Betts stared at Mother. “Where’s your patriotism, woman?”
“Bah, patriotism. Your patriotism has got my husband in prison and one of my children out there in the rain and the muck shooting people and likely to be dead any minute, and my business half ruined. Go sell your patriotism elsewhere, I’ve had enough of it.”
“They’re killing your neighbors, Susannah,” Captain Betts shouted. “They’ve killed Dan Starr.”
“Then there’s enough dead already.”
“Tim—” he started.
Mother snatched up the poker from the fireplace. “Leave my boy alone, Stephen Betts,” she said. She raised the poker over her head, and I knew from the mad look in her eye that she would hit Captain Betts if she had to.
“Mother,” I said.
“The devil on you,” Betts said. “I can’t fool with you any longer.” Then he turned and strode out of the tavern, banging the door behind him. A few minutes later the church bell began to toll the alarm. The people in the tavern began to leave. Some of them, I knew, belonged to the trainband and were going off to get their weapons. A lot of the others just smelled trouble and wanted to get clear of it. Pretty soon there were only a couple of men left. The wounded man had fallen asleep by the fire. Outside, the wind had begun to blow the rain against the windows. Night was falling.
Mother sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. “Timothy, I want to pray. Come here and pray with me.” She took my hand and pulled me down on the bench beside her. I put my head down. “Oh Lord,” she said, “please take this war away from here. What have we done to endure this? Why must it go on so long? What have we done in Thy sight to deserve this evil?” She stopped: but there was no answer and after a moment she raised her eyes, got up, and began to slice some onions into the stew pot for supper.
And an hour later, as I was getting hungry and wondering when supper would be ready, we heard distant sounds again—the sounds of marching men and horses trotting and orders being shouted. I looked at Mother. The wounded man by the fire raised his eyes. “They’re coming back again,” he said.
“Maybe it’s the trainband,” I said. But my heart was pounding, and I knew who I hoped it was. I ran out into the yard. It was nearly full dark, and the rain spattered in squalls against my face. I looked down the Fairfield Road. It was hard to make out much, but indistinctly I could see a body of men coming toward us. I pulled back into the shadow of the house, and watched them come up. After a while I began to make out the shapes of the ones on horseback. I could tell by their hats that they weren’t Redcoats. I darted back into the tavern. “They’re Continentals,” I said.
“Thank God,” the wounded man said.
Mother and I went to the window. The troops marched by, then broke formation, and began to spread out through the village looking for shelter from the rain. A lot of them went into the church or Mr. Heron’s barn out behind. Then the tavern door banged open, and four or five men strode in. Leading them was a general, wearing the long blue Continental coat and cockaded hat with feathers in it. He said nothing to us, but dropped down at the table. The aides stood around him. “Rum for General Wooster, boy,” one of the aides said. Then he looked at Mother. “You’re the taverner, m’am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll need some dinner.”
There went my stew. But I didn’t care. General David Wooster was head of the Connecticut militia. I’d never seen a general up close before, and as I brought the rum and water I looked him over. I was disappointed: he wasn’t very glorious-looking—just a tired old man who was worried and frowning. As I stared he yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Timothy,” Mother snapped. “Bring the gentlemen their dinners.”
Suddenly the wounded man began to struggle to his feet, and saluted.
“Who are you?” General Wooster said.
“Private Hodge, sir. I took a British ball this afternoon.”
“They were here, then?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve gone on toward Danbury about eight hours ago.”
General Wooster ran his hand across his eyes. “Eight hours,” he said softly. “Damn.” He took his hand off his eyes. “Sit down, sir,” he said. “Was there any attempt made to stop them?”
The wounded man struggled to the floor. “No, sir. Not that I could see, sir.”
I stepped forward. “Sir, some of the trainband fired on them from a house just down the road. The Redcoats killed them all and burned Starr’s house.” I remembered Ned’s head jumping off his shoulders.
“How many men in the house, son?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe five or six.”
