I glance over at him—taking in his pleated coat, his leather boots, his neck stock—and although I mean no disrespect, he quickly understands that I don’t believe him, and laughs.
“It’s true, son. I grew up on a farm along the banks of the Otter Kill.” He takes in a long, slow breath through his nose. “And I can still smell the mud of the swamps in August and taste the roasted corn … the boiled corn … the corn pudding … the corn porridge … the corn and beans.”
Now we both laugh. He is a farmer’s son.
He describes his family’s farm outside of Goshen, bordered by the shady Otter Kill, with its rolling hills and mossy banks. “But my body was small and I was often sick as a child, so my father had me concentrate on my studies. And when I was twelve, he sent me away to apprentice a doctor.”
I’m too tired to hold back my bold question. “Are you unhappy with your father’s choice?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I begin to stammer an apology, but he interrupts.
“No,” he says, slowly. “I’m not unhappy with it, Noah, and I’m sure that I do more good this way. But,” he sighs, “there are times when I wish I could belong in both worlds, farming and medicine.”
His honesty brings out my own. “Farming is all I know,” I tell him. “But for longer than I could handle a plow I’ve wanted to belong here … in this war.”
I quickly find out that the doctor enjoys speaking about the war much more than he does about corn pudding or doctoring. We hike past a forest of pines while he explains the failed British strategy to divide the middle colonies away from New England—it seems the British believed those of us in the middle colonies would be easy to defeat, since we’re swarming with Tories—and then, with us out of the way, they’d be able to conquer our Patriot brothers in New England and the war would be over. But we were stronger than they thought, which the doctor’s long tale of the battle of Saratoga proves. Most of his story I’d heard before, but today, marching alongside these men, panting alongside them, every word sounds new. The doctor may have been apprehensive about chasing after Joseph Brant, but he is certain in his patriotism.
“The British fight with their pride, Noah,” the doctor says. “We fight with our hearts. And pride tires much faster than the heart. The heart is a miraculous muscle. It receives its power from an unknown source, and the more action you send its way, the stronger and harder it beats. King George will have to send over more than his pride to stamp out the heart of this war.”
Dr. Tusten glows with sweat from his passionate speech and our endless marching. I give him a moment to catch his breath and then ask, “So what happens next?”
He shocks me with a loud burst of laughter. “You are what happens next, Noah,” he laughs.
I grin. I’m happy to be walking with him … happy to listen to his talk … happy to be marching and fighting. I can almost hear my father joking with the men behind me. I fight the urge to turn … to look for his face. Because I know he isn’t there.
Dr. Tusten grows quiet with his own thoughts, perhaps about his family or maybe about what is to come ahead on the path. I want him to keep talking but I can see he’s done for now, so I leave him there to be alone, dropping back by easy measures to join Josh.
My head feels like I’ve drunk too much mulled cider and I can barely feel my legs. I let the other men overtake me by twos and threes. Someone I don’t know claps me on the back as he passes. Another man, in the middle of a sentence, turns to nod at me as he moves by. I catch tiny pieces of conversations … fall planting … musket care. The long snake of men keeps me moving forward as it winds its way past me. The darkness is deepening, yet I feel light and awake. I’m fighting for what my father wanted. I’m fighting for what I believe in. I’m fighting with my heart.
But our enemy crawls into my head and I can’t get him out. What is Joseph Brant fighting with? Maybe he fights because he’s bound by the Covenant Chain, the treaty between the six nations of the Iroquois and English that unites them like brothers. Maybe he fights because he considers himself English. I’ve heard he’s actually sailed to England and met the king and queen.
I stumble along behind a man whose form I can barely make out in the dusk and think about Joseph Brant … about all the Indians. They once populated this land we’re marching through, but not anymore. It has become my father’s land. And Mr. Little’s, who traveled all the way from Connecticut to claim it. Even mine, with my dreams of what I will do with my own farm one day. Maybe the king promised Brant that he’ll stop the Colonists from snatching up the land … that if England wins the war, he’ll fence us into New Jersey, Massachusetts, or Connecticut. I wonder if Joseph Brant believed him.
