by Jerri Hines
Jonathan sighed. He well understood Morgan’s aversion to politics. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand the appointment of Horatio Gates as commander. Maybe it was his Virginian blood running through him, but he would much rather have a hands on commander. He wanted a commander leading strongly rather than sitting in his tent in the middle of battle. Morgan sat back and laughed about it.
“Got one who credits and pats himself on the back, while hiding in his tent. Then he leaves the one directing the battle out of the report,” Morgan stated. “The other, gotta lov’ the way he fights. The two don’t mix.”
The camp exploded between Gates and Arnold when their styles clashed, especially when Gates gave no credit to Arnold in his communications to Congress. Arnold declared war upon Gates himself.
After their screaming display in the middle of camp, Jonathan was disappointed, but not surprised, that Gates relieved Arnold of command. Then a cat and mouse game ensued between the two. Gates gave Arnold’s command to Lincoln and Arnold requested permission to leave camp. The request was granted, but Arnold remained in his tent.
Thus the camp remained until the early afternoon of October 7 when the British emerged. The order immediately went out to detach. Soldiers scattered to their positions.
Jonathan attached himself once more to the Virginian command, although ordered to fulfill his obligations of his profession, but if the occasion arose, he was not to hesitate to defend himself and his country. He listened intently as Morgan directed his riflemen along the western side of the battle.
“Are we to fight, Colonel?” one young soldier asked afraid they were directed away from the major action.
Morgan laughed. “Son, we have a tall order if a fight is what ya’ are lookin’ for. We are to engage Brigadier Simon Fraser’s unit.”
Leaving the camp, Jonathan passed by Arnold’s tent. Cursing and muttering could be heard from miles away.
“By God, tell General Gates I need to be assigned quickly back to my unit with the battle upon us! God damn it,” Arnold’s voice rang out.
Jonathan caught Morgan’s eyes. There wasn’t anything either could do, but fulfill their own orders. Upon the directions of Colonel Morgan, the men broke upon both sides of the woods. The sounds of battle erupted around them, cannons fired, guns rang out, shouts of attack. Shortly after, Jonathan heard the first musket fire from his unit.
“Don’ let the line break!”
Most men let out blood thirsty howls and attacked the British flank. The British driven back momentarily, but Fraser rallied his men repeatedly, not giving in to Morgan’s advance. Without warning, General Arnold appeared before Morgan upon his horse.
“I have been observing the British General Fraser. He’s trying to form a rear line and it needs to be eliminated,” Arnold announced. Morgan didn’t hesitate.
With two of his fingers in his mouth, Morgan gave a short whistle. Suddenly, a powerfully built dark skinned boy called Sure Shot Tim appeared beside Morgan. Behind him a small group of riflemen emerged prepared to take orders.
“As you have already demonstrated, again I need another sure aim,” Morgan said simply. He pointed toward the enemy general. “That gallant officer is General Fraser, which, in truth, I admire his courage. But it’s necessary for him to fall. Victory for the enemy depends on him. Take your station in that clump of bushes and do your duty.”
Jonathan held his own rifle in hand, but with this distance he doubted anyone could obtain their objective. The group took their positions and commenced firing upon the brightly uniformed officer. Jonathan couldn’t take his eyes of Sure Shot. He took his time settling his gun. His fellow riflemen had already begun to fire, yet the young man arranged his bearings. He set his gun in a fork of a tree and at a range, Jonathan estimated, of more than two hundred yards, and then commenced firing.
The first two shots missed his mark, but the third hit. Jonathan caught the marksmen’s eyes, assured he had accomplished his goal. Fraser fell mortally wounded. The advance disintegrated around their leader’s demise.
The reputation of Morgan’s elite riflemen had been well earned. Frontiersmen, all of them, rough and speech profane, could fight and fight well. But they took no time to celebrate, for the battle was far from over. To Jonathan’s side, the Hessian’s advance gave the Americans cause for concern.
