Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  Pryor raised a pointing finger. “Better learn to expect anything from any direction, day or night.” He dropped his hand and knelt by the remains of the fire to pick out a charred stick. He blackened his hand with the ash, then rubbed it onto his face and into his beard

  He gestured. “Get a stick and black your face.”

  Caleb did not move.

  “Do it. That dark coat hides your shirt, but there’s going to be a three-quarter moon tonight, and what we don’t need is the light coming off a white face. Black it!”

  Three minutes later he inspected Caleb’s blackened face, nodded approval, and asked, “You bring any weapon?”

  “No. You said not to.”

  “A belt knife?”

  “No. I don’t own one.”

  Pryor shook his head. “City folk,” he mumbled. “Let’s go. You follow behind me. Step where I step.”

  “You been in these hills before?”

  “I been on the Schuylkill River and the Skippack Creek many a time, and I know these hills, if that’s what you’re askin’. We’ll follow the Skippack on south right to them British breastworks, where we’re assigned. There’s a road runs east and west right there, an’ my guess is the pickets will be on the north side of that road. We work our way west lookin’ for ’em, and about a quarter mile before we reach Van Deering’s mill, we turn back north. The Wissahickon Creek’s right there, and we can follow it back north a ways, and then on over to the Skippack Road an’ back to our camp. Understand?”

  Caleb paused long enough to form a mental picture of Pryor’s instructions, then nodded.

  Pryor rose. “Let’s go.”

  Silently they moved south in the dark, Pryor guided by the stars, the skyline, experience, and the instincts of a child of the wilderness. Twice he stopped to raise a hand and listen, and twice something ahead moved, then bounded off through the woods.

  “Elk or deer,” he whispered, and they moved on, the Skippack Creek thirty yards east, to their left. The moon rose to cast pale silvery light that sifted through the trees to turn the forest floor into a patchwork of lacy light and shadow. Pryor moved steadily, in near total silence, with Caleb behind, watching his feet, stepping where Pryor had stepped. One hour became two, and Pryor raised a hand to signal a stop. He huddled with Caleb and spoke in a whisper.

  “Not long now. You thirsty? Tired?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “We’ll stop a minute to listen. The forest says things at night.”

  They sat cross-legged in the chill of the October night, breathing silently, listening intently. An owl spoke from the west. From the east came the sound of something rustling in the thick forest foliage, close to Skippack Creek. The sounds of night continued to come softly from both east and west, but nothing from north or south.

  Caleb leaned close to Pryor to whisper. “No sounds from north or south?”

  Pryor nodded his head. “We come in from the north. The British are just ahead to the south. In the woods things go quiet where men are.”

  They went on. The taint of campfire smoke in the crisp fall air reached them, and Pryor dropped to his haunches to point and whisper. “Road’s one mile ahead. The pickets ought to be about fifty yards this side of it. It’s cold enough they might have a small fire goin’, but I doubt it.”

  He rose and continued south. The forest became silent, and then they heard the faint sound of water moving over stones in the Skippack Creek as it angled in from their left. The odor of campfire smoke became stronger as they moved, and twenty minutes later Pryor halted and dropped to his haunches.

  He made hand signs to Caleb. They were close to the road that fronted the British breastworks. They would turn right and make their way west, searching for the pickets.

  Overhead, the moon had reached its zenith and was slipping toward the southwestern horizon. Moving slowly, silently, picking the places he stepped, Pryor moved on, Caleb following. They had gone less than two hundred yards when Pryor dropped out of sight, and Caleb went soundlessly to one knee, waiting, listening. The sounds came faintly, ahead and from their left, and Caleb’s eyes widened when he recognized human voices followed by a rustling and then silence.

  Pickets! They just changed pickets!—one coming, one going!

