Conceived in Liberty

by Howard Fast

  “You can go to hell, sir,” Charley said.

  The regular motion of the quirt against the boy’s thigh didn’t stop. As if he hadn’t heard Green. He shifted his gaze to the chimney over our heads.

  “You’ll be court-martialed this afternoon,” he said. “You’ve raised a fuss. You’ll be a shining example on a gibbet on Mount Joy.”

  “All right,” Kenton said. “Get out of here.”

  Hamilton got off the table; he had control: he walked up to Kenton, and I waited for the quirt to cross Kenton’s face. Then the boy shrugged.

  “I’m to defend you.”

  Charley laughed. His laugh was more than words.

  “We don’t need anyone to defend us,” Kenton said.

  “My orders are to defend you.”

  Charley kept on laughing. I stood up and walked to a window. Beyond the walls of the redoubt, I could see the snow stretching away to the trees that lined the bank of the Schuylkill. The morning sun made colours on the snow, delicate colours of yellow and violet, tints of brown, stray bits of green, colours of life and of spring. I thought of the Jew’s words before he died. Spring like an awakening; spring like the hand of God reaching down and caressing the earth, spring with a softening of the earth, so that a man could die and go to the bosom of the soil.

  When I turned round, Hamilton was lighting a pipe, a long-stemmed, Dutch clay pipe, the kind the burghers smoke, sitting in front of their shops at Albany, the kind you see racked round the wall in any small up-country village tavern. He had bent over to take a burning twig from the blaze, and now he was blowing clouds of blue tobacco smoke toward the ceiling.

  It must have been in my eyes, on my face, all the longing of a condemned man for tobacco. For weeks we had not smoked; for weeks we had not tasted the odour of tobacco.

  He looked at me, that curious smile coming on his face again. Impulsively, he offered me the pipe.

  I hold out my hand. Kenton and Charley are looking at me. Whatever they thought before, I’m open to them now. I take the pipe in my hand. I go forward a step or two, and offer it to Kenton.

  He doesn’t move.

  Charley whispers: “Christ!”—his whisper hoarse, loud, breaking up in his throat. He takes the pipe and puffs on it. He watches the smoke, passes his hand through the smoke, smiles childishly. He gives the pipe back to me.

  I smoke slowly, just a puff or two. Kenton nods, and I give it to him. He puffs; then, suddenly, he throws the pipe across the room, shattering the clay bowl and stem to bits.

  Hamilton, still smiling, watching us. Kenton with his face in his hands. Charley Green walks back and forth. I say to Hamilton:

  “They’ll hang us today?”

  He shrugs.

  “We don’t want any pity!” Kenton cries. “By God, what do any of you know, tight in your houses, eating, drinking?”

  Hamilton says, slowly: “I had dry bread this morning—two slices. I had a little meat yesterday. It was the General’s dinner. He forced me to eat it——”

  Charley laughs.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Kenton says: “Why don’t they hang us? Why don’t they hang us and get it over with?”

  “They’ll hang you,” Hamilton says. “They’ll hang you high enough——”

  He goes back to the table, hooks a leg over it, remains there, watching us. I stand by the window. Kenton gets up, awkwardly, painfully, goes over and looks at the shattered pipe.

  Hamilton says: “Tell me what happened.”

  “We deserted,” I say. “We’re Mohawk men, and we had it in our minds to walk to the Valley country.”

  He looks at me, at Charley and Kenton. He sees three men who are as thin as men can be—and remain alive; bearded and ragged, none of us wearing shoes. His eyes go to our feet.

  “You were going to make that journey?”

  I nod. I walk over, sit down, try to hide my feet from his gaze.

  “You had no food to take with you?”

  “We are used to that.”

  “Were there any more—only you three?”

  “There was a girl with us—who was shot by McLane’s men.”

  “A girl,” he murmured. “That’s a point against the dashing Captain McLane. Something to remember. Who was she, a wife to any of you?”

  “She was no fit woman to be a man’s wife,” I say. “She was a follower of the camp.”

  “Whose woman?” Hamilton asks.

  “She was my woman——”

  “She was killed instantly?”

