Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  Fishkill, New York

  Early December, 1778

  CHAPTER IX

  * * *

  It snowed in the night, and at dawn the temperature plummeted in the Hudson River Valley. Powdery snow squeaked beneath their feet and vapors trailed three feet behind their faces as the soldiers of the New York Regiment went about the never-ending daily drudgery of drill, gathering firewood, and handling mess and cleanup. They were part of the larger American force, encamped in winter quarters at Fishkill, on the east side of the Hudson, fifty miles north of New York City.

  The evening meal had been sparse—thin mutton gruel and hardtack. The soldiers ate in resigned silence and then gathered around great fires for warmth. They would remain near the fires until the rattle of the tattoo drums at nine o’clock p.m. sent them to their tents and shelters, where they would wrap themselves in whatever blankets or tarps they had, fully dressed, and lie shivering on beds of pine boughs in the freezing night. They would drift to sleep with the familiar gnawing of hunger pangs still in their bellies.

  Caleb Dunson stood with a dozen other silent, bearded men, facing a fire, hands extended to the warmth, wiping at his running nose and staring at the ever-changing flames. He had a tattered scarf wrapped about his head and tied beneath his chin, and his woolen coat was buttoned to the throat. He turned at the sound of footsteps in the snow behind.

  Sergeant Randolph O’Malley, short, stocky, wearing a heavy rust-colored beard, stopped beside him and thrust his hands toward the fire. His Irish accent was thick and prominent.

  “Follow me.”

  He turned, and Caleb followed him twenty feet into the bitter cold, where O’Malley stopped and spoke quietly, vapors from his breath rising into the night.

  “I was down at the commissary earlier. Heard some talk. About Murphy.”

  In an instant, scenes flashed in Caleb’s mind. The beating Conlin Murphy gave him over a year ago—the months spent learning all Charles Dorman could teach him about boxing—Murphy challenging him again in June—the fight with half the regiment watching—chopping Murphy to the ground—breaking his jaw—realizing it was not over. That somehow, somewhere, sometime Murphy would seek revenge.

  “What about Murphy?”

  “That beating you gave him last June—it’s eating him alive inside. He’s telling it around—he’s going to hurt you. Cripple you.”

  “Cripple me? How?”

  O’Malley shrugged. “Maybe an ax. A club. A knife. Who knows?” The blocky little sergeant raised a warning finger. “Remember, he won’t do it in a fair fight. Most likely when you’re alone somewhere, and there won’t be no witnesses. You beware what’s around you. Behind you. All the time.”

  “Let him pick the time and place?” Caleb shook his head violently. “I’ll call him out right here in camp. Get it over with.”

  O’Malley raised a hand to silence Caleb. “Understand, you’ve undone him. Beating him again won’t stop him. He won’t rest until he’s hurt you.” O’Malley’s eyes were glowing in the firelight. “You watch sharp. He shows up with some of his friends when you’re alone, you run. Come get me, or Prescott, or Dorman. Murphy’ll face a court-martial. You let the law take care of him. You listening?”

  Seconds passed before Caleb made his answer. “I’m listening.”

  “Awright. You watch.”

  O’Malley turned on his heel and Caleb watched him disappear into the darkness, then walked back to stand by the fire with his thoughts running. The realization struck hard that mortal danger could be lurking in the darkness away from the fire, and with the hair on his arms and neck standing straight, he turned to peer beyond the ring of firelight into the blackness of the forest. Nothing moved in the silence, and Caleb turned back to the fire, battling to control the wild sensation that dark shapes were lurking out there, waiting, watching.

  He started at the banging of the tattoo drums and watched the men ringing the fire break away, each turning toward his shelter. Caleb walked rapidly to his own, staying close to others moving in his direction. Inside his tent, he wrapped himself fully dressed in the only blanket he had, then a tattered piece of tarp, and lay down on stacked pine boughs to watch as the other three men who shared the tent did the same. For a long time he lay wide-eyed, inventing sounds that were not there as he struggled with his growing fears. He awakened twice in the night to jerk upright, holding his breath to listen to the silence. He was sitting huddled in his blanket, waiting for the reveille drum when it clattered at dawn, and he walked down to throw wood on the smoldering ashes of last night’s fire.

