by Oliver North
This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth; but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein: for then thou shalt make thy way prosperous, and then thou shalt have good success.
Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.
Then, as Rev. Thruston requested, my father read Psalm 23:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Somehow, Father made it through the reading without his voice cracking until he got to the final verse about dwelling “in the house of the Lord forever.” I must acknowledge shedding tears as soon as he began to speak.
For the Gospel reading, Rev. Thruston chose Luke 22, verses 35 and 36. He began saying, “These are the words of Jesus Christ our Lord:”
And he said unto them, “When I sent you without purse, and scrip, and shoes, lacked ye any thing?” And they said, “Nothing.”
Then said he unto them, “But now, he that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip: and he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one.”
He concluded with: “These are the words of our Lord,” to which the congregation replied. “Amen.”
Then, to the consternation of some, particularly our Quaker neighbors and those urging submission to the British monarchy, he delivered a sermon worthy of Jonathan Mayhew, the pastor who used his pulpit in Boston to denounce the Crown for “taxation without representation.”
Rev. Thruston began by quoting the first two verses of chapter 13 of Paul’s letter to the ancient Christian Church in Rome:
Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God.
Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation.
And then he pointed out that “every soul” included the king—and emphasized there was nothing in the remainder of the passage—or anywhere else in the Holy Book—prohibiting rebellion against evil. He went on to remind all in attendance “the Lord of the Universe is a Just God” Who would “punish evil doers who do not repent, just as He punished Ahab, Israel’s evil king for oppressing his people.”
He then quoted several verses from Proverbs 29, noting as he did, “God’s word has a powerful message for rulers who abuse their power and the people they rule:”
He, that being often reproved hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy.
When the righteous are in authority, the people rejoice: but when the wicked beareth rule, the people mourn.
In the transgression of an evil man there is a snare: but the righteous doth sing and rejoice.
The righteous considereth the cause of the poor: but the wicked regardeth not to know it.
The bloodthirsty hate the upright: but the just seek his soul.
If a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants are wicked.
The king that faithfully judgeth the poor, his throne shall be established forever.
When the wicked are multiplied, transgression increaseth: but the righteous shall see their fall.
Where there is no vision, the people perish: but he that keepeth the law, happy is he.
Many seek the ruler’s favour; but every man’s judgment cometh from the Lord.
An unjust man is an abomination to the just: and he that is upright in The Way is abomination to the wicked.
His sermon was interrupted by frequent shouts of “Amen!” from the congregation. Much to our father’s gratitude, Rev. Thruston described Joshua as “upright, “righteous,” and “just.” He closed with the words of Solomon from Ecclesiastes:
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
To which he added, “Now, sadly, this is a time for war.”2
In case anyone in attendance may have missed the message, the service concluded with another of Charles Wesley’s hymns, “Soldiers of Christ Arise”:
Soldiers of Christ arise, and put your armour on, strong in the strength which God supplies through His eternal Son;
strong in the Lord of hosts, and in His mighty power: who in the strength of Jesus trusts is more than conqueror.
Stand then in His great might, with all His strength endued, and take, to arm you for the fight, the panoply of God.
From strength to strength go on, wrestle, and fight, and pray: tread all the powers of darkness down, and win the well-fought day. . . .
. . . That having all things done, and all your conflicts past, ye may o’er come, through Christ alone, and stand complete at last.
Father and I stayed behind as the others departed the chapel. His eyes were dried of tears by the time Rev. Thruston, now unadorned by vestments, came from the vestry, sat down beside my father, and said, “James, how may I be of service to you?”
My father asked him to meet me in the morning and accompany me in meeting with “the Captain.” The pastor agreed and said, “I know you are heading to Williamsburg, but can you stay for a few minutes? As we do when the weather permits, the ladies of the parish have spread blankets on the lawn and set out a delicious repast. You should eat some of what they have prepared before you start your journey.”
Ever the gentleman he raised his sons to be, Father agreed. We accompanied Rev. Thruston outside and were immediately surrounded by ladies and plied with food and cups of cider. I must confess, I looked in vain for the girl who played the flute for the hymns during the service.
Father stayed for little more than an hour. Then, he quietly thanked everyone for their kindness and excused himself explaining, “I must hasten to Williamsburg to inform my son Paul what has happened to his brother.”
Rev. Thruston walked with us as Father headed for his big bay stallion. Before mounting he turned to us and said to me, “Tomorrow morning Rev. Thruston will accompany you to the Shenandoah Store to meet the best commander in our Virginia Militia. He is seeking men with your skills, great perseverance, and courage to fight for our country. You are the kind of man he needs.”
