Becoming Americans

by Donald Batchelor

  "I'm gonna go play, Pa," Edward said, sated with the pleasure of these quiet minutes alone with his father.

  "Mind you don't hurt that dog too much," Richard said. No need to hurt a thing more than you had to.

  The distant, rolling sound of cannon-fire came up the Southern Branch and followed Deep Creek to the Williams plantation. John and Joseph and Edy were already dressed and ready, being quiet not to rouse the family until that sound began. The first echoes of that first shot gave John leave to wake them all.

  "They've started firing the cannon, Pa! It's time to go!"

  "Hush, John. We hear it," his mother said, as another faint, but deep retort rolled past them.

  "Get the little ones moving then, so the cow gets milked first thing," his father said. "Then feed and saddle your mother's horse and mine."

  This year the General Muster would be closer to home than usual, on the site where Norfolk Town was planned to be. Richard and Anne would ride to the grounds, and John and Joseph would bring the children and the servants in the boat.

  "We already milked the cow and fed the horses, Pa," Joseph said, standing with his brother by their parents' bed.

  "I took the bread out of the oven, Mama, and I wrapped it up and put it in the baskets," Edy said. She appeared to be as anxious as her older brothers. She was dressed to go.

  "It's today!" young Richard cried, and kicked his brother Edward awake.

  Sarah Alice awoke crying and her mother went to the girl's pallet in the corner to soothe her and to get her dressed.

  "Everybody go on outside and do your business and get ready. I want you safely off in the boat before your father and I ride out," Anne told them.

  The children stood on the short dock and waited for permission to leave. The cannon was still booming, and the sound of spaced musket-fire could be heard—all alarms to rouse the settlers to attack. Today—for the children—the cannon announced one of the best days of the year. Everyone would be there!

  The long, drooping sleeves of Sarah Alice's dress were adorable, Anne thought. She would be the beauty of the family. Richard Junior and Edward were wearing their best canvas breeches, and Anne had saved their buckles from shoes of John and Joseph's. Edy was wearing Anne's best dress—the girl was outgrowing her awkwardness, now—and was already tall enough to fit into the lovely, green frock. For herself, Anne had replaced the ribbon on an older dress, and some cordage around the brim of her hat. Richard wore his canvas breeches, too, and the buff coat he'd worn for two years. But he had a new belt, a new cartridge box of the same leather, and the fine musket he'd won at a cockfight last New Year's Day. John was wearing a new sleeveless leather vest with a double row of buttons down the front. Flap-cover pockets were on either side of the short skirt. Anne had thickly padded the vest, just in case her son ever really had to face arrows or musket balls. His shirt was neat and clean, with a neck cloth, tied and stuffed beneath. He carried his musket, the cartridge box of neatly arranged cartridges and extra flints, and a haversack for personal effects. Joseph wore his only pair of shoes, with good hose and new canvas pants. This wasn't his day. It was John's day. Next year would be his turn.

  Richard and Anne inspected the children and admonished them to safety, with John being singled out for responsibility. Richard Junior pushed the boat away and the boys took to their oars. The sun was barely up, and a lantern burned at the bow.

  Richard and Anne mounted their horses and rode north for the few miles to the old ferry. It carried people and goods across the Southern Branch to the western end of a flat neck of land where lots had been laid out by the County Surveyor, John Ferebee, for Norfolk Town. Anne's father had witnessed the deed from Nicholas Wise, whose father had owned the land before him. The ferry ran from Craford's Point—what used to be Carver's Point, when it belonged to the foolish traitor William Carver, the inept friend of Nathaniel Bacon—over to Four Farthing Point, what they were now calling Town Point. There'd been a ferry running there from Craford's Point for nearly fifty years.

  This year's General Muster was called to be held by the new fort that had been built near the westernmost end of the neck of land; partly for convenience, and partly to encourage purchasers of lots in the new town.

  A crowd was waiting at Craford's Point, even though the sun had been fully risen for little more than an hour. Already, the mood was festive, and the men and women had separated into little groups, catching up on old news and sharing plans for the day. Everyone was dressed in their finest or, at least, their second best. Jewelry caught and reflected the sunlight coming from the broad Elizabeth River. Swords and spurs clanked, as the horses, too, were frisky and showing-off. As the ferry neared the shore from its first return, people edged toward the ramp, lining up to get aboard. The old ferryman—Anne had known since she was a little girl—was grinning broadly. His young grandson stood by him to collect the tolls, the purse already bulging with notes and a few coins that the boy took delight in jingling. His two older brothers were watering a small herd of horses that was gathered by the make-shift water troughs. Many people had decided to leave their horses here. It cost less than for the ferry, and they wouldn't have to worry about their animal. Everything would be in walking distance of Town Point Fort. A perfect location for the General Muster, they all agreed.

