Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Caleb carefully pushed his notepad beneath his tarp and sat still, lost for a moment in his own thoughts. Three more days . . . tonight and two more nights . . . our army and theirs . . . the greatest battle ever . . . I’ll be there to record it . . . easy . . . just write down what I see . . . that’s the secret . . . Mother will be surprised . . . proud . . . I wonder how she is tonight . . . Adam and Prissy . . . what they had for supper.

  Brigitte reached to pull the bandana from her hair, and paused to let her thoughts run. A bath . . . hot water in a tub . . . in the kitchen . . . soap . . . sitting in the hot water . . . every muscle relaxing . . . the steam rising . . . rinsing . . . fresh hot water for my hair . . . the feel and smell of soap in my hair . . . the warm rinse cascading . . . Mother with a towel . . . a great, soft towel . . . warm and clean in a great, soft towel . . . my bed . . . my pillow . . . my thick comforter.

  She swallowed and pushed the thoughts away.

  The six women in the small wagon column had had but one chance to bathe since they left Boston, in the dark following supper three days ago at a small, hidden pool fed by an icy mountain stream. With no soap, they had had but a few minutes to rinse themselves as best they could and briskly rub themselves dry with small hand towels from knapsacks. There had been no chance to wash their hair, and they had silently dressed themselves, teeth chattering in the chill of the night.

  Brigitte motioned to Caleb, and they knelt facing each other and bowed their heads, and Brigitte spoke. “Almighty God, we thank thee . . .”

  They said their “Amen” and then silently opened their blankets and slipped inside, fully dressed, in their stocking feet. They closed their eyes and in moments were lost in deep, dreamless sleep.

  From deep inside an insistent command reached Brigitte’s brain and she ignored it. It came again and she stirred, and it came again and she opened her eyes to narrowed slits in the blackness and battled to make sense of where she was and what was nudging her shoulder. She swallowed at the stale taste in her mouth and turned her head to stare upward, trying to focus, to understand the ball of yellow light suspended over her head in the black world.

  She blinked and dug at her eyes with her hand, and once again tried to focus. The ball of light became a lantern, and above it was a face staring back at her, and above the face was a black tricornered hat edged with gold. The lantern rose and Brigitte saw the red coat and crossed white belts and the white breeches and polished black boots, and her forehead wrinkled as she puzzled at how a British officer got into her bedroom, and then she jerked upright and threw back her blanket, horrified, as understanding struck white-hot into her brain.

  A strong hand clamped onto her shoulder. “Easy, miss. It’d be a bloody shame to do you harm when there’s no need of it.”

  Brigitte swatted at the hand and tried to gather her legs to leap up, and the captain caught her by both arms and pinned them at her sides and jerked her upright and held her at arm’s length. She kicked at him and he took it, and then he spun her around and locked her arms behind her.

  To her right Caleb came from his blankets shouting at the captain, “You let her go,” and a British regular caught him around the neck from behind and forced him to his knees, clawing at the arm around his throat, wild-eyed, frantic.

  Brigitte wrenched against the hold on her arms and gasped at the pain in her elbows, and turned her head to scream, “Let go of me, let go of me.”

  The captain held her steady, firm. “Miss, you’ll have to stop struggling or I’ll order you bound and gagged.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Brigitte shouted, and the captain turned to two regulars standing behind him.

  “Bind and gag her.”

  The two grasped her arms roughly and crossed her wrists behind her back, and one began wrapping them with rope.

  She stopped struggling and her head slumped forward. “I’ll stop. Don’t tie me.”

  The captain raised a hand and the two regulars released her. She turned to face the captain, rubbing her arms. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “In due time.”

  For the first time Brigitte looked about the camp. Half a dozen lanterns cast their small circle of yellow light, and suddenly she realized that everyone in the wagon column was captive, taken in their sleep. Two soldiers were gathering wood, while others forced the captives to the center of camp around the coals of last night’s fire. Their muskets loomed larger than life in the dim light, and the bayonets reflected the golden glow.

