Conceived in Liberty

by Howard Fast

  “He’ll fire if we run,” Kenton says. “He’s no officer. We’ll talk to him.”

  “He’ll listen to reasonable talk,” I say hopefully.

  Bess shrinks against me. We go on more slowly. When we come up to the sentry, we stop and stand there. We don’t know what to say.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “We’re Pennsylvania men.”

  Then he sees that Bess is a woman, and his eyes open. He’s like us, bearded, ragged. He can’t mistake us for anything but what we are.

  I say, desperately: “We’re deserters. We won’t go back. If you want to die—we’ll die along with you.” Green is covering him with his gun.

  “Deserters—” the man says, oddly.

  “Which is it?” Kenton demands.

  “Go ahead—Jesus Christ, I’ll keep no man here.”

  We go on, and when I glance back, the sentry is still standing there, where we had left him. We cross the Gulph Road, string out over the parade ground. A moon is in the sky. We throw long shadows in the snow.

  Bess is limping, and I see that the wrappings on one of her feet have come undone. I stop to fasten them. Green mutters:

  “I told you—about a woman.”

  The moment I bare my hands, they get numb. There’s no wind, but it’s mercilessly cold. I fumble with the wrappings, finally manage to fasten them. We go on. A grey stone house looms ahead.

  “Varnum’s quarters, I think,” Kenton says. “We’ll go round.”

  We go back, avoiding the redoubt. We skirt a row of dugouts. At the end, we come across a sentry again. He stands blocking our way, but he makes no move toward us.

  “Go on,” Kenton says.

  We walk past him, and he follows us with his eyes; but he makes no effort to halt us. We begin to run, enter the woods panting, and fling ourselves down. Bess clings to me, sobbing hoarsely.

  “How’ll we cross the river?” I ask Kenton.

  Kenton shrugs. He says: “It’s better to die this way, better to be shot clean. We’ll freeze to death from the river.”

  “I made you go, Allen,” Bess sobs. “You’ll hold it up to me that I made you go.”

  “Christ—shut up!” Green whispers.

  We go on, falling, rolling over, clutching at trees and tearing our clothes. Our muskets are useless, clogged with snow, the powder wet in the firing pans. Our strength is pretty much gone, but somehow we manage to stagger through the woods down to the bank of the Schuylkill. At the bank, we lie in the snow, panting hoarsely, unable to move.

  “The bridge is guarded,” I mutter. “We can’t cross the bridge—it’s guarded.”

  “You damn fool, the river’s frozen.”

  Somehow, none of us had realized that. We laugh like idiots. Bess hugs me. She says: “Allen—Allen, I don’t care—we’re out of it.”

  It’s terribly cold. As we lie there, I can feel myself growing numb, sleepy. I close my eyes, and almost instantly a deep rush of relaxation overtakes me. I want to sleep. I draw Bess close to me.

  Kenton is gripping my shoulder. “Allen—we have to get out of here. Sentries patrol the riverbank.”

  We stumble to our feet. There is a great drift of snow against the bank, and we flounder through it. Bess almost disappears. Then we are out on the river. Some of the ice has been swept bare by the wind, and we go sprawling. We have no strength left for directed action. Green drops his musket, claws at it, and then creeps after it. And all the time we are in an agony of fear that we will be seen from the bank we left.

  Finally, we gain the shore. It takes all our strength to scramble up onto the bank.

  We go up slowly, panting, breathing heavily; then through the forest. It’s black in the forest. We fall, bruise and cut ourselves. Finally, we come out on a stretch of open fields.

  Kenton says: “Ah—I’m used up. We’ll make no distance tonight.”

  “We have to keep going,” I pant.

  Bess looks at me; her face is drawn with an agony of weariness. As we walk, slow as we are going, she falls behind. She can’t keep our pace. Forcing herself to run a little, she’ll catch up with us, drop back.

  “I told you not to bring the woman,” Charley said.

  “She’s here—leave her be. It was a fair hard run out of camp.”

  Bess says: “Allen—I’ll stay with you. It’s easy for me, Allen.”

  She falls once, lies in the snow. We turn, and I can see her straining to raise herself.

