Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Owl? No. Indian!

  Three minutes later he heard the rhythmic dip of oars in water, and then the sound of the bow of a small boat grating on the sand and stones of shore, and then the sounds of men climbing into a longboat. An errant oar rattled in an oarlock and someone hissed a curse, and then there were the sounds of feet slogging in the surf and then once again the rhythmic sound of oars backing the boat away from the shore.

  Eli raised his face to look, and in the fading moonlight he saw the low, almost indiscernible outline of a longboat working its way south to clear the farthest reaches of Long Island, then west to Staten Island.

  He counted two hundred breaths before he moved. He rose to his knees, with his back to the water, opened his tinderbox and placed it on the ground, shielded from the water by his body, and carefully struck flint to steel. He caught a spark in the tinder and patiently breathed on it until it caught, then quickly cupped a hand to shield it from being seen from the sea. He carefully walked, one slow step at a time, straight towards the water’s edge, hunched low, looking for fresh tracks.

  They were there. He counted three sets of moccasin tracks moving from east to west, fresh in the sand and grit of the shoreline, and he dropped to his knees and brought his face eight inches from the sand and earth to study each set. Indian, all three. Two average size. One smaller. Walking in the sand, leaving tracks. Either they wanted to leave tracks or they don’t care. Which? They don’t care.

  He straightened and peered eastward in the darkness. Went to the east and came from the east. What did they want to see east of here?

  Eli slipped his tomahawk back into his belt and judged the time to be an hour before midnight. No time to waste, and I got to take a chance. If they left anyone behind I hope I find him before he finds me.

  He started east on the open shoreline at a trot, pausing at intervals to listen and watch, and there was nothing. He counted his paces and stopped at five thousand and waited while his heaving chest quieted. Then he once again struck flint to steel and lowered his tinderbox to peer at the narrow strip of sand, and the tracks were there, going east, then coming back west. One thousand yards farther east, his light showed no tracks, and he started back west. Three hundred yards later he found it. The tracks showed that the three men had turned north on a footpath through the brush and growth, and returned from the north on the same footpath, then turned west to return to their waiting boat.

  Eli peered north into the darkness, then back west, making calculations. About five miles east of that big bay back there, then due north. No time to find out how far north. What’s north of here? Brooklyn’s back five miles west and about two, maybe three miles north. Does this trail lead back to Brooklyn? If not, where? Why did they come looking at this trail? No time to find out.

  It was past three o’clock when a startled, sleepy-eyed picket jerked erect at the sudden, silent appearance of a man before him dressed in Indian buckskins, hands held high, a paper clutched in one of them. Five minutes later Eli faced Colonel Israel Thompson across a table in his quarters.

  “Report.”

  “They landed three Indians just east of that big bay down south of the Narrows about nine o’clock tonight. They worked their way east on the shore to a footpath about five miles from the big bay down there, then took the footpath due north. They came back on the same footpath and were picked up by a longboat.”

  “You saw them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know they were Indians?”

  “Owl call. Moccasin tracks.”

  “Three? Not more?”

  “Three. Two average size, one smaller.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No.”

  Thompson leaned forward on his forearms and for long seconds stared at his hands in deep thought.

  Eli interrupted. “You got a map of that part of the island?”

  Thompson spread a map on the tabletop and Eli leaned over it, moving his finger along the coastline of Long Island until he understood how the map lay.

  He pointed. “This is the big bay?” He studied the printed name. “Gravesend?”

  “Yes.”

  “They landed just east of there and worked on farther east.” He traced with his finger and stopped. “What’s that line?”

  “Jamaica Road.”

  Eli followed the trail north where it slanted to the west to arrive behind the ridge where they were building the heaviest fortifications. He raised startled eyes. “That’s a natural pass through the ridge?”

  “Yes. Jamaica Pass.”

  Eli bent forward to continue poring over the map, and pointed to a second line that ran north from the bay to Jamaica Road. “What’s that line?”

  “An unnamed road.”

  “That one ties into Jamaica Road?”

  “Yes.”

  Eli moved his finger farther west. “That line?”

  “Bedford Road.”

  “That one ties right into Jamaica Road, north of Flatbush?”

  “Yes.”

  Eli pointed once more at a line far to the west, near the shore of the Narrows. “That line?”

  “Gowanus Road. It leads north to Brooklyn.”

  Eli straightened. “They’re scouting every road they can to get behind us.”

  Again Thompson nodded but said nothing.

  Eli looked back at the map. “Why don’t they just take ships up the East River and unload troops north of Brooklyn? Our cannon couldn’t stop them.”

  Thompson shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they don’t want to try putting that many ships through the Narrows or around through Hell Gate.” He tapped the map with a finger.

  “What’s Hell Gate?”

  “Right there.” Thompson pointed. “Some sort of natural whirlpool where the tides meet. It will suck a ship down.”

  Eli’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I didn’t know about it.”

  “They do.”

