Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  “Halt for evening camp.”

  By eight o’clock, with mess finished, bone-weary men sat on their blankets, where the inevitable camp talk started in the gathering twilight, sparse at first, then more.

  “Been marchin’ for three days—where we goin’?”

  “North to the Hudson—didn’t you hear?—Burgoyne’s comin’ down from Canada an’ Howe’s loaded about half the British army into them ships over in New York Harbor. Gen’l Washington figgers the whole lot of ’em is goin’ north to meet Burgoyne. If Howe joins up with Burgoyne, they can cut the states in two, and this here revolution’s finished—so we’re goin’ up there to stop one or the other of ’em. Gen’l Washington already sent Sullivan and his command up there in the Ramapo Mountains, just west of the Hudson, waitin’ and watchin’ for them ships comin’ north right on up the river. Sent two divisions ’cross the river to Peekskill and told ’em to guard the highland passes. Stop Howe from goin’ north.”

  “Yer wrong—I heard Gen’l Washington got news that them ships is loaded with enough supplies for a month, so he figgered they was goin’ to Charleston.”

  “Well, if that’s true, how come we’re headin’ north while Charleston’s a long ways south?”

  “Don’t know—Gen’l Washington’s usually right. I reckon we just keep marchin’ where we’re told.”

  “Yer all wrong—I heard Howe figgers to take Philadelphia—thinks that’s the capital and if he gets it we’ll just naturally quit.”

  “No, sir. If that’s true, why aren’t we gatherin’ everybody around Philadelphia, ’stead of marchin’ up this road?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. Only that’s what I heard.”

  “Maybe you’re all right, partly. Maybe Washington sent Sullivan up into the Ramapos to set cannon along the Hudson and stop them ships and figgers to confuse Howe by marchin’ us north for a while and then turnin’ around and goin’ back to protect Philadelphia.”

  “Has them ships actually sailed from New York yet? Which way’d they go?”

  “No, they’re just sittin’ there—about fifteen thousand soldiers and three thousand horses—for upwards of ten days—doin’ nothin’—just waitin’.”

  “If they’re just sittin’ there, then how does anybody know which way they’re goin’ when they leave?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly guess anybody knows for sure—just have to wait and see.”

  “Sounds to me like this whole revolution has come down to a guessin’ game. Howe’s got ships loaded and is guessin’ where he best take ’em, and Gen’l Washington’s got an army marchin’ tryin’ to guess which direction he oughter go. That’s not exactly encouragin’ when we’re the ones that’s got to do the marchin’.”

  “Well, it can’t be much better for those redcoats sittin’ in them ships. With this heat, half those horses’ll be dead by now, an’ a fair share of those regulars’ll be wishin’ they was dead right along with ’em.”

  “Heard about that Frenchman that come over? Joined up with us? Fancy dresser. Some sort of a high official in France. Name’s Lafayette. I heard he’s just nineteen years old, and he’s a general.”

  “I heard Gen’l Washington wrote Congress about him. That’s how he got to be a general.”

  With the first hint of a cooling breeze, Caleb pulled the burlap sack from his blankets and filled it with sand and dirt, then hung it from a low-hanging branch of a maple tree. He pulled off his shirt, wrapped his hands, then began his evening ritual. Set the feet—move—jab—hook—punch—hit off the correct foot—elbows in—fists high enough to protect the head and face—move—jab—hook—punch.

  Those nearby watched him for a time, then drifted back to their idle talk around low campfires. The mosquitoes settled for the night while thousands of fireflies left their signatures in the gathering gloom. In the distance, unnumbered bullfrogs began their raucous nightly belching. Nightbirds darted, taking night insects. Eyes appeared in the woods to stare at the unwanted intruders for a moment, then disappear. The evening star rose prominent in the east, and tiny points of light appeared overhead as the last vestige of sunset died.

  Drenched in sweat, Caleb finally unwrapped his hands, lowered and dumped the bag, and walked back to his blankets. He was wiping his face with his shirt when the sound of excited, raised voices came through the trees. The men around him listened for a moment, then rose and trotted toward the cluster of men that was gathering around a large fire. One breathless, sweating man wearing a tricorn was talking loudly as he pointed north.

