The Fighting Ground

by Avi

  Dedication

  For Kevin and Shaun,

  my sons, with love

  Contents

  Dedication

  April 3, 1778

  April 4, 1778

  The German Translated

  About the Author

  Books by Avi

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  April 3, 1778

  * * *

  9:58

  It was in the morning when Jonathan first heard the bell. He was standing in the warm, open field feeling hot, dirty, and bored. His father, not far off, limped as he worked along the newly turned rows of corn. As for Jonathan, he was daydreaming, daydreaming about being a soldier.

  His older brother was a soldier with General Washington in Pennsylvania. His cousin had joined a county regiment. Jonathan kept waiting for his father to say that he too could join. He was, after all, thirteen. But his father only put him off.

  Jonathan dreamed of one day taking up a gun himself and fighting the enemy. For he had heard his father and his father’s friends talk many times about the tyrannical British; their cruel mercenary allies, the German-speaking Hessians; and the hated Tories, those American traitors who had sided with the brutal English king.

  But Jonathan’s father no longer spoke of war. During the past winter he had fought near Philadelphia and been wounded in the leg. It was painful for him to walk, and Jonathan was needed at home. Though Jonathan kept asking questions about the battle, his father only shook his head, while his eyes grew clouded. Still, Jonathan could dream. So it was that at the sound of the bell they both stood still and listened.

  The bell, at the tavern a mile and a half away, was used to call the men to arms. This time it tolled only once. Puzzled, they stood alert, straining to hear if more would come.

  Jonathan looked over at the edge of the field, where his father’s flintlock musket leaned against a stump. The cartridge box and powder horn were also there. The gun was primed, ready to be used. Jonathan knew how. Hadn’t his father taught him, drilled him, told him that everyone had to be prepared? Hadn’t he said, “We must all be soldiers now”? And hadn’t Jonathan talked with his friends of war, battles old and new, strategies fit for major generals? And, having fought their wars, they had always won their glory, hadn’t they?

  So when the bell stayed silent, Jonathan sighed with disappointment. His father turned back to work. The beating of his hoe against the earth made a soft, yielding sound, as if a clock had begun to count a familiar piece of time.

  But as Jonathan resumed his tasks, his mind turned to uniforms, the new New Jersey uniforms. He pictured himself in a fancy blue jacket with red facings, white leggings, a beautiful new gun snug against his cheek. . . .

  Softly at first, but with growing sureness, the bell began to ring again. Each stoke sliced away a piece of calm.

  “What do you think?” Jonathan asked.

  His father pulled off his black felt hat and mopped his brow with the back of his hand. He was looking south, worry on his face. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his wounded leg.

  Seeing him yet undecided, Jonathan walked to the edge of the field to get a drink of water from the clay jar by the gun. The cool water dripped down his neck, trickled over his chest, and made him shiver.

  The bell tolled on. Jonathan, stealing glances at his father, touched his fingers to the glossy butt of the gun, liking its burly satin finish.

  “Maybe you’d best get back to the house,” his father said. “Could be someone’s come on through with news. I’d need to know.”

  Jonathan sprang up. Too fast.

  “Jonathan!” his father cried. Grabbed by his father’s voice, Jonathan stood where he was.

  “Don’t you—by God—don’t you go beyond!”

  They looked at one another. Jonathan felt his stomach turn all queer, for in that moment his father’s eyes became unveiled, and they revealed themselves to be full of fear.

  Quickly, Jonathan turned away and began to run through the copse of trees that separated the field from their house. Behind him, the clocklike sound of his father’s work resumed, an echo to the call of the bell.

  10:15

  Jonathan vaulted the split-rail fence, hardly breaking stride. As he came up to the house he’d lived in most of his life, his mother appeared at the door. From behind her skirts his young brother and sister poked their heads.

  “What is it?” his mother called before he spoke a word. He could see her worry. Each stroke of the distant bell seemed to make her wince. She had always hated the war, even talk of war, fretting so about his brother, who had gone off and yet never sent a word, not one.

  At her question Jonathan stopped short, not wanting to get too close. His bare toes curled into the soft earth. “Don’t know,” he replied. “Pa told me to see if anyone came through with news.”

  “Not here,” she said.

  “Maybe they’re going to take back Trenton,” he said. Two years before, only twenty miles away, General Washington had beaten the Hessians there. “Think they might?” he asked, looking about for his shoes. She didn’t reply.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the ringing of the bell stopped, leaving an empty silence. Jonathan wondered if he was already too late.

  “Want me to go to the tavern to find out what it was?” he asked, edging closer in. He had spied his shoes. They were on the bench by the door.

  “Your father tell you to?”

  When Jonathan gave no reply, she pushed a slip of hair beneath her cap and slapped away a tugging child’s hand. “Maybe you’d best,” she said. “Your father can’t. And we don’t want to be surprised.”

  Not wanting to give her time to change her mind, Jonathan leaped forward, pulled on his shoes, then bolted up and began to run.

  “Just find out!” she called after him. “Then come on right back! You hear?”

  Pretending he had not heard, Jonathan kept up his steady run.