Momentum fell, but behind him, a roar erupted with cheers among Livingston’s regiment of Yorkers. General Benedict Arnold suddenly appeared on the field of battle, charging ahead in excitement. He galloped between the lines of Breymann’s redoubt where most of the British survivors of the sortie had retreated.
Cheers broke out, regiment after regiment. It was a beautiful sight, the blue-coated officer on the back of his bay mare. Arnold ignored the crossfire and lifted his hand waving his sword forward, calling for the advance. Miraculously, he avoided being hit. Arnold’s horse pounded toward the enemy, followed by enthusiastic regiments.
Jonathan ran through the woods in an effort to keep up. American muskets spouted down harshly over a redoubt, supplying a barrier of protection against the British’s attack. Before him, a German soldier had fallen, but quickstepped back to his feet. The German raised a saber to the back of a fellow American, but before he could land the blade into the flesh of the unsuspecting Patriot, Jonathan fired his musket, knocking the German back to the ground.
The Rebel soldier spun with the sound of the musket so close. Startled then a spark of recognition upon him in the middle of the battlefield, the dungy, dirty soldier hugged Jonathan.
“Damn, if this isn’t a fine way to finally see you! By God! Thank you. Keep hearing about this Deadly Aim Doc. I believe it now,” John Glover slapped Jonathan’s back.
“It’s good to see you too, friend,” Jonathan said as he dodged a soldier running before him.
They had no more time for words. Jonathan heard Glover yell, “Afterwards, my friend. After the victory.”
Jonathan smiled in acknowledgement, but his attention turned as a loud cry came forth for him from one of the riflemen. “Doc! Doc! Arnold’s been hit!”
Jonathan scurried across the field to where the General lay. Arnold tried in vain to pull his leg out from under his fallen horse. Jonathan laid his rifle down and pressed his hand under the horse’s rump. He gripped the injured limb and diligently worked his leg free. Jonathan turned to the General, “Believe your leg is not only wounded, but broken. We need to get you out of here.”
Arnold shook his head. “Don’t want to, Doc. The fighting is before us.”
“I believe you have done enough for one day, General Arnold,” Jonathan responded.
The stubborn general negotiated with Jonathan. “Bandage me up. I’m not up front,” Arnold declared. “If you must, take me down to Paterson so at least I’ll know the movement.”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, General,” Jonathan shook his head, uncertain.
“Aren’t you the doctor they talk about? The crazy one, goes straight into battle,” Arnold asked. He broke into laughter, but a grimace formed as a surge of pain swept through. “You understand then my need to be among my troops, encourage them. Stay with me, if you must.”
Jonathan relented, but Arnold didn’t have long, for Armstrong finally caught up with the General, officially removing him from action. Jonathan stayed with the wounded General, who was more seriously injured than he wanted anyone to know.
The official surrender occurred on October 17. The astonished British had just been soundly defeated by the ragtag American army. An entire army forced to surrender.
Jonathan, for the first time since this all began, believed that maybe they could actually win the war.
Chapter Thirteen
Jonathan,
Consciousness of every American Patriot has been tested and their will to endure and fight on has prevailed. The battle is far from over, but our hearts will conquer over the tyranny that we face. We have contemplated the numerous tortures inflicted upon ou
r courageous and righteous citizens. Well remember that nothing glorious can be accomplished without such sacrifices, as they have been made.
I have heard of the honor of which you have served upon the battlefield and your profession. Your defense of the rights of mankind and our nation will preserve our spirit for our glorious designs for the proud Americans of the future. Never let them forget what we have done together as a state bent upon the belief of a people and the rights we hold dear.
The benefits of Saratoga have already had an effect. You'll now be reassigned, as you have already been informed, to the main army under Washington's command at his winter encampment. But I sought for you and obtained a brief leave. I have been in constant contact with Captain Lanson, who had taken your son and sister-in-law to his sister's home in Baltimore.