  Once more Eli leaned forward to study the map in the yellow light of a single lamp. He studied the Jamaica Road, then the Bedford Road, then moved his finger down the east bank of the East River, and suddenly sensed the deadly implications. He raised his head and for long moments stared into the intense eyes of Thompson as realization settled in. He spoke softly. “If the British use the Jamaica Road to get behind us, and then block us off from the east, that leaves us trapped against the East River with no way out.”

  Slowly Thompson nodded. “If that happens . . .” His voice trailed off and he did not finish the sentence.

  Eli licked dry lips and for a moment stared at Thompson. “You going to tell General Greene, or General Washington?”

  “As soon as I can.” Thompson folded the map, placed it back on the pile at the edge of his table, and took charge of himself. “Thank you for your report. Go on to your bed. There’s a little time before dawn, and by now you need sleep.”

  “One more thing. If those Indians I saw tonight are Mohawks, and Joseph Brant is their leader, General Washington has trouble he doesn’t know about.”

  “Joseph Brant?”

  “Smart. Dangerous.”

  “I’ll be sure General Washington knows. Now, you go get what sleep you can. We have assembly on the parade ground at nine o’clock.”

  “I heard. What are they going to read to us?”

  Thompson shrugged. “I don’t know. Something from the Continental Congress, I was told. A declaration.”

  “Declaration about what?”

  “No one said.”

  “See you in the morning.” Eli walked out the flap, past the startled picket, and picked his way to his blanket, while Thompson stood in the yellow lamp glow for half a minute, staring at the folded maps. He drew a ragged breath and exhaled it slowly, then turned to look at the tent flap through which Eli had just disappeared. He shook his head, and despite himself a slow smile formed and he murmured, “I wonder if we’ll ever teach that man to salute.” He picked the lamp from the table, sat down on h
is cot to shed his tunic, then reached to turn the small brass wheel that trimmed the burning lamp wick and watched the lamp go black. He sat in the darkness for a moment, then quietly said, “Probably not.” He lay down on his back to stare upward and added, “I hope not.”

  Eli drank from his canteen before he silently lay down on his back on his blanket and sighed. The tension began to drain and his muscles began to relax as weariness settled in, and he gave himself over to it and laid one arm across his closed eyes.

  Billy’s whispered words came quietly. “You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  Nothing else was said, or needed, and Billy drifted into deep, dreamless sleep.

  The tinny rattle of the regimental drum sounding reveille came clattering in the time before sunrise. In the east, the sun, not yet risen, set the undersides of a skiff of high clouds aflame, and the birds of morning chirped and warbled their challenges and answers. Raccoons and opossums moved away from streams and creeks and open places to disappear for the day, while beady-eyed squirrels with tails cocked over their backs came darting for berries and seeds, pausing now and again to scold those who had invaded their world to dig in the earth and destroy the bushes and trees.

  The men of the Boston regiment rose silently from their blankets to swallow sour and begin their rotation at the latrines and at the washbasins to rinse their faces gasping in cold water and to wash their hands. Some stripped to the waist and quickly dashed water over their chests and wiped with soiled towels or cloths, while a few lathered and shaved. They straightened their stockings and breeches, tucked in shirttails, shook blankets and rolled or folded them for the day, then settled down for the monotony of assembling for morning inspection, roll call, and breakfast. Within minutes steam was rising from the great black kettles over cooking fires, and the men wrinkled their noses in passive disgust as the air filled with the bland aroma of thin cornmeal mush with no sorghum and of coffee from yesterday’s grounds.

  With breakfast finished, Sergeant Turlock called orders to Company Nine. “All right, you lovelies, bring your muskets and ammunition for practice.” Ten minutes later they were gathered around him near the cannon they had used for drill, once again facing the sloped dirt breastwork.

  “Each man take one of these wooden stakes and drive it into the dirt over there, and then come here and get five paper cartridges and line up with your musket.”

  He waited until the stakes were driven and the men were lined up facing the breastwork with muskets and paper cartridges in hand.

  “General Washington says we’re to prepare you men to meet British regulars, and to do that you need to know your weapon, and that takes drill. So today we drill.”

  He held up a musket. “Most of you have shot one of these before, but probably not with paper cartridges, and that’s why we’re here.” He held up a cartridge box. “This is a cartridge box. Inside are thirty paper cartridges, like this one. Simple to use. Now, watch while I talk you through it.”

  He slowly took one cartridge in hand, bit off the end, primed the pan and closed it, poured the balance of the powder down the muzzle, stuffed the paper and ball in behind it, and drove it all down with the ramrod. He held it up. “Ready to fire.” He cocked the hammer, shouldered he weapon, and pulled the trigger.

  The flint in the huge hammer slammed into the frizzen and knocked it upward while it struck a spark downward into the powder in the pan. The powder caught and burned through the touchhole into the powder inside the barrel. It ignited and the musket blasted and kicked. The musket ball knocked dirt on the hillside next to one of the stakes.

  “Simple,” Turlock said. “Now, everybody pick out the stake you drove and do what I just did with one of those cartridges.”

  He watched as the men methodically went through the motions and knocked dirt all up and down the breastwork.

  “All right, do it again.”

  He put them through the drill until all five cartridges were gone, and once again he raised the musket.

