Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Tredwell wiped his plate clean with a half-slice of Rachel’s bread, glanced at her with admiration in his eyes, then put his knife, fork, and spoon rattling on his pewter plate.

  “I think the meeting tonight is only for the men.”

  Rebecca and Ruth ducked their heads in disappointment, but said nothing.

  Rachel nodded. “We’ll be all right here. You four go on.”

  Isaac glanced at Jacob in surprise, but neither said a word at how casually their mother had, for the first time in their lives, included them in the men. They changed clothing and left the women washing and wiping the dishes as they walked out into oncoming twilight. Caleb trotted to the barn and came out with his rifle under his arm, still wrapped in canvas, and his note paper and pencil in his pocket.

  Tredwell showed concern at the sight of the rifle. “You intend taking that?”

  Caleb shrugged. “Just don’t want to leave it here.”

  Tredwell said nothing, but Caleb sensed his uneasiness as they strode away from the house in a steady gait, following the trail to the road leading to Springfield; they could cover the distance to town faster afoot than in a wagon pulled by the slow, plodding oxen. It was full dark when they passed the curtained windows of the homes in town, glowing dull yellow from lanterns within. Wagons and buggies and saddle horses were tied in the churchyard, and more were arriving. The church door stood open, casting a long trapezoid of yellow lamplight on the ground and onto those who stood in twos and threes talking in the churchyard, while others moved to take a place inside. Caleb held the rifle inconspicuously at his side while Tredwell and the twins greeted and shook hands with bearded men, then worked their way inside the church with others following.

  They passed through an unlighted vestibule with a shelf and pegs around all four walls for coats and hats and bonnets, and on into the church. Caleb hung back, leaning casually against the rear wall in the plain, high-ceilinged church, with its worn pews and the old podium at the front. He studied the men as they came in. Their faces were ruddy from sun and wind, serious, defiant. Most wore hard woolen work clothes and worn leather shoes; some had come directly from the fields. A man closed the door and nodded, and the reverend stepped to the podium.

  “I think most of those coming are here. This meeting was called by a committee headed by Nathan Tredwell. He wants to report on his trip to Boston. It has nothing to do with the church. You’re welcome here as long as things don’t get out of hand.” He pointed. “Nathan, the pulpit is yours.”

  An expectant hush fell over the room, and Nathan’s shoes sounded too loud on the worn floor as he walked to the pulpit.

  “I appreciate you coming. There’s things need to be decided. First, I want to tell you, the committee did go to Boston, and we met with Matthew Dunson about that letter we got. The one about the Committee of Correspondence. Dunson is writing to the legislatures and governors in other states and trying to learn if the problems we have are like the ones they have. If the trouble is the same all over, he intends going to the Congress and demanding help. Matthew Dunson couldn’t come, but he did send one of his men, his brother Caleb Dunson. He’s standing back by the door. “

  Every head turned to stare, and Caleb neither moved nor spoke. Tredwell droned on. “You know the sheriff put David Banes in jail for a debt. Dunson back there put up the money to get him out.”

  Banes nodded vigorously, and buzzing broke out as the men turned to peer back once more, then quieted.

  “Dunson’s here tonight to take notes. He’s the one who runs the printing press back at his office in Boston. He’ll write all this up and that’s what will go out in one of those letters to the other states. I think if enough people from all over get in and support what they’re doing with those letters, the Congress will have to do something. So I think the trip to Boston was a good thing. That’s pretty much the report on the trip.” He looked over the audience and pointed, “Hosea, Ezekiel, Thomas, do you have anything that ought to be added?”

  They did not.

  Tredwell ordered his thoughts and went on. “We got that behind us, so let’s move on. The worst of it is what’s happening around here right now. Banes got jailed over seventeen dollars. The sheriff intends taking my oxen soon. Thomas Marsing stands to lose his farm. Coming back from Boston, we passed three, four families already put off their land. One of ’em included a woman who gave birth the day after they were run off. Near killed her and the baby, both.” He shook his head. “Hard to see.”

