“No,” I said. “But go ahead.”
He lifted.
I pulled out the musket and stood, horrified by the sticky blood that covered the wooden stock and my hands. My belly revolted and I gave a hard puke. I did not drop the musket.
The rebel boy grunted with effort and rolled the body so that it was facedown. The sight of the dead man’s arm flopping to the leaves gave me a chill. My belly heaved again and I bent over, coughing and spewing foulness.
“Uncle says it gets easier after you see a lot of bodies,” the boy said.
“Your uncle is wrong.”
The sound of firing guns was coming in regular waves now; an ocean of lead and gunpowder crashing toward the ravine.
“Quick.” The boy’s eyes were sharper now; his senses had overcome the shock. “There should be powder and shot in his knapsack.”
’Twas easier to go along with his version of who I was until we parted.
“Do you have enough powder?” I asked.
“Aye.” He shifted from one foot to the next, watching the brush as if expecting the entire British army to suddenly appear.
“Then run. I’ll be close behind you,” I lied.
He reached out and punched my arm hard, the way one friend does to another. “I thank you for saving my life.”
I nodded back, startled into a rare speechlessness.
He gave an awkward bow, then broke into a run toward the ravine. “Grab your powder! Make haste!”
CHAPTER IV
Tuesday, October 7, 1777
BUT WHEN I SAW LIBERTY POLES AND THE PEOPLE ALL ENGAGED FOR THE SUPPORT OF FREEDOM, I COULD NOT BUT LIKE AND BE PLEASED WITH SUCH THING. . . . THESE CONSIDERATIONS INDUCED ME TO ENLIST INTO THE AMERICAN ARMY, WHERE I SERVED FAITHFULLY ABOUT TEN MONTHS, WHEN MY MASTER FOUND AND TOOK ME HOME.
—PENSION APPLICATION OF JEHU GRANT, A RHODE ISLAND SLAVE WHO ESCAPED TO FIGHT FOR THE PATRIOTS
I WAITED UNTIL HE WAS OUT OF SIGHT before kicking off the tattered remains of my shoes and pulling off the dead man’s boots. I had to pause after the first one, for my belly threatened again. I scolded it; the battle was too close for me to be soft. I’d take what this fellow no longer needed, then flee.
The boots fit perfectly, which I took to be a good omen. My luck was finally changing.
I removed the rolled blanket that was tied to the flap of the redcoat’s knapsack; more good luck, for I was in dire need of a blanket. If he had food, I’d be rich beyond measure. I unbuckled the straps and opened the flap. His reserve ammunition was on the top. I filled my jacket pockets with gunpowder cartridges and musketballs.
I should have run then, but I was greedy and very hungry.
I dug out tools for cleaning and oiling the musket—those would be most helpful—a clean pair of stockings, and a white linen shirt, as well as a tin box containing flints and dried moss, a drinking cup, and two pencils along with papers covered in writing and three maps, all wrapped in oilcloth. No food.
A close-by cannon roared.
Hurry!
I quick grabbed the ramrod from the leaves, fetched my haversack, and filled it with everything I’d removed so far, then pulled out the last items from the knapsack: a hinged wooden box as big as my hand and a square of black cloth wrapped around a miniature painting of a pale woman with solemn eyes. She wore a pink flower in her hair.
His wife. That gave me pause. Did they have children? How long before the news reached them that their father was dead?
I did not have time to ponder his family.
The box was chipped on two corners and cracked in the middle. I slid open the brass latch.
A compass.
An expensive compass, finely crafted, with a brightly colored compass rose painted under the needle to show the path to thirty-two directions. My former master, Bellingham, had owned several sailing ships before the war. The tables in the library were often covered by maps and charts when his captains called. Once, a compass such as this had been used to keep the papers from flying on the sharp breeze that came from the harbor. Bellingham had been amused by my curiosity and showed me how the device worked. I considered it a magical thing, for I was still a child then.
This compass, however, had no magic or usefulness. The glass was broken and the needle bent.