  “She died in my arms——”

  Kenton cries: “Can’t you see the pain in him? Leave us alone!”

  “You killed one of McLane’s men,” Hamilton says, ignoring Kenton. “Who fired first, his men or you?”

  “We fired after he killed the girl.”

  “And which one of you killed the man?”

  “I did,” Kenton says.

  Charley breaks in: “We shot from our sides without aim. There’s no saying who killed him.”

  Hamilton stares at Kenton. Again, he seems to be a boy, not more than half-grown at that. The smile goes out of his face. He goes over to Kenton, and holds out his hand.

  “You’ll take my hand?”

  Kenton stands stiffly, not moving. Then Hamilton walks out.

  XII

  WE WAIT, without knowing what we are waiting for. We stare at each other with lifeless eyes. We sit close to the fire, but we don’t speak. As if we are used up and all of our words are used up.

  Kennedy comes in. Beyond him, through the door, we see a guard of eight men. Kennedy has a long leather thong with him, buckles hanging from it. He avoids our eyes, and he stands by the table, staring out of the window.

  “Stand up,” he says.

  He comes over to us, buckles the strap from neck to neck. When he comes to me, I tear away.

  “We’re to be drummed like beasts?” I cry.

  “My orders——”

  “Christ!—I’ll not be saddled like a beast. Why don’t you draw your sword on me? Why in hell don’t you draw your sword on me? You God-damned filthy-bellied swine, why don’t you draw your sword and kill me?”

  Kenton grips my arm. “Allen—Allen, there’s no use making it worse.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kennedy says.

  I try to cover my face with my hands. Outside, it’s biting cold, but clear, and the snow has the glowing sheen of cold sunshine. The men of the guard move restlessly, trying to warm themselves. Two drummers stand just beyond them. As we come out, they break into the roll for condemned men.

  The guard walk behind us with fixed bayonets. They have no identity as men—eight beggars like ourselves, their bayonets rusty and bent. The drummers are in front, beating out their roll. Once, Charley falls, and we all go down in a heap; the band is tearing my neck, choking me.

  The guard help us to our feet. One of them is a grey-bearded old man. He says:

  “Walk easy, son. We’ve time.”

  Kennedy is out in front. He doesn’t glance back at us, even when we fall. He walks slowly, his head bent over. We pass the rifle pit, and the men on duty stare at us, but not with too much curiosity.

  We go through a line of dugouts, and some of the troops come out to watch us.

  “You’d make right fine eating,” someone calls.

  We march on, until we come to the stone house where Washington has his quarters. It’s a fine, tall two-storey house, with a long stable next to it. We go round to the front, and the guard stop before the door, beat their roll to a mounting crescendo, and then rattle their sticks into silence. Kennedy takes us in.

  He takes us through the house to the rear righthand room on the first floor. Inside, there are six officers; seated at a large round table near the fire. Hamilton is at a camp table near the window, writing. When we come in, he glances up, nods at us. Another officer stands next to a tall clock. By the door, chairs are placed for us, and Kennedy motions for us to sit down. We sit dow
n awkwardly, the straps drawing us together.

  One of the officers stands up. I recognize Anthony Wayne. He says: “Why are those men lashed together?”

  “Colonel Varnum’s orders, sir,” Kennedy replies.

  “And who in hell is Varnum? By God, they’re Pennsylvania men! Tell Varnum to keep his damned fat nose out of my men.”

  “But it’s customary,” one of the men at the table breaks in.

  “To hell with your customs. Untie them.”

  Kennedy unties us, goes out. I glance at Hamilton; he sits by the window, wrapped tight in his coat, smiling. Wayne sits down and stares at the table. I watch the officers; some of them I recognize: Greene, Lord Stirling, Colonel Conway, General Scott. There’s an empty chair in the centre; they seem to be waiting for someone. They drum impatiently with their fingers on the top of the table. Wayne fidgets with a sheet of paper he holds in his hands. None of them look at us.