  10:25

  Jonathan lengthened his stride, turned a sharp angle, then beat his way to the creek. He passed the cooling house. He sped along the path that edged the old dark woods where the warm, soft smell of rotting wood filled the air.

  Maybe, he thought as he ran, maybe it was going to be a battle, a big one. Maybe he would take a part.

  O Lord, he said to himself, make it be a battle. With armies, big ones, and cannons and flags and drums and dress parades! Oh, he could, would fight. Good as his older brother. Maybe good as his pa. Better, maybe. O Lord, he said to himself, make it something grand!

  He was running harder now, having broken from the path to the Alexandria Road. He passed the place where a boy he knew used to live; they hadn’t quite been friends. He’d gone off and gotten killed. Jonathan didn’t like to think of that. Besides, the boy’s folks said it was an awful war, cursed it, spat on it when they could. People, hearing them, hinted they might be secret Tories. There were lots of Tories like that around, spies and turncoats all. Such folks were warned to keep their thoughts to themselves. Tories got what they deserved.

  Jonathan moved up a small hill and, once on top, paused to catch his breath. A swirl of red-breasted pigeons coursed the air. A squirrel scolded, a crow cackled. It was spring, and warm, and wonderful ripe for war. Jonathan felt sure he could try anything, be anything, do anything anyone might set before him.

  And even as he stood there, unsure what to do, the bell resumed its vibrant call. He could go home . . . or to the tavern.

  But if he went to the tavern, he knew it wouldn’t be just to get the news. He meant to go and fight.

  “Do it!” he told himself. “Go and fight!” His father was afraid, but he wasn’t. And again he began to pelt toward the sound of the bel
l, his blood as warm as the swollen, spring-tied earth.

  10:45

  The tavern was the biggest place around, and was perched on the highest point. Built entirely of stone, it seemed a fortress, a castle at the crossroads, with sparkling glass windows and a high, peaked roof.

  To the south seven miles was Pennington. Twenty miles distant was Trenton town. The British and the hated Hessians held them both.

  Ten miles to the northwest lay Alexandria. Fleming was six miles north by east, and to the west, hugging the big river, lay Well’s Ferry. Americans held those towns. Jonathan had been to none of them, American or British held.

  As he approached the tavern, Jonathan could see the bell. A friend, a boy his own age, was heaving the cord. The bell hung in its own rack, set up to sound alarms. It stood to one side of the green where the men practiced for militia duty, an exercise that Jonathan dearly loved to watch.

  Some men had already gathered at the tavern and were busy talking. Becoming shy, Jonathan slowed his pace. As he approached, a man climbed a tree to watch the roads.

  Jonathan wished someone would tell him what was happening. But no one paid him mind. He thought: They don’t know I’ve come to fight.

  “Here comes someone!” cried the man in the tree.

  “Got his gun?”

  “Looks it!”

  Cartridge pouches, powder horns, and guns had been left against the tavern. Jonathan wished he’d brought his father’s gun.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. “Your father coming?” was the question.

  Before he could reply, someone else said: “His leg’s still sitting poor.”

  They paid no more mind to Jonathan.

  Frustrated, he went over to the bell. Though he would rather have spoken to the men, he talked to his young friend. “What’s going?” he asked.

  “Soldiers,” said his friend, fitting the word between strokes of the bell.

  A whip of excitement cut through Jonathan,

  “Enemy ones?” he asked.

  “That’s what they say,” his friend replied.

  11:00

  As Jonathan watched, a man came out of the tavern, someone he had never seen before. He was a large man, with broad shoulders and a red, badly pockmarked face. His shirt, spilling out of his trousers, wasn’t very clean, and his dark-green jacket with fraying cuffs was clearly old. His boots were caked with mud, his hat was too small.

  When the man came out of the tavern, he was holding a tankard with one hand, wiping crumbs from his mouth with the other. He stood in front of the tavern door, surveying the gathered men who, in turn, kept keen eyes on him.

  “Any more coming?” the stranger called.

  “Be some time yet” came the reply.

  “We don’t have time,” the stranger snapped. He took a half step around as if to go back inside. The tavern keeper stood in the doorway.

  “By God,” the stranger said, “don’t they understand? If we don’t move, they’ll get through.”

  The tavern keeper said nothing at all.

  A man came running, cresting the hill. A gun was in his hand. “Where they coming from?” he called.

  “Pennington way,” called one of the men.

  “How many?”

  “Fifteen or less.”

  “Who saw them?”

  “The Corporal’s come.”

  Again, heads turned to the stranger. He was finishing off his drink. When done, he handed the tankard to the keeper, who took it silently.

  “Here’s more!” cried the man in the tree. “You be patient, Corporal,” he called to the stranger. “You’ll have an army yet.”

  The tavern keeper shook his head. “It’s groundbreaking time.”

  The Corporal strode down from the doorway and approached the men.

  “How long will it take marching troops to get here from Linvale?” he asked.

  “That’s four miles” came an answer.

  “An hour and a half” was the calculation.

  Impatiently, the stranger rubbed his hands together, then suddenly swung around to face the bell, where Jonathan was standing, watching.

