The streets were empty but of broken glass; the sky was black.
By the mast pond, where the great spars of ships lay refracted, we saw a little girl with a bucket, a vain and minute assay at extinguishing the flames. She looked upon our detachment with sullen terror as we marched by.
We crossed the Catherine Street Bridge to the more populous part of town, which now appeared without inhabitant. Watching for resistance, alert with alarums, we progressed past silent residences.
In some streets where no fire had yet reached, doors were ajar and windows smashed, prey to the depredations of rebel greed and the exercise of wrath.
In other avenues, there was no sign of the sack; gardens were unmolested; it had been any Monday morning, were the air not alive with insect ash, and were there a sun in the sky; were the sky above us not black; were there not a look of Judgment and the End.
We heard shots and made our way swiftly to the site of battle, finding a detachment of Marines engaged in volleys with four or five shirtmen who had been surprised in their looting; the shirtmen took refuge behind their carts of pilfered fine furniture.
Our arrival was not unseasonable, we issuing forth to the side of the conflict, so we might outflank the enemy. We fired upon them, and the closest of their number collapsed.
His companion turned to us with surprise — having not hitherto detected us — and screamed, “God damn you, filthy Negro brutes!” and discharged his rifle at us.
Private Jocko gave forth a grunt — collapsed — and the smoke of combat twined with that of arson. I recall my terror — spilling the powder upon my hand —
We reloaded — they reloaded — only fifteen feet between us. Again we fired — one was hit — he swore, bent low — and we began again to load.
I trembled as I tore a cartridge with my teeth; but our antagonist and his friends, outnumbered and outflanked, were beating a retreat, ducked low, into an alley. We got off another round, but it did no damage.
Corporal Craigie was full of urgency and outrage, demanding which of us knew the science of tying a bloody tourniquet, ilk of ye — by God, the man was dying while we gaped.
None of us was possessed of this necessary skill — and all of us regarded each other with astonishment until Corporal Craigie began calling names and orders — adding, “By God, the villains are escaping”— demanding the rest of us rush forward to harry them and bring them back prisoners.
By his order, three soldiers remained behind with Jocko to claim the crossroads while the rest of us formed (we having lapsed into some confusion) and at a trot rushed after the enemy through the alley.
The Marines sought also our adversary; they were fast upon our heels, letting forth fearsome cries.
Come to the next street — a broad avenue with no commerce now in it — we saw that the rebels had turned in their course to flee off to the left, and we pursued them, grim in the knowledge that if we allowed them time to load their rifles, they should make unhappy work of us.
One more street passed, and we had lost them; the Captain of the Marine company called to Corporal Craigie and demanded that we divide two lanes between us.
To this, our Corporal complied. With some apprehensions of our hazard, we marched between houses.
The lane was of no great width, unpaven, and was filled with smoke. We passed down it with care.
We came upon an old woman sitting in her garden in a washtub like Diogenes. She was clothed, her dress soaked from the water in which she had sunk herself; she wore a calash upon her head.
She berated us with a steady stream of invective and imprecation for as long as she could see us; calling us murderers, barbarians, and every other name she could devise; informing us that she should be safe in her tub when we were burned to cinders.
We left her by her withered hollyhocks and sought onward.
Through gardens hushed, past vacant houses we marched, and each blank window filled us with alarms.
The only sounds which came to the ear were flames, from which a continual haze was thrown.
“De’il ta’e their damn impertinence,” swore our Corporal; and we had almost give up the chase and returned to our fallen comrade when the smoke along the street for one moment lifted; and we saw the enemy detachment marching unaware past, one block along.
We did not have to be told; but as Corporal Craigie hissed, we lowered our muzzles — and, his signal given, fired.
There was a great noise of shot, but none hit; and they turned, startled, and fired at us — as we struggled to reload.
The smoke blew past.
They rebel dogs were gone, as were they fetched away by sorcery.
The Marines rushed before us on the cross-street, following upon the rebels’ heels.
We stood in confusion; and might have continued in that way for longer, had not a door thrown itself open, and a rebel appeared before us.
He was of the militia, and had a musket hanging upon his shoulder. Back to the street, he yanked a handsome clothes press out a door and conducted it, thumping, down the building’s brick steps. He looked about him, saw no friend — saw he was abandoned — saw only the muskets of direst enemy — smiled, and offered to sell us the clothes press for a guinea.
Corporal Craigie demanded he lay down his arms.
The rebel said, “You ain’t going to find excellenter workmanship, boys, for that sum, a guinea. Look’ee, pray, see the dovetailing of the joinery. Give it your eye.”
We bid him submit to his King.
“Boys, that ain’t here nor there. I’ll take an even pound sterling, in the light of circumstance. Look’ee, sirs, fine as Hepplewhite and Hay.”
We presented our bayonets.
The rebel nodded sadly; then gestured back at the house from which he had just issued forth. “There’s a fire-screen painted with wigwams I ain’t stole yet that I’d be willing to part with for a skip and song. A master’s brush.”
Bono stepped forward to bind the man’s arms.
