Halestorm

by Becky Akers

  The next year, fear again tormented him. He had gone hunting by himself and loaded too much powder in his fowling piece, so that it exploded in his face. Blinded, disoriented, writhing, he thought he was dying. He cried fiercely for his mother, whose soothing hands and kisses would have let him laugh at the pain, then wept for her loss more than his hurt. At length, he remembered the watch in his pocket. He felt for it, held it to his ear, let its ticking calm him. Again, he survived, though he lay in the woods half the day until his vision cleared and the nausea passed and he could stagger home.

  When he exchanged the farm for Yale months later, fear dogged him from Coventry to New Haven. He had not known what to expect, had thought he might die, so far from his father and home and everything familiar. But again, he survived.

  Now, as powder flashed, as artillery pounded, he ignored the fear.

  By the second evening of March, all was ready. Knox’s guns lit the sky over Boston with such cannonading as only the Redcoats could have mounted before. Shells exploded overhead, shaking the earth, with smoke hanging thick, as Nathan shouted to Billy Hull, “That oughta pull General Howe from his dreams.”

  “And the arms of Mrs. Loring.” Billy grinned. “There’s some think the Congress ought to strike a medal in her honor, all she’s done to keep him occupied instead of fighting us.”

  The Americans continued their bombardment for two days, masking their efforts on Dorchester Heights. Dawn revealed the earthworks and guns bristling atop those hills, innocent of anything but gnarled trees the night before, and Billy Hull laughed as he related Howe’s astonishment. “He says we get more done overnight than his army does in months. Guess he forgot we’re born with shovels in our hands.”

  Nathan shook his head. “He won’t allow us to hold the Heights. Too threatening. He’ll have to attack.”

  “His men won’t like that. It’s Bunker’s Hill all over again. Only this time, we’ve got powder and ammunition. They charge uphill, and we’ll slaughter ’em.”

  A storm so bad many figured it for a hurricane kept them indoors the next day. It also lashed the Redcoats as they prepared to cross Boston Harbor for the Heights. Howe blamed the waves swamping his ferries for his defeat. He called his officers together and listed the reasons that the best army on earth, with the immense wealth of England’s government backing it, should relinquish Boston to a gaggle of ill-fed, ill-clothed, undisciplined farmers.

  Hull whistled and Nathan’s puns flew as they played checkers one evening a few weeks later. They had earlier watched the Regulars board their transports and evacuate Boston.

  “Looks like we taught them a thing or two at Bunker’s Hill.” Hull jumped three of Nathan’s men. “We don’t even fire a musket, and they leave us the city.” His whistle soared as Nathan studied the board. “New York, here we come, huh?”

  “Don’t look so proud, Billy. I lose to my father and brothers all the time. ’Tis too royalist a game for me, all these kings strutting about.”

  “Any word on when we’re heading south?”

  “I hear His Excellency wants to wait a few days, be sure the enemy’s left for good and isn’t waiting at sea for us to strike camp. You have to wonder why Howe didn’t attack us last winter when enlistments were expiring. Instead, he waits until we’ve got cannon and we’re strong enough to force him out.” He moved a man into Hull’s trap.

  With a flourish, Hull ended the game. “Just another few weeks to the war, mark my words. Then we’ll be back to good meals and dry beds and enjoying the ladies.”

  Nathan’s company reached New York after a march of a dozen days. Though they had camped around a slightly smaller city for the last year, New York’s grandeur surprised them. First, they had only surrounded Boston, not actually lived within it. And hostile soldiers had occupied the place, plundering it, demolishing its buildings, however lovely or valuable, for firewood while ransacking public and private stores.

  By contrast, New York lay like a mile-long slice of luscious pie, reaching up York Island from its southernmost tip. Fields and forests bounded its northern reaches while the sea lapped the other two sides. Wharves jutted wherever water and city met. So many ships jostled there that their masts nigh tangled, and sailors and stevedores swarmed. Grog shops and others of lesser repute, chandlers and merchants’ offices clustered at the docks. Streets ran from the water’s edge, twining over rocky hills and outcroppings. More buildings than Nathan had ever seen crowded those streets. Church spires rose on every block, weathercocks spinning in the April wind. Dutch houses from the last century, quaint and old-fashioned with crow-stepped gables, crouched next to modern Palladian structures of brick trimmed in brownstone.

