by Ron Carter
He paused, and still no one moved.
“Now, gentlemen, you have questions. Let us begin.”
With the sun touching the western skyline, casting long shadows across the East River towards Long Island and the Brooklyn fortifications, Billy and Eli sat on freshly mounded black dirt packed against the timbers of the breastworks. In bone-weary silence they spooned tasteless hot gruel from their bowls and chewed tough brown bread and washed it down with cold canteen water, while the wind fluttered their sweaty shirts and dried their hair, plastered to their foreheads. Finished, they sat for a time without moving, exhausted, gathering strength and the will to go wash their utensils and move to their blankets.
Billy stood and started towards the campground of the Boston regiment, and Eli followed. They dipped their bowls and spoons in the kettle of hot, cloudy, soapy water, then rinsed in the clear, and walked to their blankets, where they eased down, dropped their utensils, and rolled onto their backs, one arm thrown over their eyes.
Company Nine had begun work on a new section of breastworks at four a.m. in the light of lanterns. They paused at noon to stand by their shovels and eat stale cheese and black bread and drink from their canteens, then bowed their backs and worked until seven p.m. when Sergeant Turlock called them for supper. They had paid no attention to the wind and the overcast, nor had the wind prevented the sweat that soaked them, dripping from their chins and noses.
They lay without moving for twenty minutes before Billy spoke, arm still over his eyes. “Turlock asked me to check on our sick.”
Eli could hear the dread in Billy’s voice, and seconds passed before he moved his arm and rolled up to a sitting position and glanced at Billy. “Let’s go.”
They stopped at the cook tent to cut three loaves of the hard black bread into thick slices and drop it into a large fire-blackened bucket before they trudged across the camp to the sprawling hospital compound. The hastily built log hospital had long since been filled with men doubled over from dysentery and mumbling with fever dreams, and it was now surrounded by twenty-two huge tents. Inside each, cots were jammed wherever they would fit, and in some tents men were laid on blankets beneath the cots. The doctors and nurses had forgotten time in their endless rounds, and took snatches of sleep only when they could go no further.
The stench of unbathed bodies and unchanged bedding hung in the air like a wall, ten feet before Billy and Eli reached the tent where seven of the men of Company Nine were held. Eli lifted the flap while Billy entered, and Eli followed. They clamped their mouths shut and breathed shallow while they worked their way to their men.
Billy knelt beside a cot where an old man lay on his side beneath a ragged blanket, knees drawn up in pain. Billy touched his shoulders and the man’s eyes opened to look up at Billy, trying to focus, to understand.
“It’s me. Billy Weems from your company. I brought you some bread.”
The craggy old head nodded, and the man again closed his eyes and settled back.
“I’ll leave it here.” Billy lifted the blanket and put a slice of the bread in the gnarled old hand, then rose and moved on to stop beside another cot, where a balding man lay on his back, breathing heavily, face flushed. Billy knelt and touched the man’s forehead and glanced up at Eli, and the man looked at him, eyes wide as he spoke too loud through parched lips.
“I’ll be reporting for duty in the morning, Captain. Just a touch of fever. Much better than yesterday—much better. Yes, sir, I’ll be ready tomorrow. March for Boston. That’s where the British are. Boston. I’ll be ready, sir.”
Billy nodded. “Good. We can use you. Thirsty?”
The man ran his swollen tongue over his cracked lips. “No, sir. Use the water for those who need it. I’ll be ready to report in the morning, sir.”
Eli moved quickly to the nearest water bucket and returned with the dipper and handed it to Billy.
Carefully Billy raised the man’s head and lowered the dripping wooden dipper. “We’ve got a little extra water. Better not waste it.”
“Are you sure, sir? Have the others got enough? I’ll be ready in the morning, Captain.”
“We have enough. Take a sip.”
The man closed his eyes, and Billy patiently held the dipper to the pale lips, and the man sipped, then drank.