  “Now, that’s how you shoot with paper cartridges. Problem is, you won’t always have paper cartridges. Then you have to work with a powder horn and a lead ball. Watch while I talk you through it.

  “First, I’ve got to tell you I’m going to show you how to load what is called ‘buck and ball.’ That means after you put the powder in the barrel, you drop three large pieces of buckshot down, and then you put the ball on top. That gives you a ball, and behind it, three buckshot that spread after they leave the musket barrel, and you hit a lot more of what’s in front of you that way. Now, watch.”

  Patiently he primed the pan with a powder horn, slapped it shut, set the butt of the stock on the ground, and measured powder from the horn down the muzzle. He used the ramrod to drive a patch down the barrel to lock the powder in, then dropped three large pieces of lead buckshot down the barrel, followed by the huge ball, and again used the ramrod to set it firm. He raised the musket, drew it to full cock, pointed it at a stake, and pulled the trigger. Dirt jumped over an area nearly two feet in diameter as the ball and buckshot plowed into the face of the breastwork.

  “Buck and ball. Remember, muskets do not have a rear sight. They’re not for accurate shooting. They’re for rapid fire. Now, each of you come and get nine buckshot and three balls and load and fire three times.”

  Twenty minutes later he once again stepped before the men. “Now we’re going to talk about rifles. First, we call them rifles because they have twisted ridges called riflings inside the barrel, and those ridges grab the ball and give it a spin that makes it fly straight for up to three hundred yards. Rifles have a gun sight at the rear of the barrel and at the front too, so you can line up the barrel with accuracy. That’s good. But it takes three times longer to load a rifle than a musket. That’s bad. A good man with a musket can get off three shots in one minute, sometimes four, while a rifle gets off one shot, two at best. So we mix the two. Muskets for fast firing, with rifles in between for longer range accurate firing.”

  He held up a rifle, longer and more delicate than the musket. “The loading and firing is like a musket except you have to seat the rifle bullet on a greased patch. Watch and I’ll show you.”

  Methodically he primed the rifle and seated the powder in the barrel, then drew a greased patch from a brass-covered chamber carved into the rifle stock. He laid it over the muzzle, then forced a ball onto it firmly enough to lock it into place. He drew the ramrod and drove the ball and patch down the barrel, then faced the breastwork, and this time the bullet split a stake up the center as it drove through and ripped into the hillside.

  He pointed at the splintered stake. “There’s the difference. Accuracy. Muskets for rapid fire up close. Rifles for accurate fire long distance. Use both and you’ve got something.”

  He leaned the rifle against the cannon. “We don’t have enough rifles to go around, but you’ll all get training on them in the next two days. Right now we’ve got to get to the parade ground for the nine o’clock assembly.”

  Someone called, “What’re they going to read to us?”

  Turlock shook his head. “No one told me. I figger maybe terms of surrender by the British.” He waited for nervous laughter to die. “All right, you lovelies, take your weapons back to your campsites and then assemble on the parade ground.”

  Shoulder to shoulder, Billy and Eli walked back to their blankets and covered their weapons, then picked their way to the place where trees and brush had been cleared to form a great parade and staging ground. To the north, at the edge of the clearing, the tents housing the entire Long Island command stood in bold relief against the green trees and shrubbery. A forty-foot flagpole stood before the command tent, proudly flying the New York colony flag. Beside the flagpole a platform twenty feet long and ten feet wide, built from fresh-cut maple, rose nine feet above the ground, with a waist-high railing all around. It faced south, with twelve steps from the back side.

  At ten minutes before nine o’clock a regimental dru
mmer in full uniform took his position before the stand, with his large snare drum hanging down his left leg on its shoulder strap, and began pounding out the familiar rhythm of assembly. Officers from every regiment on Long Island took their appointed positions facing the stand, and soldiers found their places in the rank and file, looking left and right, making adjustments to straighten the lines. At nine o’clock the entrance flaps of the command tent parted, and two officers dressed in New York green marched out, followed by the commander of the Long Island forces, General Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island, flanked by his staff and aides. Their uniforms were immaculate, and never had the soldiers in the ranks seen so much gold sparkling on the shoulders of so few men, as the officers marched rigidly up the back stairs and onto the platform to look out over the sea of expectant faces peering upwards at them.

  The New York officer with the most gold on his shoulders stepped to the railing and the troops quieted. In the trees behind the command tent, a blue jay warbled. The warm July morning sun filtered through the leaves thick and green on the trees, unmoving in the still air, and behind the command tent the blue jay warbled again and another answered. Somewhere far to the west a camp dog barked and fell silent. Two red squirrels chased each other beneath the platform and disappeared.

  “Attention to orders,” the officer called. “General George Washington has lately received a document which he has ordered to be read to all soldiers of the Continental army and all militia under his command in New York and the New York area. General Nathanael Greene has ordered that I shall read it to you. When I am finished, you will hold your formations until copies of this document have been distributed to each regiment, following which the entire command will stand down for one hour while you acquaint yourselves more fully with the contents of the writing.”