Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Caleb held his wooden bowl and cup to receive his morning ration of thick, boiled oats and coffee, and sat on a log with three others from his company to blow on the smoking mush for a moment. He glanced about at the eyes and faces of the men and the way they moved their hands, trying to gauge how close the entire camp was to the breaking point. The five months of a harsh Chesapeake winter had taken its toll. The bland sameness of the daily food rations made mess call a matter of choking food down to maintain strength. Mail had arrived once, in January, and men with wives and children in distant homes did not know if their families were alive or dead or starving or freezing in the cold and snows of a New England winter. Only small, disconnected bits of news of the fortunes of the war had trickled into camp. No one knew whether the Americans and British had fought it out in the north or whether the French and the British navies had collided in the West Indies to settle the stand-or-fall question of which country would control the American coast, and consequently, dictate the terms of what was left of the war.

  The mind-numbing monotony of inspection, mess, drill, and standing day and night picket duty guarding the mountain of supplies salvaged from Yorktown and Gloucester had turned the men surly, edgy, intolerant. Arguments erupted over nothing, then became heated, then exploded into bitter fights. Eight days before, four men in the same company had each claimed a small piece of seared pork at the evening mess. Tempers flared. One reached for his bayonet, and within seconds, two of them were groaning on the ground, doubled over, holding their midsections, close to dead. Scattered talk of mutiny had been heard in the quiet of the darkness after the tattoo drum sounded. The two questions that gnawed at the men incessantly were what and when? What would trigger open rebellion, and when would it happen?

  The sound of raised voices brought the head of every man in the company swiveling around to peer toward the docks, wide-eyed, suddenly alert, fearful the revolt had begun. They came to their feet to stare down the slight incline to the water where a knot of men were gesturing, pointing south, past the place where their own small fleet lay at anchor, unmoving in the flat, glassy waters of the Bay. All eyes raised to study the Chesapeake horizon to the south for a full minute before they saw the tiny speck. Another minute passed before it became a schooner moving slowly toward them, sails limp in the calm preceding the approaching storm. She was driven by six long oars, three on each side, stroking in rhythm.

  Mess Sergeant Darren Orme, aging, gray hair and beard, stoop shouldered, nose badly broken years earlier when a mare had kicked him, pointed with his large, wooden mush ladle, still coated with the morning’s cooked oats.

  “Which flag?” he rasped in his high, backwoods voice. He turned to Caleb. “Dunson, these eyes aren’t what they once was. Is she ours? French? British?”

  For long seconds Caleb studied the incoming fleck. “Can’t tell.”

  “How many? We got the whole British fleet comin’ in here?” Mortal concern was plain in his eyes.

  Caleb shook his head. “Looks like only one.”

  “One?” His grizzled old face wrinkled. “Most likely a scout snoopin’ to find out if we’re still here.”

  Caleb rounded his lips to blow air for a moment. “Maybe.”

  Orme turned back to the cook fire. “Well, this gawkin’ and guessin’ isn’t goin’ to change nothin’. We got chores. You men get at it.”

  The morning mess crew went grudgingly back to the kettles of steaming water to wash their utensils, while the other men went to the stream to rinse their own before turning to the relentless morning grind. Caleb tossed the water from his bowl and cup and spoon before he laid them on his blanket, then walked to the woodyard. He picked up a heavy splitting ax and waded through a blanket of ankle-deep wood chips to the nearest chopping block, picked a rung of pine from the stack, set it upright on the battered block, set his teeth, and swung the ax hard. In this army, only two things were certain: there would never be enough food, or enough firewood.

  An unusual hush held the camp as the men worked, constantly turning their heads to study the small craft creeping slowly up the bay, cutting a “V” in the glassy waters made black by the thickening overcast. Behind the craft, a thin purple line was creeping upward on the eastern horizon. Ten minutes passed before an officer with a telescope shouted, “American flag. She’s ours!”

