Blood Upon The Snow

by Martin Ganzglass

  Reading these lines again, Will felt her words betrayed the truth was the opposite. She was comparing him to others and finding him wanting. He was after all, only a simple New York farm boy with little or no social graces. It apparently had not occurred to her that he did not know how to dance, and while he did read, he knew little if anything about music or painting. She concluded her letter with the news she had finished a scarf for him, but since the weather was warm, she eagerly awaited the day when she could present it to him in person when he visited her in Philadelphia. In the meantime she and other patriotic women were collecting clothing, bandages and linens for the soldiers of “their” army.

  A black despair settled on him. His hut, in the early June evening was stifling with the smell of sweat, smoke and unwashed men. He left without a word to his bunkmates. He walked away from the cluster of huts, smacking angrily at the mosquitos alighting on his neck and hands. No, he thought. It was his plight to remain in camp, carrying out the training tasks assigned to him and if and when he ever got to Philadelphia, his worn Sergeant’s uniform and coarse manners would give proof to Elisabeth that he was beneath her and not worthy of her attentions.

  He wandered aimlessly, past the Commons, oblivious to the boisterous shouts of drunken soldiers, drowning out the sounds of the insects of the night anxiously seeking mates for their desperately short lives. The stench of the latrines and the fetid odors of animal waste were so strong it pierced his consciousness and he walked more rapidly, until he saw the Ford residence ahead. He suspected Captain Hadley was there. If Miss Mercy was at home, he was sure to be. Perhaps the Captain could help him interpret Elisabeth’s letter and suggest how he should proceed.

  A servant opened the door to his knock and asked him to wait while his presence was announced. He found Hadley and Miss Mercy sitting across the table from each other, drinking cider and engaged in an intense discussion. Both acknowledged his presence but were unwilling to abandon their conversation.

  “I do not understand the logic of your position, Samuel. If, as you say, the right to vote should be restricted to heads of households who own property of a certain value, then your very definition includes wealthy but unmarried women- widows with substantial estates for example. Your New England dominated Congress, when it discusses the issue, should include what we of the fairer sex enjoy in New Jersey under our new State Constitution.”1 She cocked her head as if the point were obvious. “I have written my female friends with whom I correspond, including Abigail Adams in your beloved Massachusetts. Hopefully, she will be able to influence her husband to see the correctness of our position.”

  “Women by nature are not heads of households,” Hadley said raising his voice in exasperation. “My God. Look around you in Morristown. I will wager not one single household is led by a woman,” he said, emphasizing his words by poking his index finger on the oak table top. “So, when your New Jersey Constitution, or any document refers to heads of households, it is adopting what one and all know to be the obvious fact- that men are the heads of households. The drafters might have easily as said white males substituting that phrase for heads of household and achieved the same result.” 2

  He turned in his chair and looked at Will. “What say you? In Schoharie was there ever a woman as head of household?”

  Will tried to recall if he knew of such a case. He was about to reply but Miss Mercy did not give him the chance. “It matters not whether there are examples, here or in New York. It is the words that matter and the phrase in our New Jersey Constitution is inclusive of women. We have the right to vote, we will exercise it and keep it.” She smiled pleasantly at Samuel, indicating the debate was over.

  “And what brings you to our companionable table tonight,” she said to Will, smiling sweetly. “The want of deep discussion on weighty issues that only men think they are capable of having?”

  Will explained his misgivings about Elisabeth’s letter and blurted out he did not know how to dance and his lack of polish would be evident to one and all, if he ever had the chance to visit her in Philadelphia.

  Miss Mercy emitted a bird like laugh and clapped her hands together in amusement. For some reason, it gave Will hope.

  “The easy part is learning to dance. Everyone has to at some time. We will teach you, will we not Samuel?”

  Hadley nodded, studying Will as one appraises the ability of a horse to jump fences and hedges. “You are reasonably well coordinated and apportioned. I do not see why you cannot learn in short order,” he said encouragingly.

  “As for your concerns, Elisabeth would not have written you at all, if she did not care for your affections,” Miss Mercy said. “Why relate what she is doing, unless she wants you to share in her experiences as she expects you to write about yours. She knows little of artillery drills, unlimbering of guns and the like but wishes you to tell her because when two people are apart, the only way they can share their lives is through letters.” Will rested his chin on his hands. Her words made sense.

  “Come, Will. Do not be despondent any longer. Elisabeth is an open and well-intentioned person. She writes not to make you jealous but to make you part of her life.” She gestured for him to rise. “I will maintain the beat by clapping and Samuel will teach you the steps.”

  One hour later, Will stood in his stocking feet in the Ford’s dining room, sweating profusely, unhappy and confused. Hadley, at first patient and calm had become increasingly exasperated at Will’s inability to grasp the most rudimentary of steps and his continued clumsiness. The more irritated the Captain became, the less Will was able to remember what he had been told.

  “I swear I could teach Big Red to dance more readily than you,” he said after Will had stumbled, getting his feet tangled in attempting to move into the Z pattern Hadley was trying to teach him.