  “. . . and they’re up there now, all scattered out, running for their lives. Maybe they’re headed for Skenesboro. Gen’l St. Clair’s with ’em, but no one knows where, or where they’re headed.”

  “Wait! Who’s up there scattered and headed for Skenesboro?”

  A hush fell as it broke in the minds of the soldiers of the Ninth Regiment. This man was pointing north. He was talking about someone on the Hudson River, and there were but two forces up there: the British under Burgoyne, and the Americans at Fort Ticonderoga under St. Clair. They held their breath waiting for the answer.

  “St. Clair and his whole command. Every man. Burgoyne got cannon up on top of Mount Defiance, and St. Clair found out. Those cannon could wreck Fort Ticonderoga in one day right along with the men inside, so St. Clair saw nothing to do but abandon it! So he did! More’n ten days ago. Overnight. Just gave Fort Ti to Burgoyne without a shot! What’s left of his army is scattered out running southeast, probably trying for Skenesboro.”

  For five seconds the Ninth Regiment stood wide-eyed, stunned in disbelief. Fort Ti? The Gibraltar of the North American continent? The gateway to the thirteen United States? Given to Burgoyne without a fight? Not one single shot? In their wildest imaginings, not one man among them could ever have dreamed it.

  Buzzing broke out, then open excited talk, then anger. Caleb listened for a time, then turned to slowly walk back to his own blankets while excited men gathered around fires, arguing, gesturing heatedly.

  “If Burgoyne holds Fort Ti, then that’s where Howe’s headed with all those ships and men, right up the Hudson to join him. And if those two get together, there’s hardly a way we can stop ’em from coming right on down the Hudson and cutting the north from the south.”

  “Don’t ya see? That’s why we’re marching north. Gen’l Washington knew about Fort Ti, and he’s headed up there to stop Burgoyne.”

  “Then what happens when we get halfway there and Howe shows up behind us with more troops and cannon than we got, and Burgoyne’s in front of us with his army? We can’t fight both front and back at the same time. This war might be over in the next two weeks if that happens.”

  The arguments raged on, and concern ripened into fear as the men realized the magnitude of what was happening both behind and in front of them. The drummer rattled out tattoo at ten o’clock, and the men went to their blankets, but the talk did not stop. At ten-thirty O’Malley came striding through Company Three.

  “You men trying to start a panic? Stop the talk. Get to sleep. Reveille’s five o’clock like always, and you got another long day tomorrow. Gen’l Washington knows what he’s doing. So stop talking.”

  With quiet, fearful talk still going on among the men, Caleb dropped into a dreamless sleep. It seemed only minutes had passed when a rough hand shook him awake. An overcast had drifted in through the night, and the first light of dawn was turning the underbelly of the eastern clouds a deep rose color. Slowly Caleb focused on where he was, then looked up into the square, bearded face of Sergeant O’Malley.

  “You awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know Cap’n Venables?”

  “Yes. The tall one.”

  “That’s him. Git on up to the head of this regiment right now and find him. Two wagons of French muskets got here in the night, and they’re goin’ to whoever don’t have one and gets there first. Take that spear to show ’em what you been carryin’ and get one of th
em new muskets. And be sure to get a bayonet and some cartridges and flints.”

  Caleb jerked on his pants, then his shoes, shrugged into his shirt, scooped up the nine-foot spear, and jammed his shirttail into his trousers as he sprinted around and between men still asleep in their blankets. In the gray light preceding sunrise, he stopped where men were clustered around two wagons. Captain Charles Venables stood in the box of the one leading, with a book of records and a pencil in his hands. Two lieutenants were using bayonets to pry the tops off wooden crates with French wording stenciled on the sides.

  Venables spoke, sharp, curt. “These muskets are for the Ninth Regiment only. Other regiments got their fair share. If you don’t belong to regiment nine, you don’t belong here.” He pointed. “So form a line. We’re going to do this orderly. When I ask, tell me your name and your company, and you better know the name of your sergeant and the color of his hair, because if you don’t, you don’t get a musket.”