I slide in next to Josh. We walk, silent, except for the slapping of mosquitos from our necks. I force myself to match his stride while I push thoughts of Joseph Brant and Indians and land and everything else out of my head, and fix my attention on the sound of feet crunching forest floor. It seems we’ve been marching since God created Adam.
I hear Major Meeker behind us. He’s lingered near the back of the group all day. His loud wheezing seems to fall into rhythm with our footsteps. He’s a big man and the heat and rapid pace must surely have affected him greatly. He urges the men: “Come on boys, we’ll catch ’em yet, put yer heart in it.”
I smile. I like the pompous major with his gigantic nostrils and his expensive hat.
“Yes, boys, put your heart in it,” I say quietly as we march on into the night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NOTHING
FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1779
I hear something. A rustling? A movement? I cough … causing white spots of pain to light up behind my closed eyes. My temples throb as my ears suck in every sound around me. But all I hear is my own raspy breath.
“It’s only a dream,” I mumble, licking at my dry lips. Where is the water?
But wait … I hear it again …
The last leaf hangs low on the stalk. Is it ready?
“Father?”
I open my eyes.
“Scar?”
He doesn’t answer.
I turn my head toward him and end up with a bunch of his thick, black hair in my mouth.
Again I hear it. A whisper.
I breathe in … and out … in … and out … trying to quiet the thudding of my heart.
The sky is brightening. I can no longer see the stars.
It’s nothing. I close my eyes.
But then my eyes fly open. I have not heard a sound, but deep inside, I feel it.
He’s coming.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A SHOT CRACKS THE SILENCE
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779
We marched all day and long into the night, camping finally after the moon had a good view of us. The miles added up to more than twenty, and my good mood disappeared into the sticky July night. My body is a tangle of aches this morning as I hobble into a clearing.
More pine, more rocks, more laurel … from the view around me, I could easily be within shouting distance of home. But the white faces of the tired men who file into the clearing after me transform it into an alien place. They sag against trees, collapse in patches of ferns, and drain their canteens, but no one makes a sound.
The day has dawned bright, not a cloud in the sky. But the heat hammers away at us, morning or night; there is no relief from it. My clothes itch and I would do just about anything to dive into the cool river right now. I wipe the sweat from my face with my sleeve. We’re getting closer. There is no more laughter, no more claps on the back. Joseph Brant. His men. They’re not far from where we’re standing. Abram and Daniel, the two stolen boys, come into my mind. I attempt to imagine their feelings this morning but then stop. There is no sense to thoughts like this.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doctor and the colonel gather with Major Meeker and a Mr. Wisner, who is a Lieutenant Colonel. I make my way over to the doctor’s side, as I was given an order to stay clos
e to him. The four men speak in low voices.
“Do we continue?” Dr. Tusten asks. He doesn’t look at Colonel Hathorn, but squints out into the hemlock. It’s as though he’s trying to hide his thoughts so they don’t interfere with the colonel’s decision.
“Of course we do,” spits Major Meeker. The major has no trouble letting his wishes be known, and he elbows poor Lieutenant Colonel Wisner in the ribs to bring the fellow round. The lieutenant colonel rubs his ribs and agrees with the major.
Colonel Hathorn studies the ground at his feet.
Major Meeker begins to speak again, but the doctor puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “Let him think,” Dr. Tusten says.
I can see the major struggle to keep silent. Still, Colonel Hathorn does not look up or respond.
Maybe we won’t catch up to Brant. Maybe it will all end in this clearing. How would I feel if this were true, and if our little army were to turn for home right now? I look behind me at the way we came, through the trees, south, toward my mother and Mary … toward Eliza Little.
Colonel Hathorn interrupts my thoughts.
“We have come for a fight and we shall show Joseph Brant and these Tories a fight,” he says quietly, still not meeting the company’s eyes.
Major Meeker beams.