  “Now, Samuel,” Miss Mercy said sternly. “Swearing will not teach Will the minuet. Nor does your impatience suit you. You are going too fast and giving him too much to think about.” She smiled encouragingly at Will. “I will break it down for you. We will start with the honors. Put on your tri-corn and take my hand. Remember. Keep your body tall yet relaxed. You are publicly honoring Elisabeth as your partner.”

  His shirt clung to his body and he felt his face flushed but he made it through the honors, remembering to bow at the waist, removing the tri-corn so the inside faced Miss Mercy, awkwardly offering her his perspiring right hand while she led him through a pivot so he ended up facing her.

  “Good,” she said. “Now let us do it again. Then we will conclude this lesson. You practice this part on your own and tomorrow we shall see about a fiddler to play the Congress Minuet, instead of my keeping the beat. It will be more realistic and it is certain to be one of the most popular dances in Philadelphia. ” 3

  I will never learn even this one dance, Will thought as he trudged to the barn in the darkness. Inside, he faced in the same direction he had in the dining room and went through the steps by himself, feeling more comfortable with the repetition. It is like drilling to fire a cannon. If one practices enough, it becomes routine and one can do it without thinking, he said out loud. But, at the thought of dancing with Elisabeth, in public before General and Mrs. Knox and the assembled officers, their wives and ladies, he stepped on his own foot and forgot what to do next.

  He entered Big Red’s stall and leaned against his horse’s neck. He imagined elegant uniformed officers, even than fop Seeley, dancing with Elisabeth, touching her hand, the small of her back and whatever other contact was permitted between partners when they performed the minuet. He would learn that damn dance, he said to Big Red, so that at least, for the Congress Minuet, the one who had insulted her honor would not be able to be with her. He went back out on to the dark, straw covered dirt floor, imagined it was made of highly polished broad planks and began to practice the beginning honors Captain Hadley and Miss Mercy had taught him.

  John Stoner cursed under his breath as he walked up the gangplank, already slipper
y with piss and the rounded piles of shit from the horses that had preceded him. His own mount, smelling the sea air in the strong breeze blowing toward shore, and balking at being confined on the ship, let loose a substantial stream of urine.

  “God damn it, Stoner. Control your mare,” the trooper immediately behind yelled, as John’s horse was now rearing on the narrow walkway.

  Viciously yanking the horse’s head down and moving his hands up until they were almost at the bridle, John reached the top of the ramp and descended on to the schooner’s deck. He led the animal down another ramp and into a stall, lined with sheepskins, the wool still on, to prevent the horses from chafing during the voyage. 4 Probably better quarters than we will have, John muttered to himself.

  When he emerged from the transport’s hold, a light rain was falling. He looked out over Amboy’s harbor, filled with brigs, sloops and schooners. Scores of seagulls circled over the ships, waiting for the cooks’ boys to throw the fish heads and other treats over the side. Beyond, Staten Island beckoned through a wet mist, with pleasant memories of sunny days filled with hunts and parades and evenings of dinner parties and balls. That was long before the attack on Long Island and the terrible fire that had consumed much of New York City.

  The Army was leaving New Jersey after a fruitless two weeks of campaigning. In retrospect, John thought it had been bad luck to begin the night of Friday, June thirteenth, moving out of New Brunswick with their wagons optimistically loaded with long flat-bottomed boats, built in New York to cross the Delaware and capture Philadelphia. Now he thought, there was a city with many opportunities to be had for self-enrichment and to enjoy the company of the bevy of accomplished beautiful young ladies. He would hire himself a groom. No more taking care of his own horse. And a manservant as well, as Chatsworth and many of the officers had, to keep his uniforms clean, buttons bright and boots polished.

  John’s exhilaration at the thought of being in Philadelphia, a mere day’s march once across the Delaware, had dissipated in dismay when the Army set up camp only nine miles from New Brunswick. Inexplicably, the troops began constructing redoubts- three of them, huge earthen fortifications as if they expected to be besieged. The 16th Dragoons made a few scouting missions into the surrounding countryside, which John managed to avoid. The troopers returned, driving cattle before them, having plundered and burned nearby farms and the green wheat fields and John regretted not having been with them. But only because in the telling, it was clear there had been little risk.

  There were reports of skirmishes and pickets being harassed, killed or captured by the Rebels, who refused to meet the British Army in the field. Mostly, he had sat in camp and waited. After a week of probing by large bands of Rebels, harassing of pickets and patrols and one or two larger clashes, orders were given to abandon the redoubts and returned to New Brunswick. 5 The Dragoons quartered just on the outskirts of the town in a solid white brick house, corrupted by the stench of militiamen hastily half buried in the orchard by the retreating American forces. When John awoke at dawn to relieve himself, he shuddered at the sight of decaying limbs protruding from the shallow graves, as if beckoning their living compatriots to attack and seek revenge.