  Caleb was eleventh in line. Without looking down, Venables barked, “Name?”

  “Caleb Dunson, sir.”

  “Company?”

  “Three.”

  “Your sergeant?”

  “O’Malley. Red hair, red beard.”

  Venables signaled one lieutenant to hand down a musket, the other, a bayonet in a scabbard, and a canvas pouch with one hundred cartridges and six flints.

  Caleb spoke. “You want this spear?”

  Venables raised amused eyes and for a moment flashed one of his rare smiles. “Do I remember you?”

  “I remember you, sir. Want the spear?”

  “No, you . . . on second thought, put it in the wagon. One never knows.”

  Caleb tossed the spear to the nearest lieutenant, who dropped it clattering into the wagon bed, then handed down the new French musket. The other lieutenant handed him a bayonet, scabbard, and a canvas pouch with French markings. Caleb nodded, turned, and walked away, hefting the new musket, inspecting it. The reveille drum banged as he went hastily back to his blankets. O’Malley was waiting.

  “You got it.”

  Caleb nodded.

  “Know how to load it? Shoot it?”

  “My father was a master gunsmith. I’ve made muskets with him.”

  O’Malley’s chin dropped. “You what?”

  “I’ve made muskets. This is a pretty good one, maybe two pounds lighter than the British Brown Bess, and a little better tooled. The frizzen fits tighter, and the trigger pull is smoother. It’s a sixty caliber, like the ones my father made. Not as heavy as the seventy-five caliber ones the redcoats carry.” He raised defensive eyes. “Not as good as father made, but better than the British. It will do.”

  O’Malley covered his surprise. “Well, you take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  O’Malley turned to go when Caleb stopped him. “Sergeant, I appreciate it, you looking out for me this way.”

  O’Malley’s eyes dropped, and he fumbled for a moment. “I was lookin’ after Third Company. One man without a musket can make a difference. You be careful with that thing.” He turned and was gone.

  The overcast held throughout the day, blocking some of the oppressive heat from the sun but adding to the humidity. In the evening a north breeze moved the leaves in the trees, and a light rain came softly while Caleb was pounding the bag. The shower continued until midnight. At noon the following day the first rays of sun broke through the gray clouds, sending shafts of light onto the forests of New Jersey to illuminate a gigantic patchwork of gold and emerald green as the column marched on. At two o’clock they crossed the Pompton River, and by three o’clock were two miles into the Ramapo Mountains, following the Ramapo River toward Stony Point on the west bank of the Hudson River, across from Peekskill, New York.

  They made camp on both sides of a stream in late afternoon, and a little after eight o’clock Caleb once again filled his canvas bag and hung it from the lower branch of a great oak. He was wrapping his hands when he became aware of someone approaching from behind, and he turned to face Charles Dorman. Caleb nodded, remained silent, and continued working with the frayed strips of canvas.

  For a moment Dorman studied the wrapping, then quietly said, “Close your fist between wraps. It’ll all fit better when you finish.”

  Caleb closed his fist, opened it, wound the canvas around his knuckles, closed his fist again, and continued as Dorman spoke.

  “When you finish those wraps, we’ll start the next step.”

  Caleb paused to look at him, questioning.

  “Working with a man, not a bag.”

  Quickly Caleb finished, tied off the ends of the strips, and rose, facing Dorman. For a moment he felt awkward, hesitant, not knowing what to do, what to expect.

  Dorman began. “I’m going to raise my hands flat, and you’re going to hit at them. First thing you learn is don’t look directly at my hands. Pick out a spot in the middle of my chest and look there, but see all of me. Feet, hands, head, eyes. Learn to see all of me at the same time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Dorman raised his hands shoulder high, palms outward. “Now do what you’ve been practicing—feet, elbows, move, jab, hook, punch. Don’t think how you look, just do it. Start now.”