  “That’s enough!” the Corporal barked to Jonathan’s friend. “They’ll either come or not.”

  The boy let the rope drop.

  Again the stranger considered the group of men, then, turning, discovered Jonathan’s eyes fixed on him.

  “You handle a gun?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Jonathan managed to get out.

  “And you?” the stranger asked the other boy. The boy shook his head no.

  The Corporal glowered, then shifted around once more and drifted toward the men. Four more had run in, making thirteen in all. The Corporal appraised them, then turned to the tavern keeper. “You coming?” he asked.

  “We’ll need to have ourselves a second line in case they get through,” said the innkeeper. “I’d best stick here.”

  The Corporal frowned and then, lost in thought, went to his horse and tightened up the saddle.

  Only then did it occur to Jonathan that this Corporal, whoever he was, had ridden in with the news. He wondered where he had come from and just what he had seen, and why he’d come to this place.

  When he finished fussing with his horse, the Corporal swung around to face the waiting men. “There’s no more time,” he said. “We need to go.”

  Jonathan noticed that the men were now watching one another as much as they watched the stranger.

  “Aren’t we going to wait for more?” came the question.

  “It’s late,” the Corporal replied. “Yes or no? Are we going?”

  No one spoke. Then someone, Jonathan didn’t see who, gave a murmur. Others took it up, a brief swelling sound, not quite a word.

  “All right,” the Corporal said, choosing to take the sound as “yes.” He looked about again, his eyes coming to rest on Jonathan.

  “You,” he said, pointing. “You said you could shoot. Get a musket from the tavern. You’re needed.”

  11:30

  His pride soaring, Jonathan grinned at his friend, who was looking at him with astonishment. Then Jonathan turned toward the tavern keeper, who was standing by the door.

  “Going, are you?” the tavern keeper said before Jonathan could speak.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Got asked special, did you?”

  Jonathan nodded yes.

  “What’s your father to say?”

  “Told me to come.”

  “Did he?”

  Jonathan didn’t say.

  “And now,” said the tavern keeper, “our blessed Corporal asks to borrow a gun.”

  “I can use it.”

  “Hope you can,” said the tavern keeper. He moved inside, saying, “Come on.”

  Jonathan bounded up the steps. It was dark inside. The wooden floorboards, shiny from heavy use, glowed with a dark-brown warmth. The rank smell of ale and cider thickened the air.

  Waiting just inside the door, Jonathan kept his eyes on the far end of the large, dim room, where the white glow of the keeper’s shirt moved behind the grill.

  Within moments the man emerged from the dark, a gun in his hand. It was a flintlock musket, almost six feet long, butt and stock of polished wood. Jonathan saw that it was older than his father’s gun, but to him it was nothing less than beautiful.

  Reaching out with one hand, he put his fingers around the cold metal barrel. It was unexpectedly heavy. He had to thrust out his other hand to keep it up.

  Holding it tightly, he brought the gun close to his chest, then let it swing down till the butt rested on the floor. The gun reached above his head.

  “Manage?” the tavern keeper asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said Jonathan. “Sure. I can—”

  “It’s twelve pounds of weight.”

  Jonathan studied the gun, from its topmost ramrod to its shiny hammer lock to its bottom butt plate. Knowing the gun was his to use, he felt a deep glow inside.

  “Have I g
ot your word of honor you’ll bring it back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your honor as a man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The tavern keeper strung a cartridge pouch around the boy’s neck. “Thirty cartridges,” he said. “Wrapped them myself. Here’s your powder.” He added the powder horn.

  “Any extra flint?” Jonathan asked, wanting to show he understood what he was about.

  “What I’ve got to spare is on the gun.” The tavern keeper kept studying Jonathan, measuring him. “Look here,” he finally said, “you don’t have to go. You can leave all this and get on out through the back. No one’s going to know, or care. Not that man. Just because he’s tapped you doesn’t mean you have to go. He likes telling folks what to do.”

  Jonathan, not even wanting to hear the words, looked down. He fingered the gun nervously.

  “You know much about him?” the tavern keeper asked.

  Jonathan shook his head no.

  The tavern keeper considered. Then he sighed. “You take care of yourself,” he said.

  For a moment Jonathan remained standing there, not knowing what to say.

  “Get on then, if you’re going,” the man said with a wave of his hand. “Get!”

  Jonathan turned, inadvertently smashing the gun butt against the doorframe. The shock made him almost drop the gun. Recovering, he hastened outside into the light.

  The men had already begun to move south along the Pennington Road. The Corporal, astride his horse, was rounding past the bend. Jonathan looked about. Behind him, from the building’s darkness, the tavern keeper watched, while in front his friend sat on the bell-rack frame, hands to either side. He too was watching.

  Grasping the gun tightly in both hands, Jonathan jumped down the steps and ran down the road toward Pennington.

  12:05

  The gun was heavy. Jonathan tried throwing it over his shoulder and resting it as the others did, only to find its weight cut into his neck. He had to use both hands and carry it across his chest. He didn’t like the notion that he was the only one who held his gun that way. Still, he had no choice. There were the cartridge box and powder horn, too. They kept thumping against his legs, the straps having been cut for a tall man.