by Ron Carter
He brought his thoughts back to the paper in his hand.
“Each officer in the Massachusetts Second Regiment will have his command present in the assembly hall following the midday mess, at two o’clock p.m. where they will be instructed in the details of mustering out. Other regiments will be mustered out in an orderly succession on a schedule that will be printed and circulated timely.”
For the first time the words took on meaning. His heart leaped, caught in a rush of thoughts and emotions. It’s over! The bloodshed is over! We won! Home—mother—Brigitte—Trudy—Matthew—home—home—freedom. We won! He sat still, letting it run. Slowly the flood of thoughts settled and he was aware of but one all-encompassing, humbling impression. The Almighty was there through it all—eight long years of suffering and bloodshed—He was there.
In that private place where he lived alone with himself and his conscience, Billy knew. History would give the impossible victory to the Americans, but it belonged to the Almighty. Billy swallowed at the lump in his throat, and gave it time to settle before he finished reading the document.
“Officers of the Massachusetts regiments are to instruct their commands—be present at the Assembly Hall—two o’clock p.m. for mustering out.”
Quickly he set aside the beginnings of his letter to Brigitte, turned down the lamp wick, shrugged into his officer’s tunic, and walked out the door into the dawn. For a moment he stopped in the warm, clean, still air. The heavens were a dome of endless gray-blue overhead, and the forest a carpet of rich green, flooded with the reds and golds and blues of unnumbered summer flowers. The music of the birds filled the air as they flitted on business known only to themselves, feathered like royalty with every color in the rainbow. For a moment Billy paused, humbled by the renewal of life that was all about him, awed by the handiwork of his Creator.
He was thirty yards from the morning breakfast fires of the enlisted men of his company when the familiar, high, twangy voice reached him.
“All right, you lovelies. You’re still in the army, and morning mess won’t cook itself. Git to it.”
Billy grinned in his beard as he watched Sergeant Alvin Turlock straighten and turn toward him. Turlock’s eyes narrowed as he studied Billy.
“You look like the hawk that caught the frog. Somethin’ goin’ on?”
“Just got orders from Captain Rhodes. The mustering out of some of the army starts today. Two o’clock. Assembly hall. Have this company there.”
Turlock’s head jerked forward. “The orders finally come? For certain?”
“For certain.”
“This army is being mustered out today?”
“Part of it. At two o’clock.”
Turlock raised both hands above his head. “Hallelujah! I was beginnin’ to think the Almighty had forgot us. Praise be!”
“Be sure every man gets the order right. Two o’clock today, at the assembly hall.”
“They’ll get it right. We’ll have ’em packed and ready to go long before that.”
Billy spoke as he turned. “I’m going to find Eli.”
He trotted the worn dirt path to the huts that sheltered the twenty scouts of the Massachusetts Second Regiment, to find Eli standing near the morning cooking fire, his rifle leaning against a tree, intent on reading a copy of the NOTICE. Eli raised his head to locate Billy as he came on and gestured to the document in Billy’s hand.
“I see you got the notice.”
“Yes. Today’s the day.”
“Heard about how they intend paying the soldiers? Some have two years’ pay coming.”
“I don’t know about the enlisted. General Washington persuaded Congress to pay the officers their back pay and pensions over the next five years.”
“So I heard. I hope they can do it. But what about the enlisted? These men haven’t got enough money to get them home.”
Billy shook his head. “I don’t know what to expect. We’ll find out this afternoon. Two o’clock at the assembly hall.”
Eli folded the NOTICE and slipped it inside his shirt. “I’ll be there.”
The news raced through the camp like a lightning strike. Every tent, every hut, every place men gathered, loud, raucous talk filled the air. For the first time in memory, not one man complained about the cooking as they gathered and wolfed down their fried mush and hardtack. Drill was forgotten. Men washed their utensils and set them out to dry, then went to their tents or lean-tos to sort out their personal possessions from those owned by the United States Army. They laid out their blankets and began placing their belongings on them in preparation for rolling them up for the journey home.
They finished their midday mess and for the last time washed the huge kettles and tipped them upside down to drain and dry. Sweating in the heat of the sun directly overhead, they pulled down the tall, smoke-blackened tripods and stacked them near the woodpile. They did not add wood to the cook fires, which soon burned to glowing coals, then smoldering, gray ashes. They noticed the strange quiet of the absence of axes splitting firewood.
At half past one o’clock Turlock shouted his men together. “Fall in for a count. Wouldn’t do to leave a man or two behind.”
Five minutes later he shouted his next order. “For’ard . . . harch!”
There was an unexpected pride in them as they stepped out for the last time as a company of soldiers in the Continental Army. Their backs were a little straighter, their step a little more firm, and there was a certain swing to their arms and a trace of a swagger as they followed Sergeant Turlock to the assembly hall, where other companies were gathering, some already inside. He gave them the last order they would receive from him.
“Company . . . halt! Fall out and take a place inside the hall.”
