All the time he’d done this, Will had begged God for forgiveness and cursed the British for putting him in this horrible position.
Fortunately, the British guards on the Suffolk were lazy and incompetent swine who spent most of their time drinking the cheap gin or rum they’d bought by selling provisions meant for the prisoners. The guards had no idea how many men were down below since the prisoners, with Will’s connivance, had stopped sending corpses up to be taken away as that would only mean a reduction in their already inadequate food ration. Instead, the prisoners kept the rotting corpses in the lower holds until the bones could be slipped out through the barred gun ports at night. Thus, as the numbers of prisoners declined, the amount of food each of the survivors received actually increased, despite the pilfering from the guards. The additional stench from the rotting bodies was scarcely noticed.
They rarely lacked for drinking water, even though it was frequently foul. They were north of the city of New York and high enough up the Hudson River so that only the strongest of incoming tides or storms would make the water undrinkable. It was often brackish, but rarely so salty that it couldn’t be drunk. Other hulks lay off Brooklyn, in the East River, where the water was tidal, brackish and generally undrinkable. Will and the others on the Suffolk were actually the lucky ones.
Will had lost many pounds from his once sturdy frame, and the fact that his teeth were loosening meant that scurvy was on its way. If nothing happened to save him soon, he would die a painful and lingering death and join so many of his comrades in either the river or a shallow grave. It did not appear that the victorious king and his Parliament had any intention of freeing the prisoners they’d swept up during and after the war. Will wondered if anyone even remembered that the prisoners existed. Will had heard that as many as ten thousand American soldiers had died in the hulks. He feared that someday someone would strip his own cadaver naked and drop it into the filthy bilge. The thought of his bones sliding into the river sickened him even further. He wanted to weep in despair, but decided not to waste the energy. Stay alive. Survive. There was always a chance of life until the moment of death.
Along with physical imprisonment, there was the maddening lack of knowledge of events in the outside world. He could look longingly out the gun ports at rural life in New Jersey. Farms like the one he once owned were being worked and life was going on very pleasantly for people who were either Tories or who had made peace with their conquerors. Will wondered if they even gave a thought to the wretches in the Suffolk.
Every now and then a new prisoner would arrive, and be pumped for information. The British were strong everywhere, they said, but there were rumors of rebel colonies out in the west. In particular, there was one that was apparently called “Liberty.” It made sense, Will thought. The vastness of the continent would attract many people who would trade space to get away from the claws of Mother England.
Once upon a time, he’d had a family and a profession, but his parents were dead of smallpox, and a brother had been killed at Brandywine. He had cousins, but they were Tories. He was thankful that he didn’t have a wife and children outside somewhere waiting and wondering if he was dead or alive. Widows and children faced a life almost as miserable as his. They could starve, or, including children, be forced into prostitution. Or they could die of the pox or a hundred other diseases that afflicted the weak. No, he was thankful he was alone. Of course, he thought ruefully, that meant he would die unlamented and unmissed if he didn’t get off this damned ship.
At least he could move about in the innards of the Suffolk. At first, he and all the others had been chained to the hull, but the chains had pulled away from the rotting wood, and splinters had been used to pick the locks and free the men. The guards made no effort to rechain them. Whatever happened in the dangerous world below decks was none of their business. Live and let live was the guard’s motto, or was it live and let the rebel bastards die?
He felt it again. The ship was moving, trembling, groaning. What the hell was happening? The others were talking nervously. The ship shuddered, this time strongly, and a couple of the men who were standing fell down.
Will dropped to his knees as the ship slowly began to tilt towards the river. A loud sound like a screaming animal was heard as rotten wood gave way. On deck he heard the guards yelling and running around in confusion. It dawned on him—the Suffolk was falling apart and capsizing.
The list grew worse and the ship shook violently as the sounds grew louder. Prisoners began to scream as they recognized their peril. Suddenly, the ship fractured herself and Will glimpsed the blessed glare of sunlight before torrents of green water rushed in through the hole. As others ran from the gaping hole in her hull, Will moved toward it. He had an idea. It was desperate, but what did he have to lose besides his life?