“Thank you, sir. What time do we leave for Boston in the morning? Early? If we leave early we’ll get ahead of the heat. I’ll be there, sir.”
“We leave early. You’ll need some bread for the march.” Billy handed him a thick slice of the hard bread.
“I have my knapsack packed, sir. Plenty of rations. Plenty.”
“I know. But you take that. The others have theirs.”
The man’s eyes were too bright, his expression too intense. “Are you sure, sir?”
“I’m sure. Go to sleep. You’ll need rest for the march.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Once again Billy touched the man’s forehead, burning with fever, then rose and walked on. Eli glanced back, then at Billy, and said nothing.
Five more times they stopped to kneel beside men too feeble to rise. They left bread, and held the water dipper, and made their best judgment on how many would recover, how many would not. In full dusk they walked out of the tent, away from the smell of sickness and death, breathing deep in the fresh wind and made their way to a second tent. Inside, nurses and men moved about in yellow lamplight, carrying water, bandages, carbolics, lime juice, soup, doing what they could to ease the suffering of men whom they did not know how to heal. The two men worked through the press of people to where two more of their company lay on cots.
Billy leaned forward to gently touch the shoulder of a boy lying on his side, doubled up, face to the tent wall, eyes closed. His long hair was matted, and his cheeks showed a growth of soft yellow hair. He had shaved but once in his life. He did not move at Billy’s touch, and Billy shook his shoulder gently. One hand slipped from beneath the blanket to dangle limply.
Billy suddenly caught his breath and shoved two fingers against the young throat, and it was cold, lifeless, and Billy sucked air and bolted upright, white faced, struggling to recover from the shock. Eli stooped to touch the boy’s throat, and all the air went out of him, and for a moment he did not move, eyes closed, face a mask of pain. Then he drew the blanket up and covered the face, and he and Billy turned away and stopped the nearest nurse.
“The boy over there on the cot. He’s gone.”
The portly nurse sighed and moved an errant wisp of hair from her face. “I’ll see to it.” She walked towards the cot, and Billy and Eli looked for the second man from their company.
He was not there. Billy stopped the nearest man carrying a water dipper. “The man that was over there this morning, from Company Nine? Black hair, black beard?”
The attendant shook his head. “We lost him last night, with three others. Are you kin?”
“No. Same company.”
The man said nothing and moved on, and Billy and Eli turned to leave, when they were stopped in their tracks.
From behind someone shouted, “Catch her!”
The two men pivoted to see a nurse carrying a basin of steaming water stagger, stumbling, eyes downcast, struggling to keep her balance and hold the basin from spilling. Billy dropped the bread bucket and in two strides was there. He grabbed the basin with one hand and thrust his arm around the waist of the woman with his other and felt her full weight collapse against him, and then Eli was there and caught the unconscious woman up in his arms like a child, and he peered into her face and froze.
Mary Flint!
Billy’s mouth dropped open, and he set the steaming basin on the dirt floor and reached to put his hand on her forehead as the doctor pushed through the crowded room.
“Fever! She’s caught it,” Billy exclaimed.
The doctor pushed Billy aside and placed the flat of his hand on her forehead, then on her cheek. His face clouded. “Bring he
r to my quarters at once.”
“Where are your quarters?” Eli challenged without moving.
“At the rear of the tent.”
Eli shook his head. “Not her. We’re taking her out of here.”
The doctor thrust his face forward, white, chin trembling. “I am a colonel in the Continental army and I am ordering you to bring that woman to my quarters immediately.”
Eli turned on his heel and Billy moved ahead of him, clearing a way in the yellow lamplight as the two walked out the front of the tent into the darkness and fresh air, the doctor following, threatening them at every step. They paid him no heed as they marched through the center of the regimental camp in the flickering light of the evening campfires, while men stopped to stare at them. Billy stopped in front of the command tent of Colonel Israel Thompson and the picket challenged him.