“But mayhaps,” said the man, “you ain’t fanciers of true quality.”
We tied his wrists together.
Corporal Craigie posed interrogation: “Who set the fires?”
“You did, as I reckon.”
“Who set the fires?”
“You did, my Scottish love.”
“On thir street, man. Who set the fires?”
“Look at your own hands.”
At a nod from Corporal Craigie, Charles held his bayonet to the man’s neck.
The Corporal asked again, “Who set the fires?”
The rebel answered, “When a man sits starving and he watch the citizens of a town lick His Lordship’s black arsehole like a cur with hopes for stroking, a man starts to resent their flattery and groveling, and maybe if a man sees His Lordship’s going to light a little fire, a man reckons, Maybe as I should light a little fire myself.”
“Vauntie birke, ye are,” said Corporal Craigie.
“A man reckons, Here’s a little payment for all the time we spent waiting around our fire-pits Christmas Day. A man reckons, Here’s showing Norfolk our high opinion of people who don’t love their countrymen as much as they love despotism. A man reckons, I’m drunk and I don’t care a fig. A man reckons, We do this, and we ain’t going to get the blame anyways. Because Lord Dunmore, Governor of the Negroes, started the burning. So when they say, ‘Who burned Norfolk?’ ain’t nobody going to answer nothing but, ‘Lord Dunmore and his Ethiopian Regiment.’ Welcome, boys, to the annals of tyranny.”
The Corporal ordered we should gag him; and gladly we did, to stop up such filth.
Corporal Craigie ordered we should return to the square where we had left Jocko dying, and the others of our detachment.
We turned about, two guarding the prisoner. He stepped along, jovial of eye. The flames were reflected on the quick of it.
Thus arrayed, we returned to our fallen companion.
The flames now were more impudent in their motion, and one
street was impassable for them. We arrived back at the square with all possible expedition, our nerves in no settled state.
One of our number stood guard there, while two of the other soldiers had busied themselves in binding Jocko’s wound and preparing room for him on the rebels’ abandoned cart; which conveyance was emptied now of all but some sacks of grain and a few hogsheads of dried fish.
We coming to them, Private Harrison rushed forward to greet his grievously wounded friend, calling, “Jocko! Jocko!” But it was evident to all of us that Jocko could not hear himself hailed; that he was wandering already upon the foothills of a country where there are no names.
Corporal Craigie stood above the wounded man; cried, “He’s all over his sark!”; and asked if any among us knew better how to bind.
Months ago, I applied a tourniquet to Dr. Trefusis after letting him blood; a scene which does not speak impressively of my skill in this art; but now I stepped forward and offered to tighten the bloody sash tied about Jocko. Bono and I did what we could, the first desideratum being rum, which we poured between his lips; the second being a steady hand in retying the cloth, which operation I undertook as the insensible patient twitched.
The strip of stuff had not been placed well atop the wound, and I shifted it so that his belly would be better gripped. I feared my inadequacies; supplicated Bono to yank tighter, which he squatted and did. Jocko’s head lolled, and I could not but recall that awful vision, the insensate head of the dead sniper upon the stairs, cheek pierced by our musket-fire.
We bound Jocko as best we could. The wound was deep, however, and he bled copiously; his breath was weak, his eye empty. We lay him upon the cart, tied the prisoner’s rope to the axle, and drew them along after us in our dismal parade.
We quitted the scene, leaving behind us a toppled parlor on the dirt street, table flung with arms wide, clock facedown, chairs jumbled on the ground.
So our march continued.
We came upon a church on fire. The impious wretches had lit the house next to it, and now the steeple burned fiercely. The portal gaped, and a congregation of flames issued forth.
We came upon a carriage abandoned in the street, the door open, a horse dead before it.
We came upon a gown in the road. The arms were spread, beseeching.
At a place where three roads met, we came upon a father huddled with wife and three daughters; the father placed his body between us and the girls. When we challenged them, the man sobbed, “God save the King . . . please you . . . or whatsoever . . .”
We left them where they stood.
We came upon a mad dog which growled, then ran at us; Slant flinched, but Pomp jabbed at it with his bayonet until, it skipping and leaping, the dog was impaled, and collapsed; and we marched on.
We came upon a street that was a scene out of the infernal regions, each house afire, a lane where demonic citizens might walk, capes black, bonnets bulging, baskets filled with mewling roots.
There was no passing down it; the flames billowed from each side.
We came upon a another detachment of rebels espied down a far street, obscured by smoke. They fired upon us; we returned their volley. When the clouds cleared, they were disappeared.
We came upon a fire engine in a neighborhood of flame.
The tank was empty of water. Two men, blackened with soot, sat upon the wheels, and smoked pipes. They did not bestir themselves for us, but watched as we passed, dragging our cart, Jocko motionless behind us on his berth.
Whichsoever way we turned seemed to be flame. The houses were consumed; the bricks of houses still standing were blackened; the air so thick with soot that we now all coughed and gagged at every step.
From every side, the roar of conflagration; the air was mobile with sparks and gentle black ghosts of ash. We feared for our powder.