Suddenly the door banged open again. Another Continental officer stood there, gazing around the room. Then he walked in, followed by his aides, and crossed the room to General Wooster. In a moment I saw the insignia on his shoulder. He was a general, too. He walked over to General Wooster, followed by his aides. General Wooster got up. “Ben,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Boy, a glass of rum for General Arnold.”
So General Arnold was in Redding. I brought the rum, and water and some bread, and we scraped out the bottom of the stew pot to feed General Arnold and his aides. As they ate, they talked, and I stood back ready to serve, and listened. They talked about routes and marching orders and other military things I didn’t understand. Twice they mentioned William Heron in a friendly way. I thought that was strange; but I didn’t worry about it much, because I couldn’t get it out of my mind that right at that moment Sam might be in Redding somewhere. But what was I going to do about it? Of course he didn’t know that Father was gone, and it worried me that he might be afraid to come home. Then there was the other side of it, which was that the chances were that Sam wasn’t in General Arnold’s troops anymore and probably was a hundred miles from Redding anyway. I knew I was being foolish; but I couldn’t help myself, and after a bit I said, “Mother, I’d better go out and see to the livestock.”
“All right,” she said. “But don’t be long, I may need you to help with the gentlemen here.”
I went through the kitchen out to the barnyard, and then around to the front. It was full dark and the rain was spitting against me, soaking my face. Across the road some troops stood in the church doorway smoking pipes. I crossed over. A soldier barred my way. “I’m looking for Sam Meeker,” I said. “Is he here?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m his brother,” I said.
“You better get an order from an officer.”
My heart jumped. “Is Sam here?”
“Better go find an officer,” he insisted.
Another soldier turned to us. “Don’t make such a fuss,” he said. “Let him go.”
“This is Tory country, I don’t trust any of them.”
“Oh come on, the boy’s not lying. Sam’s from around here somewhere, I know that.”
“Go get him yourself then,” the first soldier said. “I don’t want any part of it.”
“Wait here,” the other one said, “I’ll see if I can find Sam.” He went in, leaving the church door open. I could see soldiers sprawled out in the pews and lying in the aisles, trying to sleep. Some of them were drinking from canteens, or chewing on hard loaves of bread. The ones who wanted to smoke had come to the door because it wasn’t right to smoke in a church. They were a ragged-looking lot of men, their clothing dirty and torn and most of them not even having proper uniforms. They needed shaves and their hair was wild and uncombed.
I saw the soldier work his way through the crowd, looking around. I saw him bend down and touch somebody. And then Sam was coming up the aisle toward me. He looked older and raggedy too, and he hadn’t shaved, either. He got to the door. For a moment we stared at each other. And then he put his arms around me and hugged me, and I hugged him back. “Timmy,” he said. I couldn’t say anything. It felt so good to hug him I began to cry. Then he began to cry, too, and we stood there in the church door hugging each other and crying all over ourselves. After
a couple of minutes we started feeling foolish crying that way in front of the soldiers, and we stopped hugging.
“I wanted to come over to see you,” he said, “but I didn’t know if you all hated me.”
“Hated you?”
“I thought you might.”
“Sam, Father’s—”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I thought you might not want to see me. I didn’t know what to do.”
“How did you find out about Father?” I asked.
“The commissary officers found out that I know about dealing in cattle. I’ve been working with them a lot, looking for beef. And I met somebody from Salem who’d heard about what happened to Father. I think he got it from the Platts.” He touched my shoulder. “How’s Mother?”
“She’s not mad at you either. None of us are.”
“Let’s go over,” he said. “I haven’t been home for two years. Who’s in the tavern?”
“The generals.”
“Then I’ll have to stay in the barn. I’m not supposed to leave my company. Wait, I’ll tell somebody where I’m going just in case they want me.”
He went into the church. In a moment he was back, and we ducked across the road through the rain and around behind the house to the barn.
I lit a lantern. “You’ve changed, Tim.”
“I’m more of a grownup, now.”