  During morning mess a warm, unseasonal, chinook wind came gusting from the south, and within an hour the woods were dripping with snowmelt. Caleb shed his scarf and coat to join a four-man wood crew, and by noon they were sweating as they hauled three cords of freshly cut firewood through the wet, matted forest floor and the mud to the cook fires where the noon mess was steaming. The cleanup crew was scrubbing out the cook kettles when O’Malley’s Irish twang brought Caleb’s head around.

  “Cap’n Prescott wants you at his quarters. Says he needs the company day book caught up. Reg’lar scribe’s on daily sick report. Diarrhea. Better get on over there.”

  Caleb’s time, spent as a boy working for a small newspaper in Boston, had taught him the fundamentals of writing, and the army had been all too willing to utilize his skill in keeping day books and writing letters and orders. He finished scrubbing his wooden plate and spoon, walked to his tent and set them on his bedroll to dry, then stepped back out into the early afternoon sun. He strode through camp, eyes downcast as he picked his way through the skim of mud left by the vanished snow. The crooked trail to Captain Victor Prescott’s quarters led six hundred yards west, open all the way save for ninety yards where it wound through a thick stand of pines and maples. Caleb slowed as he studied the ground, working his way around and over the roots and rocks and wind-felled timber on the path. He had come to the place where the trees were thickest on either side of the path, when from behind came the slightest whisper of movement, and Caleb moved by instinct, without thought.

  He twisted left, turning, as a bayonet was thrust under his right arm, piercing his shirt and grazing his ribs as it continued, the point protruding and making a tent of the front of his shirt. He reached with his left hand to grasp the dull, three-sided blade as the heavy body of Conlin Murphy slammed into his back. He held tightly to the weapon as the two sprawled onto the wet, spongy, forest ground, Caleb on his knees, Murphy on Caleb’s back, trying to jerk the bayonet free for a second thrust. Caleb wrenched sideways with all his strength and kicked away from the clawing Murphy and rolled to his feet with the bayonet snagged in his shirt. Murphy came to his knees, then his feet, and lunged. Caleb set himself and swung his right fist, smashing it into Murphy’s mouth. Shifting his feet, he caught the stunned Murphy with a left hook over his ear, and Murphy’s eyes glazed for a moment as he sank back to his knees, stunned, trying to focus, struggling to rise.

  Caleb was reaching to free the bayonet from his shirt when a second body came hurtling from the trees, and Caleb had only time to duck his right shoulder to take the rush, and the two of them went over in a tangle. The bayonet fell from Caleb’s shirt, and Caleb hit the ground on his back, the man on top of him. Caleb saw the man’s hand rise with a rock in it to strike and jammed the butt of his hand upward under the man’s chin, fingers clawing for the man’s eyes, as the hand came down and the rock struck Caleb in the throat. Gagging, Caleb seized the man’s wrist and twisted it with his left hand while he struck the man’s face once, twice with his right, and the man faltered, then dropped the rock to shield his face. Caleb seized it and swung hard, striking the man above his ear and toppling him. He hit the ground heavily and lay there without moving as Caleb scrambled to his feet and pivoted to face Murphy, who had swept up the bayonet and raised it high to strike, charging forward with the guttural sound of an enraged animal deep in his chest. With the instincts of a traine
d boxer, Caleb waited for that grain of time when the bayonet started down and stepped inside the grasping arms and smashed the rock into Murphy’s forehead.

  The big man’s head snapped back, then forward, eyes vacant, glassy. The bayonet fell, and his body sagged forward and Caleb stepped aside to let him fall full length. Murphy’s body convulsed once, then stopped, and he lay motionless in the wet decay and mud on the ground, face down, arms and legs spread-eagled.

  Caleb stood over him for a moment, splattered with mud and blood, the rock still in his hand, breathing heavily, fighting for air. The entire combat had lasted less than twelve seconds. From his left came the sound of something heavy running through the trees and Caleb spun, ready, before he understood the sound was fading.

  He turned back to the two men on the ground and dropped the rock. He wiped his hands on his breeches and remembered the bayonet had struck his right rib cage. He unbuttoned his shirt to slip his hand inside, cautiously feeling through his underwear. He winced, and there was blood on his fingers when he drew his hand out. He bent to pick up the bayonet, then paused, waiting for the first movement from either of the inert bodies.

