by Ron Carter
He pushed it aside. He would wait. While he was putting things back into the medical chest, he spoke once again.
“I don’t know what we’ll do with these blacks once we reach Cape Charles.” He paused to look about the decks of the small schooner where the blacks were standing or sitting in groups, wrapped in blankets to hide their nakedness, and for warmth. They had been fed their first hot meal of decent food in two months.
Matthew went on. “The ones we took out of the water are legally ours. The ones we got out of the hold are still owned by Stenman. What do we do? I can’t stay with them at Cape Charles, and I can’t take them all north. There are one hundred seventy-two of them here and on the Helga. Far too many for the Carrie and there’s no time to get a bigger ship. They’re all sick with dysentery. Some will die. I can’t stop to take care of them because my orders are to find General Washington.”
Caleb raised both arms, worked his left arm, testing the restraint of his wrapped chest. “Looks like we have a problem.”
Matthew said, “Let’s talk to Primus.”
Caleb turned, found Primus, and waved him over. For a moment the three sat in silence before Matthew spoke.
“Can you understand these people? Talk to them?”
Primus nodded. “Some.”
“Where are they from?”
“Africa. Maybe the coast. On the west. Strange dialect but I get some of it. Most of it.”
Matthew paused while he collected his thoughts. “We can’t take these people with us. The ship’s too small and there’s no time. If we leave them at Cape Charles, back at the entrance into the Chesapeake, what will happen to them?”
Primus’s eyes opened wide. “Bad. All bad. Can’t talk American. Got no clothes. No place to go. Nothing to eat. Sick. Dying. They be taken for slaves by the firs’ white man finds ’em.” Primus bowed his head with a sadness in his face, knowing the hopeless truth. In this country, his people were considered less than human.
Matthew cleared his throat, then continued. “Let me make a suggestion. What would happen if you and Caleb stayed with them? Moved them north, overland? Up the Chesapeake, through Virginia, on to Massachusetts, or maybe Vermont. Somewhere north where we can get help for them?”
Caleb stiffened, stunned. “You mean walk? No food, no clothing? Walk that distance with those sick people? Through slave country?”
“No. Ride.” He pointed to his cabin. “I have the war chest from the Helga in there. Over six thousand Spanish dollars, and nearly sixteen hundred pounds British sterling. More than enough to buy wagons and horses to carry these people. Food, clothing, blankets, medicine.”
“You mean to take the Dutchman’s money? Robbery?”
“I don’t know if it’s robbery. I’m ready to call it a settlement for towing their ship and crew to a safe port. But no matter what we call it, I’ll use some of that money if it will save some of these people. There’ll be enough left to get the Dutch crew home.”
A reckless grin crossed Caleb’s face. “Sounds fair to me.”
Matthew moved on. “It’s risky. I can spare you two, and two more men to help with the livestock and wagons. You’ll have to teach a few of the Africans how to drive horse teams. There’s a dozen things could go wrong. I won’t order you to do it. You’ll have to volunteer. You two, and two more.”
Caleb stood, favoring his left side. “Give me a minute.” He walked away, among the crew, to return in three minutes.
“We got the volunteers.”
Matthew nodded. “One more thing. These Africans are our property. I’ll have to make a bill of sale to you giving you legal title, in case someone stops you and demands proof that they aren’t runaways. I’ll have that ready when we put you ashore. As captain of the Carrie I also have authority to pick my officers. I’ll give you my written commission as first mate. If anyone challenges you, it might help if you’re an officer in the United States Navy.”
For a moment Caleb stood still, shaking his head in wonderment. “Me? A slave owner and a naval officer?” He raised a hand and continued. “What about Primus?”
Matthew looked at the African long and hard. “He’s a free man. I will not put his name on a bill of sale that makes him property.”
For a brief moment a light came into Primus’s eyes as he understood what Matthew had said, and then it faded, as it always did.
Notes
British Admiral Rodney was ordered by the Crown and Parliament to protect British interests in the West Indies (Bahamas) and Jamaica particularly. French Admiral de Grasse, after his victory over the British in the Battle of Chespeake Bay, was under orders to attack British interests in the West Indies and capture Jamaica if possible. British Admiral Hood joined Rodney, which raised the British ship count to thirty-six, three more than the French had. Then through a series of unusual mishaps the French lost the use of five of their ships, and the British engaged them. The result was the capture of Admiral de Grasse’s ship and five others, and a resounding British victory in the West Indies, wherein Admiral de Grasse himself was taken prisoner. The engagement commenced April 9, 1782, as herein indicated. The battle was referred to as the Battle of the Saints, because it was fought near the island of St. Lucia. The Carrie and the Helga are fictional vessels, as are their crews.
General Washington was deeply concerned that when they could, the British would return to blockade all American ports on the eastern seaboard. For this reason he was anxious to remove all supplies and munitions from Yorktown and Gloucester to a place where the British would be less able to recapture them. Head of Elk, Maryland, was selected. However, the British had determined to abandon the Americas to protect their interests in the West Indies, and did not reenter the Chesapeake. For a complete analysis see Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, pp. 444–58. See also the map on page 340, which includes the Chesapeake Bay, Head of Elk, Cape Charles, and Cape Henry; Freeman, Washington, pp. 493–95.
