Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Eli tended the supper utensils, then spread the pine boughs on either side of the fire, added fresh wood, and the two men rolled in their blankets as the cold of night set in. In the dwindling firelight Sykes’s voice came low.

  “Eli, you ever been west? The Ohio? Mississippi?”

  “Never that far.”

  “I went.” There was a pause. “Never saw such space. Big. Rich. Clean, like the Almighty just finished makin’ it. Strong country. Waitin’ out there for whoever comes. No towns. No roads. No trails. Just the Almighty’s natural country. It gets a holt of you.”

  Sykes fell silent, and Eli waited until he went on.

  “You got to go. Things is gettin’ crowded here in the Appalachians. Towns like they was growin’ out of the ground. People everywhere. Trouble. Why is there always trouble where there’s people? So peaceful out there. Seems like man needs space to stretch. His legs, and his mind. On a clear day out there, in the spring, you can see to where the earth ends. Nothin’ like it. You got to go see. You got to go.”

  Eli spoke quietly. “Maybe some day I will. Maybe I will.”

  “Better go soon, before she fills up with people, like here.”

  The men fell into silence, and Eli waited until he heard the slow, deep, heavy breathing before he closed his eyes. Sykes moaned once in the dead of night and Eli awakened to listen. He waited until the man settled before he went to his side and carefully touched his forehead. The fever was holding.

  They awoke in the gray of approaching morning, to the sounds of the forest, and by sunup Eli had hot tea and broth ready. With the sun an hour high, Eli unwrapped the torn leg and threw the deer liver into the underbrush. He washed the leg with steaming water and let it dry before he knelt to inspect it.

  “There’s no red streaks moving up to your knee.”

  There was relief in Sykes’s voice. “Git some jimsonweed. A lot of it. Make a poultice.”

  By midafternoon the lean-to was finished, with pine boughs a foot thick on top and on the ground below. At sundown Eli had a broth made from the venison, flavored with buds and leaves from the greening trees and bushes. In late dusk the men went to their blankets beneath the lean-to, and slept. Sometime in the night, Sykes’s fever broke, and for a time he lay awake, sweating, then dropped into the deep sleep of a wounded man recovering. Morning broke clear and warm, and he sat up in his blanket to a fire with tea boiling, and he ate the last of the steaming broth like a man famished.

  Again Eli unwrapped the leg and carefully cleared away the crushed jimsonweed poultice, then washed the leg clean. He reached to touch behind the knee.

  “Any pain?”

  Sykes shook his head. “None.”

  “Good. There are no red streaks. Looks like you’ll be all right.”

  “’Course I will. Now git a new poultice onto that thing, and give me that crutch. I’m goin’ to stand up.”

  “You’re not going to try to walk.”

  “I know that, but I can stand.”

  At midafternoon of the sixth day, Sykes stood, then leaned the crutch against a tree, with Eli right beside him.

  “Pain?” Eli asked.

  “None. Feels good. Itches.”

  “It’s healing.”

  The morning of the tenth day, Sykes sat with his leg thrust straight, and Eli used his belt knife to carefully cut the gut stitches and jerk each one out while Sykes flinched thirty-eight times. Eli used boiled water to wash the tiny beads of blood away, then stood back while Sykes came to his feet. He limped slightly as he walked several steps and returned.

  “Good as new. I’ll be walkin’ normal by tomorrow.”

  “Sit down and let’s see if anything’s torn open.”

  Five minutes later Eli stood. “I think it’s all healed. It’ll hold.”

  At midday the two ate possum baked in the ground with buds and leaves, and Sykes spoke.

  “You can still make thirty miles before dark. You go on. I’ll be fine here. I’ll stay a day or two and then go back up north.”

  Eli nodded but remained silent.

  Sykes lowered his plate. “I won’t be soon forgettin’ what you done here. I owe you. If ever there’s somethin’ I can do to repay . . .”

  Eli stopped eating for a moment. “If the bear had got me instead of you, you’d have done the same for me.”