  “You shoulda known,” Kenton nods.

  I go back and lift her up. She clings to my arm, and says: “Forgive me, Allen. I’m no fit woman.”

  We walk on. More and more, I feel Bess’s weight on me. We’ve been half-starved for weeks—sick. None of us has shoes. Our feet are bandaged, covered over with cloth, and then bandaged again up to our knees. Our breeches are torn. Our coats are thin as paper. Kenton wears a forlorn cocked hat, two of the cocks down and flapping. Charley and I have no hats. Our heads are bound like Turks’.

  We come to a little dirt road, walk along it. I seem to sleep, even while I’m walking. Suddenly, I come awake. Kenton is walking on ahead. Charley has stopped; he stands looking at me. I turn around, and see Bess crumpled in a heap on the snow. I go back to her.

  “Go on, Allen,” she says.

  I draw her up to me, and she clings close, sobbing into my coat. We go on, with Charley and Kenton ahead of us.

  We made camp. We couldn’t have been much more than a mile or two from the Schuylkill. How far, I don’t know, because half the walking was a nightmare. But we couldn’t have been very far from the river. Half-frozen, we stopped and tried to build a fire.

  All I could think of was Edward Flagg, the skin of ice over his lips when they brought him back. He was a great, strong man, Edward; but they brought him back stiff as a log.

  We break branches and gather bits of wood together. Bess crouches close to the ground, trembling.

  Charley tries to make a fire. He uses a handflint. For minutes he tries, striking again and again, until the flint drops from his numbed hand. He tries to rub life back into his hands.

  I tear a bit of cloth from my leg bindings, drop some powder onto it. Kenton takes the flint, and a spark ignites the powder. We feed the fire carefully, nurse it and blow on it. It grows larger. We build up a great, roaring mass of fire.

  “They’ll see it,” Kenton says.

  “We need fire. We’ll never live the night out unless we have fire.”

  As the fire grows, we gather around it and absorb the heat. Bess crowds close; her thin, white face lights a little. Kenton grins. He says:

  “Edward made a great mistake, walking alone. It’s a wonder to me how any man could think to win northward, walking alone.”

  “Don’t speak of Edward.”

  “You can speak of a dead fool,” he says lightheadedly.

  “My belly’s tight and empty,” Charley says. “By God, I’d give ten years of my life for a steak to feed that fire with.”

  “There’s food—we’ll feed well enough tomorrow.”

  We stayed close to the fire. We arranged for a watch through the night to feed the fire. We wiped our muskets clean and reloaded them.

  Kenton stood the first watch. I lay down with Bess in my arms, Charley sprawled by the fire a little distance away. I could see how Charley envied me the having of a woman to spend the night through.

  “In my arms, Bess still trembled. I couldn’t make her warm. I tried to soothe her, tried to tell myself that we wouldn’t freeze. But if Kenton slept and the fire went out——”

  “I’m no fit woman, Allen,” Bess said as if repeating a lesson she had learned. “You made a mistake to bring me along, Allen. I’ll be nothing else but a drag on you.”

  “We’ll go together,” I told her. “We’ll find a place where we can rest and warm ourselves. Then we’ll go together. It’ll be nowhere as hard as tonight.”

  “You’re a good man, Allen. You’re a strong, good m
an to be so tender with me.”

  “I said you’d go, and I’ll care for you,” I told her proudly.

  “I won’t ask any care of you, Allen. I’ll fend for myself——”

  “I’ll fend for you. It’ll be like you were wedded to me. I’ll fend for you.”

  “Some day, Allen—you might wed me?”

  “There’s a fair lot of things I’m thinking to do,” I said.

  Then she slept. I held her close to me, and I lay looking up at the stars, watching the slow rise and sway of sparks against the dark sky. I thought of Ely and Jacob, and tried to understand that I would not be with them again. For the first time, I recalled how Ely had been when we left.

  I must have slept. Kenton was waking me.

  “Your watch, Allen,” he said.

  I got up, feeling the cold eat into me as I moved from Bess. She murmured my name in her sleep.

  “You saw anything?”

  “Nothing,” Kenton said.

  He curled up by the fire. I leaned on my musket and watched the flames.