  Pryor angled slightly to their right, then back due west, and continued. They did not see the picket as they passed him, but they heard him shuffling his feet against the chill of the night and the beginning of the gather of frost. Time became meaningless as they picked their way forward, caught up in the intensity of moving silently in a dark and hostile forest. They had covered three hundred yards when Pryor froze, then raised his head, obviously testing the air. Caleb breathed gently but could smell only the dank, musty scent of the forest floor, mixed with the smoke from the British campfires that had died six hours earlier but still tainted the air.

  Then he smelled it. Tobacco smoke! A picket was smoking his pipe!

  They passed the tobacco smell and silently continued west. Five minutes became ten, and still there was no sound, nothing.

  The voice came loud in the silence, twenty yards to their left, close to the road. “Who comes there?”

  Instantly Pryor uttered a small bark, and for a split second Caleb, a scant six feet behind, believed it to be the authentic voice of a fox. He marveled as Pryor rustled the ferns with his right hand, and then both men froze in utter silence, Pryor with his hand on the handle of his belt knife. They heard mutterings from the picket, but he did not challenge again, nor did he venture into the woods looking. They waited for what seemed to Caleb an eternity before Pryor once again slipped quietly into the night, nearly invisible in his buckskins, with his face blackened.

  They had covered three hundred yards when Pryor stopped and raised his arm to point southwest. There, in the center of a small clearing, the moonlight reflected off the white belts that crossed on the chest of a British regular. Beneath the belts, the white stockings showed faintly. Pryor paused only long enough to mark the place in his mind, then turned nearly due north to cut a circle around the clearing. Fifteen minutes later he paused once again, searching in the night, and again raised his arm. Four hundred yards to the west was a large building silhouetted in the moonlight. Van Deering’s Mill.

  Pryor turned right and moved north through the woods, cautiously at first, then more rapidly. They had covered three hundred yards when they waded soundlessly through a stream running west, then moved east for forty yards onto the bank of a creek that flowed due south. Twenty minutes later Pryor stopped at a bridge that spanned the creek and a road that led east and west. For a moment he studied the eastern sky, now showing the first light of dawn. The morning star was fading. For the first time in hours he spoke, and it sounded strangely loud in the night.

  “We’re clear of the British. Four pickets.” He gestured. “We been followin’ the Wissahickon Creek. The road we’re on runs east, right back to Skippack Road. We can be back in camp just after sunrise if we don’t waste time.”

  They dipped their hands into the icy, crystal clear water of the creek and drank, then started east at a trot while they wiped their mouths. Frost was forming on the roadside as they turned north onto Skippack Road, and the sun, still below the eastern rim, was painting the light drift of eastern clouds rose and yellow and the billions of leaves in the forest red and gold. As they crested the last swell, the two men heard the rattle of reveille in the Continental Army camp and saw the smoke from the morning cook fires rising straight into the azure sky. They sought their own pickets, identified themselves, and moved on into the camp where they found O’Malley waiting for them beside the black tripod and steaming cook kettle of Third Company.

  “Trouble?”

  Pryor shook his head. “None. Got that map?”

  O’Malley spread it on the ground, and Pryor knelt, studied it for a moment, then pointed with his finger. “Four pickets. Here, here, here, and here.”

  “They know you were there?”


  “No.”

  “Can you find ’em again tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, if they’re in the same place.”

  O’Malley bobbed his head and spoke with a sour, wry look. “Good. Fetch your gear. Get some of this real good, hot, moldy mush and some of that sowbelly fried so crisp you got to bust it with a rock. And be sure to get a chunk of that bread over there. Only eight days old. You got a choice with it. You can load ’er into a cannon like grapeshot and stop about forty British redcoats with it, or you can soak it in that real good, hot moldy mush for about an hour and try to eat it. If you survive breakfast, get some sleep. We march outta here tonight, and it looks like we got a battle tomorrow.”

  Pryor grinned as O’Malley looked at Caleb.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Learn somethin’?”

  “A lot.”

  Pryor broke in. “He did good. Got a natural knack for the woods.”