  The old ferryman spotted Anne before the boat was tied up, and waved her and Richard to the head of the line. There were some murmurs among those waiting since dark, but the ferryman's rights were respected. Many of those waiting knew Anne, too. They knew that the old man's third wife had been a childhood friend with Anne's mother, back home in England.

  "Child, you go right ahead," an elegantly dressed, older woman told her. "It's said you have children in the river you're in a hurry to catch up with, and anyway, the party is as much fun here as it will be over there!" The old man astride the magnificent horse beside hers was busy listening to the officer who held his horse, as the old man poured another drink of brandy from his flask.

  Anne had rarely seen the river so busy with traffic. She searched among the sloops and small boats for sign of hers, but she couldn't see it.

  "They'll not be this far downriver yet, my dear. Don't fret," Richard said.

  When the ferry tied up at the new ramp at Town Point she was amazed at how the fifty acres or so of cleared land could seem so small. Hundreds of people and horses and coaches, even, lined the field. Tents were set up near the fort, out of the way, and clutches of friends positioned to catch the glorious May morning's sun and afternoon shade. General Muster was as much a treat as Fair Day.

  Anne and some other mothers gathered by the Eastern Branch's edge, waiting for their children at their predetermined meeting place—at the foot of the fort. When she spotted their low-lying boat, she waved her green kerchief above her head. The sail was already lowered, and she saw John giving orders as the boat turned and drifted to where she stood. Joseph tossed a line ashore, which Anne caught and tied to a thin pine tree. She indicated to the children where their camp for the day would be and, after everyone had carried a load of provisions to the spot, she directed Lucy in setting-up.

  They spread the quilts and baskets beside those of her mother-in-law, Sarah Biggs. Her relationship with the woman had grown even colder over the years as Sarah seemed to pull Anne's father away. Anne refused to be eliminated, though, and forced a cheerful greeting from herself to Sarah and to Sarah's children—her half-brothers and sisters. Anne couldn't warm to these children, either, as they would inherit her father's growing estate. Anne's dowry, long gone, would be considered her portion.

  The constant drumming was so loud as to prevent conversation—to Anne's relief—so she sat and watched the huge assemblage.

  Groups of men had begun to assemble into their trainbands, or companies. Captain Craford had not yet appeared—no doubt talking in one of the tents with Colonel Lemuel Mason. Both men were great powers in this side of the county— Elizabeth River Parish. Colonel Mason had been pres
iding justice of the County Court for over twenty years! Major Nichols and his rowdy men from the far reaches of the county weren't here yet, but they'd make their presence known when they arrived. Most of those men were no better than the swamp rats her husband spent so much time with.

  Richard and the men he bantered with were in great spirits. It was a day away from work—or thinking about work—and after the drills and fake skirmishes, there'd be time for games and races. He was refilling his tankard with cider when Thomas Nash, a neighbor, came rushing over to the group. Nash looked carefully at the men, seemingly sizing them up before he spoke.

  "There's to be a cutting," he said, and looked back over his shoulder.

  "It's damn nigh time, I say!" Bill Etheridge said. "Who told you that?"

  "I was trading powder from a man over by the Lynhaven Parish trainband, when I heard this old gentleman through the tent. He was talking to Colonel Thorowgood."

  "So, go on. Where's it to be?" Etheridge asked him.

  "He didn't say that. Not while I was listening. He was saying how this year's crop was so large everybody would be ruined, and that the large planters in Middlesex and Gloucester were planning on a cutting. They're going out—soon, it seemed to me—they're going out and cutting down everybody's tobacco. Even their own. He says, since the governors won't get together and set some limits to the planting, it's time the planters set the limits themselves."

  The men fell silent, looking about to judge each other's reaction to the idea.

  "Wish they'd done that ten years ago, when I could grow a decent crop." Richard was the first to break the silence.

  "If it's done early enough, I'll not waste my land this year!" Etheridge had been worried about using his fresh land in this too-bountiful year. His tobacco wasn't so high yet that it had used a full year's nutrients from the poor soil.

  Suddenly, the drumming stopped and the officers emerged from their tents. Captain Craford signaled to his drummer, and the boy began a martial roll, calling the men to formation. It took some time for the large company to assemble—over one hundred men in Captain Craford's company of Elizabeth River parish men. There was much shuffling—the talking and laughing hadn't yet subsided, and Major Nichols was just arriving with his noisy company—but Sergeant Hodges urged and prodded the men till they had straightened the lines. John Williams stood tall and proud beside his father, gripping his musket firmly.

  John Ferebee, the County Surveyor, served as the company clerk, and he began the roll-call. He wrote down the names of those absent—those men would be fined—but he crossed out names as latecomers arrived and stepped into line. He reported the roll to Captain Craford, and then they both went down the lines, inspecting every musket and every cartridge box. All defects were duly noted by Mister Ferebee. John was rigid when they reached him, but slowly breathed out when a grunt of approval came from the Captain, and John Ferebee smiled at the new militiaman. Richard fared not so well.

