by Ron Carter
Prescott glanced at the scribe, who nodded, and Prescott turned back to Siddoway and put the question to him.
“What were you doing at that location in the woods, at that time of morning?”
Siddoway started to speak, stopped, and the color began to rise in his face. “I was looking for something I lost.”
“What?”
“Powder horn. That’s what it was.”
“When did you lose it?”
“The day before. Or maybe it was earlier.”
“What were you doing in the woods to lose the powder horn?”
Siddoway’s voice raised and his face reddened. “I was coming back. From the commissary. Sent to find out about something. Flour. That’s what it was.”
“Who sent you?”
“Company sergeant. Maybe the lieutenant. Can’t recollect ’xactly.”
“Who did you talk to at the commissary? Which officer?”
“Don’t remember. It wasn’t no officer. It was a corporal.”
Prescott scratched his own notes, glanced at the scribe who nodded, and then asked, “Anyone else have questions for the witness?”
Captain Andrew Peay, seated to Prescott’s right, gestured and Prescott nodded. Peay’s trimmed beard moved as he spoke.
“You know there are four men seated over there who are going to testify that you were a close friend of privates Murphy and Landrum. The three of you were constantly in the company of each other. Two of those men are going to testify that yesterday morning they saw the three of you leave camp together. Murphy took his bayonet with him. They remember because the three of you left a woodcutting detail in a hurry. In short, Private Siddoway, you and the two deceased were in dereliction of duty at the time of the incident.”
Peay stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. “Some of those men are going to testify that Private Murphy confronted the defendant last June just after a ceremony and forced a fight in which the defendant broke Mr. Murphy’s jaw and beat him unconscious. It seems that lately Mr. Murphy has not been reluctant to declare his intent to take his revenge on the defendant. Are you aware of this?”
Siddoway straightened in his chair, twisting, face suddenly white. He fumbled for words, then blurted, “Them witnesses is mistaken. I don’t remember none of that the way you say it. I knew Murphy and Landrum, but they was kilt just the way I said, and that’s final. I’m sayin’ no more.”
Prescott nodded. “You’re excused, but don’t leave the room.”
The six witnesses were called in swift order, and each confirmed everything Captain Peay had predicted.
Last, Prescott turned to Caleb. “Take the witness chair.”
Caleb raised his right hand, was sworn to the truth, and sat down facing the panel. He told his story exactly as he recalled it. On Prescott’s request he stood before them, turned, and raised his arm while all three officers inspected his shirt. They located the bayonet hole within three seconds. Following their request, he removed his shirt and stood again while they examined his underwear. He raised his underwear, and they winced at the sight of the purple, inflamed furrow across his ribs, and the dried black blood down his side.
“That’s all,” Prescott said, and Caleb dressed and sat back down in his chair.
Prescott turned to Peay and the remaining officer, and asked, “Do you want to confer before we announce our judgment?”
The three of them did not leave the room. They huddled behind their table, heads together, for three minutes before they turned back. Prescott cleared his throat.
“Very well. No sense in wasting more time. Private Dunson acted in justifiable self-defense. All charges are dismissed as groundless. There will be no judgment of not guilty, since it is clear there was nothing to try in the first place.”
He turned to Siddoway. “Private, we have not decided whether to charge you with perjury or not, but as of now you are under orders to not leave camp until you hear from us. If you do, we’ll send a detail to bring you back, dead or alive. Do you have any questions?”
Siddoway leaped up. “I didn’t do nothin’. I come here to tell the truth and I tolt it. You got no right!”
Prescott remained unruffled. “Leave camp, and you’ll find out whether or not we have the right.” He turned back to Caleb. “These proceedings are adjourned. Private Dunson, you’re free to go.”
All the air went out of Caleb and he slumped in his chair. Talk erupted in the room as everyone stood. The officers gathered their notes, the scribe gathered his inkwell, quill, and company ledger, while the spectators opened the door to the bright, wintry sun. Slowly the room emptied, except for Caleb and O’Malley. The little Irishman walked to Caleb’s side.
“Time to go.”
Together they walked back to camp, saying little. Never had the sun, and the woods, held the luster Caleb now saw in them. They stopped at O’Malley’s hut, and Caleb turned to him.
“I owe you.”
O’Malley shook his head. “It isn’t over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Won’t know for a few days how the company’ll take it. Depends on how many men are willing to believe Siddoway, an’ how the story’ll sound after about the fourth time it’s told.”
He stopped for a moment, and Caleb saw the pain in his eyes as he went on.
“And one more thing I purely hate to mention. No matter if every man in the company knows you didn’t have no choice, there’s no way to get it out of their minds you killed two men. You’re goin’ to see ’em pointing at you when you walk by, and hear bits of talk that’ll hurt. You’ll see it in their eyes when you’re workin’ with ’em on wood detail, or cleanup, or drill, or whatever you’re doing. ‘There’s the one that killed those two men with a rock,’ they’ll say. They won’t have much to say to you, and you won’t be included in camp talk.” There was a sadness in his face as he concluded. “And there isn’t a way to stop it.”