  Brigitte looked to the east, where the morning star still shined brightly. “What time is it?”

  “About four a.m., ma’am.”

  “Do you know where you are? . . . that the Continental army will be here this morning?”

  The captain smiled. “We’re in Connecticut, ma’am, and your Continental army is in New York.” He turned. “Gather them all by the fire.”

  They stood in stocking feet in the wet grass, feeling the cold morning dew soak through, white-faced, silent, ringed by twelve regulars, each with a musket and bayonet, faces impassive, eyes constantly moving, watching everything. The two who had gathered the wood stirred the ashes in the fire pit, blew on them until they glowed, set twigs and then sticks, then chunks of wood while the fire grew.

  The captain clasped his hands behind his back and faced his captives. “I am Captain Gerald Hornaby of the British army. You are all prisoners of war. Each of you will continue in your daily duties. You will drive the wagons, make camp, prepare the meals, and tend the stock, just as you have done. I expect you will have thoughts of escape. I therefore order you now that there shall be no talking among you. Further, should you try to run, remember, we are mounted cavalry. You will be caught by men on horses and shot on sight. I’m sorry, but I have no other choice.”

  He dropped his hands to his sides and his face became severe. “Do each of you understand?”

  He waited. No one uttered a word, and he continued. “I will lead the column and you will follow. My men will be on both sides and in the rear. We will leave this camp in one hour and a half. Get your blankets loaded, prepare enough breakfast for yourselves and my command, hitch up your teams, and be ready to leave by that time. You will change the order of the wagons. The one loaded with cartridges will be moved to the number three position, and the wagon with blankets and boots will move to the number two position. I’ll change the order and the drivers again from time to time.”

  He stopped to survey them. “Are there any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Carry on.”

  For a moment Brigitte stood rooted, wide-eyed. He knows what’s in each of the wagons! How? How? She groped for some explanation and there was none, and then it struck her. He has a spy in this camp. An informer! She turned startled to peer at those around her, unable to believe one of them could be a traitor, and her eyes came to Cullen and she gaped. Him! Every night! Right before our eyes!

  Captain Hornaby pointed, and his clipped words cut her off. “Young lady, you had better be about your assignment.”

  Brigitte turned back towards her blankets, still rubbing her arms, Caleb by her side, frightened, angry, wanting to do something but not knowing what or how. They sat to put their shoes on over wet stockings, then stood and shook their blankets and rolled and tied them and loaded them in their wagon. They returned to the fire, where others had spread the three legs of the tripod and were hanging the large black kettle on the hook above the fire. Two men took four wooden buckets to the stream thirty yards south, followed by a regular with his musket at the ready, and returned with water to wash and cook, then made a second trip.

  In strained silence they fried sliced sow belly on a griddle and made thick cornmeal mush in the kettle and black coffee in a two-gallon pot. The British ate first, then the captives, sullen, watching, fearful. They finished washing the utensils and packed them, and the drivers walked through the tall, dripping grass to their horses, hobbled, past the wagons, followed by fo
ur regulars.

  Wet to the knees, they walked the horses to the small stream and waited while they lowered their heads and sucked water, then led them to the wagons, where they backed the two reluctant wheel horses astraddle of the tongue and started the task of mounting the horse collars and buckling the harnesses into place. They snapped the traces to the singletrees and then backed the lead horses into place ahead of the wheel horses, and again worked with the horse collars and the harnesses, then the traces and the singletrees. They held buckets of oats to the horses’ noses and waited while they ground it down. Then they slipped the headstalls into place, buckled the straps under the jaws, adjusted the blinders, and ran the long lines back to the driver’s seat and wrapped them around the brake pole. The men threw dirt on the campfire, and they all looked around to be certain they had finished striking camp.

  The sky to the east was brilliant when they finished and the captain called them together once more, and Brigitte’s eyes did not leave Cullen as the captain spoke.

  “Well done. There will be no trouble if you make none. We will leave now.”