  Every man in the company stopped to stare, with one question riding each of them. If the ship is American, why is she alone? A heavy foreboding crept into them as they stood still, watching the small incoming schooner.

  Suddenly Caleb’s eyes narrowed and his arm shot up to point. “She’s too low in the water! Been damaged. Bowsprit’s half gone. Two arms on the for’ard mast are crooked. She’s been shot up.”

  Anxious eyes probed the lines of the creeping schooner and began picking out the tiny black dots in the slack sails, where cannonballs had punched through. At five hundred yards they could see the splinters of the shattered stump of the bowsprit. Behind it, two cannon muzzles thrust through gun ports that had been cut on the main deck. Behind the makeshift gun ports, the railing was blown away in several places. The lower and middle arms on the forward mast were shot into two pieces. The hull showed four crude, jerry-rigged repairs where six, thirty-pound British cannonballs had smashed through above the waterline.

  “She gonna make it?” It was Primus’s voice, coming from behind Caleb, to his right.

  Caleb rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, judging. “She’ll make it.”

  The men watched with growing interest, reading in the damaged ship the unmistakable signs of a heavy sea battle. In their minds they were hearing the roar of the cannon and seeing the blood-slick carnage as grapeshot and cannonballs smashed into ships and ripped into the bodies of men. Slowly the wounded little ship came on, the three long oars on each side working in a slow cadence, their dipping breaking the smooth surface of the becalmed bay. At one hundred yards the officer with the telescope sang out, “Henrietta! Her name’s Henrietta!” Men all up and down the line looked at each other with the question in their eyes, but no one recognized the name.

  With the ship still fifty yards from the dock, Caleb narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. Incredulous, he blurted, “That captain! It’s Matthew!”

  Primus stared hard at the tall man standing erect at the bow, hatless, both hands on the rail, dark hair tied back, dark beard, his disheveled uniform spotted with dried black blood, calling orders to his skeleton crew as they lined the ship with the main dock. Primus squinted at the recognition of Matthew from their brief meeting at the battle of Yorktown.

  They heard the shouted command, “Ship oars,” and the long oars came dripping out of the water and raised to the vertical position to let the ship slow and glide thumping against the thick black timbers of the dock. Two-inch hawsers were thrown snaking from the ship, and eager hands looped them over the weathered pilings. Caleb and Primus had moved toward the dock and were jostling their way through the gather of men, as the crew of the Henrietta set the gangplank. They saw Matthew turn to his crew, his voice rising as he called orders.

  “Dead and wounded first.”

  From behind him came four men, dirty, barefooted, shirts and trousers speckled where blood had splattered and dried. Two of them each carried a blood-soaked canvas bag sewed shut with the stitching of a sailmaker. Matthew led them down the gangplank onto the dock. Weariness and anguish showed in his eyes as he faced the silent men gathered before him. His voice came loud and demanding.

  “Where’s a doctor? Your hospital? Get your doctor.”

  An officer quickly pushed to the front. “Just here,” he said, pointing. “Follow me!”

  Instantly a path opened through the crowd, and Matthew stepped to one side. He gestured to the four behind him to follow the officer, while he walked back to the gangplank, waiting for three more men who came in single file. The first carried a man in his arms like a sleeping baby, and Matthew’s jaw clamped shut at the sight. The left arm
of the unconscious man was missing below the elbow. The left foot was also gone, above the ankle. The stink of gangrene reached out from the dirty bandages. Behind him came a man leading a sailor whose face and head were swathed in strips of dried-blood-soaked sheeting. The injured sailor walked with halting steps, feeling his way, blind and deaf. The last man was half carrying a sailor who had both arms splinted and wrapped tightly to his ribs. Behind them came three other men, unwounded but dirty and exhausted.

  Matthew got them all ahead of him on the dock and followed them past the soldiers who stood quietly, watching, eyes dropping to the ground at the sight of the man who would go through the balance of his life in a world of silent blackness, and judging whether the gangrene that reached them like the stench of death would kill the unconscious man. None saw, nor did they think of the glories of war as the wounded and dying passed by.