  Among those dwellings scurried chimney-sweepers, sawyers of wood, merchants, ladies, priests, carts, horses, oxen, coaches, market men and women. Their rattle-gabble dinned loud as cannon.

  With the advent of the Continental troops, taverns overflowed, theaters ran additional shows, shops stayed open late. Only the fortifications looming along the docks on the East River and across that river on Long Island proved that the war had come to town.

  They plied pick and shovel as soon as they arrived, hardly sparing time to find quarters and expecting the Redcoats to invade at any moment. But days passed with no sign of them beyond the Asia. This man-o-war had anchored in New York’s harbor for years, disquieting and obnoxious to Patriots, a welcomed symbol of law and order for Tories. New York’s Loyalist governor and other royal officials had long ago sought refuge on board.

  A favorite game around Continental campfires was to guess at Billy Howe’s whereabouts. Word finally came that his forces had sailed north to Halifax, and the men grinned. Few had dared hope they could drive the Redcoats from Boston. Having done so, they could scarcely believe they had drubbed them so badly they must retire to Nova Scotia.

  But the problems with supply that had plagued them in Boston pursued them to New York. Too few Loyalists had fled the city and abandoned their properties to house the officers, let alone the troops. Colonel Webb took quarters on Maiden Lane, but Nathan and the company camped on Bayard’s Mound north of the city.

  Again, they threw up crude huts, assuming that the tents Congress had requisitioned would soon arrive. But the days turned to weeks, spring rains beat through the gaps in the walls, and Nathan detailed two soldiers to chink instead of digging breastworks. No sooner had they finished than the rain stopped, and the sun seared them as if it were July instead of May. The holes that had soaked them would admit breezes now, and the men knocked out the chinking.

  There was too little food for so many mouths, much of it spoiled. A handful of meal or half-a-pound of salt pork, and that mostly rotten, couldn’t sate troops who had raised fortifications all day. Nathan had never been so hungry, not even in Boston. As he swung his pickax or lost to Hull at checkers, he tried to ignore starvation’s pangs. Food had gone from the abundant stuff he took for granted on his father’s farm to a preoccupation. He woke thinking about bread, toasted and dripping butter, crispy bacon, oatmeal drowned in cream; he went to sleep dreaming of hasty pudding and beans baked with maple sugar. Occasionally, supplies appeared on schedule, as contracted, and for a week, the camp would feast on fresh beef or eggs. But those times were few enough that his clothes hung on him, and he tied a rope round his waist to hold his breeches.

  Even Asher returned to camp empty-handed more often than not, despite his skill at foraging. When his devoted aide did tote something, Nathan asked no questions. “I’d rather just think of it as roast varmint than know exactly what it is he found in the woods,” he told Hull.

  “He’s spoiling you for marriage,” Hull said. “No girl’ll take care of you half as well and ask so little in return.”

  Though Nathan had promised to watch over Asher, it was the other way around. Asher kept the hut swept, his uniform brushed, and something, anything, bubbling over the fire, even if it were only water with onion grass and a ham bone gnawed clean.

&nbs
p; They had garrisoned New York for a month when a British supply sloop glided into the harbor. A harbinger of the army to come, with barrels piled high on deck, she seemed to mock their famine as she came to rest under the guns of the Asia. The Continentals speculated often on what those barrels held.

  Their own paltry rations dwindled over the next week, until one day there was nothing at all. The commissary only shook his head when Nathan and other officers gathered before him in May’s soft twilight. “Should be a shipment in soon, boys, but I ain’t got anything for you tonight.”

  “What about tomorrow morning, damn it?” hollered a captain from New York’s militia. “What in God’s name am I supposed to tell my men?”

  “Now, no call to get profane there, friend,” the commissary said. “Ain’t my fault, you know. Blame the Congress. They’s the ones won’t cough up the cash to pay yas and feed yas.”