  Brigitte walked to her wagon, head turned, watching Cullen. He had not raised his eyes from his work, or from the ground, since daylight. He moved to the lead wagon and clambered up and crouched behind the driver’s seat.

  Brigitte raised her foot to the wheel hub of the fourth wagon, then onto the cleat, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Caleb climbed the other side and took his place beside her, clutching his notepad to his chest. Brigitte unwound the reins from the brake pole, sorted them, threaded them through her fingers, and took up the slack.

  She glanced at the red-coated soldier beside her, an older man, riding a heavy-boned dappled gray cavalry mount that was tossing its head, tugging at the bit, working its feet, nervous, wanting to go. On one side of the saddle hung a standard cavalryman’s saber, on the other a large holster with the handle of a huge pistol protruding.

  The captain loped his horse to the head of the column, stood in the stirrups for a last inspection, reined his mount around, and bawled out the order, “Forward.” The lead driver gigged his horses and slapped the reins on their rumps, and their heads dropped as their hooves dug into the soft earth and the lead wagon lurched into motion. Brigitte waited her turn and leaned forward to shout to her horses while she smacked the reins down on their hindquarters, and she steadied herself as the wagon moved.

  Less than one hour later the column left the twin ruts of the main road and turned south onto a trail through the heavy foliage and the clustered oak and maples. They rolled on until noon, pushing through the brush, the big wagon wheels cutting their own ruts while the horses and drivers avoided tree branches that reached to catch at their clothes and faces and hands.

  A little past noon Hornaby called a halt near a stream, and they dropped the trace chains to lead the harnessed horses to drink, then wiped the sweated places with a burlap bag and turned them loose in tall grass, still harnessed. The red-coated regulars unsaddled and watered their mounts, rubbed them briefly, and hobbled them in the grass while their captives dug dried mutton and cheese and hardtack from a commissary chest, and they ate in silence and drank cold water from the stream. They packed the remaining food back into the chest, and the captain walked through the noon camp repeating, “One-half hour rest period. No talking.”

  They sought shade from the sun and settled into the cool grass to lie down or sit, letting tension drain from set muscles while they let their minds drift. At half past one they were back on the wagon seats, and on command swung the teams back onto the narrow footpath. The British cavalrymen were divided, half at the head of the column, half behind, all riding single file.

  Caleb glanced back at the six following, then faced forward, speaking quietly to Brigitte beside him. “I’m going to try to get away and get help. They’ll never catch me in these trees and bushes.”

  She did not turn her head when she spoke. “Don’t you dare. With muskets and horses they’d catch you and shoot you. Besides, where would you go for help? If you got it, where would you find us? We don’t even know where we’re going.”

  Caleb set his chin stubbornly, fear and anger in his eyes. “Then what are we going to do? Be prisoners of war the rest of our lives?”

  “I don’t know. Wait. Somehow we’ll find our chance.”

  A command came loud from behind. “’Ere, you ’eard the captain. Stop that talkin’ or I’ll have to bind and gag you.”

  Caleb turned and his face was a mask of insolence as he stared at the regular for a moment, then turned back and fell into silence.

  They rolled on south, plowing through brush, then open meadows, swatting mosquitoes as blue jays cocked curious heads to watch them pass, and great hawks rode the thermals high overhead, circling, watching, waiting. They passed through small valleys carpeted with blue and yellow and red wildflowers, with bees thick in their endless work of gathering nectar for their hives. Twice, startled deer with great, soft brown eyes raised their heads and twitched their large ears, trying to identify the sounds of mounted riders and wagons, squeaking, groaning, rumbling through their domain, and they nervously drifted into groves of trees and vanished.

  At dusk the captain stopped them on an open meadow, and with the regulars circled about them on their horses, muskets unslung and ready, they moved the wagons to one side, blocked the wheels, unhitched and watered and grained the horses, and hobbled them near the wagons, where there was grass. The British soldiers tended their horses while the captives built the evening cook fire and cut potatoes and carrots into the boiling kettle, browned diced beef on a griddle, then added it to the mix and sprinkled in salt. In full darkness they waited until the British soldiers had finished, then filled their pewter or wooden bowls with the smoking stew, took slices of dark bread, and water from the stream, and sat cross-legged in the grass to silently, gratefully eat.