“Let us stick to our original plan,” continues the colonel. He turns to Dr. Tusten. “Benjamin, you will attack from our right flank, Lieutenant Colonel Wisner will charge the left flank, and I shall strike from the middle. But first we shall proceed up the path, looping back to surprise them from the direction they least expect, the north.”
If Dr. Tusten disagrees, I see nothing in him that says as much. He promptly hands me the rest of his extra medical sacks and begins to head north on our path. I gladly follow him.
The doctor and I lead the line, behind Tyler and Cuddeback, who have gone ahead to scout out Brant’s exact position. I keep my eyes locked on the doctor’s back.
We are moving fast. I follow too closely. When I fall, I don’t feel the pain of my knee against the rock, just the warm blood seeping through my trousers. When I stand, I step on one of the knapsacks and trip again, winding up back in the dirt. The doctor gives me his hand, but I refuse it, and I stumble up and after him.
I see nothing but the fabric of the doctor’s jacket. My own breath fills my ears. The medical bags crowd around me. It’s just as yesterday, I tell myself, we are only marching … marching … marching. After a few paces I begin to relax.
A shot cracks the silence.
We freeze—as if that single musket ball has stopped every one of us dead in our tracks. The shot is followed by a volley of three or four more. These bring us instantly back to life and we scurry about like ants that have lost their trail.
This is not in the plan.
Dr. Tusten shouts to those of us assigned to him and then motions us downhill toward the river. Again, I follow him, forcing myself to keep back so as not to knock him down from behind. He turns to find me and I run into him, losing my balance. His hands grip my shoulders and he yanks me back to my feet.
“Noah.” He shakes me, not hard, but so that he has my attention.
I nod. I’m with him.
He releases me and heads west again, but slower, his gaze scouring the trees. We’re no longer a large group, but more like thirty or forty. Josh and I acknowledge each other with a look.
Silence.
Slinking.
Every step forward. Unbearable.
Ahead … movement.
Men.
The enemy.
I do as the others do, and drop to my belly behind a rock. The explosion of musket fire fills the forest.
I pull my legs in under me and crouch behind the rock with my eyes pressed shut and my forehead against the cool stone. My nose fills with musket smoke. I open my eyes. The smoke burns and I can’t see a thing. A body bangs into mine, knocking me into the pine needles. A musket is thrust into my chest by a man I recognize, but don’t know by name.
“Load it,” he growls.
I do as I’m told. He snatches the musket from me and shoves a second one at me. I reload it and hand it back to him, retrieving the first musket to load again. Sweat and smoke squeeze in around us and all I see is the man, the rock, and the musket I load.
Fill the lock, drop in the cartridge … ramming, cocking, until my whole body knows the routine and performs it in swift, fluid motions. I crouch behind the rock and reload over and over and over.
I start to feel almost comfortable. There’s nothing like having a task. It’s my mother coming out in me. I even let myself look around a little. Dr. Tusten is not far off through the smoke, firing and reloading, firing and reloading. I can see other men now, crouched like my partner and me behind their own rocks or trees, firing and reloading as we are. I stretch just a little to look around the rock and I swear I can feel a musket ball pass through my hair. I will not do that again.
I return to reloading.
I don’t know how long we’ve been behind this rock—long enough for me to memorize this spot on earth for life. A rough piece of the rock juts out a little and catches my elbow as I reload, sending sparks of pain through my arm. I will die here, and the last thing I’ll see is this small piece of forest. I forget to hand over the musket and my partner yanks it from my hands, catching my finger … more pain.
I pick up the musket he dropped and reload. I certainly don’t need two good feet for this.
I’m so thirsty that my tongue feels like it doesn’t belong to me. And the smoke is roasting my eyes from my head. How is my partner standing this?
He peers over the rock, stiff, aiming. I watch him wait patiently for a target. He’s a calculating shot. Thanks be to God for this, as it gives me more time to reload. I can’t tell if he’s hitting anything or not. Of course, I’m hoping he is.
