of the two tides of the East River and the Long Island Sound and was capable of sinking seagoing vessels (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 47).
On June 29, 1776, forty-five more British men-of-war and transport ships sailed into New York Harbor, then withdrew to Staten Island, and by July 3, 1776, the total number of British ships gathered at New York was 130, with more arriving regularly (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 94).
Averman Plessy is a fictional name for the captain of the Greyhound, General Howe’s flagship.
Boston
Early June 1776
Chapter X
* * *
In the late afternoon a hot west wind came rippling the waters of the Back Bay and set waves lapping against the rocks and dock pilings of the northwest shore of the Boston Peninsula. The choppy waters and sea swells put every vessel on the leeward side of Boston Town in motion, rocking, and the masts of the tall ships began their erratic dance. Men of the sea cast concerned eyes west, then eastward past the harbor to the open Atlantic, judging whether the mix of hot inland wind and cooler ocean air would be strong enough to bring a storm.
In Boston Town, Margaret Dunson placed the butter crock on the shelf in the root cellar in her backyard, climbed the stairs, and lowered the door. She paused for a moment to gauge the hot wind on her face, then walked into the kitchen where Brigitte and Prissy were setting the last of the supper dishes, washed and dried, back into the cupboard.
“Wind’s holding,” she said. “Might have rain. When are your friends coming?”
“Seven. Captain Halliwell promised to come.”
Margaret shook her head. “I swear, I don’t know where you get these ideas. Gathering blankets, shoes, making cartridges, getting wagons.”
“Mama, will you quit worrying?” Brigitte’s voice was raised as she closed the cupboard and walked into the dining room. “We can do it! You’ll see!”
Margaret followed her. “Make bullets at the church with gunpowder?” Her face was flushed, eyes flashing. “Silas must have been out of his mind! Do you have any idea what would happen if a barrel of gunpowder blew up at the church? One mistake! Just one!”
“We’ll keep the gunpowder outside the building. No one is going to blow up the church.”
“Brigitte! Wake up! You expect to bring in half a dozen girls who’ve never seen a cartridge in their lives, and get some army officer to come here to train them to make cartridges, sitting around our dining table?”
“There’s no danger. Women do it in New York. You read Billy’s letter.”
“That’s women in New York, not women in Boston who have never made a cartridge or worked with gunpowder.”
“I asked Captain Halliwell. It’s simple.”
“Simple for him! And what’s this nonsense about taking it to New York in freight wagons?”
“We can get wagons. Caleb put a notice in the newspaper and at the post house.”
Margaret’s mouth dropped open for a split second. “Newspaper? What kind of notice?”
“That we’re gathering blankets and shoes and bandages and medicine at the church for the Continental army, and we’re taking it to New York. We’ve got committees. We can do it.”
“In the newspaper? Every Tory in Boston will sneak either here or up to the church at night to burn down the building.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The Tories have all fled.”
“Who drives the wagons?”
Brigitte set her jaw defiantly for a moment. “Me. Some of the women.”
Margaret gasped. “Three hundred miles across Connecticut right in the middle of a war? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“There’s no war in New York yet. General Washington needs cartridges. If we all go together there will be no danger.”
“You think you’re going to drive wagons right into New York and find General Washington, with the British swarming down there?”
“They’re not swarming.”
“They’re not? How many British ships did Billy say? Forty? Fifty? And what about Richard Buchanan? What’s your British captain going to think when he hears you’ve been loading cartridges to shoot at him and his army?”
It slowed Brigitte. Her eyes dropped and she lowered her hands. “He’ll understand,” she said quietly.
The front door swung open, and Caleb walked into the parlor towards his room to scrub the printer’s ink from his hands.
“You’re late,” Margaret said. “Something happen?”
“We got news from New York. Had to set print and run some copies for tomorrow.”
“Your supper’s in the oven. What news?”
Caleb spoke excitedly. “The whole British navy is about to arrive in New York, clear from Halifax, and there’s more on the way from England. There’s going to be one big, final battle right there in New York City.” He passed through the archway headed for his room.
Margaret turned to Brigitte, anger in her voice. “You see? You think you’re going down there with bullets in the middle of a battle?”
Caleb barged back into the archway, eyes wide, voice high. “Brigitte’s going to New York?”
“Not if I can help it,” Margaret retorted.
Brigitte interrupted. “Mother, nothing bad will happen. I promise.” She turned to Caleb. “Did you get the notice in the newspaper?”
Margaret shook her finger. “You’re not going to New York!”
Caleb cut in. “You’re going to New York?”
“Did you get the notice in the newspaper?”
Caleb’s voice was loud, commanding. “If you go, I’m going.” His mind raced wildly, framing the desperate, dramatic news story he would write about the battle of New York.
Brigitte bristled. “Caleb, did you get the notice in the newspaper?”
He sobered for a moment. “Yes. But if you take stuff to New York, I’m going.”
Margaret raised a warning hand. “Caleb, forget it. Brigitte, stop this insanity about New York.”
Brigitte closed her eyes in disgusted frustration, then looked at the mantel clock. Six-fifty p.m. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. We’ll talk later. Have Caleb read to Adam and Prissy in his room. I have to get ready.”
At ten minutes past seven o’clock, Captain Bertram Halliwell stood at the head of the dining table, uncomfortable in the presence of Brigitte at the far end and three young ladies on each side. All seven faces were turned to him, waiting expectantly. He nervously dropped his right hand to a black leather satchel on the table before him and began his memorized recitation.
“Ladies, I w
as invited here to acquaint you with making cartridges for military muskets. There are a few fundamentals you must know before we begin. First, confined gunpowder explodes when touched by flame or a spark. Loose gunpowder will burn, but not explode, so working here at the table should not be dangerous. Keeping a keg of it nearby could be. I understand you intend making the cartridges at the church, and suggest the keg be kept somewhere outside and that an open pan of it be brought in to work with.”
Heads bobbed in understanding and the ladies waited.
“Second, wet gunpowder is useless. Cartridges are made from paper. So once a cartridge is made, you must store it in a place that is dry so the paper does not absorb moisture. That usually means in a watertight building.”
A momentary flurry of murmuring broke out, then subsided.
“Third, paper burns. So once a cartridge is made, it cannot be exposed to spark or flame. If it catches fire it could explode, and if it is stored with others, it could set them all off.”
He waited a moment, then opened the black satchel and drew out a rectangular block of wood with three rows of holes drilled into it, ten holes per row, and held it up.
“This block will hold thirty finished cartridges. When filled, the block is put inside a waterproof leather case that is slung around the shoulder of a soldier and hangs at his side for use. Here’s the leather case.” He drew a black, scarred, stiff-leather case from inside the satchel and laid the block and the case on the table.
Margaret was in the dark kitchen, setting Caleb’s warm dinner on a tray, shaking her head in disgust and fear as she listened. She covered the tray with a cloth, then quietly walked through the parlor to the archway and disappeared into Caleb’s room, where Caleb was finished scrubbing and changing and the children waited.
Captain Halliwell continued. “The militia can supply you with cartridge papers and bullets, and at the moment we have some gunpowder. Later you may have to get your own lead and learn to cast the bullets, and somehow get your own gunpowder. They’re all in short supply.”
The ladies looked at each other in surprise, then turned back to Halliwell. He reached inside his satchel and laid several tools on the table, then a small wooden box of gunpowder and half a dozen .75-caliber balls.
