Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  He paused, then asked Billy the question. “How many men have we seen killed?”

  Billy shook his head. “I never thought on it. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”

  Again Eli paused, ordering his thoughts. “All the killing weighs heavy. It’s a hard thing. A bad thing. All the peace, all the good I’ve known in life, has come to me from those who have charity. I think that’s what Jesus taught. I’ve learned that.”

  Billy fell into a moment’s silence, then nodded, and the moment passed. The two men locked eyes, and in that instant they silently said the things that needed to be said between them.

  Billy spoke. “You’ll get down to Boston sometime. Find me.”

  “I will. You know the way north up to my sister’s home, and you’re good in the forest. Will you come?”

  “I learned the forest from you. I’ll come every chance I get.”

  “Give those letters to that girl.”

  Billy smiled. “I’ll think on it.”

  Eli picked up his rifle, straightened, nodded to Billy, turned, and walked steadily away, up the north path into the woods, and was gone.

  For a moment Billy stood where he was, then shouldered his musket and turned to follow the dusty path east into the forest.

  Notes

  The chronological sequence set forth in this chapter is accurate. November 30, 1782, a preliminary pact was signed between England and the United States agreeing to a cessation of hostilities; final terms of the peace were to be added thereto. March 12, 1783, news of it was delivered to Congress in Philadelphia by Captain Joshua Barney in his schooner, Washington. January 20, 1783, France and Spain agreed to the pact. March 26, 1783, news of the joining by France and Spain reached the United States. April 15, 1783, Congress ratified the pact. April 19, 1783, exactly eight years from the day the first shots were fired at Lexington and Concord, the pact was formalized.

  Disbanding the army was done under the supervision of General Washington. Congress had no money and could not pay the soldiers as promised. Under the influence of General Washington, the officers were promised a five-year pension, and the enlisted men were given a pledge from Congress that they would receive three months of pay from their home state, said payment to be made six months in the future. They were not discharged, but given furlough papers that would become final when the Paris Peace Treaty was finally finished in detail. Then their furlough papers would be deemed a discharge. The failure of Congress and General Washington to meet their previous promises was the beginning of a national crisis (Freeman, Washington, pp. 501–2; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 406–12).

  The mustering out process as herein described is accurate, as is the description of the feelings of the men as they parted for the last time (Martin, Private Yankee Doodle, pp. 279–81).

  Philadelphia

  June 1783

  CHAPTER XI

  * * *

  They came in the sweltering June heat, a column of angry, mutinous, American militia soldiers from the Pennsylvania Third Regiment, sweating from their two-day march east, through the eighty miles of rolling Pennsylvania hills that separated their military camp in Lancaster from Philadelphia. They wore their uniforms, or as much of one as they owned, and they carried their muskets and bayonets, and on their belts they wore their cartridge boxes. As they came into the cobblestone streets of Philadelphia, citizens cautiously peeked out of homes and shops to watch them pass, silent, fearful of why armed soldiers were in their streets once again.

  The soldiers marched to the barracks of the Pennsylvania militia, and Major Artemus Bates, leading the militiamen, barged through the doors of the headquarters building, into the office of the commander. The startled colonel recoiled, then sprang to his feet blustering, shouting, “What’s the meaning of this! I’ll have the lot of you arrested!”

  Bates waved the threat aside. “Where are the militia officers’ quarters?”

  The colonel’s face reddened with outrage. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The major’s voice purred. “The militia officers’ quarters. Where are they? Or do we go find them ourselves?”

  The colonel straightened to full height, shoulders square, chin thrust out. “Not a word until I know who you are and why you appear here like a mob!”

  “I’m Major Artemus Bates. With me are officers and enlisted militia from Lancaster. We’re here to get the pay and pensions and land we were promised. We’re going to pay a visit to Congress. You have men here who will join us. Where are the militia officers’ quarters?”

  The colonel’s mouth dropped open for a split second. “You expect some of my militia to join in this mutiny?”

  “I expect to talk to them. For the last time, where are their quarters?”