“I can see that. Has it been hard on you and Mother?”
“We even have to work on Sundays,” I said. “Sam, what have they done with Father?”
He sucked in a mouthful of air. “I don’t know. Put him in prison, probably.”
“But why? He wasn’t doing anything, he wasn’t a real Tory, he was just against the war.”
“He was selling beef to the British.”
“No he wasn’t, he was selling beef to Mr. Bogardus. He didn’t care who bought it.”
“What difference does it make? It was getting to the British. It comes down to the same thing. He was selling beef to the enemy.”
“Are you against Father, Sam?”
“No, but Father’s against me.”
“You ran away,” I said
“He told me to leave. I didn’t want to fight with him, but he threw me out.”
“He cried when you left,” I said.
“I know. You told me that before. Don’t think I was happy about leaving. I felt terrible. I remember running down that road in the rain being mad and cursing him for what he did. But all the while I was cursing I kept remembering things like our trips over to Verplancks Point, and him taking me down to New Haven to get admitted to Yale, and buying me new clothes there, and everything else, and finally I stopped cursing and I just felt terrible and wished we hadn’t fought. But it was too late. That’s two years ago, Tim.”
“Don’t you feel bad about Father being in prison, Sam?”
“Yes.” He didn’t say anything for a minute. “As a matter of fact I thought I might be able to get him out. I even went to see General Arnold about it. But I couldn’t even find out where he is. Nobody knows.”
“Well maybe you can try again.”
“Tim, I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I’m too tired.”
He was tired all right. “Can’t you write somebody a letter?”
“Tim, I don’t want to argue about it anymore.”
“I’ll stop arguing if you promise to try to get Father out.”
“I can’t get him out. I tried.”
“But you can try again,” I said.
“For God’s sake, Tim.”
I shut up. I didn’t want to spoil it by having a fight. We stared at each other for a minute. Then he said, “Can you get me something to eat?”
“I’ll tell Mother you’re here.”
I slipped across the barnyard, through the kitchen and into the tavern. The generals and their aides had finished eating, and were drinking rum and water, and talking over plans. Mother gave me a cross look. “Where have you been?”
“There’s something wrong with Old Pru’s leg. I think you better come out and look at it.”
“It’ll have to wait,” she said.
“I think you ought to look at it now, Mother.”
It wasn’t like me to insist on anything that way and she got the idea. “All right, just a moment,” she said. “See if the gentlemen need more rum.” I filled the glasses and helped her clear the plates, and then we went out through the kitchen into the barnyard. “What’s happened, Tim?”
“Sam’s in the barn.”
She stopped dead. “Sam’s here?”
“That’s where I’ve been—looking for him. I thought he might be here with General Arnold.”
She started to run, but then she thought better of it and walked steadily out there. When Sam saw her he came a little way out of the barn shadows. For a moment he and Mother stared at each other, and then they began to hug, and I came up and put my arms around both of them and hugged them together. Then Mother pushed back and stared at him. “I haven’t seen you for two years, Sam,” she said.
He grinned. “Do I look different?”
“Dirtier,” she said.
He laughed. “Is that all?”
“No, older,” she said. “You’ve gotten older.”
“Tim has too. I hardly recognized him.”
“He’s had to grow up fast,” Mother said. “He didn’t have much choice.”
“I thought you’d all be mad at me,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d be speaking to me.”
“Oh we’re willing to speak to you all right,” she said. “We need you back home.”
“Hey, Tim, I thought you were going to bring me something to eat.” He was trying to change the subject.
“I forgot,” I said.
“Tim, get your brother some bread and a piece of that ham that’s hanging in the kitchen.”
I went back to the kitchen and got the food. I knew they were going to have an argument. When I got back to the barn Mother was saying, “Sam, we don’t even know if he’s alive. You have to come home now. We need you.”
That was the first time I’d ever heard her admit that Father might be dead. Sam winced. It hurt him. “I don’t think he’s dead, Mother.”