  While they were cleaning their utensils Brigitte glanced south and in the farthest distance saw a tiny cluster of lights. She did not know if it was a town or the British camp to which Hornaby was taking them. For the first time she caught the faintest taint of salt sea air in the breeze and knew they were approaching the Atlantic, or Long Island Sound, not knowing where or how far.

  With supper cleared, Hornaby called them together by the dying fire. “You will sleep in one group. My men will stand watch on four-hour shifts with orders to shoot to kill anyone who tries to escape.”

  Brigitte faced him, feet slightly apart, hands on her hips. “Where are we going?”

  Hornaby shook his head. “We’ll be there in two days. Now, all of you get your blankets and spread them here, by the fire.”

  Brigitte did not move. “If we’re prisoners of war, we have some rights. I demand the women be allowed to spread their blankets at a place separate from the men.”

  The captain laughed. “Get your blankets now, all of you, and have them spread here and be inside them within ten minutes.”

  “Did you hear my demand?” Brigitte spouted.

  Hornaby shook his head, irritation apparent. “Miss, I have tolerated you until now, but no more. Test my orders one more time and you’ll be tied on top of a wagon for the remainder of the trip.”

  By half past nine the campfire had dwindled to glowing embers with sparks drifting upward, and they were all in their blankets, with six soldiers sitting around them, muskets across their laps, watching their every move.

  Brigitte stared into the stars and in weary exhaustion let her thoughts go where they would. What have I done? . . . what did I do wrong? . . . lost it all . . . fourteen captured . . . prisoners of war . . . Caleb . . . I only meant good . . . what will Mother say? . . . what will they say in Boston? . . . what will they say?

  She drifted into troubled sleep, muttering and twisting as images of red-coated soldiers with evil grins and great muskets and bayonets riding on horses danced before her eyes.

  She started and sat bolt upright, wide awake, staring in
the darkness, and she jumped at the voice behind her.

  “Time, miss. Breakfast and hitch up your team.”

  The first arc of the sun had cleared the eastern skyline when she climbed into the driver’s seat and sorted the reins. The train continued on south, following the narrow footpath through woods and open meadows. She knew they were slowly descending a gradual slope, and again she caught the scent of salt air, so familiar to one born in Boston. They nooned at another small, open meadow, and by half past one were once again heading south, working through the brush and trees, while birds scolded and bees and mosquitoes and insects buzzed, and deer and rabbits scattered before them.

  It was past four o’clock when sunlight flickered on something moving in the trees twenty yards to the east, and Brigitte glanced to look, and there was nothing.

  Deer, she thought. The column plodded on.

  East of the column, dressed in buckskin and moccasins, moving through the oak and maple silently, invisible, Corporal Allen Ramsey of the Connecticut militia paused for one more count. Satisfied, he remained motionless until the last mounted redcoat was thirty yards south of him, and he turned and headed east, down a gentle slope at a run, clearing low bushes, dodging rocks, his Pennsylvania rifle held high. Five minutes later he stopped in front of Captain Edgar Hoff, who was flanked by five more men dressed in buckskin and moccasins.

  “Four wagons,” Ramsey panted. “Fourteen civilians driving and handling the wagons and stock. They’re probably Tories. I think some of them are women. Twelve red-coated cavalry escorting. A captain in command. Looks like a British ammunition train, maybe mixed with some supplies.” His eyes were bright as he waited for Hoff’s reply.

  Hoff’s mouth narrowed as he considered. “They’ll likely make camp on the bluffs this side of Hamden. We’ll get the others and set up the cannon there and take them. Try hard to not harm the women, and try to save the wagons. If the wagons break for it, destroy them with the cannon. Let’s go.” Without a word the seven men fell into single file, Hoff leading, and started south at a trot.