I glanced at the body. Redcoat soldiers were not commonly equipped with compasses. This fellow was likely a surveyor or an engineer.
He died because I threw a rock.
I shook my head. No, that gap-toothed boy lives because I threw a rock.
Hundreds of voices were shouting beyond the ravine. Drums sounded their battle call.
I stood with the compass and spun around in a slow circle. The needle tried to wobble on its thin post but was too broken to show me the way. I had to reason out my situation. The battle had to be north of me, for the British camp was north of the American. South was the direction I needed. South meant the path to Albany, maybe riches, maybe work and a home with a roof and friends and a girl who likes flowers.
No. That’s a lie.
A good thief can lie to everyone else, but never to himself.
There was nothing waiting for me in Albany. Nothing waiting anywhere. The shape of my life had altered when Bellingham enlisted me. It changed again when I escaped the prison. It shattered when Isabel left.
I turned the compass in my hand, trying to wish the needle into showing me the way out. It mocked me, refusing to budge. I had no heading.
A cold wind carried the scent of gunpowder smoke down the ravine, and a strange wildness overcame me, as if a compass needle buried inside of me swung violently. I put the compass on the ground and picked up the bloody musket, ready to smash its wooden butt into the glass and finish the job of destroying it.
But, no.
I could sell it, maybe earn enough to feed me for a few weeks. I slung the strap of the musket over my head and stored the compass in my haversack along with the redcoat’s stockings and shirt. I wrapped the black cloth around the portrait and returned it to the dead man’s knapsack.
As I lifted my haversack, I winced from the pain in my arm where the boy struck me. He was stronger than he knew. I rubbed the sore spot.
Was this really the battle that would win the war, like he said?
The aimless needle inside me spun and spun again. My heart beat to the sounds of the approaching drums. I liked the smell of gunpowder. I was not afraid to fight. My hands liked the feel of holding a musket again. And to my surprise, I felt bad about lying to that gap-toothed boy.
I headed into battle.
CHAPTER V
Tuesday, October 7, 1777
BUT WE WHO HAD SOMETHING MORE AT STAKE THAN FIGHTING FOR SIX PENCE PER DAY KEPT OUR GROUND TIL NIGHT.
—JOURNAL OF NEW HAMPSHIRE MAJOR HENRY DEARBORN
SUNPOWDER SMOKE COVERED THE field like a heavy fog, turning men into ghostly smudges. The fire erupting from musket barrels looked like exploding lanterns, and then there was more smoke. Unseen cannons blasted without cease, shaking the ground and splintering the air with unholy roars. The commands of officers were matched by the screams of the wounded and panicked whinnying of terrified horses, and underneath all of the layers of sound, the drums pounded like the heartbeat of a tremendous beast.
I did not see the gap-toothed boy in the confusion of sounds and smoke. I looked behind me at the woods. Would anyone notice if I ran for them?
Isabel’s voice cropped up in my head and whispered, Coward.
I yanked my ear savagely.
“Forward,” screamed a ragged voice. A blue-coated officer on a bay horse rode through the pack of men, standing tall in his saddle and pointing ahead with his sword. “Now, boys, now!”
He galloped away like a demon.
The fellows in front of me started to run, and those to my left and right did as well. The man behind me shoved and cursed at me, and so I ran. I could not see what we were running toward until it was almost too late.
Th
e British were dug in above us on a small hill.
An officer in a hunting shirt and deerskin leggings pointed at me and a handful of others and waved us to a rail fence. That would offer some cover.
A redcoat screamed, “FIRE!”
We all threw ourselves to the ground and covered our heads as the British volley ripped above us. I thought sure I’d piss myself with fear.
Our officer hollered at us to make ready. The soldiers around me all prepared their weapons. I did the same, though it was hard trying to stay flat to the ground and load a musket at the same time.
The redcoats rained hot fire down on us—grapeshot and musketballs and a cannon that tore through the air like a comet.
Our officer stood and yelled, “FIRE!”
We leapt up, pulled our triggers, then fell to the ground to load again.