For a discussion of sailing ships, their construction, the art of tacking, the language commonly used, and other detail as set forth in this chapter, see generally Cutler, Queens of the Western Ocean; Jobe, The Great Age of Sail, p. 151 and other supporting pages.
Slavery was a legal business at the time set forth in this chapter, and ships from most foreign ports, including the Dutch, regularly entered American waters and ports with slaves bound for American markets. The throwing of slaves overboard for reasons of sickness or ship damage or lack of food, occurred regularly. The inhumane, deplorable conditions in the hold of such ships, where the slaves were held, were as described. In the years between 1760 and 1800 such ships were often called “tight packers” because the slaves were packed so tightly in the hold.
For information regarding the locations in Africa from which slaves were obtained, and the number of slaves from each, between the years of 1662–1867, as well as a listing of the nine countries most prominently involved in the slave trade, see Klein, The Atlantic Slave Trade, Appendix A.1, pp. 208–11.
Newburgh, State of New York
May 9, 1782
CHAPTER V
* * *
They came sweating on cantering horses, the three of them, in single file on the road winding its way through the thick forest of the Hudson River Valley toward the American Continental Army camp at Newburgh, sixty miles north of the city of New York, on the west bank of the great water highway. An American captain leading with a white flag on a pole thrust into a stirrup socket, a British major in full dress uniform, riding ramrod straight, proud, chin high, and an American sergeant following, his long Pennsylvania rifle unslung and resting across his thighs, thumb on the hammer, finger on the trigger. They rode wordlessly, eyes constantly moving, watching in the heat of the late spring day, on jaded mounts that showed a crust of dried, white lather where the bridle straps chaffed their jaws and the saddle girths worked their bellies.
They rounded a curve where the packed dirt road moved away from the great river, then straightened,
and they saw the first rows of white tents two hundred yards ahead where the trees thinned on the south edge of the army camp. Two pickets, a private and a corporal, stepped into the road, muskets at the ready, bayonets fixed. The private stood silent while the corporal challenged the riders.
“Who comes there?”
The American captain pulled his horse to a stop, and the others reined in. “Captain Nicholas Carruthers. Pennsylvania Second. Bringing a British messenger to General Washington.”
The corporal’s eyes widened. “A prisoner?”
“Not a prisoner. Messenger. Under this white flag. He has a sealed letter.”
“For Gen’l Washington? A letter? From who?”
Carruthers masked his irritation. “General Sir Guy Carleton. Commander of British forces in the United States.”
The picket started. “Carleton? I thought Clinton was down there. Can I see it? I’m supposed to see it.”
Carruthers shook his head. “No. For the eyes of General Washington only.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve come sixty-two miles since four o’clock this morning. These horses are used up. So are we. The general needs this message. Do we pass, or not?”
“I’m supposed to look at that message. I can’t just—”
Carruthers leaned forward, his eyes hard, voice menacing, “What’s your name, Corporal?”
The picket reached nervous to wipe at his mouth. “You can pass, sir. You can pass right on.” The two on the ground stepped aside. Carruthers tapped spur and raised his reluctant horse to a ground-eating trot, followed by his tiny column of two. While they were yet fifty yards from the first tents, the rasping sound of saws grinding rungs of wood from dead pine trunks and the ring of axes at the woodlot, splitting the rungs into kindling reached them, then slowed, then stopped. The crew of sweating men, stripped to the waist, paused to peer at the odd sight of a white flag over what was clearly an American captain, a British major in full military uniform, and a grizzled sergeant, riding spent horses past them into the heart of their camp.
Sixty yards to the east, Sergeant Alvin Turlock of the Massachusetts Fourth Regiment turned from the detail of men that was setting up the huge iron tripods and kettles for evening mess and squinted to study the strange sight of two Americans bringing a British officer to the small log home that served as headquarters for General George Washington. They passed the forty-foot flagpole with the American flag hanging limp in the afternoon heat and drew rein before the hitching posts, where four bay horses were already standing hip-shot. Two enlisted soldiers were tending the mounts while two more stood picket duty at the building entrance.
The three weary riders dismounted to stand stiff-legged, straightening their backs in the fashion of men who have been too long in the saddle, handed the reins of their horses to a waiting private, and walked to the door where two armed pickets stopped them. From a distance, Turlock turned his head slightly to the right, straining to hear what he could with his good left ear. He heard the voices, but could not make out the words. He watched the door open, and the three disappeared into the dim light inside.
“Somethin’ peculiar goin’ on,” he muttered to himself. He turned back to his evening mess crew. “Well, whatever it is, evening mess won’t wait. Awright, you lovelies, get yer backs into it. Fires to build, venison to cut, potatoes to cut. Leave the winter sprouts on ’em and put ’em right on into the mix.”
Favoring his right leg, the wiry little sergeant limped to the nearest tripod to hoist a heavy, round, smoke-blackened, three-legged kettle onto the iron hook that dangled on a chain from the apex of the tripod.