  Thirty minutes later the Lancaster militia, with their ranks swelled by two hundred Pennsylvania militia officers and enlisted, filled the narrow, winding street in front of the State House, where the Pennsylvania Executive Council as well as the Continental Congress were in full session. Five minutes later they had it surrounded, bayonets mounted, muskets at the ready. Startled citizenry lined the walks and doorways, pointing, exclaiming, unable to understand the unheard-of spectacle of armed American militia soldiers surrounding their own State House, where the national and state officials were in session!

  Inside the building, windows open to catch what little breeze might pass, Elias Boudinot, sitting president of the sweltering Continental Congress, leaned forward, head cocked to hear the words of soft-spoken, diminutive James Madison above the rising tumult reaching through the windows. Suddenly Madison stopped and turned his head to peer out the window. Instantly Boudinot turned to look, as did nearly every member of the Congress. They gaped at the sight of hundreds of their own soldiers in a double line that circled the building, muskets at the ready. For a moment no one moved, then everyone moved and spoke. Boudinot gaveled the floor back to order and turned to the sergeant at arms.

  “Go find out what the disturbance is in the streets and report back at once!” He turned back to the floor. “Gentlemen, we will be in a five-minute recess, during which time no one will leave this room.”

  Seven minutes later the doors burst open and the sergeant at arms marched back into the square, austere, high-ceilinged room, white-faced, two paces ahead of Major Bates. Three armed soldiers followed, and the group stopped ten feet inside the chamber. Every congressman gasped, and then wild, angry talk filled the chamber. The major strode forward five paces to face Boudinot, standing behind the raised desk at the front of the room, trembling with outrage, waiting for the tumult to recede.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Boudinot bellowed, face red, neck veins swelled.

  “We are officers and enlisted of the Pennsylvania Militia. We’ve come to make our just demands on this Congress and on the Executive Council of Pennsylvania for the pay we were promised for our service in the army.”

  Boudinot’s fist slammed down on the desk. “That matter has been concluded!”

  The major’s voice rang off the walls. “Not so! The settlement offered us falls far short of the promise made! We will have our just due. We are here to demand that we be allowed to appoint our own officers to appear before you and present our demands formally.”

  Boudinot jerked straight. “And if we refuse?”

  “Then we will storm this building and hold you hostage along with the Executive Council of Pennsylvania until you do.”

  “Treason!” shouted Boudinot.

  “Justice!” shouted Bates.

  Movement at the windows caught the eye of Madison, then others, and they turned to look. The muzzles of twenty muskets were thrust through, some aimed at Boudinot, some at Madison, half a dozen at Alexander Hamilton, slender, silent, watching the intruders like a hawk. The sound of musket hammers coming to full cock echoed in the room. Hamilton had faced violent men so many times his instincts were honed to a fine edge when it came to judging which ones would talk and which ones
would shoot. Now he was silently studying Bates, his eyes, his words, his demeanor. Would Bates shoot?

  Hamilton made his decision and stood.

  “Major,” he called, “I am Alexander Hamilton. I served with General Washington through—”

  Bates cut him off. “I know who you are. There are muskets pointed at you.” The room fell into a silence so thick it hung like a weight on every man present.

  Hamilton nodded. “I see them. Shoot if you must, but know that you will hang if you do.”

  “There will be no shooting until you force it,” Bates growled.

  The sure knowledge flashed in Hamilton’s mind—he won’t shoot—and instantly he plunged on. “Are you willing to listen to reason? A solution that will satisfy both sides?”

  “I’ve stated our conditions. We will be allowed to appoint our own officers to set our case before both the United States Congress and the Executive Council of the State of Pennsylvania.”

  Hamilton gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Surely you know that such a proposal will not be legally binding until it is drafted into a formal motion, brought to the floor, debated, and receives a majority vote! That is elementary. Short of that, you will have absolutely nothing! To the contrary, you will be guilty of mutiny, treason, insurrection, and civil disobedience! For three of those offenses, you can be hung! You and every man with you!”

  Ridges appeared on Bates’s jawline as the words sunk in.