The British shot faster than we did. They had arranged themselves in two lines, so that as the front line shot, the men in the back loaded. As the back line shot, the front line knelt and loaded. The bright flash and the explosions of firing guns were quick followed by the thud, thud, thud of musketballs hitting the dirt and fence rails around us.
Far to our left was a wooded area where two rebels were stationed behind every tree. There was brisk fire between the woods and hilltop, so fierce that the air itself seemed to burn. I thought I saw the troops down the right side of the line push forward, but the smoke was so thick, I could not be sure.
A second wave of Patriots came up behind us, and we were able to keep up a strong attack. The British guns slowed and the cannons stopped. There were fewer figures atop the hill.
“Follow them!” Our officer leapt over the fence, his hatchet in his hand.
We charged up the hill, past fallen redcoats and dead Hessians dressed in green, past the horses used by the British to pull the cannons, shot dead in their traces. We ran to another stand of trees, and the British guns again fired; they’d dug in around an abandoned barn.
I found me a sturdy oak with a trunk broad enough to hide behind and pulled out another gunpowder cartridge. When I ripped it open with my teeth, grains of gunpowder spilled on my tongue. The bitter tang tasted like the smell of the smoke that hung in the air.
I poured in the gunpowder, rammed home the bullet, primed the lock, and peered around my tree. The British were just within range of a musket such as mine, but the smoke made it hard to see anything. I shot, loaded and shot, loaded and shot, never knowing if I’d hit anyone. The soldiers around me worked as I did, some daring to stand in the open whilst loading. One fellow was shot through the leg as he reached for his powder horn. He screamed so loud, I could not hear the commands of our officer. The fellow behind the next tree threw an acorn at my head to get my attention; he was out of powder. I tossed him two cartridges and prayed the battle would soon end.
Company drummers rat-a-tat-tatted, telling the troops which way to move. I dimly remembered the commands from the battle in Brooklyn. Smoke thickened. Confusion choked both sides of the field. Discipline fell away as men did not wait for commands from the officers. Each man loaded and fired to the tune in his own head.
The wounded screamed.
Time slowed and Death rode hard. The sun began to set, but then it hung in the sky without moving. I had four cartridges left. Three.
Two . . .
And then our officer waved his arms and called out something, and the fellows closest to him stopped firing and waved their arms too.
I shook my head to clear the ringing from my ears.
Either I’ve gone deaf or . . . No.
The cannons had stopped.
Was it over?
A horse galloped through the wall of smoke. “We flanked them!” the rider called. “They’ve abandoned the field and are running!”
“Huzzah!” The American roars shook the trees. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
CHAPTER VI
Tuesday, October 7–Wednesday, October 8, 1777
THE COURAGE AND OBSTINACY WITH WHICH THE AMERICANS FOUGHT WERE THE ASTONISHMENT OF EVERYONE, AND WE NOW BECOME FULLY CONVINCED THEY ARE NOT THAT CONTEMPTIBLE ENEMY WE HAD HITHERTO IMAGINED THEM.
—BRITISH ENSIGN THOMAS ANBUREY AFTER THE BATTLES OF SARATOGA
THE CELEBRATION DID NOT LAST LONG. Companies were sent to chase after the retreating British. More men were sent to guard the river in case the enemy tried to float past the encampment and attack us from the rear. The officers ordered the cannons back and bellowed for carts and water to be brought to the field.
The fellow at the next tree handed me a canteen. “Just take a little,” he cautioned. “The wounded need it more than we do.” He walked over to a fellow who sat clutching the bleeding gash on his arm and helped the man drink.
I could not move.
“Find yer strength, boy,” the fellow yelled at me. “They need yer help.”
I followed his example, kneeling beside a lad in a fine brown coat who lay curled on his side. I helped him to sit up and gave him water.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
He shook his head and lay back down on the ground, as if I’d woken him from a nap. I could not figger if he had an injury to his body or if he’d lost his wits. Or both. I moved along to the next thirsty fellow.
When the water was gone, I made my way out of the woods to where a large group had gathered. An officer directed me to help carry the wounded back to camp on hastily made litters, which were no more than a blanket secured between two poles.