I handed him the food.
“Oh lovely,” he said. “Thanks.” He tore off a piece of the ham with his teeth and then stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth.
I said, “Is that the way they eat in the army?” I knew it wasn’t going to do any good to argue with Sam; he wasn’t going to change his mind. I didn’t want Mother to have a fight with him.
He swallowed. “I guess we figure if we’re lucky enough to have anything to eat, we don’t care how we eat it.”
But Mother wouldn’t give up. “Sam, you have to come home. We need you. Your people have taken Father from us; they’ll have to give us you in return.”
“Mother, I can’t come home. That’s desertion, they hang people for that.”
“When is your enlistment up, Sam?”
He frowned. “In two months. But I’m going to re-enlist.”
“No, Sam. You have to come home.”
“Mother,” I said, “don’t argue with him. You can’t make him change his mind.”
“He’s just being stubborn,” she said.
“God, Mother,” he said, “I came to pay a visit and first Tim badgered me about Father and now you’re badgering me about coming home. I can’t come home until it’s over. It’s my duty to stay and fight.”
“You have a duty to your family, too.”
“My duty to my country comes first. Now please everybody stop arguing with me.”
“And get killed in the meantime,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said.
We were quiet for a moment. Then he said, “We’ve made a promise, a group of us, not to quit until the Redcoats are beaten. We’ve made a pledge to each other.”
“Oh Sam, that’s a foolish promise.”
I said, “Mother
, stop arguing with him.”
“You’re both fools,” she said.
He was getting angry. “For God’s sake, Mother, people are out there dying for you.”
“Well they can stop dying,” Mother said. “I don’t need anybody’s death.”
“Let him alone, Mother,” I said. “He isn’t going to change his mind.”
We were silent, and I knew she was trying to accept it. “All right,” she said finally. “All right.”
We changed the subject. We talked about the crops, and about people, and he gave us a message to take to Betsy Read. “We’ll probably be moving out soon,” he said. “I don’t know. Tell her I’ll try to see her if I can.” He paused for a minute. “I’d better go now before somebody misses me.”
He hugged Mother and then he hugged me, and turned and slipped through the rain and the night out of the barnyard. We watched him go, knowing that we might never see him again. Then we went back into the tavern.
I had a funny feeling about seeing Sam. It wasn’t just that he was more grown-up or that I was more grown-up. It was something else. For the first time in my life I knew that Sam was wrong about something; I knew that I understood something better than he did. Oh, I used to argue with him before, but that was mostly to show that I wasn’t going to just agree with everything he said. But this time I knew he was wrong. He was staying in the army because he wanted to stay in the army, not because of duty or anything else. He liked the excitement of it. Oh, I guessed he was miserable a lot of the time when he was cold and hungry and maybe being shot at, but still, he was part of something big, he thought that what he was doing was important. It felt good to be part of it, and I knew that was the real reason why he didn’t want to come home.
Knowing that about Sam gave me a funny feeling. I didn’t feel like his little brother so much anymore, I felt more like his equal.
IN JUNE OF THAT YEAR, 1777, WE FOUND OUT THAT FATHER was dead. He’d been dead for a month. It had happened pretty much as we’d guessed it: he’d been sent to a prison ship in New York. There was one funny thing about it, though—it wasn’t a Rebel prison ship, it was a British one. We never did figure out how that had happened. It had just come out of the confusion of the war somehow. It didn’t much matter, in the end, though. Those prison ships were terrible places—filthy and baking hot in summer and freezing in winter and of course nothing but slop to eat. The worst part was disease: if anybody got sick with anything serious, everybody on the ship was liable to get it. That’s what had happened to Father: they’d had an epidemic of cholera on the prison ship he’d been on. About forty or fifty people had died from it, and he’d been one of them. They’d buried him someplace on Long Island, but we weren’t sure where. Mother said, “After the war we’ll find where he lies and have a headstone made for him.” But I don’t think even she believed we’d be able to do that.
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