  They did not stir.

  The premonition struck white-hot. Instantly he dropped the bayonet and was on his knees, frantic as he shoved two fingers under Murphy’s jaw, searching for a pulse, and there was none. He rolled the body over and jammed his ear against the chest, and there was nothing. He wheeled around and grasped the other man, and knew. He rose to his feet, numb as he stared down at the two dead men.

  He did not know how long he stood there paralyzed, brain reeling as it tried to accept the fact he had killed two American soldiers. The thought that he must go back to camp and tell O’Malley came to him and he started back, walking at first, then trotting. He was thirty yards from the edge of camp when he became aware there were more than twenty men in a cluster coming to meet him. The wiry, bearded man in the lead jerked an arm up pointing an accusing finger and shouted, “That’s him! Killed ’em both! I seen him!”

  Caleb stopped as the men gathered around him, some wide-eyed, others curious, a few angry, judgmental. The wiry man was loud, accusatory.

  “Right back there in the woods. Jumped out with a rock and kilt ’em both. Knocked ’em in the head. Murphy tried to defend hisself with the only thing he had—his bayonet—but this man bashed him, and he’s dead. Bashed Murphy’s friend, too. Both dead. I seen it. I’ll testify if I have to.”

  O’Malley’s voice bellowed from behind. “What’s going on here? You men back away.”

  A path opened and O’Malley strode through the mob to study Caleb, muddy, blood-spattered, white-faced. O’Malley pointed to the wiry man.

  “He come into camp a while ago sayin’ you killed Murphy and another man. Any truth to it?”

  Caleb nodded. “Yes.”

  “Says you attacked ’em with a rock.”

  “They attacked me with a bayonet and a rock.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was going to Captain Prescott’s quarters on orders. They came from behind. Murphy tried to bayonet me in the back. The other man tried to hit me with a rock. I got the rock and there was a fight. I hit both of them.”

  “They dead?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “You hurt?”

  “My ribs. The bayonet.”

  “Murphy tried to kill you with the bayonet?”

  “Yes.”

  The wiry man nearly shouted, “Not true! Not true! I’m the only one seen it. He jumped out of the woods and attacked Murphy. Murphy only tried to defend hisself. He kilt ’em both. Murder it was. Foul murder.”

  O’Malley took a moment to study the man. “We’ll see about that.” He started back up the path, toward the neck of woods, Caleb behind him, the others following.

  Every man there had been in battle, seen men killed, maimed, yet a strange quiet settled over them as they came to the two bodies on the forest floor. O’Malley went to one knee to feel their throats, then stood, hands on his hips.

  “They’re dead, all right. Two of you men go on to Captain Prescott and tell him what’s happened. I’ll stay here with a few of you men for witnesses. Dunson, you stay here. The rest of you go rig stretchers and get back here.” He turned to the witness. “You go back to camp and stay there. Prescott will want to talk to you.”

  The men scattered according to O’Malley’s orders, and he turned to Caleb.

  “Where’s the rock?”

  Caleb pointed to it.

  “That the bayonet he used?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever seen that second dead man before?”

  “Yes. He was with Murphy that day back in June. You were there.”

  “I recognized him. Wondered if you did. Ever see that man who’s accusing you?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “We’ll have to find out who he is.”

  One of the men standing near Caleb bent to pick up the bayonet, and O’Malley raised a hand. “Leave that be until Cap’n Prescott gets here. There’s goin’ to be an inquiry, and we don’t do anything until he’s seen it.”

  Caleb started. “An inquiry?”

  “On a murder accusation there has to be an inquiry. Only way to put the matter to rest.”

  Captain Prescott came and for half an hour went over the bodies, the ground, the rock, the bayonet, and listened to Caleb’s explanation of how it happened. He started to put Caleb under arrest as required by the military blue book but listened while O’Malley convinced him he would be responsible for Caleb’s appearance at the board of inquiry. Prescott took the rock and bayonet, watched while the men placed the bodies on makeshift stretchers, and followed them back to the New York Third Company campground, where O’Malley led Caleb to his hut.