  Nathan trudged back to Bayard’s Mound, pulling the rope about his waist tighter to stop his stomach’s rumbling. When would his company’s numbers fall off as others’ had? So far, none of his troops had deserted, a claim few outfits could advance, and he was proud of it. But that would not last if soldiers who had re-enlisted reluctantly went hungry.

  He had nearly reached his quarters when he passed Colonel Webb leaning against a fence, pipe clamped between his teeth as he studied the river. Its water shone iridescent in the setting sun, with the Asia squatting near the far shore. Under her guns sat the supply sloop, fat and pretty and loaded with provender while their own men lacked.

  “Captain.” Webb nodded, taking the pipe from his mouth, and Nathan joined him.

  “Pleasant night, sir.”

  “That it is, ’cepting that boat there, sticking in my caw.” Webb spit. “Downright shame good men go empty while those supplies sit spoiling. Time Billy Howe gets here from up north, why, those rations won’t be no good to nobody. But them Redcoats’ll guard that boat and watch us starve.” The colonel glanced at him. “Seems we oughta do something about that.”

  Nathan stood silent. Helping themselves to food, even from an enemy in wartime, was stealing, was it not?

  Webb continued softly. “You’re the best officer I’ve got, son. Wouldn’t want you to do anything against your conscience. But to my mind this ain’t nothing more than taking back what belonged to us in the first place. That boat and provisions was bought with money thieves stole from us.” Webb drew on his pipe, released the smoke in short, angry puffs. “Yes, sir, thieves, I don’t care if they call it taxes. ’Tis stealing if I take money from you that you don’t want to give me, and ’tis stealing when the government does it.”

  “Pretty much the way I look at it too, sir.”

  “Well, then, seems to me we’re just recovering our property.” Webb patted his shoulder. “’Course, I’m not issuing any order here, you understand. Just thinkin’ out loud. And now, Captain, you excuse me? I got paperwork waiting me. Congress can’t find food to feed us, but they got plenty of paper. Every time I want a flint for my pistol, I got to write another damn letter.”

  After Webb departed, Nathan continued examining the supply sloop. He could put together a detachment, go over there, fetch his men some sustenance. Still, aside from the pie at Yale, he had never robbed anyone of anything. Could he steal an entire boat? And from under the nose of a man-o-war? If they were caught....Better a quick death from a bayonet than slowly starving.

  He picked his way to his company, past banked fires and empty kettles. “Corporal Spink, find Sergeant Hempstead, will you?” he said as he reached his men. “And then I want to see both of you in my quarters.”

  “Sure, Captain.” Spink detached himself from the soldiers squatting around the fire.

  The others were less agreeable. They had nothing in their bellies and had been looking for their captain to return with supper. Here he was, without so much as a crumb. “Where’s the food, Captain?”

  “Aw, leave him be,” someone answered before Nathan could. “It ain’t his fault. He’s as hungry as us.”

  “Yeah, and he’s always got an answer, too, ain’t he?” A third voice spoke from the shadows. “He could charm the ticks off a dog, couldn’t he? Only, Captain, we can’t eat charm.”

  “Nor can I, gentlemen.” Nathan stepped into his hut.

  Asher sat inside, brushing his uniform. “Nath—Captain, you get us some victuals?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh.” He scraped at a stain with his fingernail. “You want me to pray for some?”

  Spink and Hempstead found both men with bowed heads when they stepped into the hut a few moments later. Nathan spoke his “Amen” and said, “Gentlemen, no reason for us to go hungry when the government’s anchored a sloop nearby, brimful with supplies.”

  Spink digested this stoically. Hempstead stood thunderstruck. “But, Captain, the Asia’s guarding it.”

  “When she can see it, she is.”

  Understanding lit Hempstead’s face. “So you want to raid the sloop after dark? There’s only a quarter moon tonight.”

  “Don’t want to raid her. I want to sail her over to our lines. Then we can help ourselves to whatever we want.”

  Hempstead’s jaw dropped.

  “Now, here’s what we need. Head over to Glover’s company, tell them what we’re planning, ask for volunteers. We need at least six men, eight if you can get them. They’re from Marblehead, they know everything there is to know about boats. We’ll sail over to that finger of land that juts out about a quarter mile above the Asia. ’Tis close to one of the landings there, so even if the Asia’s crew sees us, they’ll probably figure we’re heading for the landing and leave us alone. Once we’re there, we wait for the moon to set, then board the sloop. If any of her hands are aboard, they’ll probably be asleep below decks by then.”