  It’s cold in the room, in spite of the fire. The rustle of the fire intermingles with the dull ticking of the clock. For a while, I listen to the ticking; then I stare at the clock. It’s half an hour past one. I look at the clock curiously, time has disappeared for so long, the time that moves on the face of a clock. It moves with short, nervous jerks. I bring time back; I try to watch the hand move.

  Outside the frosted window, a ragged sentry paces back and forth. The clock tinkles out the half-hour.

  I look at Charley, at Kenton. They are staring straight ahead. Neither of them has spoken since we left the guard-house. I feel childish, light-headed, full of interest in the clock, in the shiny table, in the bits of lace at the officers’ throats. I stare at a hatrack in one corner, all full to overflowing with cocked hats. One of them has a cock loose, and I wonder whose hat that is.

  An orderly enters, bearing a pewter pot of water and some pewter cups. Everyone glances at him. He puts the stuff down on the table, salutes, and goes out.

  It was fifteen minutes later on the clock when Washington came in. He came in wearing a long, loose blue cloak, his hat under his arm. The officers rose as he entered; he motioned them back to their seats. He went to the rack in the corner, perched his hat there, and began to unknot the collar of his cloak. Hamilton was next to him; he smiled a bit as Hamilton helped him off with his cloak. Hamilton whispered a few words, and the General nodded. Then he went to his seat at the table.

  The presence of Washington seemed to fill the room—a tall man, broad, a big face. He appeared years older since that last time, when he spoke to us on the parade ground. His face had fallen in.

  After he had seated himself, Hamilton went to the table and placed a sheaf of papers in front of the General. Washington thumbed through them, took out his glasses, then wiped them slowly and put them on. He read a little—then looked at us.

  General Greene said: “Sir—it’s damnably cold in here.”

  If we’re to get this business over with——”

  “I’m aware of the cold, General,” he said shortly.

  He kept his eyes on us. We had risen when he came in; we were still standing. He studied us carefully; his eyes rested for a long time on our feet. When he spoke, his voice was very low:

  “You are here before a military court of your superiors. on charges of desertion and murder. If you are found guilty, you will be publicly hanged before the assembled brigades. I want you to understand the gravity of the charges and of the sentence that may be imposed upon you.”

  We nodded.

  He turned to the officer who stood by the clock, and said:

  “Read your charges, Colonel Mercer.”

  Mercer was a tall, bearded man, with small grey eyes. He walked over to the table and began to read:

  “A charge brought forward by Captain John Muller, of the Fourteenth Pennsylvania Regiment, that on the night of February sixteenth, seventeen hundred and seventy- eight, three men deserted from his brigade. The names of these men are as follows: Charles Green, Kenton Brenner, and Allen Hale. That they willfully deserted is proven by the fact that they made their way out of the set boundaries of the encampment without reporting their action, taking with them full arms and ammunition, bayonets, and muskets, and being in uniform——”

  Kenton laughed. His laugh was hoarse and loud, and he swayed back and forth. I gripped his arm.

  Wayne rose, glaring at us. The General stared at us, his thin mouth set tightly. Hamilton rose and went to the table. “Your excellency,” he said, “I beg you to ignore this. The men are half-starved, certainly not in uniform.”

  “We’re none of us overfed,” Washington said.

  “Will you grant them the court’s pardon?”

  “A dozen lashes would cool that laugh,” Conway said.

  “Or a gibbet,” Lord Stirling added.

  The General nodded. He said to Mercer: “Go on.”

  “In the following order, they confessed the fact that they were deserters to Captain Allen McLane, Captain Kennedy, and Colonel Varnum.”

  To Hamilton, Washington said: “Have you anything to say, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If you desire,” Colonel Mercer said, “I can call any of the officers I have mentioned. They hold themselves at my disposal.”

  “That will not be necessary. Do you wish to call any witnesses, Mr. Hamilton?”

  Hamilton shook his head.

  To us: “Do you dispute the truth of these charges?”

  We stood as we were. There was no heart in us to say anything.

  “The prisoners will answer the court.”

  Kenton said, shrilly: “The muskets were ours—mine from my father, and Allen’s from his. We had no uniforms and we had no money to buy clothes for our backs or shoes for our feet. We were noways doing a wrong thing. There’s no war, and we thought of the Valley land …” His voice died way.