He’s a tall man, but thin. Although he must have a solid constitution, for he hasn’t taken a moment’s rest since the firing started, and not once has he investigated his whereabouts. He must have been here before, in battle, crouching and endlessly firing into a black cloud of smoke. I itch inside my father’s frock. I would be far less sweaty if I removed it, but I know that I won’t.
Reload, reload, reload. The sun has passed overhead, and if our shadows were visible through the smoke, they’d be growing in length.
I dream of water—the way the river looks frozen over in winter with large chunks of ice bobbing in the center, the day it poured rain with the sun still shining when I was out plowing, every wasteful splash I ever let slide over the side of my water bucket.
Reload, reload … smoke and this rock. “Please, God, let this stop,” I pray.
But then my prayer is answered, and I immediately wish to reload a hundred more muskets against this rock than be forced to leave it.
Someone howls down the line to my right. I can’t see who it is, but his howls sound like an animal caught in one of my traps. My partner fires his musket and throws it my way, taking off like a rabbit in the direction of the injured man. Dr. Tusten jumps in behind me on my left and shoves me hard into my partner’s position behind the rock.
“We’re down men, Noah. You’ll have to start shooting,” he shouts directly into my ear, his breath hotter than the muggy air, and then he crawls off after my partner and the injured man.
I clutch the loaded musket. And then I turn, point, and pull the trigger. There is no thought about a target. I just have to fire off the first shot. The crouching and reloading are over, replaced by the new series of crouching, reloading, and firing.
A cheer rises up from the enemy. It’s so loud. It’s so close. How many of them are out there? Have they received reinforcements? Following the cheer—there comes the most grotesque sound I’ve ever heard coming from fellow human beings. It is some sort of guttural song or chant, which ends with more terrifying shouts of joy. I sit, fixed behind my rock, clinging to my musket.
“Shoot, Noah,” I tell myself, b
ut I can’t move. The terrible whooping fills my ears. I cannot move.
Dr. Tusten scrambles back behind my rock, shouting at me to carry the packs and muskets he drops at my knees. I don’t want to give up my rock. There is some kind of safety here, some kind of loyalty I feel toward this spot. But before I can protest, Dr. Tusten disappears into the smoke, only to return a moment later dragging someone I assume is the wounded man I heard howling. He isn’t howling anymore; in fact, he looks dead.
“Follow me, Noah,” Dr. Tusten yells, commanding me with his dark eyes. So I pick up the muskets and packs and trip after him as he stumbles backward through the woods, hauling the wounded man over leaves and rocks and branches. I stay hunched over, but each time a musket fires, I crouch down even closer to the earth until I feel like a snake slithering along behind the doctor. If only I could move like this, sliding on my belly, I’d do it. The packs and muskets are weighing me down and I half drag, half crawl right over top of them.
We aren’t the only ones on the move. Many of our men are retreating with us. This doesn’t seem like a good sign to me. Distracted by this bad thought, I trip over a soft obstacle, falling on top of it. It’s Josh.
“Josh! Josh!” I scream into his face, violently shaking his shoulders. He doesn’t respond.
I stick my head into the air … creating a perfect target for the enemy. “I need help! I need help!” I scream, again and again. To anyone. “Help! Help!” To no one. “I need … help.”
But it’s no use.
No one can help.
He is dead.
“Dr. Tusten,” I whisper, defeated.
The doctor is struggling with the weight of the wounded man up ahead of me. He looks back and motions hard with his chin for me to keep up.
But I can’t leave Josh. I won’t leave Josh. I throw his musket over my shoulder with the others, grab his knapsack along with the doctor’s, and try dragging him from under his armpits the way I see the doctor moving the wounded man. Josh isn’t large and my arms are strong, but the sacks and muskets are falling all over the place and slowing me down, and with each loud crack of a musket, I drop to my knees. The hollering. The whooping. It weakens me. This is useless. I know it. But I keep dragging him because I don’t know what else to do. The doctor runs back and grabs me, pulling me and my sacks and muskets away from Josh. I don’t fight him.
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