“I’m Corporal Billy Weems, Ninth Company, Boston regiment. You know Eli Stroud by now. The woman he carries is Mary Flint, Patriot, and she’s sick. The man behind Eli is a doctor. We’re not going to leave her in the hospital compound. Tell Colonel Thompson.”
“You’re ordering me to interrupt the colonel over a sick woman?” The picket shook his head insolently.
Eli spoke. “You do it or I will.”
The picket sobered and swallowed, and hesitated for a moment in indecision. Eli took a step and the picket turned and disappeared through the tent flap. Three minutes later Colonel Thompson stooped to clear the tent entrance and stood in his shirtsleeves in the firelight. “What’s this about?”
Eli stepped forward with Mary in his arms. Her head was tipped forward, leaned against his chest. “Her. Mary Flint. She’s sick. We’re not going to leave her down there with the others.”
Thompson looked at the doctor, who was fuming, eyes ablaze. “You’re the doctor at the hospital compound?”
“Doctor Lemuel Hardesty. I want that woman in my quarters for treatment, immediately.”
“Are your quarters in one of the hospital tents?”
“They are.”
Thompson hesitated but for one moment. “How long has she been working with you?”
“Six days. I don’t think she’s slept in the last three.”
“I appreciate your concern, Doctor. Would you have strong objection to allowing me to place her in the quarters of my personal physician, so he can attend her around the clock?”
Hardesty exhaled and his shoulders slumped and all the fight went out of him. “No.” He rubbed his hand across tired eyes and looked at Thompson. “She’ll be better off here. I’ll come check from time to time. I’m, uh, sorry. I didn’t know who these men were or where they were taking her. Things aren’t good at the hospital and . . . I just didn’t want . . .” The sentence trailed off unfinished.
“I know, Doctor. She’ll have the best care we can give. Thank you for all you’re doing. Come back any time.”
Hardesty turned, and Billy watched him thread his way back through the campfires, thin, pinched shoulders hunched forward, head down in the firelight.
Thompson motioned to Eli. “Bring her into my quarters for now, and then you two better get back to your duties.” He turned to the picket. “Find my doctor and bring him here at once.”
Ninety-seven miles east and north, in a small meadow beside a winding dirt road in the colony of Connecticut, Brigitte Dunson and thirteen other people sat cross-legged around a campfire, weary, exhausted, each clasping a pewter mug of steaming coffee, blowing to cool it as they stared at the dancing flames, letting their thoughts go where they would. Beside her sat Caleb, staring vacantly into the dancing flames as he blew on his coffee, then sipped noisily. Tucked under his leg was his ever-present tablet, half-filled with notes and impressions of the journey from which he was going to write an account of this small corner of the war and instantly change the world of journalism. He patted his coat pocket to be certain he had not lost his pencil, then again sipped at his coffee.
Six days earlier, with the morning star pale in the east, the fourteen of them, six women and eight men, had hitched sixteen horses to four wagons in the city of Boston, checked the heavy loads to be certain the boxed cartridges, blankets, medicine, shoes, and barrels of dried beef were tied down solid, and taken their places on the drivers’ seats and on top of the loads. Two mounted, armed riders led, with the four wagons spaced out in a column behind.
Over the hot objections of the men, Brigitte had planted her feet, hands on her hips, and demanded she be allowed to drive one of the wagons, despite the fact she had never held the reins to a four-horse team in her life. In angry frustration the men had finally let her mount the driver’s seat in the last wagon, showed her how to hold the reins, and warned her she would be relieved at her first mistake. Then they had put the rising sun at their backs and gigged the horses forward onto the rutted road running from Boston, through Connecticut, to New York City, amid the cheers and tearful good-byes of friends and loved ones.
The first three days Brigitte had learned to thread the reins between her fingers and keep them tight, feeling the tug and rhythm of the rise and fall of the head of a pulling horse. The second three days she had learned to talk to them. Each morning she and Caleb had helped mount the horse collars, buckle on the harnesses, and snap the traces to the singletrees, and each night they had helped unhitch until they could do it all alone.