  Without a word Caleb and Primus fell in behind Matthew to follow him the two hundred yards to the crudely built, makeshift log hospital. Sergeant Orme followed, with half a dozen men of the breakfast mess crew. A nurse held the door open as Matthew and his crew passed through into the twilight of the interior, while Caleb and Primus stopped at the door. Two doctors met Matthew at the first row of bunks, frames built of pine limbs with bottoms of woven ropes. Half the beds held sick and disabled men who propped themselves up on one elbow to watch the procession pass by. The strong odor of dysentery, carbolics, and stringents hung in the air like a pall, and Matthew and his men breathed light.

  The doctors took one look at the dead and wounded and drew a deep breath. The tall one, round shouldered and bespectacled, turned on his heel, and led the small column back to the corner of the large room where log partitions walled off a surgical suite. The shorter one, balding, husky, followed, face a study in controlled pain and anger. Inside the partition, the tall one removed his spectacles, rubbed bloodshot eyes, and turned to Matthew.

  “I’m Doctor Muhlman. I’m in charge here.”

  Matthew nodded. “Captain Matthew Dunson. Can you take on our dead and wounded?”

  Muhlman sighed. “The dead should go on down to the church for burial. We’ll take the wounded here.” He gestured with his head toward the unconscious man with the missing arm and foot. “Gangrene. We’ll start surgery in the next ten minutes. We’ll be lucky if . . .” His voice trailed off, and he did not finish the sentence.

  Matthew interrupted. “Do you need me here? I’ve got to see the commanding officer as soon as I can.”

  Muhlman’s eyebrows rose. “You have more wounded?”

  “No. But there’s a storm about three hours behind us. Someone’s got to get your ships and this camp ready.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yesterday it was close to a typhoon.”

  “You go. We’ll take care of this.”

  “Do you want my able men to help?”

  “No. We have enough.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Go.”

  “Where’s the church? For the two dead.”

  “Leave them here. We’ll handle it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Muhlman gave hand signs, and the shorter doctor nodded. Two nurses turned on their heels and went to the medicine cabinet in the corner to begin selecting bottles and instruments to lay out on a clean cloth. Matthew turned to his ten able-bodied men and gestured, and they followed him back through the rows of sick, glad to be free of the stench and the morbid feel of the dimly lit room. Matthew strode to the cluster of bearded men gathered near the door and spoke to the nearest one.

  “Could you tell me where to find your—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence, wide-eyed. “Caleb!”

  Caleb shifted his weight from one foot to the other. A casual grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, nearly hidden by his beard. “Matthew. Nice to have you come visit.”

  Matthew reached to seize his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  Caleb shrugged. “Good. Suffering a little from boredom, maybe, with everybody else around here. Until you came paddling that schooner.” He sobered. “I saw your dead and wounded. There was a battle?”

  “A big one. We’ll talk later. I have to get to the commanding officer.”

  He shifted his feet to move before he looked past Caleb at the round, black face of Primus.

  “Primus! I’m surprised to find you here.”

  Primus nodded. “Nice to see you again, Cap’n Matthew.”

  Matthew turned back to Caleb. “Where’s the commanding officer?”

  Caleb pointed. “Over there, maybe three hundred yards. Name’s Colonel Humphrey Edvalsen.”

  “Where’s General Rochambeau?”

  “Left on orders weeks ago. Want me to take you to Edvalsen?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  Caleb turned to Sergeant Orme. “All right with you?”

  Orme bobbed his head. “Get back as soon as you can.”

  Matthew broke in. “Sergeant, do you have any food you can spare? My men haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”

  Orme shrugged. “Mush. Coffee. Maybe some black bread.”

  Matthew turned. “You men go with the sergeant. I’ll find you later.”

  Caleb and Matthew, with Primus following, worked their way through the press of men, moving as fast as they could.

  “You have something for Edvalsen?” Caleb asked. “Orders?”