  O’Malley continued. “You got a new musket after you lost that one at Paoli?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get some breakfast and then some sleep.”

  The sun was casting shadows eastward when O’Malley shook Caleb’s shoulder and Caleb raised onto one elbow, brain sleep-fogged.

  “Captain wants to see you. Something about writing.”

  Caleb fumbled for a moment. “Furniss. Was that his name? Furniss?”

  “That’s the last part, and you better remember it all. He’s Captain Gerald Allen Furniss, and I think there’s nothin’ he loves more’n hearin’ all of it.”

  Caleb paused at the creek long enough to splash icy water on his face to wash off what remained of the blackening and run his hands through his hair to hold it back, then walked through the camp to the tent with two pickets by the entrance.

  “I’m Caleb Dunson. Sergeant O’Malley, Third Company, said I’m to report to Captain Gerald Allen Furniss.”

  Three minutes later Caleb was inside the tent facing the shorter man with the thin, hatchet face.

  “So you’re Dunson?”

  Not Private Dunson. Not Mr. Dunson. Just Dunson. For a moment Caleb studied the man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am told you write.”

  “Some.”

  “We’re going into battle tomorrow. It appears my orderly is stricken with an illness. Dysentery. Matter of fact, four members of my staff are stricken with it. You will take paper and pencil and keep notes of the important events as they occur. At battle’s end you will write a full report.”

  “I’m to go in advance of the main body to silence the British pickets.”

  Furniss bristled. “I’m to go in advance of the main body to silence the British pickets—what?”

  It took Caleb a full three seconds to understand. “To silence the British pickets, sir!”

  “Remember that.” Furniss suddenly stood and locked his hands behind his back and paced for a moment. “I do not see why you cannot go in advance and still take notes and make the report. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I will expect the report within twelve hours of the battle’s end.”

  “I’ll need pencil and paper.”

  “I was told you had them.”

  “I lost them at Paoli. I lost everything at Paoli except what I was wearing.”

  “Very well. I’ll have them delivered to you by evening mess. You are dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Caleb turned on his heel and walked out the tent entrance into the cool air of late afternoon. He rounded his lips and blew air as he walked away. He had gone only ten feet when a booming voice stopped him, and he turned. A large, fleshy man was marching up behind him, spectacles low on his substantial nose. He was followed by a young woman.

  “You just come out of Captain Furniss’s tent?”

  Caleb looked for epaulets, but there were none. “Yes.”

  “You part of his staff?”

  “No. I’m from Third Company, back there.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “I don’t believe I know who you are.”

  “I’m Dr. Ubecht. A major, but I don’t like fooling with those epaulets. I was told Furniss’s staff has a bad case of dysentery. What we don’t need is another outbreak. You wait here ’til I come out of his tent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ubecht strode past the pickets without a word and disappeared into the tent. The young woman remained behind, and for the first time Caleb had a moment to look at her.

  She was five inches shorter than he, comely built, with a white kerchief tied to hold back her auburn hair. Her eyes were large and green, face beautifully shaped. There was a sense of weariness about her as she stood in shy silence, smiling.

  A full minute passed, and the silence between them became awkward.

  Caleb cleared his throat. “You with the doctor?” Of course she’s with the doctor. You think she’s a soldier?

  Her voice was low. “Yes.”

  “A nurse?” No, you idiot, she’s a blacksmith!

  “I’m helping at the hospital. Whatever they need. I’m learning to be a nurse.”

  “Uh, my, uh, name’s Caleb Dunson.”

  “I’m Nancy Fremont.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am. You . . . uh . . . from around here?” Nancy. Fremont. Beautiful names. She can’t be more than eighteen. Seventeen. She’s seventeen. I know she’s seventeen.

  “Philadelphia.” She raised her eyes to him. “May I ask your reason for visiting the captain?”

  Caleb assumed an air of nonchalance. “Yes. The captain requested that I write the official regimental report on the battle tomorrow.” Requested? Furniss? Ordered, you mean!