He led them to the door and held it for them as they entered. They waited for a moment while their eyes adjusted to the gloom in the great room, which was lighted only by half a dozen small windows on each side. They stacked their muskets against the wall with the others already there, then took seats on the low, rough, backless benches. An American flag hung unmoving on a pole beside the lectern. Behind and to the left was a small room for those who were to conduct the meeting. The room was filled with a low undertone of talk. Just before two o’clock, the doors opened again and early summer sunlight flooded in while the last two companies entered to find seats.
At two o’clock the door to the small room squeaked as it swung open, and Captain Armand Rhodes walked directly to the pulpit, followed by Major Ulysses Dastrup and Colonel Josiah Spencer. Every man rose to his feet and came to attention. Average size, round-faced, receding chin, Rhodes carried a small wooden box that he placed on the floor beside the lectern, then straightened, and faced his command.
“Be seated, gentlemen.”
Benches creaked as the company sat down.
“I have been ordered by Colonel Spencer to conduct this matter. It will be necessary to call roll. The sergeants will answer for each company.”
He called the companies in order, and each sergeant answered, “All present or accounted for, sir.”
He set aside the Regimental Roster Book. “All companies are reported present.” He paused for a moment, then took a deep breath.
“As you know, today we gather for the last time as soldiers in this regiment, and in this army.”
Murmurs arose, and he waited until they quieted.
“On behalf of myself and Major Dastrup and Colonel Spencer, I want each of you to know, it has been an honor to serve with you. You have given your best in a victorious cause. It is doubtful any of us sees clearly and fully what you have done for your country, and for the world.”
The enlisted men moved and settled, sweating in the hot, dead air, waiting for the core of the business at hand, and Rhodes moved into it.
“I am ordered to inform you that for good reason, you are being placed on furlough today.”
Spontaneous exclamations broke out.
Furlough?
Not discha
rge?
We were told we are going to be discharged. Paid. Going home with our money and our land!
Rhodes raised a hand and waited for the tumult to recede.
“Let me explain. At this time there are still some parts of the peace treaty that must be agreed upon before it is complete and final. If you are discharged now, the Continental Army will cease to exist, and there will be no one to resist a British attack, should the peace agreement fail. Congress has learned that the peace treaty is now being framed by our representatives in Paris, and for that reason has concluded they can send you home at this time, but with furloughs, not discharges. When the peace treaty is signed, the furloughs will be considered discharges.
“Have I made this clear?”
Men came to their feet calling out.
“Can Congress pay us when the peace treaty is signed?”
“Furloughs for how long? Tell us how long before we get our pay.”
“I got a wife and five children been waiting two years for my pay. What do I tell them?”
“How are we going to be paid? Continental paper money? Worthless! We want hard specie—gold or silver!
“Gen’l Washington promised. Congress promised. Where are they now?”
Rhodes stood behind the lectern, hands gripping each side, white-knuckled, mouth clenched shut, eyes downcast as he waited until he could be heard above the fading uproar. His voice came hot, loud, commanding.
“You will be seated and remember that you are soldiers!”
Slowly the men sat back down and the room quieted. Rhodes went on.
“Thank you. With your furlough papers, you will be given a voucher for three months’ back pay. You can redeem the voucher any time after six months, in your home state.”
For a moment there was a breathless hush; then the room exploded in another uproar.
“Three months? I haven’t had pay for two years!”
“How do I pay my way home?”
“What of my debts on my farm?”
“A wife and five children! How do I provide? Charity?”
The tumult rose to an angry crescendo, and Rhodes let it run on for a time before Colonel Spencer squirmed in his seat and Rhodes raised both hands to shout the hall into silence.
“You men know there is nothing I can do about this. The United States government is without money! None! General Washington has forced Congress to issue their written promise to see you get something! He can do no more.”
For a moment Rhodes wavered, then drew a deep breath and spoke from his heart.
“You were promised. I know that. You stood and shed your blood when it had to be done. I was there with you. I swear before the Almighty that if I could, you would each go home now with every cent you are owed, and the pensions you were promised, and title to the land you were promised, and a full discharge. But there is nothing I can do. I can only ask that once more, for the last time, you forbear.”
Once again he gave the men time to vent their frustrations.
“May I now finish the terms of the furloughs?”
There was a murmur, then silence.
“You may keep your arms. Your muskets. Keep your cartridges and cartridge boxes. Keep your canteens and blankets. What little hard money we have in camp will be divided equally among you, and you can claim your share from the quartermaster. It isn’t much, but it is all that can be done. Before you leave this camp, go to the commissary. The food we have left will be divided as equally as possible among you to help you on your way home.”
The silence held as Rhodes finished.
“As for the furlough papers and the pay vouchers, there is one for every man here, in this box, bundled for the sergeants to come and get. They will be responsible for distributing them according to the name on each furlough. You are invited to remain in this hall to distribute the furloughs, or to move outside if you wish. Are there any questions?”
Men looked about, but none raised a question.
“Again, it has been my great personal honor to serve with you. I trust you will remain the good soldiers you have been by waiting for your pay. The sergeants are free to come and get the bundle of furloughs for each company and distribute them. That is all. May the Almighty bless each of you.”