  Sykes mumbled, bobbed his head once, and the two men finished their midday meal in thoughtful silence. By early afternoon Eli had his bedroll on his back and his rifle in his hand as the two men said good-bye.

  Sykes jabbed a finger at Eli. “You get holt of Washington. Tell him what I said.”

  “I will.”

  “And watch out for mama bears.”

  “You, too.”

  At sunset, Eli was twenty-eight miles east of the lean-to.

  Notes

  Though both Eli Stroud and Ormond Sykes are fictional characters, the information given by Sykes to Stroud, concerning the upheaval and conflicts mounting in Vermont and the Great Lakes region, is factual. Contrary to the terms of the peace treaty with the Americans, the British refused to abandon their forts and were doing all possible to harass American economics, by closing down the Mississippi, spreading rumors of gathering Loyalists to begin another war, and stirring up the French and Spanish against the Americans. Such actions materially added to the already mounting troubles, and temper, of the United States.

  See Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation?, pp. 82–87; Morris, The American States, 1775–1789, pp. 470–605.

  Annapolis, Maryland

  April 1784

  CHAPTER XXIX

  * * *

  The threat of spring rain hung in the low, gray, late-morning clouds covering the town of Annapolis as Matthew Dunson swung the heavy door open and entered the Maryland State House. He paused for a moment to study the long, wide, straight hallway with its plain, polished oak floor, and he listened to the echo as others walked from one door to another, preoccupied, indifferent to his presence. His leather heels tapped a cadence as he walked down the hall toward a pair of great, dark double doors, aware there was very little to break the plainness of the building.

  He did not know if protocol would allow him to enter the chambers of the United States Congress, and he was reaching for the large brass knob when from inside came the muffled sound of a gavel thumping the block. A moment later the doorknob turned and the great doors swung outward. Matthew stepped back as a few men hurried out, papers clutched to their breasts, talking heatedly among themselves, gesturing, ignoring everyone else in the long hallway. The exodus slowed, and Matthew approached the man standing at the entrance to the chamber.

  “Sir, I have come to see Thomas Jefferson.”

  The elderly, round-shouldered man looked at him for a moment. “You came at the right time. They just recessed until two o’clock. Are you from Virginia? Does Mr. Jefferson know you?”

  “No. I’m from Massachusetts. I’m here on the recommendation of Mr. Elbridge Gerry.”

  “Oh.” The man turned to study those remaining in the room, and then pointed. “Mr. Jefferson is there. The tall one with the sandy hair.”

  “Am I permitted to enter?”

  “During recess, yes. During session you’ll have to use the balcony to observe.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man smiled and nodded, then resumed his position inside the chamber.

  Matthew made his way through the dark desks arranged in a semi-circular pattern around the raised desk of the president, past men he did not recognize, watching Jefferson, who stood with his head lowered, exchanging words and chuckles with others in the Congress. He stopped six feet short of the small cluster of men, waiting for Jefferson to disengage. Half a dozen men slowed to eye him suspiciously, then walk on.

  Jefferson bobbed his head, raised a hand, turned, and started down the aisle. Matthew took one step, and Jefferson slowed.

  “Sir, may I have a word with you?”

  For a moment Jefferso
n studied him intently. “Yes.”

  “I am Matthew Dunson, from Boston. I come with a letter of introduction from Elbridge Gerry. I presume you know him.”

  “Indeed I do. He is much respected for his work in Congress.”

  Matthew offered the sealed document, and Jefferson took it. He broke the wax, scanned the message instantly, and refolded it.

  “Mr. Gerry speaks well of you. Very well. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’m here to find out.”

  Jefferson pointed. “Let’s go out into the hall, away from all this fuss.” They started for the exit side by side. “Mr. Gerry tells me you served as a naval captain in the war.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lake Champlain? With General Arnold?”

  “I was there, sir.”

  They approached the door, Jefferson nodded and smiled to the doorman who raised a hand in greeting, and they passed out into the long, plain hall. Jefferson continued.