  IX

  IN THE morning, I awake to the sound of bugles from the encampment. We can’t be very far away. The bugles are thin, but they sound clear in the morning air.

  Bess, opening her eyes, looks at me and smiles. Her smile is a deep, happy awareness of my presence. She touches my face, passes her fingers across my beard.

  “You’re better?” I ask her.

  “Better. A hunger inside of me, but I can stand hunger, Allen. I’ve no fear of hunger.”

  Charley is feeding the fire. A moment later, Kenton comes across the field, holding a few frozen ears of corn.

  “We’ll break our fast on this,” he calls.

  “I wouldn’t think of breaking fast, but of getting out of here,” Charley says. “We’re too near to the encampment, and far enough away to be deserters.”

  “They’ll not stop us any more,” I say. “After last night, they’ll not stop us.”

  “We’ll go north and east,” Kenton says thoughtfully. “There are good roads through the Jersey bottoms.”

  “If we had horses——”

  Charley looks at us.

  “It’s horses—or dying in the snow,” I say.

  We toast the corn over the fire. It’s not fit food for a pig, but we eat it eagerly.

  “I dug it under the snow,” Kenton says. “It’s a wonder it stayed so long. The ground’s scraped clean of food.”

  “We can go east—to Norristown. It’s a good farmland over that way.”

  We finish the corn—close to the husk. We take our guns and look at the priming. Then we start off.

  We walk slowly in the direction of the King of Prussia Road. Last night was a lesson. We know how little strength we have, and that we must husband it. It’s cold this morning, but not so cold as last night. The sun comes up, clear and bright, making long blue shadows on the snow. The snow glistens, and each crystal shoots a tiny beam of light into our eyes.

  A sparkle in Bess’ eyes. She turns her face to me, showing me how long her steps are.

  “I’m a good walker, Allen—a fine good walker.”

  “A fine walker,” I agree.

  We’re all of us eager. Kenton steps out ahead, long strides, and confidence in the way he swings his heavy musket. We’re content that Kenton leads. He’s four years older than I am, a powerful man. Bess is like a boy, thin, her long dark hair twisted into braids. Charley sings snatches of song.

  Bess keeps glancing at me. She says: “You’ve no regrets, Allen?”

  “No regrets——”

  “I think of Ely,” Charley says. “I was never understanding men like Ely. A fearfully tolerant man.”

  “He might have come——”

  “He wouldn’t come without Jacob. There’s a deep bond between the two of them—for all the black murder in Jacob’s heart. There’s no other man Jacob ever loved, unless it was the Jew. I cannot make it out, but I’ve never seen such sorrow as Jacob had when the Jew died.”

  “I’m fearful of Jews,” Bess says. “I had not seen a Jew until I was fifteen. My mother said she’d show me a Jew some time, so I’d have a deeper knowledge of the Book.”

  “There were a pretty lot of Jews in Boston,” Charley says. “Sam Adams was a great one to bleed them. He’d spin them a fine tale of revolution and take their last shilling, and there was more respect for him for bleeding a Jew than for all his wild talk.”

  “It’s said Hamilton’s a Jew——”

  “He has the look in his eyes.”

  We’re near the road now. Kenton waits for us. He’s standing there, listening.

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  “We’re too near the camp. I’m thinking we should bide a while longer in the forest. Ye’re safer in the trees.”

  “We make better time on the road.”

  “It’s Quaker country hereabout. I’d put no trust in any Quaker.”

  “Or fear them—” I said confidently.

  We walk out on the road, Bess close to me. Now, again, seeing the stretch of open road before us, we realize the distances. Distances pile up for hundreds of miles to the snowy mountains that bind the Mohawk. Bess presses close, looks up at my face. I understand now that she knows, as I know, that she won’t go that great distance. There is no strength in her for that. She stands like a small, frightened boy, half-grown.

  She says: “Sometimes I’m afeard, Allen. Hold me.”

  “You hear anything?” Kenton demands.

  I shake my head. We walk on, along the road towards Norristown. We walk very slowly, feeling the cold more than before. A hundred yards more—we stop.

  “I hear horses,” Kenton says.

  “Not from the camp.” I can hear it now—a thudding muffled by the snow.