O’Malley fell silent, and looked into Caleb’s eyes, wishing he could take away the shock and the pain, knowing he could not. He searched for something to say, anything that might help.
“Anything happens, you come see me. Will you do it?”
Caleb nodded, but could not speak.
The story of the inquiry leaped through the camp before the evening mess cleanup was finished. Evening fires were built, and Caleb stood with the others, vapors rising from their damp clothes as they absorbed the warmth. Talk was scarce, quiet. Tattoo sounded, and he went to his tent to wrap in his blanket and tarp, and wait. His three companions came in later, and went to their blankets in silence.
At morning mess, Caleb walked to familiar faces with his wooden plate of smoking food, and he saw it in their eyes. Not fear, nor judgment, but the thought that he was not the man they had known and worked with. He was a stranger, someone they did not know. They spoke to him when spoken to, gave him the usual courtesies, did not avoid him, but neither did they seek his company, nor share the usual banter and laughter about the little things.
For three days it grew worse, with Caleb’s resentment steadily growing. What did they expect of him? Stand there and let Murphy ram a bayonet through him? Let a man smash his skull with a rock? Who of them would have done differently?
On the fifth day it exploded. Four men were assigned wood detail, Caleb among them. They cut the standard three cords and hauled them to the woodyard, where they began splitting the rungs into kindling. Caleb was swinging an ax on one chopping block when a young private turned to another and said, “Be careful around him while he’s got that ax.”
All four men heard it. The young private grinned at his own misplaced humor before he sensed he had gone too far. His face fell, and he dropped his ax and turned to face Caleb. The young private saw Caleb’s eyes, and he backed up two steps, stumbling over split kindling, stammering with fear as Caleb threw down his ax and came toward him, lightning in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean nothin’, honest I didn’t. Just come out. I
didn’t mean nothin’.”
Caleb stopped two feet from the man, both fists doubled, trembling with rage, battling to hold back from beating him to the ground.
The youth shook his head. “Honest, I don’t know why I said that . . . it won’t happen again.”
Only the earnest pleading saved the trembling soldier.
Without a word Caleb turned and marched away. It took him ten minutes to find O’Malley, and another five minutes to empty himself of all the frustration, the outrage, the anger at the monumental injustice fate had thrust upon him.
Patiently O’Malley listened and waited until Caleb slowed, then stopped. O’Malley’s face showed the pain he felt in his heart, knowing there was nothing to be done. He took Caleb’s elbow and turned him.
“Walk with me to my hut.”
Inside, he sat Caleb down at the small, crude table. For a time he sat opposite, forcing his thoughts to come together.
“Sometimes things happen that aren’t fair. Can ruin a man. One just happened to you. There’s nothin’ anyone can do about it. You’re a marked man, and the harder you fight it the worse it’s goin’ to get. Only one answer I ever knew for such.”
Caleb raised tormented eyes and waited.
“Transfer out. Go to some other regiment, far from here. Hope the story don’t follow you.”
Caleb straightened in shock. “Transfer out of Third Company?”
“I hate it worse’n you. But I don’t have no other answer.”
Caleb flared in anger. “That’s all? Leave? Like a coward? Like I’m guilty?”
O’Malley’s voice softened. “No one who matters will think that. If you’re goin’ to have any peace, you’ll have to leave all this behind and start new somewhere else.”
Caleb stared into his eyes, unable to accept it. O’Malley waited for a time before he finished.
“Think about it. I’ll do all I can. If you decide to stay, we’ll deal with it the best we can. If you decide to go, I’ll get you the transfer.”
For two days O’Malley went out of his way to keep track of Caleb, watching him from a distance, studying him as he worked, ate, mingled with the men. At the end of the second day he knew. The company had built the wall around Caleb, and there was no way to bring it down. He waited.
On the fifth day Caleb sought him in his quarters. “I’m a plague in the company. It’ll never come together with me here. Get me the transfer.”
O’Malley looked him in the eye. “You grown-up enough to understand you’re not running from a fight? That you’re not a coward?”
“Nothing to do with that. Like you said, sometimes life does rotten things and there’s no remedy. It happened to me. I can’t let it hurt you, or the company.”
“You sure?”
“Sure.”
“Where will you go? Massachusetts Company? With your friend? Weems, was that his name?”
Caleb shook his head. “No. South. Word has it the British are headed down there to take Georgia and South Carolina. I doubt anybody down there’ll know what happened here.”
O’Malley’s eyes widened. “South? You sure? Things is different down there than anything you ever saw. The people—slaves—swamps—I never been there, but I’ve heard. You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
O’Malley drew a great breath. “I’ll get the papers. I don’t know which general’s in command down there, but Cap’n Prescott will. He’ll transfer you to that command.”
“That’s fine.”
O’Malley tipped his head forward for a time, searching for what to say. Finally he raised his eyes.
“You take care of yourself. If you get back up here, I’ll expect you to find us and come see us.”
“I will.”
“I’ll tell Prescott tomorrow morning. He’ll understand. He’ll sign the papers and you can leave after that.”