When the inward rush of water slowed, Will took a deep breath and dived underwater and through the hole. He brushed against the wooden side of the hole and felt pain as his skin was scraped, but nothing stopped him. His lungs ached from the exertion and his own weakness, but he forced himself to stay underwater and not to surface where he could be seen. In agony and with his vision turning red, he pushed himself away from the slimy hull of the dying ship.
He could hold his breath no more. He rose to the surface, gasped and gulped welcome fresh air. He quickly looked around. There was pandemonium on board the sinking Suffolk and on the shore beside her. The hulk had broken in half, spewing prisoners and dropping guards into the river. Gunfire crackled as guards shot at prisoners floating in the water. The two halves of the Suffolk were on their sides and breaking up into smaller chunks.
A good-sized piece of her deck floated by and Will grabbed at it. He held onto it and sank below it. There was a pocket of air and he sucked it. He could feel the current taking him downstream and away from the shore. He was free of the prison ship, but for how long? He willed himself to make no movement, no splashes, nothing that would attract attention. He wanted to be a part of the slowly moving planking.
He drifted. The sounds seemed to fade away. He realized that he was naked. The rags he’d once called clothing had fallen apart in the river. He was cold and it dawned on him that he would freeze to death before he drowned. He was already having difficulty feeling his legs and his grip on the planking was weakening.
His makeshift raft bumped against something and he looked out from under. He’d collided with a small and decrepit wooden dock and was well within the city of New York. There was no one on the dock. Will decided he had to take his chances and get out of the water. With the last of his strength, he ripped off a piece of sodden and rotting wood to use as a knife. He would use it on himself before going back to another prison ship.
Will’s chances of escaping were negligible. He was a naked, weak, and cold rebel in a Tory city. He was gaunt and his long hair and beard made him look frightening. His wooden knife was a puny weapon that probably wouldn’t break a man’s skin, much less kill him. He laughed bitterly as he thought about using it to commit suicide. He climbed on to the dock and rested on his hands and knees. He vomited water on the dock. He was doomed. A kitten could take him prisoner.
“What you gonna do with that little bitty thing, rebel?”
Will turned towards the sound. He was so disoriented that a man with a wagon full of hay had gotten within a few feet of him. Almost idly, his mind in a daze, he noted that the driver was a Negro.
“You from that ship that sunk up there, ain’t you?” The Negro laughed. “Them English is going crazy tryin’ to catch everybody.” He gestured to the pile of hay. “You want them to catch you?”
“No,” Will managed to say through shaking and blue lips. He was too tired to even try to cover his nakedness.
“Didn’t think so. My name is Homer and I ain’t Greek. Now get your skinny ass up there in the wagon and cover up under the hay. And don’t make no noise, either.”
Will did as he was told.
* * *
; A few hours later, Will was in paradise, busy scrubbing himself with soap made from ash and dirt after being drenched with buckets of sun-warmed river water. Not even his prolonged swim in the Hudson River had removed more than a year’s worth of filth. Nor had it done anything to his long and matted beard and hair, which Homer first cut off and then shaved. When they were done, Will was raw all over, but he was clean.
Homer pointed to a welt on Will’s left buttock. “What the devil’s that?”
Will laughed wryly. “The bastard British branded me. That’s supposed to be an ‘R’ for rebel, but I screamed and squealed and twisted so much that ugly blob is what resulted.”
Homer nodded. “I thought that’s what it was. Somehow I thought that only black people got branded and then only slaves, although I guess you were a slave of the British. Either way it’s a vile way to treat a man.”
Will sat down on a rickety chair and wrapped himself in a blanket. He was freezing and, as his condition improved, he didn’t want to be naked in front of his new companion. He was also completely spent.
“Now what?” he asked.
Homer stood and stretched. He was a big man and Will guessed his age at forty or so. “You rest up for a bit, and then we’ll figure that out after we get some food in you. If I tried to feed you now, it’d be a waste of food. You’d probably puke it up again thanks to the seawater you drank.”
Once again Will did as he was told.