  Charley said: “He has no thought to offend these men, Mr. Hamilton.”

  Wayne said, coldly: “You will address your advocate as Colonel Hamilton.”

  We stand there, silent again. We feel helpless. We move our feet uneasily, glance down at the filthy wrappings that cover them.

  Washington said: “Mr. Wayne, do you have anything to say in behalf of these men? They are in your command.”

  “Nothing.”

  Hamilton said: “Your excellencies, may I ask the court to extend its mercy?”

  Washington tapped the top of the table with a quill. Greene was whispering something to him. He said a few words to Wayne, softly, and Wayne shook his head. Finally, Washington said:

  “The court finds you guilty of desertion with arms. Out of respect to Mr. Hamilton’s request, the court with-holds a decision of desertion in face of the enemy. The court sentences you to twenty lashes each before the assembled brigades of the Pennsylvania Line.”

  Hamilton stepped forward and said: “I thank you for your leniency, sir.”

  We wait there, still not moving, the strain of standing so long on our feet beginning to tell on us. I glance at Kenton and Charley, and both their faces are set in masks. I wonder what my face is like. I touch my beard. I look at Kenton again. There is a certain dignity about him. His thin yellow beard juts out from his chin; his moustache droops. I say to myself, “He’s seen twenty-five winters, only twenty-five.” But he has become ageless, old; a marvellous mesh of little lines is etched about his eyes.

  We wait, and I wonder what is meant by the first sentence. A sort of hope wells up inside of me. I have no fear of lashes, no fear of pain added to pain: only of a gibbet on Mount Joy, with the wolves leaping for my feet. I never felt life more, wanted life more than I do now, standing here.

  They are talking among themselves, heatedly. Wayne rises, kicking back his chair. Across the table Colonel Conway stands facing him.

  “I’ll have no slurs on my men, sir!” Wayne says.

  “I meant none.”

  Washington says, coldly: “Gentlemen, we are trying men for their lives.” He says to Mercer: “
Continue.”

  Mercer reads: “A charge brought by Captain Allen McLane of the First Continental Light Horse, that on the morning of February seventeenth, seventeen hundred and seventy-eight, returning from a foraging expedition, his party intercepted three deserters, who later gave their regiment as the Fourteenth Pennsylvania, and their names as follows: Allen Hale, Kenton Brenner and Charles Green; that these men were in uniform and under arms, and that they ignored repeated commands to halt for examination. That as they were about to be taken, they opened fire, killing one of Captain McLane’s men, David Seely. That they were taken on the King of Prussia Road, a mile and a half north of the Schuylkill. That there was a fourth member of their party, a woman, shot and killed by the fire of the light horse.”

  When he had finished reading, he placed his papers on the table. The officers handed them round. Washington took no notice of the papers; he kept his eyes on us.

  He said: “Mr. Hamilton, do you wish to deny any point in the charges?”

  Hamilton answered: “I should like to question Captain McLane, sir. I should like to call at least two of Captain McLane’s men, who were with him on the morning in question.”

  “The last will not be necessary. Colonel Mercer—will you have Mr. McLane in here?”

  Hamilton said: “As a point of justice, your excellency, I ask the court that it summon two more men to testify along with Captain McLane.”

  “The court denies your request. Captain McLane’s word is enough.”

  “Sir, I demand this. Captain McLane is prejudiced. Any cavalryman is against the foot.”

  “You forget yourself, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “I apologize. May these men be seated until the court calls them to speak?”

  “They may.”

  “I thank the court.”

  We drop into the chairs gratefully. We stare at our feet. Then our eyes go to the window. We sit there, men dumb as beasts, staring out the window.

  I feel an awful resentment at the whole business—at the trial, at the mockery of their reading our charges, at the well-dressed, warm officers sitting at the table. Who are they? What have they to do with us? What of the weeks when we lay in the dugouts, like diseased animals? How is it that they materialize now, to take hold of our lives, to hang us, as murderers and thieves are hanged? I know that they will hang us; I have no doubt of that. Only to draw it out, to play with something called justice, to make an example.