There have been a few developments that now will allow their safe return to Williamsburg, which has been the objective. Captain Lanson will undertake the venture and should be there by the time you arrive. I can well understand there are arrangements you'll need to make. Your father-in-law, Joseph Gannon, is no longer a threat, having not long since met his demise.
Furthermore, your sister, Hannah, has been found. Captain Lanson can fill you in on the details upon your return. Know though, it was put out that your sister has died, which we believe will be the safest in her interest at this time. But she is out of New York and is safe. Your commander will have the necessary papers for your leave.
Your friend,
Major Benjamin Tallmadge
* * * *
Sleet turned into rain as Jonathan trudged on upon his horse. He was fortunate to have been able to obtain the horse for the journey. He hunched his shoulders to drive the weather from his weary body, not much longer before he would reach Williamsburg. A month had been granted to him to set his matters in order. He didn't question. He knew of few others who had received such leaves. Over two years had passed since he last set foot in the home he had grown up in.
No longer would his father, or most of the family, be there to greet him. The thought depressed him further. At times reality had seemed easy to push aside without dealing with the facts on his deployment. The deaths that had devastated him so were words, not the cold hard reality he would now have to face. The rain had lightened, but he had only one stop to make before he finished his journey.
On the outskirts of Williamsburg, to the side of the Presbyterian Church lay the cemetery. He halted his tired horse and tied it to the fence that surrounded the graves. A gray mist was in the air. He walked slowly over to the grave sites and markers of his loved ones, ignoring the damp and freezing rain. Well aware that they only had markers for his father and brother. Their bodies had never been, nor would ever be, recovered.
He had no concept of how long he stood there. He knelt down beside his father's marker. His eyes stared, but his mind saw his father's face, his smile. He saw a different time.
Standing upon the steps of the house, his father scrunched his face at his youngest son as he brought in another wounded animal, a small bird haven fallen out of its nest. He shook his head. “Jonathan, how many times have you brought one animal in after another? It's a wild thing and won't accept help from you.”
“But, Father, I can't sit by. I have to try. It will die if I do nothing,” Jonathan defended his actions.
“That is all one can ask, I suppose. To try.”
I'm trying, Father. I am, Jonathan thought. But I don't know what is best anymore, Father. I have tried to honor your memory. It's so hard, Father, but I won't quit. In this I promise you, Father. I'll never quit.
The rain ceased by the time he mounted back up. Drenched and gritty, he had ridden for two straight days to make it home. The sun had begun to set as he turned the corner of Duke of Gloucester Street.
From the looks of the town not much had changed since his departure, but for Jonathan, everything had changed. Now Patrick Henry served as governor, a far cry from Dunmore.
Jonathan fought back the water swelling in his eyes as he caught view of his home.
A fear swirled within him. He hadn't seen his son since his departure up North. Would the boy remember him? He found he couldn't knock upon the door, standing, as a visitor, uncertain upon the doorsteps.
He heard sounds from within, inarticulate sounds.
Slowly Jonathan turned the handle of the door he had once dashed through without a second thought. The wind helped and whipped the door open wide.
Jonathan entered, shutting the door behind him. He turned, soaked and disarrayed, to the silence and stares of the inhabitants within the drawing room.
Lydia sat upon the floor with little William in her lap. A smile blossomed on her face. She held up his small hands to help the young one stand. “Look, William. It's your Papa. I told you he was coming. It's Papa.”
With only a little prodding, the child toddled over with a proud smile upon his small face as if he knew his father hadn't seen him walk. He repeated, “Pa-pa, pa-pa.”
Jonathan's eyes held to his son. He leaned down and picked up his child. He hugged him as tightly as he could, forgetting the people around him. Little William returned it with as much furor as his father, placing his little arms around his father's neck. Jonathan’s heart swelled with a bevy of emotions. Sadness, emptiness, and pain replaced by a surge of joy and hope he hadn’t known in such a long time.