* * *
Sarah Benton and her cousin Faith hugged each other and waited for the dawn. They were in the small western Massachusetts town of Pendleton’s one prison cell as guests of Charles Braxton, the sheriff. They were to be punished by spending a day in the stocks for speaking ill of the king. The population of Pendleton was only a couple of hundred, but many of them were Tories and most would be there to watch the two women’s discomfort and humiliation.
Sarah Benton was twenty-six and ten years older than Faith. She felt guilty for her cousin. It was Sarah’s sharp tongue that had said that the king was responsible for the war and the death of Tom, the fine man who she considered to be her husband. Faith just happened to be standing by when she made the comment, but that meant nothing to Sheriff Charles Braxton. His authority included the ability to punish minor offences, and a day in the stocks for Sarah’s impertinence was what she and Faith would suffer.
Sarah was certain she could handle it, but she less was less so regarding her cousin. Plump little Faith looked terrified. Why, Sarah wondered? It couldn’t be all that bad, could it?
She’d known little about Pendleton. She and Tom had lived somewhat closer to Boston, but after his death in the war, and with Boston being a virtual British garrison, she’d decided to move west to her cousins. A woman alone, especially the widow of a rebel, was not safe with so many angry and vengeful British soldiers roaming around. The British and Tories were in a vengeful mood.
Of course, it now seemed that sleepy little Pendleton, with a population of about two hundred living in clean, well-appointed homes, wasn’t all that safe either. Sheriff Braxton was a virtual dictator appointed by the British in Boston to control this area and he did so with a hard and often cruel hand.
“Come on out for your day in the sun,” exclaimed Sheriff Braxton with a sarcastic laugh. Deputies came in and separated the two women. A sobbing and unprotesting Faith was led down a hallway to another room. Sarah was led by the arm to Braxton’s office where she was pushed against a wall. She heard voices through it, but nothing to cause her concern.
Braxton glared at her. “A day in the stocks is not pleasant, Sarah Benton.”
“I think I will survive. Would it help if I apologized for my wicked tongue?” She did not offer to pay a fine. She had no money, and the sheriff knew it.
“No. What’s said cannot be unsaid, any more than water can be put back in a bucket after its spilled. You must be punished.”
“I see.”
“But your punishment can be changed. You’re an attractive woman, Mistress Benton.” He reached out and touched her light brown hair. Sarah gasped in surprise. “And a pleasant figure, too. Nice and firm and trim, not soft and plumpish like your cousin.” His hand slipped into her dress to her breast and squeezed, while his other hand groped between her legs.
“Stop that,” she said weakly. His hands hurt her. Braxton was a very large and strong man and she could not break his grip as he continued to paw at her. He could overpower her with ease if he wished to. His pelvis was against her and she could feel his erection straining against her.
The sheriff laughed. “Don’t protest your virtue, Mistress Benton. You claim you’re a widow, but you’re a whore since your so-called husband was a rebel. It also means you are no silly little virgin. But don’t worry; it’ll be nothing like what you’re worrying about. I won’t rape you. Last thing I need is some bitch like you going to the parson saying I’d forced her to spread her legs for me, or worse, winding up with a little bastard running around town and looking like me.” He laughed again. “Christ, my wife would kill me slowly if that happened.”
“What then do you want?” she asked.
He took her hand and put it on his erection. “You take this in your mouth and do what comes naturally.”
She pulled her hand away. “I won’t.”
“Your cousin is doing it right now.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He spun her around and clamped his hand over her mouth. He opened a sliding window separating the two rooms and pushed Sarah to it. Faith Benton was naked to the waist and kneeling between the knees of one of the deputies. His pants were at his ankles. He was grinning hugely and groping Faith’s full young breasts as her head pumped up and down over his groin. Faith’s eyes were closed as if she was hoping this was all a nightmare.
“Your cousin will milk all three of my deputies and then be sent on her way. All you have to do is service just one person, me, and then you can go home as well.”
Sarah wanted to cry and throw up. Pendleton wasn’t a refuge. Instead, it was a newer form of hell. “Never,” she said in a voice that was almost a whimper.