  Bess looks at me, shaking her head.

  “Not from the camp,” Charley cries. “It’s up the road.”

  “More than one horse.”

  “Farmers don’t ride like that.”

  “Get out—for the trees!” Kenton shouts.

  But there are fields on either side the road, trees only in the direction from which the sounds of horses are coming. A heap of snow on the side of the road suggests a stone wall underneath. Long shadows on the road, and a glare from the snow; it makes a scene to stay in my mind.

  We stand there like people who have lost all power of movement. Bess says:

  “I brought it on you, Allen. God forgive me——”

  Kenton leads the way off the road, Charley after him. Kenton stumbles, and Charley bends to help him to his feet. I take Bess’ hand and drag her through the drift against the stone wall. We climb over the wall. Kenton is stumbling along, like a man who has been shot.

  I turn round, see a dozen men on horse coming down the road.

  “McLane’s raiders,” Kenton sobs.

  A man pulls out in front, and I hear him crying for us to halt. They begin to gallop and the thud of their horses’ hoofs is like a drumbeat in my ears. I drag Bess along.

  Kenton and Charley are waiting for me. They see that with Bess I can’t reach the woods before the cavalrymen, but nevertheless they wait. They hold their muskets before them.

  I cry: “Don’t shoot—for God’s sake. Run for it!”

  We’re almost at the trees. I think that we’ll make it. I sob with pain of the running.

  Some of the horses are floundering in the snow. The man out in front cries: “Stop or we’ll fire!”

  “The hell with you!” Kenton screams. “Keep a run, Allen! They’re lost in the snow!”

  I glance back once more. We’re almost up to Kenton and Charley. They’ve lowered their muskets and are starting toward the trees. But the men are dismounting, dropping from their horses.

  A blast of musketry crashes behind us. Bess is torn from my hand, crying.

  Kenton sees; he runs toward me, cursing, Charley after him. I face round and the cavalrymen are closing in on us. I see it all in a red haze, and I
fire. Kenton and Charley too; like machines, their muskets go off. I notice one of the cavalrymen falling, so slowly that the picture is impressed permanently upon my mind. I look at Bess, and try to understand what has happened. Bess lies in the snow in a little heap.

  They close in on us, and there’s no fight left. I wonder-why we fired. They’re like us, bearded, ragged, their feet bound in bloodstained cloths. They’re like us, thin, worn.

  They hold onto us. I strain to get away—to Bess. I say: “Let me go to her! God damn you—you’ve got us now. Let me go to her!”

  McLane stands in front of us. He’s a young man, clean-shaven except for a small moustache, wearing white breeches and a good blue coat, sword, pistol, a cocked hat. As he stands there, panting, his breath steams out.

  “Deserters?” he asks. Behind him, two men are carrying the one I saw fall. McLane whirls round. “Who is it?”

  “Dave Seely——”

  “He’s hurt?”

  We all see it. The man is shot through the head. Vaguely, I wonder whose bullet it was—thinking of Bess. Whose bullet there?

  “You filthy swine!” McLane says to us. “You damned, cowardly swine! You’ll hang for this if I have to gibbet you myself.”

  Kenton stares sullenly. Charley says: “Let him go to his woman. You shot his woman.”

  I try to tear loose. Some of the men are turning Bess over. I scream: “Hands off her! Christ, leave her alone!”

  “It’s a woman,” one of them says.

  I plead: “Let me go to her. You have us now. That’s enough, isn’t it? Let me go to her.”

  “Hold your damned tongue!”

  “Let me go to her—” I pull loose. I don’t know how, but I pull loose, and nobody tries to stop me. I run over to Bess, and the men who are bending over her stand aside. I kneel down next to her. She’s shot somewhere in the body, because all the front of her clothes is stained with blood.

  I rub her cheeks. She opens her eyes, and I keep rubbing her cheeks.

  “Allen,” she says.

  I can’t say anything. You fight in an army for two years, and you know a death wound; you know the sign of it in a man’s eyes. She knows; the deep knowledge of it in her eyes. What can I say?

  She says: “Allen—I brought a wrong on you. I’m no fit woman for a man.”