Then, as though he thought for a moment before putting his left foot in the stirrup, he turned to me, kissed me on the forehead, put his arms around my shoulders, and said, “Godspeed and good hunting.”
I didn’t know it then, but it would be two long years before I would see my father again.
Endnotes
1.Battletown is the archaic cognomen for what is now the town of Berryville
, VA.
2. In January 1776, Rev. John Peter Gabriel Muhlenberg would give a similar sermon to his Lutheran congregation in Woodstock, VA, at the end of which he cast off his clerical robes and revealed he was wearing the uniform of a Colonel in the Continental Army. He promptly recruited more than 200 from his parish and his neighbors in the Shenandoah Valley, to enlist in his regiment.
CHAPTER THREE
LISTEN AND LEARN
Winchester, Virginia
Monday, April 24th,1775
In accord with my father’s instructions, before retiring on Sunday night, I put out the clothing and kit he recommended and set the alarm on the pendulum clock our mother inherited from her parents. The chimes awakened me before first light. I arose, put on a linsey-woolsey hunting shirt, linen leggin’s, a good pair of moccasins, and belted on my hunting knife and the steel fighting hatchet Father gave me.
Thus attired, I gathered my journal, two quills, and checked to ensure the lid on the tin travel inkwell was tight. I then collected the equipment Father prescribed: my .45 caliber William Henry rifle, a leather cartridge case with sixty hand-made, paper-wrapped, powder and ball cartridges sealed with bear fat, and a full, goat-skin water bag. I also grabbed the leather case containing my bullet mold, spring vise, wiper, screwdriver, six extra flints, small file, pick, and the ball-puller Father made. All but the rifle, cartridge case, and water skin, I loaded in my saddlebags, stepped out on the porch, and locked the door with the key hanging from a lanyard around my neck.
Father taught us to never leave home with an empty firearm, for one never knew when it might be needed. So, standing on the porch in the dim pre-dawn light, I cocked the hammer on my rifle and checked by “feel” that the flint was sharp and tight in the jaws of my rifle’s hammer. After placing the leather cover over the frizzen, I drew a cartridge from the case and bit off the end. In a motion that was second-nature to every hunter in the valley of Virginia, I poured a small amount of powder into the flash-pan, closed the frizzen, poured the rest of the charge down the barrel, drove home the ball and linen wad with my ram-rod, and set the hammer at half-cock.
Satisfied with my preparations, I walked to our stable, saddled my favorite mount, Midnight, a steady, sure-footed mare, tossed my saddlebags across her rump, and mounted. As we departed the stable, Casey, my faithful female spaniel—and the best pointing-flushing-retriever a hunter could ever want—started whining frightfully. I relented and turned her loose to accompany us.
We were barely out of town when Casey suddenly alerted, hunched down, and pointed into the wind toward the underbrush on the left of the path. I dismounted, cocked my rifle, checked the pan to ensure I hadn’t lost any powder, and walked slowly up behind her.
Though I could neither hear nor see anything, she remained frozen in place as I crept forward. Save the slight quiver in her hindquarters and the anxious furrow in her brow, the dog might have been carved of wood. After peering into the foliage without glimpsing anything, I shrugged and said quietly, “get ’em up!”
As my little brown dog charged into the brush, I hoped she wasn’t about to flush a polecat or worse, a bear. My concern was instantly dispelled by several sharp “putts” as a large tom turkey ran out on the trail with Casey in close pursuit. The big bird took flight in a rush of wings, heading straightaway down the path, high enough to give me a clear shot. The fowl dropped like a stone into the underbrush—followed by a retriever on a mission.
My satisfaction at hitting a fast-flying bird with a single ball was instantly quashed by the sound of a furious fight between fur and feathers. From the sound of things, the turkey was far from dead when it hit the ground. To further my lesson in humility, I then noticed my horse was no longer behind me. In my excitement at the prospect of fresh game, I had failed to tether her reins when dismounting and she bolted at the sound of my shot.
Having forgotten one of Father’s important lessons, I wasn’t about to ignore another. Before wading into the woods to learn the outcome of the dog versus turkey battle, I quickly pulled another cartridge out of my case and recharged my rifle.
As I rammed home another round, I was treated to the sight of Casey dragging the still-flapping turkey out onto the trail and a rider approaching from the opposite direction leading Midnight by her reins. The panting dog arrived first, her muzzle covered with blood—mostly from the bird but some of her own inflicted by the big tom’s beak and spurs.
A quick examination and a “Good Dog!” was all it took for her to place the bird in my hand and sit—tail wagging madly—as I swung the bird by the neck to finish its misery.
Casey was licking the blood off her paws as the rider arrived with the exclamation, “Good dog indeed, Nathanael! And a good shot as well. Would this horse be yours?”