  He paused for a moment, then raised his head. “That’s what’s going to be happenin’ around here if we don’t do something. Now let me lay this out the way I see it. I doubt the sheriff or the money lenders like Mullins want it the way it is. I think it’s them foreign banks in London and Holland that see a way to hurt us for their own gain. They’re the ones that demanded pay in hard coin, which we don’t have. So the banks here in Boston and New York have to demand that they get paid on their loans in hard coin, and they turn to the financiers and force them to make the same demand on us.”

  He stopped to be sure he had said it right, then spoke once more. “Anybody here have a different notion?”

  The place erupted, and Tredwell let it run on for a time while frightened men who had faced overwhelming debt too long vented their fears and anger.

  That Judge Devereaux don’t have to issue them court orders throwin’ us off our land—or takin’ our livestock or crops—or puttin’ Banes in jail—he can make orders that’s right and if the law isn’t right he ought not follow it—the sheriff don’t have to follow them court orders that’s robbin’ us to make the banks and financiers fat—he can use common sense and let us pay after our crops is in and he can take meat and wheat for pay like they agreed in the beginning—the legislatures and the congress is owned by the lawyers and the rich, and they’re the ones who’s doin’ us wrong—there’s where we ought to start, and we ought to do whatever we have to to clean ’em out and start over—we beat the British for the same thing, and we can do it again with the lawyers and fat rich people if we have to.

  Tredwell raised a hand and bellowed them all to silence. “All right. All right. Now let’s talk sense. I don’t know if what I said about the sheriff and the judge is right, and maybe Mullins too, but as I see it, if we stand up to them, they’re bound to go back to the banks and tell ’em they’re not going to get the debts paid in hard coin because nobody has it. Throwin’ people in debtors prison and takin’ their land and crops don’t put hard coin in the banks in Boston and New York, and it sure won’t do much for the banks over in London and Holland. If the financiers and banks here finally get hold of the fact they’re goin’ to wind up with wheat and barley and cattle, and no money, they’ll soon enough go to the legislatures and the Congress and tell ’em to fix it.”

  Husky voices shouted, “Sounds right. Sounds right.”

  “Then we got to get organized. We all got to agree.”

  Caleb was still leaning against the back wall, watching everything, sensing the temper of the men in the pews nearest the podium at the front of the church, listening intently to the plan Tredwell was unfolding, gauging how the gathering was accepting it, composing notes in his mind to write on paper after the meeting.

  Without warning he felt a slight vibration against the back wall, and it took him one second to pull his mind from what was in front of him to what was outside the wall behind him. He remained still, concentrating for a moment, and felt it again—something heavy moving nearby. In the heat of the words and the arguments at the front of the church, no one noticed him quietly step to the door, open it, slip into the unlighted vestibule and close the door, walk through, open the outside door and step into the darkness, rifle still held at his side.

  Outside he quickly unwrapped the rifle, slung the powder horn and bullet pouch straps over his shoulder, flexed the hammer on the Deckhard, and stood still in the deep shadows by the church door, listening, eyes straining in the dim moonlight. A
gain he felt the ground vibration, and then he heard the creaking of a wagon coming from the east. Seconds passed before he could make it out—a dim shape approaching—and it was less than twenty yards from the front of the church, nearly to the scatter of wagons and buggies and tied saddle mounts before he saw the shapes of men crouched in the wagon with muskets. He made no sound or movement as he waited.

  The driver silently pulled the two nervous horses to a stop. Other horses nearby moved and snorted at being in a strange place in the dark, with too many other horses and wagons gathered about, and a wagon rolling in among them in the dark. The driver of the wagon quietly climbed down the big front wheel to the ground and reached back to pick up his musket, while the six other men climbed over the sides and lowered themselves silently to crouch with their muskets clutched and ready, waiting for the signal from their leader.

  The driver raised his hand for all to see and signaled them forward, and quickly they moved in among the parked wagons and horses, cutting the tie ropes, starting to turn the horses and oxen away from the church.