  He waited. A few men turned to watch as Caleb raised his fists, elbows in, left foot slightly forward, chin tucked in, and he jabbed, then hooked and punched while Dorman continued his instructions.

  Good—good—don’t look at your feet—don’t look at either of my hands—look at my chest and see all of me—jab—hook—punch—good—circle me—hit off the correct foot—good—keep circling—good—good.

  The onlookers smiled and drifted away. For half an hour Caleb circled under the watchful, critical eye of Dorman, who maintained his unending stream of comments, instructions. A pattern developed in Caleb’s footwork and in the rhythm of his fists. He concentrated on a spot on Dorman’s chest but saw the whole man, including his eyes. He began to strike with more authority, more accuracy, one heartbeat quicker.

  Sweat was dripping from Caleb when Dorman finally dropped his hands. “That’s enough for now. Think on what you learned. I’ll be back tomorrow. Let’s get that bag down.”

  Amidst the fireflies and the croaking of frogs from the Ramapo River and the marshes, Caleb sat on his blankets for a time, then as the night cooled, lay down. He clasped his hands behind his head, peering through the leafy canopy to study the myriad stars in the black velvet above. He reached to touch the French musket, then tucked his hand behind his head once more. From far away to the north the regimental drummer pounded out tattoo, echoing strangely loud in the forest. The camp quieted, the fires burned low, and Caleb found his thoughts wandering.

  Through with the spear—the French musket—Father made them better—made most things better—tried to make Boston better—said he was right—had to go fight for the right—what’s right and what’s wrong?—Father said one thing, the king another—can a thing be right in one place and wrong in another? Right in England and wrong here? If Father was right, what did it get him? It got him dead—dead and gone—it got Matthew gone to sea—Billy gone north—the women home alone—doing laundry to buy food—that’s what the right and wrong question got us.

  He turned on his side, arm under his head.

  Right or wrong doesn’t matter on the battlefield—only who’s got the most men and muskets and cannon—that’s the truth of it—I don’t care who’s right or wrong—I only care about giving back to the British what they gave Father—bring the scales back to level—they took Father’s life, they owe us a life—they caused pain to Mother and the family; we owe them some pain and suffering. That’s the way of it.

  He didn’t know when he drifted into restless sleep. He only knew that he was at his father’s familiar workbench, stroking a trigger assembly with emery cloth to make the pull smooth. He paused to watch his father tighten the three large, consecutive vises
that locked a musket barrel blank in place, then carefully set the drill and begin the precision turning that would cut the bore. He had seen it countless times, done it himself with his father’s hands guiding, knew the procedures, the moves. He raised his eyes to his father, but his father refused to look. He spoke and reached for his father’s arm, but there was no response, nothing. With panic rising, he called his father’s name, then shouted it. He was still shouting when he awoke, crouched on his blanket, the echo ringing in the stillness of the black forest.

  From the darkness came voices, curt, angry.

  “Stop the hollerin’!”

  “Hard enough to sleep without someone yellin’!”

  “Wake up or go to sleep, but quit callin’ out.”

  For long moments Caleb stared in the darkness while he came from his father’s workbench in Boston, back to the camp of the Continental Army on the Ramapo River in northern New Jersey. He sat upright for a long time, afraid to fall asleep for fear of unwanted dreams. The morning reveille drum found him still sitting, head tipped forward, chin on his chest as he slept.

  He swallowed at the sour taste in his mouth, then walked to the stream to splash cool water on his face, rinse out his mouth, and return to begin rolling his blankets. O’Malley barked orders, and Caleb walked into the forest with the other three men assigned to gather firewood. With morning mess completed, and a ration of one hard biscuit and one piece of crisped sowbelly for their midday meal in their pouches, the Ninth New York Regiment assembled on the road that wound north through the mountains.

  An odd quietness hung over the column. The men repeatedly peered north as though they were expecting to hear cannon, either American cannon bombarding the two hundred sixty British ships they believed were moving up the Hudson toward Burgoyne, or British cannon shelling the American shore batteries, or both. They knew the Hudson was nearly forty miles away, but still they looked and listened.