Braxton laughed, “Your choice.”
Within moments, Sarah was locked in the stocks. Her legs and arms were spread out in front of her and her bottom was on a rail. Discomfort quickly turned to pain. Worse, the sun was rising and she was already sweaty and thirsty. But at least she had her pride, but she was beginning to wonder the price of her pride. Out of the corner of her eye, she’d seen Faith running down the road to her uncle’s home. Faith hadn’t turned to look at her.
Minutes became hours and her position became agonizing. Braxton came by and smiled down at her. “Too bad it’s too late to change your mind.”
“I would never change my mind,” she said with difficulty. Her tongue was dry.
Braxton laughed and walked away. He turned back to her. “Next time you might not think that way, and, trust me, there will be a next time. Even if you don’t say something slanderous, I can always find a half dozen people in this happy little town who’ll say you did. You’ll either do what I wish or you’ll spend many days in my stocks.”
Sarah felt a wave of growing despair. When she got out of the stocks—if she got out of them—she would have to find another place to live and do so quickly. Some place far, far away from a monster like Braxton. She looked up as two young boys laughed and ran up to her. They pulled her skirt up above her thighs and roared with glee as her bare legs were exposed. One of them knelt between her legs and looked while the second pinched her breast until someone hollered and chased them away. She thought the voice sounded like her aunt. Other citizens of Pendleton amused themselves by pelting her with rotten vegetables.
A woman stopped beside her and leaned over. “Here, take this.” It was a pitcher of water and the woman held it to her mouth. Sarah thanked her and gulped eagerly. The woman stepped away and began to laugh. It was Sheriff Braxton’s wife and she began to cackle loudly.
A moment later, Sarah’s stomach churned and cramped. She would have doubled in agony, but the stocks held her firm and she couldn’t move. Another cramp and her bowels released, sending a torrent of brown filth gushing through her dress and onto the ground. The half dozen people still gathered around the stocks howled in laughter.
The sheriff’s wife grabbed Sarah’s hair, pulled her head back, and glared at her. “You refused my husband, didn’t you?” she hoarsely whispered. “That means he’s gonna be angry and take it out on me. I’ve got to suffer because of you, you arrogant bitch. So now you get to suffer.”
The agony grew even more intense. Sarah passed in and out of consciousness. She thought she heard her uncle’s voice and then Sheriff Braxton’s.
“You have to set her free.”
“It’s not sunset yet.”
Braxton eyed her uncle carefully. Even though Braxton was strong and an experienced fighter, Sarah’s uncle Wilford was a blacksmith and had a reputation of his own for settling issues.
“That’s blood on the ground below her. She’s bleeding from her insides. She may be seriously hurt by that concoction your witch of a wife gave her. If she dies, I will accuse the two of you of murder and I will have more than enough witnesses to satisfy a court, even a British one. For God’s sake, Sheriff, you’ve proved your point.”
There was silence and she felt hands fumbling at her wrists and ankles. Sarah fell free of the stocks. Hands eased her to a lying position on the ground. She cried out as her muscles protested and her stomach spasmed again. She was lifted up and placed on something firm, wooden. She felt motion as her uncle’s wagon took her away.
* * *
Will held the bowl of broth in his hand and savored the warmth and the exquisite odor. It was chicken. He loved it. It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. He held it to his lips and drew in a swallow. It was his third bowl of the day and he felt his strength returning with each sip.
It had been a week since his escape. Homer, the middle-aged colored man who had rescued him had fed him a steady diet of broth and vegetables with an occasional piece of fruit. Not only was Will’s strength returning, but his teeth were no longer loose and aching. He felt he could walk for miles although he knew that was a fantasy. It would be a long time before he could hike anywhere. He relished his freedom even though he was a fugitive in hiding and had even less space in Homer’s basement than when he’d been in the hold of the Suffolk. He concluded that freedom was a state of mind, of the spirit, and had nothing to do with wealth or the size of a dwelling. Homer lived in little more than a hovel and seemed to be quite content. For the moment, so too was Will.
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Page 2