He turned to two privates and pointed to four battered wooden buckets with rope handles. “Fetch the water.” He gestured to two enlisted men near the stacked kindling. “Get the fire goin’. This meat won’t cook itself.”
Steam was rising from the kettles when the lanky sergeant who had ridden as armed escort for Carruthers and the British major came striding toward Turlock, rifle held loosely in his right hand.
“You Sergeant Turlock?”
The man was tall, angular, with a huge square jaw and sunken eyes. His jaw had been broken as a boy, and he talked from one side of his mouth. His voice was high, and he spoke softly.
Turlock answered. “Yes. You?”
“Sergeant Ephraim Quillen. Pennsylvania Second. I come in with Cap’n Carruthers and that British major.”
“I saw.”
“They said I might get supper with your company.”
Turlock shrugged. “Got a bowl? Cup?”
“Over on my horse.”
“Get in line when we call. Venison stew and black bread and the bitterest coffee in the army.”
Quillen grinned. “It’ll have to go some to beat what I been drinkin’ down the river.”
“Down the river?”
“Near Fort Lee on the New Jersey side. Watchin’ to keep the British set in New York.”
“Fort Lee? That’s right across the river from New York. The British thinkin’ about comin’ across the river? Or maybe up this way?”
“Naw. Other way around. You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The British Parliament cleaned out that whole bunch that was bent on beating us. All of ’em. Gone. Done it last month, almost overnight.”
Turlock stood in silent disbelief. Quillen went on.
“Then they put in a new bunch that’s given up on beating us. We aren’t worth the trouble, they said, and decided the only thing on this side of the Atlantic worth keeping is Jamaica and a few islands down in the West Indies. Rum. Sugar. So they said, forget the United States. Send our navy and soldiers down there to keep the profits coming from the sugarcane. That’s what they done.”
“You know this for true?”
Quillen nodded. “That’s what I’m told.”
Other soldiers had begun to drift in, listening. For a moment Turlock stood still, his mind racing.
“What’s that British major doing up here under a white flag to see Gen’l Washington?”
Quillen shook his head. “Don’t know. Nobody told me. I was sent along with my rifle should someone take exception to our comin’. But I got a notion about it.”
“What notion?”
“It won’t be no surprise to me if he’s here to invite Gen’l Washington to some sort of a peace talk.”
Turlock’s head jerked forward. “You mean we’re gettin’ close to the end of this war?”
“My best guess.”
Turlock rounded his mouth and blew air. “I was startin’ to think I’d never see the day.”
The call came from behind him, loud. “Mess is ready!”
Fifteen minutes later sergeants Turlock and Quillen were seated on a log blowing on smoking chunks of venison and potato, singeing their lips as they tried the first load from their wooden spoons. For a brief moment Quillen glanced at the right side of Turlock’s head, then back at his steaming bowl. Without turning, Turlock spoke.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”
Color rose in Quillen’s face. “Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right. Take a look. I got to look at it ever’ day.”
For five seconds Quillen studied the right side of Turlock’s head. The skin was pitted and parchment-stiff, with a spiderweb of small cracks that showed pinpoints of dried black blood. His beard was spotty on that side, and his right ear was partly missing where dead gristle had been cut away. Random strands and small clumps of hair had tried to grow.
“None of my business, but it looks like you was standin’ awful close to somethin’ when it blew up.”
“October nineteenth of last year. British Redoubt Number Ten at Yorktown. We stormed it before dawn. Cannon about four feet away went off. Seems like I didn’t need somethin’ like that to make me uglier’n I already was, but that’s what happened. Couldn’t hear on the right side for near three months, and I still got to turn my head some to hear things straight. Memory partly gone, but
she’s comin’ back. Hair and skin on that side’ll never be the same.”
Quillen stared in awe. “You was with the ones who took those two redoubts?”
“We took ten, the French took nine.”
“I was on the west side of the Yorktown fight. We heard about what you done at those redoubts over on the east. Couldn’t hardly believe it.”
“Well, that’s what happened.”
Suddenly Turlock raised his head and lowered his spoon, watching something behind Quillen. Quillen turned to see a lieutenant trotting toward them and glanced at Turlock for an explanation.
“One of Gen’l Washington’s aides. Wonder what he wants.”
The young lieutenant stopped at the first cluster of men taking their evening mess. They stood and came to loose attention as he spoke, and Turlock turned his head to hear.
“The general wants to see a Lieutenant Billy Weems and a Scout Eli Stroud. Anybody know the whereabouts of either of them?”
Turlock stood and called, “You looking for Weems?”
The man came trotting. “The general wants him. Know his whereabouts?”
“Yes, sir.” Turlock pointed. “He’s at the officer’s mess, right over there. Reddish hair, built strong.”
“Stroud?”
Turlock shrugged. “He’s wherever you find him. Weems might know.”
The young, smooth-faced officer turned on his heel and was gone at a run. Turlock sat back down and stirred his stew for several seconds.
“Wonder what that’s about?”
Quillen interrupted. “You know this Weems?”