A look of grim satisfaction crossed her face. If the weather holds, and we can keep the pace, we’ll be in New York in five more days. Maybe four.
Across the circle, a young man set his smoking coffee mug in the grass and rose. “I think I’ll be makin’ a round to be sure the horses are settled for the night.” His Irish accent was marked. Quietly he walked away towards the stand of maple where the wagons stood with their wheels blocked for the night. The horses were hobbled just beyond, near a small stream and strong grass.
He had said his name was Cullen. He was quiet, did his share, kept to himself, and made a round of the wagons and horses each night alone, just before they all went to their blankets.
He was the same blocky young Irishman with the long sandy-red hair who had appeared at the South Church in Boston nearly a month ago, when Silas had allowed the women to use the church to tie cartridges. The shy young man had held his threadbare cap in his hand and offered his services for the trip through Connecticut so he could join the Continental army in New York, and Brigitte had said come back in about three weeks when we leave, perhaps we can use you.
Brigitte tracked him with narrowed eyes until he disappeared in the darkness. What do we really know about him? Why did he join us? Where does he go when he walks out there at night?
______
Notes
The Mohawk chief Joseph Brant visited King George III in England, treated with him, and received an engraved silver gorget as a gift from the king. He was admitted a member of the Falcon Lodge of the Freemasons. He and his Mohawk Indians assisted General Howe in the battle of Long Island (see Bolton and Wilson, Joseph Brant, pp. 10–17, 46; see also Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 298).
Dysentery and fever were near epidemic proportions and disabled about one-third of George Washington’s army (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 125, footnote).
The numbers of British soldiers, sailors, and ships as given here are accurate. It was the mightiest armada in the history of the world, to that time (see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 151–52).
General Henry Clinton was sent to Charleston, South Carolina, to attack and occupy the city. To do so he had to take Fort Moultrie on Sullivan Island at the mouth of Charleston Harbor. Fort Moultrie was built of palmetto logs and sand. Clinton failed. The American cannoneers blew the seat out of British admiral Peter Parker’s breeches, leaving him on his flagship quarterdeck with his underwear blackened but otherwise not harmed. Clinton thought the water depth at the Breach was less than two feet, when it was actually seven, and many of his troops simply sank over their he
ads before his eyes. Three of his ships ran aground, one of which burned (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 230–31).
General Henry Clinton was born and raised in New York, the son of a British admiral who was also governor of New York at one time (see Leckie, George Wasghington’s War, p. 148).
General Charles Lee was sent by George Washington to Charleston, South Carolina, to engage and repulse General Clinton at the battle of Fort Moultrie. Lee participated, but his contribution was minimal (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 229).
For political purposes, Congress directed General Washington to defend New York (see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 151).
While General William Howe has generally been given credit for the plan by which the British forces attacked the Continental army on Long Island, the plan was actually Clinton’s (see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 155).
Long Island
Night of August 21, 1776
Chapter XIV
* * *
The screaming wind ripped great branches from the trees on the south side of Long Island and sent them hurtling north to smash against the rocks and brush and other trees inland, and against the barns and buildings of the farmers and the villagers of Utrecht and Gravesend and Flatbush and Bedford on the flat ground that sloped up from the sea to the first of the two high, wooded ridges south of Brooklyn.
Overhead, lightning leaped jagged through thick, low clouds that raced with the wind, and great bolts struck downward to shatter rocks or thrashing trees, or leave huge smoking trenches in the ground as the midnight storm reached the height of its fury. Six-foot sea swells, whipped to a white frenzy, rolled in from the Atlantic to crash into Gravesend Bay and through the Narrows, up the Hudson and East Rivers, tearing small craft from their moorings, battering them against the rocks and the great, black pilings of the wharves and docks on the east shore of Manhattan Island.