The two men rose, and Caleb started for the door when O’Malley stopped him. “Before you leave, you go see Dorman. You owe him that.”
“I will.”
The two men faced each other, awkward, not knowing how to say what was in their minds, their hearts.
Finally Caleb said, “You take care of yourself. I’ll see you again someday, when this is all over.”
“You be careful. I’ll be watching for you.”
Notes
Caleb Dunson, Sergeant O’Malley, and Conlin Murphy are fictional characters, as are the other principal characters in this chapter.
Philadelphia
Early December 1778
CHAPTER X
* * *
A raw, freezing Atlantic wind came gusting west across Delaware Bay, raising high, choppy whitecaps on the great river all the way to Philadelphia and thirty miles beyond. Along the miles of wharves and docks, the sails and riggings on the ships, and the hawsers and ropes that held them, were stiff with ice. Water traffic was light; only those with strong need accepted the risks and torments of being on the dark water.
Ashore, people in the cobblestoned streets walked with their heads down, shoulders hunched, collars up on their heavy coats, holding them closed at the throat. Greetings were few as they moved quickly on their business, anxious to be out of the cold that cut to the bone.
Shortly before ten o’clock a.m., under lead-colored heavens, citizens began to gather at the small town square three blocks from Independence Hall, to stand in the wind, staring up at the gallows that had been completed at dusk the day before. The structure had been hastily built from uncured pine timbers, with eleven steps leading up from the ground to the platform. Two heavy ropes lashed to the stout beam, with thirteen wraps to form the noose, swayed in the wind over the two traps.
No matter the reason, or the justification, or the horror in watching, the public hanging of a human being irresistibly drew spectators, like moths to a flame, to watch white-faced and wide-eyed, sickened by the killing, but unable to do other than stand and stare. The gathering crowd stood in silence, oblivious to the wind, while four men led two others up the stairs to stand in the place marked on the traps. The two refused blindfolds and bowed their heads for one minute in final silent prayer to the Almighty, then stood tall as their hands and feet were bound, and the nooses were tightened under their right ear. A man nodded, two long levers were pulled, both traps opened, and the two men dropped five feet before the ropes jerked taut. The bodies convulsed for a few seconds, and then became still as they twisted in the wind.
For long minutes the crowd stood in silence as the stark image of the high gallows and the dead men burned into their brains. It was one thing to hang hardened criminals condemned after trial. It was quite another to hang two Quakers whose only sin had been collaboration with the British during their occupation of Philadelphia from December 1777 until June of 1778. Upon conviction, the order for the hanging had been signed by the Supreme Executive Council of Pennsylvania. The President of the Council, whose name was affixed to the order, was the recently elected Joseph Reed, one-time aide to General George Washington.
There was an immediate public outcry against the convictions and the death sentences. Precisely what law had the two Quakers broken that justified hanging? Treason? Sedition? Where was it spelled out in the law that those who dealt with the British risked being hanged? Clearly, there was no wording in the laws against treason or sedition that was so broad. If two Quakers could be hanged for “collaboration” by simply having dealt with the British, couldn’t the same law, or lack of it, hang more than a thousand wealthy men in the State of Pennsylvania who had done the same? The huge, wealthy, conservative contingent of the state was horrified by what they saw as a blatant attempt by the Supreme Executive Council to terrorize all men of wealth by the hangings. The hue and cry raised by these wealthy citizens against the hideous sentence was both instant and deafening.
Tall, strongly built, Reed had set his long, thin face against the critics, and with a stubborn Puritan will of iron met them head on. The sentence of hanging, he wrote,
was “against a crafty and designing set of men.” The remedy for exterminating such acts was “a speedy execution for both animals.” As for the fact the black-letter written laws against treason and sedition had never before reached so far, he wrote but one single line that in his view justified the hangings. The acts of the condemned men, he reasoned, “though not in our treason laws, is a species of treason of not the least dangerous kind.” Besides, he argued, the loudest critics were the rich men of the state, most of whom had acquired some or all of their wealth by doing precisely what the two Quakers had done: dealt with the British at the expense of the Americans and the Continental Army. All the better if the hangings left the wealthy patrons shaking in their boots.
Thoughtful men reached deeper for the most frightening question: If Quakers could be hanged for offenses against an unwritten law, then what other unwritten laws could send men to the gallows?
Neither Reed nor the Supreme Executive Council answered the question, because they could not, nor did they rescind their order of execution. The two condemned men were left twisting in the freezing December wind at the end of a hangman’s noose.
At the edge of the silent, mesmerized crowd, Frances Russo turned away from the grisly scene. Russo pulled his cape more closely around his shoulders, climbed into his waiting carriage, and called to the driver. The carriage rattled away through the narrow streets with vapors trailing from the muzzles of the two horses, to come to a stop before the square, two-storied structure in which the Supreme Executive Council had its chambers and conducted its business. Within two minutes Russo was standing before a door with the name “J. REED, PRES.” scrolled in black letters. He knocked, was admitted, and ushered directly into an inner office where he closed the door and faced Joseph Reed, seated behind his square, unpretentious desk.