  “Flamborough? Off the English coast?”

  “You mean with Admiral Jones? The fight with the Serapis?”

  “Was that the name of the British ship?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Admiral Jones lost the Bon Homme Richard and saved himself by boarding the Serapis? Do I recall it correctly?”

  “Yes, sir. You do.” An involuntary, fleeting look of sadness crossed Matthew’s face, and Jefferson caught it.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, sir. I lost a friend in that battle. A very good friend.”

  The look of pain on Jefferson’s face was genuine. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, sir. War does such things.”

  “Yorktown?”

  “I was there. With the French. Admiral de Grasse defeated the British Admiral Graves. It brought about the victory at Yorktown.”

  “Remarkable experiences for a young man.”

  Jefferson sought a quiet side hall and stopped, facing Matthew. “Now, Mr. Dunson, what can I help with?”

  Matthew came directly to it. “I have an ownership interest in a ship that has been seized on the Potomac. Two states—Virginia and Maryland—both claim rights of navigation and taxation. My partner and I feel paying taxes to two states is wrong. We hoped you could advise us.”

  A look of impatient disgust crossed Jefferson’s face. “You’re caught in that Potomac River confusion. There is no ready answer. Do you have time to talk?”

  “I am at your discretion.”

  “Would you mind coming to my quarters? Just a short distance from here, in a boardinghouse.”

  They walked out of the white statehouse into the cobblestone streets, where Jefferson turned north in the cool gray overcast. Jefferson chose to chat about little things as they went, and Matthew understood at once that this was Jefferson’s way of taking his measure. He listened and responded, knowing nothing of Jefferson’s origins. He was only aware there was something unique and rare in the man next to him.

  Born April 13, 1743, to Peter Jefferson, a planter and surveyor possessed of five thousand acres of land at a place called Shadwell in Albermarle County, Virginia, and Jane Randolph Jefferson of the rich and socially prominent Randolph family of Virginia, young Thomas lacked nothing that wealth and prominence could provide. His passionate, lifelong quest for freedom of thought and mind and soul early led him to the works of the great philosophers of all times and generations, and then to continue his education at the College of William and Mary. It was there that Professor William Small and Governor Fauquier introduced their bright young Thomas Jefferson to one of the great legal minds of his time, George Wythe. Upon completion of his work at William and Mary, Jefferson eagerly entered studies of the law under Wythe’s tutoring. Tall, angular, freckled, sandy-red hair, slightly awkward in movement and not gifted athletically, Jefferson was highly recommended to the Virginia Bar by Wythe and was granted license to practice law.

  In 1769, at age twenty-six, he was elected to the Virginia House of Burgesses and soon sensed his gift was not in his limited speaking ability, but rather in his brilliant talent with the written word. On January 1, 1772, he married the widow Martha Wayles Skelton, who brought the huge inherited estate and the high social status of her family to the marriage, doubling the fortune Jefferson had inherited from his own. He brought his beloved Martha to the Virginia hilltop where he dreamed of making his home and introduced her to little more than one lone brick building and his vision of the great estate to come. He called it Monticello. With her beside him, he continued to plumb the depths of thought on humanity and the proper place of politics in life. Recognition of his rare ability to reduce deeply powerful concepts to simple, profoundly inspiring written words, steadily spread throughout the fledgling political circles of the infant, aspiring nation.

  The range of his mind and his ability to write remarkably expanded as he continued in his contribution to the House of Burgesses. In 1774, with the black clouds of war gathering between the thirteen American colonies and Mother England, he was elected to the Continental Congress. Two years later, in 1776, thirty-three-year-old Congressman Thomas Jefferson, who spoke little because of his tendency toward nervousness and fright before large audiences, was placed on a Congressional committee charged with the responsibility of writing a document declaring the case for American independence. The committee included Roger Sherman, Robert Livingston, the sagacious Benjamin Franklin, and the obdurate John Adams, with young Jefferson. The committee saw the profound opportunity and potential of the document, but little realized it was to become one of the great documents of the world. Four of them were impressed that their youngest member should draft it, since his writing skills were recognized to be superior to theirs. Basing his thoughts on the Virginia Bill of Rights, created by George Mason, Jefferson drafted a masterpiece.