  Hamilton gave him no time to reflect. “Think of it! How many men are with you? Three hundred? Four hundred? Four hundred hangings will likely take half the rope in Philadelphia!”

  Bates was sweating profusely, and both Madison and Hamilton caught the fleeting hesitation in his eyes as he spoke. “All we want is our just due.”

  Hamilton walked boldly from his desk to the center aisle to face Bates at ten paces. The muskets were still at the windows, and half of them followed Hamilton.

  Hamilton’s voice rang with authority. “And you shall have it!” He turned to Boudinot. “Mr. President, I move that the calendar be cleared immediately, and that the demands of these men be reduced to a proper motion to be debated and acted upon according to lawful procedure.”

  It took Boudinot two seconds to catch up with Hamilton’s audacity. “Do I hear a second?”

  Twenty voices boomed, “Seconded. A vote!”

  “Are any opposed?”

  Again the voices sounded. “None! Unanimous in the affirmative.”

  Hamilton turned back to Bates, finger raised and pointing like a sword. “There, sir, is the answer! A legally enforceable resolution that is fair to both sides. You submit to us your list of officers, and we will act immediately. Do you accept those terms?”

  It had happened too quickly. The confrontation, Hamilton’s irreproachable logic, and then throwing down the challenge to Bates to submit to lawful process. For five full seconds the only sound was the buzzing of summer insects through the open windows. Then Bates drew a deep breath and asked, “What about the Executive Council? We are making the same demand on the State of Pennsylvania.”

  Silent men began breathing again while Hamilton gave Bates no time to reorganize his thoughts. Hamilton pointed out the door.

  “You will settle that with them, sir, not us. They are just up the hall, second door on the right.”

  For a moment Bates stood silent, unable to find a way out of the box he found himself in. Without a word he pivoted and started for the door, when Hamilton’s ringing voice stopped him.

  “You can do as you see fit with the Executive Council of this state, but in the meantime, order your men to stand down. The local citizenry will not tolerate their state house and the Congress of the United States being held hostage. Worse, it is only a matter of time before more Continental troops arrive to restore order.”

  Hamilton’s feet were planted, his head erect, eyes blazing. “In short, sir, move your command to some other place. At once.”

  Anger flared in Bates’s face at the direct order, and he trembled with rage, on the brink of ordering his men to smash out the windows and take the room by storm, shooting if they must. After a few moments he brought his anger under tenuous control, stiffened, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We will decide when we withdraw!” he thundered. “Until we do, we are going to take possession of the city powder magazine until you meet our demands.”

  Hamilton threw one hand in the air. “Take the magazine at your own risk. We must have your list of the officers who will present your claims.”

  “You’ll have it by morning.”

  “Deliver it here to President Boudinot.”

  Bates turned on his heel and marched back out the door, his three soldiers following. Behind him, the muskets disappeared from the windows, and the hall fell into silence as the congressmen concentrated on the sounds of marching feet moving down the hall to the room where the Pennsylvania State Executive Council was meeting. They heard the big door open, then slam shut, before the United States Congress lapsed into bedlam.

  Boudinot pounded his gavel until order was restored, then turned to the secretary.

  “Mr. Secretary, write a brief summary of what has just happened here, directed to General George Washington. Be certain to mention we were threatened with cocked muskets by upwards of four hundred of our own troops!” He paused to collect his thoughts, then pointed his gavel at the secretary. “And include the following: ‘They have secured the public magazine, and I am of the opinion that the worst is not yet come. Congress respectfully directs that Continental troops equal to the task instantly be ordered to this city to restore order, using whatever means necessary, unless the Pennsylvania Executive Council succeeds in putting down this rebellion with Pennsylvania militia.’”

  From the floor came resounding approval, and Boudinot let it die before he continued.

  “Did you get it all? Every word of it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The moment the ink is dry, get the best horse and the best horseman in this town and have him prepared to carry that document to General George Washington. If the Executive Council fails to get their Pennsylvania militia to protect this Congress, that messenger leaves immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Boudinot turned back to the congressmen. “Take your seats. I hereby propose that we adopt a unanimous resolution that unless the Pennsylvania Executive Council takes effective measures for supporting the public authority to protect the United States Congress, we remove this body to the city of Princeton, in the State of New Jersey, to conduct its business in Nassau Hall. Do I hear a second?”