I was partnered with a mud-spattered militiaman whose pale face was creased with lines of melancholy. Our burden was a boy with powder burns and a bayonet wound through the meat of his thigh. He moaned as we lifted him onto the litter, then fell into a blessed swoon. We laid our muskets on either side of his form, grasped the poles of the litter, and lifted it.
Camp lay two long miles away, mostly uphill. We passed Patriot dead, including a woman who was killed running ammunition to the field; she still gripped gunpowder cartridges in her cold hands. Living women moved around her, some tending to the wounded, others stripping the bodies of our enemies. One of them found a man she must have loved. She sank to her knees and howled, a bone-chilling noise far worse than wolves.
I wished someone would make her stop.
My hands and arms quickly tired, then burned from carrying the unconscious soldier. I welcomed the pain, for it blotted the battle from my mind.
At last we reached the hospital tents. Lanterns stood on wobbly benches so that the surgeons could better see as they dug out grapeshot and musketballs from groaning men and boys. Screams came from the tent that stood farthest from the others.
“Amputations,” said the sad-faced man. “Turrible business, that.”
We delivered the boy to a surgeon in a bloody apron, guzzled a cup of water, picked up the litter, and went back to the battlefield.
The fat, pumpkin-colored moon rose, turning bloodstains into shadows. All of the colors of shirts and jackets and uniforms paled to the same shade of gray.
We could not find the officer who first ordered us to carry the wounded. My partner would have wandered the field all night, but I stopped a fellow carrying a horse’s saddle and inquired.
“The wounded are all up t’camp, but ye can dig graves if you want.” His words came Irish-wrapped, which forced me to listen close.
“We show’d ’em, din’t we?” he continued. “Killt two a’ them for every one of us. Chased ’em from the field, the damn’d cowards.” He walked off still talking to himself, without waiting for any reply from me. My partner dropped his poles and followed the man.
I carried the litter back to the camp, for it seemed a sin to waste the blanket. After I set it in front of a hospital tent, I dragged my bones up the last hill, following shadowy, silent men. Candles were set on upturned logs, lanterns hung from chains off tree branches, and campfires burned bright. I slid into a line for grub. A fellow with a flour-stained shirt handed me bread and a charred piece of meat, the
n a round-bellied woman filled my stolen cup with water.
I ate by a fire and shook with chills. When my food was gone, I picked at the bits of meat and grains of gunpowder that were stuck between my teeth. Stray bits of talk drifted through my battle-muzzy head. One of Morgan’s rangers shot a redcoat brigadier general with a rifle whilst perched in a tree. We’d killed more than two score redcoat officers and hundreds of their men, with hundreds more captured and held as prisoners. A thick-skulled fellow had a bullet stuck fast in his head and lived. Another took grapeshot in his mouth and lost his tongue and most of his teeth.
The stories wound on and on. . . .
My head bobbed forward, startling me awake just before I crashed into the dirt.
The fire-talk was quiet. Most fellows must have crawled off to their tents or brush huts. Some slept on the damp ground like it was a feather bed. I pulled the dead man’s blanket out of my haversack, spread it over my legs, moved the sack so it would pillow my head, and laid my musket next to me. I reached for my hat.
It was not on my head. I sat up straight and searched, but it was not in my haversack, not tucked into my shirt.
I rolled back the day’s events in my mind. I’d worn the hat while searching for the road, had clutched it to my chest whilst hiding from the skirmishing patrols. I was sure I had it when I opened the compass box and when I ran to join in the battle. I must have lost it in the confusion after that.
You might find it dishonorable, but my eyes watered thinking that I’d lost that hat. You’d understand if I shed tears for the fathers and husbands and brothers and sons who died that day. And the woman killed carrying gunpowder into battle. You’d say that only a fool would cry over the loss of a raggedy felt hat.
But that had been my father’s hat, a castoff from young Master Bellingham. I’d worn it on my head since the day the redcoats shot Father on Breed’s Hill.
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