  He was elected to the Virginia legislature in 1776, and again broadened his skills. His views on human nature and how best to govern people began to take final shape and to settle. In 1779 he was elected governor of the State of Virginia and served until his term in office expired in early 1781. On June fourth, he fled the Virginia government offices just minutes ahead of British Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton, who was bent on Jefferson’s capture and the subjugation of Virginia to British authority. Although his term as governor had expired, he remained to supervise the evacuation of the government from Charlottesville to Staunton and then traveled to join his family at Poplar Forest before his return to Monticello July 26, after the British had abandoned Virginia.

  September 6, 1782, he suffered the heartbreak of his life when his beloved Martha died. Jefferson was inconsolable. Despite his vow to never again enter the political arena, he accepted a Congressional appointment as a peace commissioner and took up his duties in Philadelphia to escape the painful and tender memories of his deceased wife that surrounded him at Monticello. During May and June of 1783, he drafted a model constitution for his native Virginia, for his own library and purposes. November 22, 1783, now an established leader in the American cause in the United States and in Europe, he went to Annapolis to serve in the United States Congress. December 13, 1783, Congress reconvened. What he lacked in persuasive oratory was forgotten in the reach and the power of his mind and his quill.

  Matthew’s thoughts were interrupted as Jefferson pointed.

  “There’s the boardinghouse.”

  They crossed the worn cobblestone street, and Jefferson led Matthew to the large, white frame house, up the front stairs, through the door, and climbed a circular staircase to the second floor. He worked with a key for a moment, swung the door open, and stepped aside.

  “Please come in.”

  Matthew entered three paces and stopped. He was in a large corner room, with windows in two walls and a small fireplace in the center of one of the inside walls, with a bed against the wall next to it. He had been inside offices and libraries of congressmen and generals, but never had he seen what now surround
ed him. It seemed he had entered the repository of all books. They were shelved and stacked on all sides of and on Jefferson’s desk. Drawings, diagrams, and stacks of written documents lay among them.

  For two or three seconds the men stood silent, each concluding their first impression of the other. Jefferson had never carried a sword or a musket, never fired a shot in anger, never commanded men in battle. Matthew had led men into harm’s way for six years, witnessed sea battles won and lost, stood beside his men amid shot and shell, and had forgotten the number of times his own life was at deadly risk; but he had never before entered the world of politics or political philosophy. In the twenty minutes since their meeting, these two men sensed they came from worlds far distant from each other, yet there was an indefinable something that connected them. By instinct alone, each sensed he could learn something from the other.

  Jefferson’s hazel eyes met Matthew’s deep brown eyes, and Jefferson gestured. “Take a seat.”

  Matthew sat in a plain, worn, leather upholstered chair facing Jefferson’s desk, covered with books, documents, and a stack of maps.

  Jefferson sat in a larger upholstered chair facing him, and his face became serious. “You mentioned you were with the French at Yorktown and in the sea battle of the Chesapeake.”

  “I was there. With Admiral de Grasse.”

  “Remarkable officer. Were you there at the surrender of the British?”

  “I was.”

  “They marched down to that field west of the town?”

  “Between lines of French and British soldiers. Most of them were in tears. I don’t think they have yet understood how they lost the war.”

  Jefferson straightened. Matthew watched his expression deepen, and caught the sense that from the moment he met Jefferson in the Annapolis State House, Jefferson had been guiding the conversation to this point. Matthew had no idea what Jefferson was reaching for.

  Jefferson’s words were measured. “Do you?”

  For a moment Matthew’s breath came short. It had come too suddenly, unexpected. “I have my thoughts about it.”

  Jefferson did not move nor speak, waiting, and Matthew went on.