  “Not orders. Information. From Admiral de Grasse.”

  “De Grasse? What happened down there?”

  Matthew shook his head. “A battle. De Grasse was beaten.”

  Caleb gaped. “He what?”

  “Some bad mistakes. The French lost.”

  “Are the British coming here?”

  “Maybe. I doubt it. Where’s Colonel Edvalsen’s tent?”

  “No tent.” Caleb pointed to a small, crude log building of green lumber, jointed with mud and dried sea grass. “There.” One minute later the three of them stopped before the door and faced the picket. He eyed Matthew, then spoke in a soft Southern dialect.

  “You have business with the Colonel?”

  “Captain Matthew Dunson, lately with Admiral de Grasse down in the West Indies. I have critical information for the commander of this camp. I presume that is Colonel Edvalsen.”

  The picket looked at Caleb, then Primus, and it was impossible to miss the look of condescension that crossed his face as his eyes passed over the black man. Primus lowered his gaze to the ground, as he had done all his life when in the presence of a white man who looked at him as though he were less than a human being.

  The picket broke it off. “Both these men with you?”

  “This is my brother, Private Caleb Dunson. He was at Gloucester, and he’s been here since with the New York Company. Primus is one of us. Time is against us. I need to see Colonel Edvalsen.”

  “One moment.” The picket knocked then entered the dimly lit room, and thirty seconds later returned.

  “The Colonel will see you and your brother.”

  Caleb tensed and shifted one foot, balanced, ready, and spoke quietly. “Primus is a soldier in the Continental Army. He goes where we go.”

  For a moment hot anger flared in the picket’s eyes, then passed. “I didn’t mean anything. It was an oversight.”

  He stepped aside, and Matthew pushed past him, Primus next, and Caleb behind, as they entered the room and blinked while their eyes adjusted to the dim light. They stopped four feet from a rough-hewn desk, and came to attention. Edvalsen rose from his chair to face Matthew. He was average height, average build, with a trimmed beard, wearing a uniform that needed laundering. He was smoking a pipe that added to the blue haze already in the room. Even in the dim light, they could see a scar that ran horizontally on his right cheek, the evidence of a British musketball that had creased his face but could have killed him.

  Matthew saluted. “Captain Matthew Dunson, United States Navy. I arrived less than an hour ago bearing seal
ed information from Admiral de Grasse, intended for your eyes, as well as others.”

  Edvalsen returned the salute. “Colonel Humphrey Edvalsen, commander of this encampment.” His flat New England accent left no doubt he was not from the South. He gestured. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  The three of them drew up chairs fashioned from green pine wood.

  Edvalsen spoke. “You have a writing?”

  Matthew handed him a packet of tightly tied oilskin, and for three minutes the only sound in the dim room was the rustling of parchment as Edvalsen read and turned pages. He raised surprised eyes to Matthew.

  “The French were beaten down in the West Indies?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was navigator on De Grasse’s ship. Yes.”

  Edvalsen leaned forward on his elbows. “What happened?”

  “De Grasse was under orders to invade Jamaica and drive out the British. He had thirty-three ships of the line and enough troops to do it, but Admiral Rodney’s fleet joined Admiral Hood and brought the British fleet to thirty-six warships.”

  Edvalsen set the parchment aside, listening intently.

  “April 9 the British set out to catch the French. Admiral Hood and his squadron got separated from Rodney. For two days the French had their chance to entirely destroy Hood’s squadron, but de Grasse decided against it and held his course for Jamaica. Hood rejoined Rodney, and the two fleets entered into all-out battle near the Isle of the Saints. Thirty-three French against thirty-six British. The British captured five French ships, including de Grasse’s flagship. Right now, de Grasse is a prisoner in the hold of Rodney’s ship.”

  Slowly Edvalsen leaned back and tapped the document, incredulous. “De Grasse a prisoner, after what he did to the British here? Impossible!”

  Matthew said nothing, and Edvalsen continued.