This was certainly not the way I intended to meet Rev. Thruston this morning, but he was smiling as he handed me the reins and said, “If you’re going to dress that bird for dinner, please be so kind as to save me some wing feathers for quills.”
“Yes sir,” I replied. “I shall do so now if it won’t make us late arriving at the Shenandoah Store.”
He consulted his pocket watch and nodded, “We have time, if you’re as good with a knife as you are with your rifle.”
It took less than five minutes to tether the dog and the horse, tie the bird’s legs to a sapling, cut the carcass, breast it, and wrap the two large breasts, the wings, and tail feathers in a leather sheet and stuff them into my saddlebags. As I remounted and our horses headed south, side-by-side on the path, Rev. Thruston said, “Well done. Your father was right.”
“Right about what, sir?”
“He said you are as well skilled in the woods as any frontiersman twice your age.”
Those were words I never heard from my father so I asked, “May I inquire when my father said this to you?”
“I was with your father on Saturday afternoon at the Casselmans’ home when the Trusted Courier from Massachusetts delivered the sad news about your brother, Joshua. Captain Morgan was there as well. After hearing the Courier’s report, Captain Morgan asked your father if you were ‘of age to fight’ and whether you can read, write, and do numbers. Your father said you were one of the best marksmen he knew and described you as the hunter and woodsman you just showed me to be. He also said you’re big for sixteen and know how to read, write, and do arithmetic.”
I was pleased to hear what Father said, hoped my hubris did not show and asked, “Why did Captain Morgan ask about whether I can read, write, and do numbers?”
“I will let him tell you,” answered Rev. Thruston. Then he queried, “Nathanael, who taught you your schooling?”
“My mother. And after she died, my father continued teaching my brothers and me.”
“And what else did your parents teach you?”
“Well, many things. Our mother certainly taught us to avoid the place where we are heading now. She told us Mr. Allason’s Shenandoah Store was a ‘rough place frequented by coarse men who play cards and drink too much rum.’ Is it still?”
Rev. Thruston laughed, “Ah, yes. She was correct. But it’s also the kind of place where Captain Morgan can recruit the coarse, rough men he is going to need in the days ahead. Tell me, Nathanael, what do you know about Captain Morgan?”
It wasn’t the kind of question I expected and replied, “It seems as though everyone in the Valley of Virginia knows about Daniel Morgan. Some people seem to love him and others hate him but most everyone seems to respect him. My father told us he owes his life to Captain Morgan—”
“Go on,” Rev. Thruston said when I paused.
Our mother taught us to never speak gossip so I tried to dodge the minister’s question. “Well, sir, these events took place before I was born in the summer of 1758, so I can only tell what my father and mother and their friends told my brothers and me or we overheard since we were young boys.”
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Pastor Thruston nodded again and said, “I understand. Just tell me what you remember from what you heard.”
“Yes, sir. My father was an officer in the Virginia Militia from 1753 to 1763. He was an ensign with the 1,860-man force Governor Dinwiddie sent in March of 1754 under Lieutenant Colonel Washington with orders to push the French and their Indian allies out of the Forks of the Ohio. Until our mother was dying, Father said those five months were the worst days of his life.
“Their supplies of food, powder, and shot were inadequate. Building a road through the dense forests and steep mountain slopes exhausted the men, and only a handful of Seneca Indians joined their cause—far fewer than needed. My father was wounded at Great Meadow the day before Lieutenant Colonel Washington surrendered Fort Necessity to the French on July 4, 1754.
“According to Father’s account, Daniel Morgan was then a young, almost unknown ‘wagoneer’ driving one of Mr. Robert Burwell’s teams hired to deliver supplies on the 100-mile trip to Fort Necessity from Frederick Town which people now call Winchester.
“Our father said, after the surrender, Mr. Morgan volunteered to bring a wagonload of casualties back to Frederick Town without payment. A French musket ball broke my father’s leg and he could not walk. He told us had he not gotten that ride, he would not have lived.”
“As far as I know, that’s all true,” Rev. Thruston said. “Daniel has told me he was ‘born poor’ in New Jersey in 1736 and walked down the Great Wagon Road from Philadelphia to Frederick County when he was just seventeen. After working at farming and as the foreman of a sawmill for about a year, John Ashby, Robert Burwell’s superintendent, hired him to drive wagonloads of produce from the Shenandoah to the seaports in Alexandria, Dumfries, and Fredericksburg and return with goods needed in the Valley.
“When Morgan transported your father to safety from Fort Necessity, he was just eighteen years old. Your father also served in the Braddock Expedition the following year, didn’t he?”