* * * *
“I have heard well your bravery, Jonathan. But I'm glad to see you back,” Lanson stated as he put another log on the fire. “Will you care to join me in a drink?”
Jonathan, refreshed after he changed, shaved and had a warm meal. He had watched his son fall asleep.
The irony of the situation wasn't wasted upon him. Lanson was waiting on him within his own home. Jonathan nodded politely and accepted a glass of Madeira. He sat in the seat closest to the fire. A comfort he hadn't experienced in quite a while.
His mind wandered to the troops he had left a few days hence at Washington's quarters, a place called Valley Forge. Washington's force had been soundly defeated at Brandywine Creek, lost Philadelphia, and when Washington struck back at Germantown, the attack fell short of its objective. Although at one point the possibility of success had been within their grasp, the fog and confusion about battle orders lead to a disaster.
Jonathan had only a brief stay at the encampment, before his journey home. The well-worn army had made camp in the driving December wind. Most men had no better than rags for warmth to survive the winter ahead. He had heard rumors of a shortage of supplies, which he didn't doubt. Jonathan foresaw many a problem ahead, but right now at this moment his son was his only concern.
Lanson stepped back over to the fire. He propped his foot upon the hearth. “Lydia and her father have retired for the night so we can discuss all that has occurred.”
Jonathan concealed his surprise at Lanson's familiarity with Lydia's name behind a bland expression. He turned his attention instead to matters at hand. He had questions only Lanson could answer. He listened well to Lanson’s tale. The discussion lasted long after midnight. Lanson explained the events in great detail. Jonathan bit his bottom lip. His heart wrenched for his sister.
“There's no way we can bring her home?”
“With her health and the winter moving in, I wouldn't recommend it. Major Tallmadge has assured me he knows the family personally. She's within good hands, but even if she was well enough to travel, the agreement at the moment is for her stay within British territory. But if there is any indication the British are reneging upon the agreement, she will be swiftly taken across the Sound into Connecticut.”
“What do you know of where she resides?” Jonathan asked.
“At first the agreement was she was to stay with the Arnett’s, but due to circumstances I'm not exactly sure of, she's staying with the Cooper's. Giles Cooper owns a tavern and a general store in a small village of Setauket on Long Island. Although British occupied, they are close to the Sound. The
danger to Hannah seems to have passed with the death of your uncle and Gannon. We received word of your grandfather passing not long since aboard the Jersey. I doubt he had an easy death. The only one we don't have solid evidence of his death is your cousin, Georgie Boy, but he's believed to have been severely injured and it's doubtful he could have survived. I believe, Jonathan, that this chapter is behind us.”
“I can communicate with Hannah?”
“But of course. I can arrange it with Major Tallmadge,” Lanson paused. “Much has happened, but now it's on to the future and the fight at hand. I realize that you were given time to handle your affairs, but I have been giving much thought to them as well.”
Jonathan sat still, bewildered by the statement. “I have to come to some decisions, yes.”
Lanson uncomfortably broke in. “That's what I would like to discuss with you.”
Lanson coughed to clear his voice and straightened his waistcoat. He awkwardly began, “I understand you still want to stay for the duration….”
Jonathan nodded as his eyebrows rose slightly.
“Your cousin, Matthew, has had a lot on him with trying to run the store and rebuild the plantation. Lydia's father has helped, but with his own health bad, has found it hard to deal with. I understand you gave him part of the shop for keeping it running,” Lanson swallowed.
“Yes, I understand the arrangement,” Jonathan said, trying to help Lanson along.
Lanson nodded. “My proposal is for myself to buy out Matthew's part and take over the shop myself. Before the war I ran a small store. I have already resigned, for my part, within the army. I have reached the age of forty-three and have found I have done it for too long. Of course, I will do whatever I can to support our cause and if needed wouldn't hesitate,” Lanson rambled and took a deep breath. He blurted out, “I would like to ask for your blessing, too, for I have asked Lydia to become my wife.”