  “Seconded.”

  “Do I hear a request for a vote?”

  “I put the question.”

  “All in favor?”

  The walls shook with the shouted “AYE!”

  Boudinot stood. “It now remains only to find out if the Executive Council can persuade their own militia to get that mob out of here.”

  Within the hour the congressmen watched from their windows as the armed soldiers fell into rank and file and marched east, toward the city powder magazine. Ten minutes later a sealed, written message arrived, signed by John Dickinson, President of the Pennsylvania Executive Council.

  “ . . . and I am mortified to report that I can not count on the Pennsylvania militia to protect the delegates of the United States Congress . . .”

  Hamilton leaped to his feet, fist raised, voice hot with anger. “Disgusting! To the last degree, weak and disgusting!”

  Fifteen minutes later a small, wiry boy of seventeen, dressed in the buckskins and moccasins of a backwoodsman, handed his rifle and powder horn and shot pouch to a sergeant holding the cheekstrap on the bridle of a deep-chested, leggy gray mare.

  “Be obliged if you’d hold those things for me, Sergeant. I’ll be back for ’em.”

  The boy thrust a packet of documents wrapped in oilcloth inside his shirt, rubbed the jaw of the mare, then her ears, and spoke to her
low and gentle.

  “Good girl. Good girl. We’re goin’ for a ride, you and me.”

  He stripped off the saddle and blanket and grinned as he leaped effortlessly astride the mare, bareback, then gathered the reins and looked down at the sergeant. “Three days. I’ll be back.”

  The bearded old sergeant was still holding the cheekstrap. “Danny, you got near a hunnerd miles to go, and it ’pears most of it’ll be in the dark. Pace the horse so she don’t give out. Follow the river east ’til you cross Neshaminy Creek, then go on up and cross the Delaware above Trenton. Angle northeast and you’ll come to the Raritan, and then on over to the Hudson, and up to Verplanck. Them rivers ’re goin’ to be runnin’ high and fast with the spring snowmelt, so you be careful. Hear me?”

  “Yes, sir, I hear you. I been most of them places when there was fightin’ goin’ on. I figger I’ll make Verplanck tomorrow afternoon late. Give the mare one day to rest, and be back the next day. Much obliged fer you takin’ care of my things, and yer advice.”

  The boy reined the mare around, thumped his heels into her ribs, and raised her to a trot, her iron shoes clattering on the cobblestone streets of Philadelphia, throwing sparks. He passed through the outskirts to where the roads were dirt wagon trails winding through the thick summer forests, following the great Delaware River east. Without a saddle, he rode light and easy, man and horse working as one. He raised her to an easy, ground-eating lope and felt her pulling at the bit, wanting to run. He held her back, talking to her, patting her neck. “Got to save some, girl—a long way to go.”

  He jumped the mare into the swollen Neshaminy Creek with the sun still in the western sky, and slid off to one side, holding onto her mane as she swam. With the sun below the western horizon, he walked the mare into the broad expanse of the Delaware River, and once again slipped from her back to hang onto her mane while she held her head high, feet and legs reaching, stroking for the far shore, five hundred yards distant. She clambered out of the fast-running water in deep twilight, sides heaving. He gave her twenty minutes to settle and pull green grass, then once again was on her back, moving northeast. It was past two o’clock in the morning when he put her into the Raritan River under a half-moon. She came out of the water dripping, and he held her to a walk for twenty minutes, then a trot, then her easy, effortless lope, pacing her, saving her for what was ahead. The sun was high when he saw Manhattan Island two miles across the Hudson. The mare splashed through water up to her belly at Popolopen Creek with the sun past its zenith, then across Murderer’s Creek and Qassaic Creek. The sun was low, directly at his back as Danny reined the weary horse up before the headquarters building at Verplanck military camp. He paused only long enough to rub the hot neck. “Good girl.”