  Hempstead shook his head, and Nathan added, “This is strictly voluntary, Sergeant. You don’t have to—”

  “Oh, no, Captain, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. It’s just, well, I was thinking about those Lobsterbacks on the Asia, when they look out tomorrow morning and see that sloop sitting over on our side of the river.”

  Even Spink laughed at that. Hempstead said, “What all you suppose is on board? Any rum, do you think?”

  Nathan winked. “We’re not going to all this trouble just for salt pork.”

  Spink and Hempstead left, and Asher held out the uniform. It was a courtesy to call it such, for it was only a fringed linen tunic like those of the backcountry, made by the women at home, tattered and patched. He almost refused it before remembering he would be in the enemy’s territory and could be taken for a spy. He thrust his arms into the sleeves, then stepped outside to gaze at the river. There loomed the hulk of the Asia with the silhouette of the smaller ship beside it. All seemed quiet on both. He was too distant and the light too faint to see the men aboard the sloop, drinking and talking.

  Behind him, Asher said, “You be careful out there. Druther go hungry than have you—have you….”

  “Pray that the Redcoats sleep tight tonight, Asher.”

  “Have some wine, sir. You’re not half drunk enough for officers’ company.” Major William Parker, Quartermaster, filled Guy Daggett’s glass and sat back with a chuckle. The sloop rocked with the motion of the river as the setting sun spangled the sky. “’Tis an unexpected pleasure, meeting a gentleman in these parts. Tell me, did you ever visit Madame DeVine’s? I heard she had the most loveliest girls, ones that put these Yorker hags to shame.”

  Guy faked an insider’s leer. The past four months had dealt gently with him. He had found a warehouse ideal for producing gunpowder the day after he landed in New York and even had two financiers haggling over which would lend him money. He contracted with a man across the East River in Brooklyn for shipments of charcoal and with a firm a few miles beyond that, near the New Lots, for sulfur and saltpeter. Until the Continentals arrived and drafted Yorkers to dig their fortifications, he had his pick of the workmen lini
ng his doorstep each morning. He milled powder and stockpiled some casks, though not so many that he despaired of selling them.

  At that precise moment, General Howe abandoned Boston for Nova Scotia, with New York his next stop, Guy was sure. He hugged himself in jubilation as Fate smiled on him. The only task remaining was to secure contracts with His Majesty’s army. And so he had spent this last week on board the sloop, fawning over officers in the quartermaster department. Each had referred him to someone else, until tonight. Parker not only bought powder, he also signed agreements. Guy was giddy as they neared the end of their negotiations, though he had drunk sparingly to keep his head.

  He steepled his fingers and considered the London whores Parker had mentioned. Though Madame DeVine’s had been too expensive for him, he coveted its cachet. “They’re certainly satisfactory, sir. No question about it. But one woman’s pretty much like another where it counts.”

  Parker slapped his knee with another chuckle, then said, “Well, let’s talk particulars, sir, for the powder we’ll get from you. I’ll tell you again that regularity and dependability are most important here. I been approached by other powder-makers, but a fair number of ’em stop shipment once the rebels get to them. Now, sir, I can’t be put in such a position. I can’t tell General Howe as he’s going to battle that we’re out of powder because you’re scared of those Sons of Liberty. No, sir. They’re rabble, sir, and can’t be allowed to keep supplies from His Majesty’s troops.” Parker lurched to his feet, showing his wine, and gestured at the barrels stacked around them. “I’ll want your first shipment within the week, and a steady supply after that. Now, let’s see. I’ll need....” He slipped a hand under his wig, scratching as he calculated. “Can you get us eighteen kegs a day, starting tomorrow, so I can build up a reserve? Twenty’d be even better.”

  Twenty kegs per day! Surely the troops, numerous as they must be, would not consume that much. He would soon exhaust his stores unless he increased production. “I’ll need a big advance, then, to buy more sulfur.”