  From New Brunswick, the starting point of what had seemed to John to be the beginning of the end for the Rebels, the army began an organized retreat. By mid-morning, John was with the Light Dragoons on the south side of the Raritan. Together with some British infantry, grenadiers and Hessian Regiments they formed the rear guard of the Army trudging down the road to Perth Amboy, ten miles away. He heard shooting, muskets and cannons, and in the distance, clouds of low-lying smoke wafted above the bridge further north over the Raritan. He sensed the Dragoons were eager to charge forward and engage the Rebels. With relief he heard the orders to hold firm and maintain position. After the sounds of gunfire died down, they led the rear-guard the short distance back to New Brunswick, now mostly abandoned of both troops and residents.

  Suddenly, the Hessians swarmed past the troopers’ trotting horses, eager for one last rampage and chance for plunder. Chatsworth turned in his saddle and grinned at his men.

  “No need to dismount. Such base scum who owned these homes could hardly object to our entering on horseback.” And with that, he rode his horse up the wide, wooden front steps of a large house and pranced around the porch, smashing the windows with the stock of his fuzee. John spurred his horse forward through the gaping maw of a home whose double doors had been torn from their hinges and joined in the general destruction, knocking plates and dinnerware to the floor with his sword and backing his horse into the side of a tall, glass fronted bookcase, causing it to topple over. He was hindered from entering other houses by plundering Hessians intent on taking as much as possible. They warned off the troopers in their guttural language. To John it was like the sounds of snarling dogs, fighting over a carcass.

  Back on the street, Chatsworth rode up to John and handed him a glass oil lamp, the flame of the wick barely visible in the sunlight. “Be quick. And make sure the fire catches. We want to leave Brunswick with nothing to benefit the Rebels.”

  John found a two-story building with heavy drapes visible through the shattered windows. A person of substance must have lived here, he thought. He dismounted, tied his horse to a pillar of the porch, and holding the lamp high, entered the darkened central hall. The windows on the room to his left, the one with the drapes, had heavily cushioned window seats, burgundy with a design made of golden colored thread. That will be readily combustible, he thought as he carefully set the lamp down on the floor. Quickly, he slashed at the fabric, tearing out the gauzy muslin filling and spreading it under the deep blue drapes. He grabbed another cushion and felt something hard within the fabric. Eagerly, he cut it open and reached inside. His fingers found a dark green silk pouch, delicately embroidered and tied tightly at the top with fine silver colored ribbon. John resisted the greedy impulse to slash the other window seats and see if they contained more treasures. No time. With the silken pouch secure in his waistcoat pocket, he poured some of the lamp oil on the bottom of the drapes, built up a pile of the muslin and smashed the lamp on the floor. As he left, the flames were curling up the drapes toward the ceiling and the fire had caught on the floorboards and was licking at the base of the window seat.

  Remounting, he patted the prize he had found, trying to ascertain by feeling the hard shapes what valuables lay inside. That night, while Chatsworth and the others were off carousing, he emptied the contents on his cot and, to his immense delight, discovered a silver ring with an intricate setting that held, he hoped, a ruby, and a pearl necklace of three strands. He wrapped the pouch in a stocking, tied it tightly at the top, placed the stocking inside one of the linen shirts he had taken from some Rebel home, he no longer remembered where, and buried the shirt beneath other clothing in a lower corner of his wooden trunk. He would make certain the trunk was safely loaded on the baggage train in the morning for the journey to Amboy.

  Three days later, instead of arriving at the safe haven on the Jersey shore, and the ships which would transport him away from here, John found himself among the 16th Light Dragoons, led by Colonel Harcourt himself, on a quick night ride heading north toward the Rebels. As the troopers saddled up, they were eager, almost impetuously so, for the coming engagement.

  “Well, John,” Chatsworth said as he cinched his saddle and strapped his fuzee over his shoulder. “At last we will give these scummy rabble their comeuppance. It is time for them to pay for their sniping at our columns from a distance and skulking in the woods.”

  John tried to fake enthusiasm for the coming battle but he was thinking more of how to avoid being maimed for life or worse killed. “We will drive them from the field,” he said with false bravado. One of the troopers snickered behind his back.

  As they formed up on the road, he heard one of them exclaim loudly. “See Ramrod John up toward the front? He is ramrod straight at the beginning but when the first shot is fired, his p
osture is more of a spent prick- wilted and bent over his horse’s neck.” John reddened at the laughter that followed. By the trooper’s code of honor, he should have challenged the man to a duel. No chance of that, he thought seething. Better to survive and be thought a coward. He will have his day once the army captures Philadelphia. There, his talents would be put to good use and he would be in a position to cultivate the officers and not have to endure the slights of others.

  The 16th were part of a larger force of Hessian Grenadiers and infantry moving rapidly up a road toward some hills that loomed ahead in the darkness. It was already getting warm when the sun rose to John’s right. He heard sporadic cannon and musket fire, interspersed with the sharper crack of rifles. The dragoons halted and then, led by Colonel Harcourt left the main body and rode around a low sloping hill and across a field toward the sounds of the battle. John could see they were on a course to flank a large Rebel body dug in on a bare hill, surrounded by some woods. Hessian troops were making a frontal assault, their bayonets and brass caps glinting in the early morning light. Closer to the Dragoons, British light infantry were also advancing up the slope in the face of heavy cannon and musket fire. 6