All was acrid — down side-alleys, vistas of flame — walls collapsed — steeples burned — trees were reduced to hands of fire, plucking at the roofs — a distillery or magazine exploded distantly with a great roar —
Down a street, a detachment of the 14th marched, their red coats rippling in the scarlet heat.
And we stood at the center, so it seemed; black men, blackened cart; white, smudged prisoner and officer; viewing the world turned to fire.
Heraclitus believed that all the universe was fire, a conflagration never doused; and the Collegians in some wise agreed — speaking of the subtle fluids, the atomies and energies, that made up matter; and standing there upon the street, how could one believe otherwise?
I could not determine what was darkness and what was light; but all was energy, as if each stable thing had given up its wonted solidity; for matter itself rippled; light melted and ran; and we were not solid, but our bones themselves were energies, involved ever in exchange; our skin spat forth its superficies; a face, burst with musket-ball, bled; a body on a cart loosed its spirit; and we were bombarded always by the æther.
“From a fire which never dies nor sinks, how should one escape?” asks Heraclitus — and so I felt then — for all around me was the buzzing of that energy — as Mr. Sharpe’s foul image of a universal use — all things engaged in the devouring of each other — and I thought, never shall the woodland seem like woodland — never shall pasture hum with bucolic quiet again — but only the cicada-call of frying — as all objects seek their stoking, their fuel — striving against one another — man to wrest nutrient from animal, animal from herb, grass from the sun — the center still of our system — that vast body, profligate of energy — which we struggle to imbibe, and kill to enjoy. There is no respite, no surcease; for we are always burning, always absorbing — sparks flaring briefly in this vast system of need and theft, this insubstantial latticework of flame, this tireless inferno, this monstrous riot, where all, at last, are consumed.
“There is exchange of all things for fire and of fire for all things, as there is of wares for gold and of gold for wares.”
We stumbled forward with our cart, our prisoner, our dying friend in arms.
I was roused from my reverie by the sound of a drum commanding retreat.
We had, previous to this, directed our steps back toward the quays, we being sensible that the town was become ever more treacherous as the flames spread, and there should be fewer and fewer routes that could be followed to safety. Thus, it was a matter of only some five or six streets until we reached the main square on the waterfront, where stood our colors and the Regimental drummer, who resolutely beat our retreat.
We delivered our prisoner and the stores we had collected to our Lieutenant and boarded our transport. Jocko was removed to the hospital ship.
All that night, the city of Norfolk burned. At some hour, I awoke to the sound of the cannonade renewed; others slumbered still, clutching their heads to impede the sounds of detonation.
In the dark of the early morning, I rose and went above-decks to watch the city’s continued destruction. On the town’s far rim, the enemy still rejoiced in lighting their fires, still drank and looted, whatever their officers might forbid in word; for oft the commission in the word is not the order in the eye; and officers of angry men may wink at much. The town cast its light across the water, the ruddy embers slipping across the waves. All smelled of smoke.
The Dunmore hurled more carcass shot at the broken wharves.
I returned to my bed.
Thus ended the first day of the year 1776.
For three days, Norfolk burned. After a time, the fires were more isolate in their devouring; the town presented a spectacle of black chimney-stacks and scorched ruin as far as eye could see.
Lone shirtmen crouched upon the shore, firing at the fleet, then falling upon their bellies and disappearing before there could be answer to their impertinence. The great billows of smoke veiled their audacity.
At night, we might still hear them reveling in the ruins, disgraced by drink. They shouted in the burnt alleys.
Now the town hath fallen silent.
Over all hangs the cold brume of char, drifting across the water, lying still upon the decks of ships.
We go about our business in the sight of the desolation. The column of smoke does not break, but hovers above the city, as above the Cities of the Plain when smote for their sins.
There is much speculation, as might be imagined, as to whether we shall remain at Norfolk, now that it is razed, or whither we might go. If our officers have heard of the approach of troops sent down from Boston, or the march of our Indian allies to the north, gathered into war-parties to aid us in this our uneasy situation, they have not seen fit to tell us of this glad news. We await word of our next movement; none comes.
Men, when they speak, speak bitterly. Several tug at the stitching upon their shirts — Liberty to Slaves — which they believed talismanic, as the inscriptions of the African mallams are said to protect against all injury. They complain that they think ill of Lord Dunmore’s skill at sorcery.
The Crepuscule is becoming sickly. Several of our men have taken fevers, afflicted with some distemper which fell on the other ships and now visits itself upon ours. We await word of Jocko, but fear that he hath met his final reward. We tend our sick as best we can.
We sleep heartily both by day and by night.
January 5th, 1776
We cannot rid ourselves of the stench of smoke. There is little talking in our dank hold.
Upon Twelfth Night (saith Slant), masters upon plantations here bid their slaves heap the tobacco plots with brush and trash and light the plots on fire; the ground burns all night. The next day, when the ashes have cooled, you rake the ashes. You rake in you tobacco seed. Later, when the sprouts have come up and are strong, they are taken from these beds of ash and transplanted, each to its own mound.
The Kingdom on the Waves Page 21