  Her eyebrows peaked in sudden interest, and Caleb could not miss how striking she was. “You’re the one they put in charge of the orderly book?”

  “Uh, yes, the orderly book. Yes.” Is that what it’s called? The orderly book?

  She went on eagerly. “Then you must be one of the captain’s aides. An officer?”

  “Well, uh, no, I’m in Third Company.” You’re a private in Third Company. Tell her you’re a private, not an officer. Tell her! . . . No, I won’t!

  “How is it you were selected to keep the record?”

  “I’ve done some writing before. I didn’t ask for the job.”

  “Well.” She smiled up at him, and there was an innocence in her face and her eyes beyond anything Caleb had ever seen before.

  At that moment Ubecht strode out of the tent, pointed at Caleb, and spoke as he walked by. “You can go on your way. Nancy, follow me.”

  As she fell in step with the doctor she turned back and said, “Good fortune to you, Caleb Dunson. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  Caleb’s brain became a perfect blank. “Uh . . . yes. Maybe we will.” She wants to see me again—invited me!—I heard it.

  Her stride was firm, her shoulders square. Rooted to the spot, unable to move or think, Caleb watched her until she was out of sight. Finally he shook his head and came back to the Continental Army camp and the evening cook fires boiling the evening meal. He looked once more in the direction she had disappeared, then walked back to Third Company and took his place in line for evening mess. He tasted nothing as he ate his boiled mutton and turnips, and he saw only auburn hair and large, green eyes and a lovely mouth that was always smiling.

  The men of Third Company were washing their cook kettles when the sounds of marching men and rolling cannon brought all their heads around toward the east. The men all stopped work to silently watch the men under command of General Nathanael Greene with the gold of sunset on their backs as they marched out of camp and disappeared into the woods.

  It had begun.

  At nine o’clock General Armstrong mounted his horse, raised his arm, and led his command west into the gathering shades of deep dusk.

  At nine-thirty, O’Malley called Caleb and Pryor and the other three teams of Third Company’s advan
ce scouts together near the glowing coals of the dying cook fire. As they gathered, Caleb noticed for the first time, an iron-headed, black-handled tomahawk in Pryor’s weapon belt, and a chill rose up his backbone.

  O’Malley wasted no time. “You got to get those British pickets silenced before the main body gets to the British breastworks south of that road. When you’ve finished with the pickets, wait right there until we catch up, then take your places in Third Company. Remember, Gen’l Washington means to start the attack at five o’clock in the morning, so you got to be finished and waiting by then. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “All right.” He thrust a small packet wrapped in oilcloth to Caleb. “Cap’n Furniss says there’s paper and pencil in there. You know what to do with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. All of you, leave now.”

  The eight men paired. Pryor stopped at the dying fire long enough to blacken his face and watch Caleb smear the ash onto his own. As they walked south toward the dark of the forest, Pryor handed Caleb a bone-handled belt knife in a leather sheath, fringed and beaded.

  “Put that on your belt. Never know when you’ll need it.”

  Caleb hesitated. “I can’t pay you for it. I don’t know how to use a knife.”

  “Never mind pay. You’ll learn to use it quick enough if some redcoat comes at you with one of those long British swords. Remember one thing. If you have to use it, keep it low, in front of you, with the cutting edge up. A stroke upward has a better chance at a man’s vitals than one coming down. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get it on your belt. Left side if you’re right-handed.”

  There was the tang of fall in the air as they moved south. By midnight the moon was well up to turn a skiff of high clouds silver and cast shadows in the woods. They followed the same trail as the previous night, and Caleb recognized most of the landmarks as they moved on. The streams, the high, denuded hill to the right, a gigantic, burned-out tree stump that had been struck by lightning in a century long gone, the split-rail fences that divided the farms. At one o’clock a cold north breeze stirred the air against their backs, and Caleb shivered as they worked their way on south.