  Caleb’s voice coming from the darkness froze every man in his tracks.

  “Might want to stop all that before I call those men inside.”

  Instantly the sound of seven muskets coming to full cock came too loud in the darkness, and the leader growled, “Show yourself!”

  Caleb neither moved nor answered, and the leader raised his voice.

  “There’s seven muskets out here. Show yourself or I give the order to shoot.”

  For an instant a hush held, and in that moment no one could mistake the sound of Caleb’s Deckhard coming onto full cock, and he spoke quietly.

  “Give the order, but know that you will be the first man down.”

  A strangled sound welled up in the leader’s throat, and Caleb cut him off before he could speak.

  “Tell your men to put down those muskets in the next five seconds, and then you lead them through those church doors. I’ll count three before I take off half your head with this rifleball. One . . . two . . .”

  Seldom had Caleb heard the sound of restrained rage that was in the leader’s voice as he turned to his men. “Do it! Put ’em down.”

  Seven muskets were laid in the dust, and Caleb spoke once more.

  “Now open the door and lead your men inside.”

  Silence held for one second, and Caleb said, “Three” and the leader blurted, “Move!”

  He led to the door, opened it, marched through the dark vestibule to open the doors into the church, with all six men following, Caleb behind with his rifle held loose, waist high, muzzle bearing between the shoulder blades of the man ahead of him.

  At the sound of the rear doors opening, Tredwell stopped, and every man in the church turned to look. Their eyes opened wide and their jaws dropped for a moment before they clacked them shut. The seven men ahead of Caleb stopped short in the center aisle, blinking while their eyes adjusted to the light, and then the room was filled with exclamations. Tredwell’s voice rose and the room quieted, and he called to Caleb, still standing at the rear of the room, just inside the doors.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “These men were outside cutting your horses loose. You’ll have to ask them why.”

  Tredwell’s head jerked forward and he nearly shouted, “What? Bring them up here.”

  Caleb jabbed the man ahead of him with his rifle muzzle and said, “Move,” and followed them up to stand beside the pulpit, facing Tredwell, backs to the angry men behind. Caleb took a position to one side, rifle muzzle on the chest of the leader. He was a swarthy, husky man, dressed in farm clothes, with a thick, black beard and dark eyes.

  Tredwell fronted the man and demanded, “What’s your name? Where you from?”

  The man sneered and said nothing, while the six men with him were shifting their feet, nervous, fearful. Tredwell nearly yelled, “Who sent you?”

  The man stood in silent contempt and instantly the room echoed with shouts, “Hang ’em! Hang ’em!”

  It took Tredwell half a minute to call them into silence. “Anybody here recognize any of these men?”

  “No! No! Hang ’em.”

  Again Tredwell raised his voice for silence. “Get the sheriff. We got to do this right. We got to have the law on our side. Get the sheriff. Hosea, Thomas, go get Brewster.”

  Hosea Abrams and Thomas Marsing turned on their heels and trotted out into the darkness while inside, Caleb gestured as he spoke.

  “Outside you’ll find seven muskets in the dirt. Might want to gather them up for the sheriff to see.”

  Five minutes later the muskets were on the front pew in the church. Minutes later Hosea and Thomas returned with the sheriff, still wearing slippers, face red in anger.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he fumed.

  Tredwell pointed. “These seven men was found outside stealing our horses! They had these muskets. Now, those are crimes, and we’re demanding you arrest them.”

  The sheriff padded up the center aisle to look at the dusty muskets, and his eyes popped. He turned to the seven men. “Are these yours?”

  The leader growled, “Never seen them before. We was just passin’ through town when that man”–he jammed a thumb at Caleb—“come at us with that rifle and made us come in here.”

  The sheriff turned to Caleb. “Is that true?”

  Caleb smiled. “Anybody here know how to read tracks?”

  Nearly every man in the room said, “Yes.”

  “Sheriff, I suggest you take about four of these men out there with lanterns and read the tracks in the dust, and count the cut tether ropes.”