He stopped, swallowed hard, and waited while every man stood and came to attention. Then he turned from the lectern and followed Major Dastrup and Colonel Spencer back into the small room and closed the door.
The troops turned to each other, and their deep disappointment and mounting fears spilled out to fill the hall with loud, hard talk and angry gestures. Turlock made his way through the din to the wooden box beside the lectern, searched out the tied bundle of folded papers with his name on it, and pushed his way back to his men. He motioned, and they followed him outside into the heat of the afternoon, where he called names aloud while men reached for their furlough papers and pay vouchers. Those who could read paused to study their own paper first, then read aloud for those who could not read for themselves.
They gathered back at their section of the sprawling camp and began arranging their belongings on their blankets. None expected the odd spirit that swept through them as they tied the loop cord to the ends of their blankets to sling them across their backs.
Going home! The horror of war left behind. Wives. Children. Laughter. Farms. Work. The family cow. The plow horse. A bed with sheets. Rustlings in the kitchen before dawn with the aroma of frying bacon and griddle cakes reaching every corner of the small log home. Hot Sunday dinner at their own table with a clean, white tablecloth. Neighbors. Their own tiny hamlet. The feel of good earth at spring planting. Growing their own crops. The eternal joy of harvesting the fruits of their labors. The smell of grain in the bind for winter and potatoes in the root cellar.
Then the battle-hardened, bearded men looked at each other, and for the first time understood there would be pain in their parting. Four, five, six, eight years together, sharing starvation, freezing, sickness, wounds, tears of sorrow, tears of joy, defeats, and finally the victory that rocked the world. They had never reckoned that their lives had become so intertwined. They were brothers, bound together as surely as they were bound to those who awaited them at home.
They spoke little as they said their good-byes and embraced for the last time. They turned quickly to wipe at moist eyes, then straightened, squared their shoulders, and walked steadily toward the quartermaster building to collect their token pay, then on to the commissary for their tiny ration of the bundled food. Turlock waited and watched them leave until the last man in his company disappeared in the forest. For a time he stood rooted, peering about as though he did not know what to do next. Then he drew a great breath, squared his pinched shoulders, and said aloud, “Well, that’s the end of it.”
With his blanket roll slung on his back and his musket in hand, he made his way through the nearly empty camp to the officers’ quarters, to the small hut, where the door was standing open. He saw Billy inside and rapped on the door frame.
“Sergeant! Come on in. I was coming to find you. Is the company gone?”
“I’m the last. Figgered to see you before I go.”
Silence hung for a moment before Billy spoke. “Where will you go?”
Turlock shrugged. “Pennsylvania. Vermont. Don’t matter much. Anyplace I can build a little cabin and do a little work. Maybe Philadelphia. New York. Where there’s ships. I spent better’n a year learnin’ to be a sailmaker. Pretty good one. I’ll be all right. How about you?”
“Back to Boston. Maybe I can get my old employment back. Keeping accounts.”
For a moment neither man spoke, and then the wiry little sergeant thrust out his hand. “Billy, you take care of yourself. I don’t expect I’ll ever forget the things we been through together. Maybe some day I’ll be in Boston, and I’ll find you. See how you are. Be good to yourself.”
Billy took the smallish, gnarled hand in his own, and looked into the face, scarred on the right side, bear
d and hair splotchy. “I will. I promise. You’ve got to promise that if ever you need anything, you’ll come find me. Do I have your promise?”
“You do.”
Neither expected the surge that filled their breasts. Billy swallowed hard. “God bless you, Sergeant.”
“And you, Billy.”
Turlock turned and walked back into the sunlight, and Billy came to the door to watch him disappear on the dirt path into the woods, walking west toward the Hudson River. For a long time he stood there while scenes of battles, and freezing camps, and starvation he had shared with Turlock came and went before his eyes. He turned back to his bunk and finished rolling his belongings into his blanket, tied it, slung it over his back, and walked out and closed the door for the last time.
It was near four o’clock before he found Eli at his hut, one of the last scouts to leave camp. Eli was slinging his tied blanket over his shoulder when Billy approached and spoke.
“Leaving?”
“North. I have a daughter up there that I haven’t seen for too long. She’s likely walking by now. Talking. You? What’s your plan?”
“Home. Boston. Maybe take up my old employment. Account keeping.”
Eli nodded. “You still have those letters? For the Dunson girl?”
“In my blanket.”
“Going to deliver them?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Your choice. But if you don’t, you’ll always wonder.”
Billy waited for a moment, deciding whether he should raise a question that had been in his mind for more than five years. He cleared his throat.
“Do you remember when you came to this regiment, back on Manhattan Island?”
“I do.”
“You said you came to find out two things. One was about Jesus. The other was about George Washington. Did you find out?”
For an instant, surprise showed in Eli’s face, and then he stopped to stare off into the forest for a time before he answered.
“Partly. I found out General Washington is a rare man. Rare. I don’t expect ever to meet another like him. And I found out a little about Jesus.”