  “You stay here no matter what. I’ll go find out what I can about things.”

  It was late in the afternoon before Caleb could force his brain to make some sense of the realities, and he sat on O’Malley’s bunk, wide-eyed, shaking his head, trying to accept the sick, terrifying reality of being accused of murdering two men. In the six o’clock shadows, O’Malley brought Caleb a bowl of hot mush with two slices of bread and a jar of buttermilk, and sat quietly to watch him pick at it.

  “Inquiry’s set for tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. Prescott and two other officers from some other regiments will do it. Looks like the man who’s accusing you is one of Murphy’s crowd. Half a dozen men said so.” He paused for a moment, and Caleb raised his downcast eyes as he continued. “One thing. Let me see your shirt and them ribs.”

  Caleb stood and stripped off his shirt and handed it to O’Malley. It took him three seconds to find the hole on the right side of his underwear. O’Malley stepped close to look at the hole and the bloodstains. Caleb raised his right arm. There was an ugly purple groove six inches long midway up his rib cage, with a cascade of dried blood reaching nearly to his belt.

  O’Malley shook his head. “He came close. You put the shirt back on and don’t do nothin’ to it, or the underwear, until I say. Leave the blood right where it is. Cap’n Prescott’ll be here before long to have his look. He’s already talked with the others.”

  At half-past eight o’clock Prescott rapped on the door and O’Malley answered. A little past nine o’clock Prescott stood in the yellow light of a single lantern, corked his inkwell, and put it, with quill and notes, inside his scarred leather case. He paused for a moment before he spoke to Caleb.

  “Hearing’s at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in my quarters.” He turned to O’Malley. “You’re responsible to have him there.”

  O’Malley nodded. “We’ll be there.”

  After Prescott left, O’Malley said, “Whitlock can sleep in your tent. You’ll stay here tonight.”

  They left the lamp burning when they sought their blankets and bunks, and Caleb lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring unseeing at the rafters in the dull yellow glow. He could not force the Cal
eb of yesterday to meet the Caleb of today. One in a world of innocence, the other an accused murderer. If he was convicted, they would hang him. Hang—hang—hang . . . it pounded in his head and struck horror in his heart. It was past one o’clock in the night before he drifted into a tormented sleep in which he saw his mother’s face. She would not look at him, and he bolted upright, crying out, drenched in sweat in the cold room. O’Malley raised on one elbow and waited until Caleb settled before he spoke.

  “Git your feet on the floor. Wake up. Don’t go back to sleep until your head’s clear.”

  At four o’clock Caleb wakened again, mumbling, trying to drive out the image of a rope in the hands of a hangman. He was sitting up on the bunk wrapped in a blanket when reveille sounded. He would not try the bowl of steaming oatmeal O’Malley brought. He washed his face and hands, and shaved his week-old beard, then followed O’Malley out into the crisp December sunlight. They said nothing on the walk to the quarters of Captain Prescott.

  The panel of three officers sat behind an old, battered table at the head of the small room. At table’s end sat a scribe with inkwell, quill, and open ledger, ready. Caleb sat before them, alone, on a straight-backed chair. The accuser sat against one wall with six other men who Prescott had ordered to testify if needed, including O’Malley. Thirteen other men who came to watch the proceedings filled the rest of the space in the plain, austere room.

  Prescott spent less than twenty seconds on the formalities of opening the proceedings, then turned to the man whose accusations had forced the hearing, and directed him to take the witness chair, five feet to Caleb’s right, near the table. Prescott cleared his throat and began the questions.

  His name was Thaddeus Siddoway. New York Regiment, Third Company. He asserted that he had seen Caleb attack Murphy and hit him in the head with the rock, which rested on the table where the panel was seated. Yes, he was acquainted with Murphy before the incident. No, he was not a close friend. No, he knew who Caleb Dunson was but had never spoken to him. No, he had no bias for or against either man, Caleb or Murphy. Yes, Murphy had tried to defend himself with the bayonet, which lay on the table beside the rock. Yes, the other victim had tried to help Murphy, and Caleb had also hit him in the head with the rock and killed him. No, he was not a close acquaintance with the other deceased man. Yes, he knew his name—Jefferson Landrum.