  Ten minutes later the sheriff walked back up the aisle followed by four men with lanterns. He stood as tall as he could and spoke with authority.

  “The tracks show these men came in a wagon, walked among the horses and wagons already here, and cut half a dozen tether ropes. No question.” He turned to the leader. “You can tell us now, or tell us at your trial for attempted horse stealing and half a dozen other crimes. Who are you, where are you from, and why are you here?”

  The leader sneered, “We was put upon by that man with the rifle and made to come in here. That’s all we got to say.”

  Brewster turned to Tredwell. “Take these men to the jail.” He spoke to Caleb. “You’re the one who saw it, so you should sign the complaint. I’ll have it ready in half an hour, after we got these men behind bars.”

  Rough hands seized the seven men and forced them struggling out into the night, down to the sheriff’s office with lanterns casting the entire procession in a ghostly light and shadow parade, through the courtroom, into the small jail. When the sheriff turned the big brass key clicking in the lock, Tredwell turned and led his men back to the church, and took his place at the podium. Once again he raised his hand for silence and spoke.

  “Now don’t go makin’ conclusions without all the facts. We’ll know more at the trial. We got to stay inside the law. Don’t get ideas about breakin’ those men out and doin’ ’em harm. Remember. We got to have the law on our side, all the way, if we expect the legislature and the Congress to listen to us.”

  He pointed at Caleb, still at the rear of the building, rifle at his side.

  “You done us a good turn. Maybe this will be the thing we been waiting for to make someone listen.”

  Caleb nodded. “Maybe. Depends on who they are. If they were sent by Mullins, or someone like him, to steal your horses and wagons so you can’t get your crops in to sell for money, that’s one thing. If they were just a band of thieves on their own, that’s something else. It all depends.”

  Tredwell reflected for a moment. “We’ll see at the trial. For now, we’re obliged for what you did.”

  Voices raised in agreement, and bearded men nodded their approval and thanks to Caleb, who stood silent.

  Tredwell went on. “I think we’ve done what we come to do. Remember. Stay inside the law. Get word to your neighbor if the she
riff comes to take somethin’. Keep the word movin’ until we all know, and we all go to the sheriff and demand he stop. Our strength is in our numbers. The sheriff and the judge can’t beat us all if we stay together.”

  “Hear hear!”

  Tredwell concluded. “Unless someone’s got somethin’ else to say, that’s all.”

  No one spoke.

  “Let’s git back to our families then.”

  The men left the church, talking to each other as they tied the cut reins and ropes to their horses and climbed into their wagons to disappear in the night, still talking. Tredwell and the twins walked to the sheriff’s office and waited while Caleb read and signed the complaint, then walked back to the church to wait until the reverend put out the lights and locked the church doors before they set out walking west in the moonlight. For ten minutes there was little said, and then Tredwell asked Caleb, “Would you have fired that rifle?”

  Caleb chuckled. “Only once.”

  Isaac cut in. “What would you have done after you shot?”

  “Ran.”

  They all laughed and continued their walk beneath the stars, through the woods, listening to the frogs and the sounds of the night. There was hot soup waiting, and Rachel sat in her robe, and Rebecca and Ruth came digging sleepy eyes to sit with their mother, listening wide-eyed as the twins told the story of the meeting. The three women turned startled eyes to Caleb as they listened to Jacob’s excitement in the telling of capturing seven thieves in the dark, and of their arrest and taking them to jail. Rachel turned to her husband.

  “Mullins’s men?”

  “They wouldn’t say. We’ll find out at trial.”

  Caleb finished his soup and bread, paid his thanks to Rachel, and excused himself. In the barn he struck light to the lantern, and for a long time he sat in the yellow light, writing, before he put the paper and pencil away, turned the lamp off, and stretched out on his blanket, exhausted from a day swinging a scythe in a barley crop, and a long walk, the drain of facing seven men in the dark, all of them armed and willing to kill him. In seconds he was deep asleep.