  "Williams, you've only nineteen cartridges in your box!" Captain Craford was a good neighbor, but he took his militia position very seriously. He could well-remember when the Dutch had raided this county. The French had made forays, they might again. "Clerk, make note of that, and fine Williams accordingly."

  Richard gave no reaction but John, beside him, could feel the blood drain from his own face in shame for his father.

  Anne and Sarah stood by their pallets, chatting politely as their children played.

  Sarah's oldest son, Jabez, was in the militia, too, for the first time this year, though his father had reached his sixtieth birthday and was released from military obligation. That was a great relief to John Biggs and to his wife. For years they'd been afraid that a military situation would arise in the colony that would force John to make another decision of conscience. He could not kill a man.

  Anne watched Sarah looking at Jabez with dismay, and smiled. Jabez stood as tall and proud as her son, John. Obviously, Jabez feared no moral dilemma.

  Joseph, and the four other boys of fifteen, stood as close as they could, paying special attention to the inspection. This was the time for everyone to maintain some respectful air of silence. The commanders' voices needed to be heard by the men.

  The old men stood nearby, too, in quiet expectation of blunders and follies and confusion. Their hoots of scorn and ridicule were part of the day.

  "They've earned the right," Anne said to Sarah when gales of laughter erupted at the sight of Jabez's dog, running out onto the field to happily greet its master.

  Captain Craford's voice was heard across the field as he dismissed the company into small groups for training. Then the noise rose to a din as groups were formed to practice tight marching drills that brought about much confusion and more laughter when two militiamen knocked their neighbors senseless with shouldered muskets.

  The new men were taken aside and taught the rudiments: stand with your feet about ten inches apart, toes slightly turned out; left arm hanging straight by the side, the musket grounded outside the right foot. They were told to stand with straight back, looking only at their officer and, to prevent accidents like the two that still had people laughing around the field, to carry their fire locks firmly on their shoulder—muzzle held high!—so, when they were told to "face to the right about," they wouldn't hit somebody and break a nose! Pivot on the ball of the left foot; step with the right….

  The yelled instructions and marching orders and drills went on all over the field. Cannoniers repeating the loading, firing, cleaning routine to reach a maximum number of firings. John and his fellow-musketeers repeating a rhythm that excited him in its precision. He was part of one machine of many parts. He'd memorized the drill in advance.

  "Musketeers, have a care to the exercise, and carry your arms well!" would begin the sequence of commands. "Lay your right hands on your muskets!

  "Poise your muskets!

  "Rest your muskets!

  "Cock your muskets!

  "Guard your muskets!

  "Present!

  "Fire!

  "Recover your arms!

  "Half-bend your muskets!

  "Clean your pans!

  "Handle your primers!

  "Prime!

  "Shut your pans!

  "Blow off your loose corns!"

  Now John blew hard, in one strong blast, bringing the pan up close to his mouth.

  "Cast about the charge!

  "Handle your chargers.

  "Open them with your teeth!"

  John even liked this part, the acrid taste of the powder, as he bit open the end of the cartridge and covered it with his thumb.

  "Charge with powder!

  "Draw forth your scourers!

  "Shorten them to an inch!

  "Charge with bullet!"

  He spit the bullet into the barrel on top of the rammed-in empty cartridge paper, then,

  "Ram down powder and ball!

  "Withdraw your scorers!

  "Shorten them to a handful!

  "Return your scourer!

  "Poise your musket!"

  Here the well-rehearsed exercise neared its climax.

  "Shoulder your muskets!

  "Poise your muskets!

  "Order your muskets!"

  And they were all set down to the ground at a time, so that it was but one thump.

  The highlight of the day began when the entire company was brought back into formation. The men were drawn up in precisely-spaced ranks and files; the ensign carried the colors; the drummer in line with the front rank. Then, to the steady beat, the company marched up and down the field, reacting to commands called to them, split and returned and marched on to the admiration and applause of the crowd. Even the old men joined in the praise for a sometimes-awkward production.

  The climax came when the Captain turned the drill to volley fire. This maneuver, to turn his ninety musketeers into one firing machine, was complicated and dangerous. It called for every other man to step forward before the man in front o
f him. Then those behind moved up another half-step, and an exact sequence of foot and musket placement was yelled until the call, "Fire!"

  The resulting volley of exploding power was awesome, and the crowd was always silent for the moment before, then they exploded into yells and shouts and screams of delight. John felt humbled, being part of it.

  The men were dismissed for an hour. Jackets and vests lay scattered around the field where they'd been tossed, as the sun grew higher and hotter. There was a rush now to the cool cider and beer that waited in the shade.

  Richard and John rejoined the family—Richard heading to the cider pipe— but John was delayed by Sarah Alice and Joseph lavishing praise on him. "But this afternoon will be the best part," Joseph promised him.