Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  Since leaving Morristown with nine wagons and the remains of his medical staff and their equipment in late August, he had pursued the wandering Continental Army over half the eastern section of the state of Pennsylvania, frustration mounting daily at what appeared to be the army’s insane wanderings to all points on the compass. Three times he had blundered to within one mile of the British army. That he and his precious medical supplies and his skeleton staff had not been captured by the redcoats was a matter of profound mystery to him. He had lately been told at Whitemarsh that once again he was six days behind General Washington and the army, that they had marched out westward, to a place called Valley Forge. He had rested the horses and his staff for one day, then doggedly pushed on through the winter rains and snows and the freezing nights.

  The thirty-two horses pulling the eight remaining wagons were nearing the breaking point. The winter hair hanging from their jaws and bellies was ragged, and their bones were showing beneath their hides. Many of their iron shoes had worked loose, and the five men remaining with the Folsom column had jerked the nails and pulled the shoes to keep them from crippling the horses. The frogs on the hind feet of two horses had been critically bruised by rocks in crossing the Raritan River, and the horses had to be let out of harness for more than ten days while they healed. Eight times the men had used sharpened sticks to dig caked ice out of the hooves to keep from freezing the frogs of all the horses.

  The fourteen women in the column had long since taken their share of the work—cooking, mending, standing night picket, taking their rotation of sleeping in the wagons and on the open, frozen ground, insisting they take the same dwindling rations as the men, taking their turn driving the horses. They bore it all in stoic silence, living on the hope that one day soon they would reach the Continental Army. Food. Warmth. Blankets. Shelter. Cheeks hollow and with sunken eyes, the twenty had pushed on through it all, living on hope.

  Folsom turned for a moment to peer inside the lurching wagon, where Mary Flint sat with two other women, bundled in blankets, heads nodded forward, eyes closed. They were silent, unmoving, unfeeling of the endless pitching of the wagon. None had energy that could be used other than on the necessities of surviving one more day.

  He turned back to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of the horses’ heads as they plowed on, and a look of deep concern, of fear, came into his eyes. She’s getting worse. I can hear her lungs rattle sometimes. She needs six months in a hospital bed with good food—No other way I know to stop the pneumonia. She ought not be out in this cold—ought not be working—I’ll have to declare her unfit—confine her to the wagon—maybe that will stop her—save her.

  The narrow road had been cut through the thick woods years before, meandering through the places of least resistance. It curved to the left a quarter mile ahead, out of sight behind the snow-covered pines. Folsom’s thoughts ran on.

  She’s living to see that man—Stroud. If anything has happened to him—or it turns out he has no feelings for her—it might kill her.

  He shifted his weight, then removed his flat-brimmed felt hat to throw the snow off and then settle it back on his head.

  Time will tell.

  They nooned beyond the stand of pines. The men built fires and set the kettles and filled them with snow. The women diced the last of the salt pork belly and shriveled potatoes, added what salt they had left, and portioned it out steaming into wooden bowls, with army hardtack. They all moved into the shelter of the trees to sip at the scalding gruel and work at the brittle hardtack while the snow covered their heads and shoulders. Then they cleaned their utensils and cook pots and moved on.

  It was just past two o’clock when they broke into a clearing and heard the unmistakable sound of axes ringing in the far distance. Folsom half stood in the wagon box, peering into the veil of falling snow, holding his breath.

  British axes or American?

  Then he saw the downward slope of the land before them, and at the bottom the black, winding course of a river, and his heart leaped.

  The Schuylkill? Let it be the Schuylkill.

  He slapped the leather reins on the rumps of the wheel horses and gigged them, and they raised their pace. He was nearly to the river when he saw through the swirling snow men on the other side of the river—thousands of bearded men up and down the banks as far as he could see, in tattered clothing, with few tents, swinging axes and pushing saws to make logs to raise walls of small huts. He found the bridge that crossed the river to Pennypacker’s Mill and led his diminutive column thumping across. Everyone on his staff was peering out, faces bright, hope shining in their eyes.

  Two barefoot, bearded, scarecrow men laid down their axes and picked up their muskets. “Who are you?”

  “Major Leonard Folsom. Doctor. From Morristown. These are members of my medical staff. Are you the Continental Army?”

  “What’s left of it. Do you have any food in those wagons? Beef? Pork? Any shoes? Clothes?”

  For an instant Folsom and all his people stared, and then they looked at other men nearby who had stopped work at the sight of the wagons. It was all wrong! These men were not soldiers, fed, clothed, sheltered, robust. These men were emaciated, in tatters, without shoes, starving, freezing. The people in the wagons stared while their brains struggled to comprehend what they had come into.

  Folsom shook his head. “No food or clothes. We have medical supplies in the wagons. Where can I find the surgeon in charge?”

  The light in the man’s eyes died. “No food?”

  “None. Who’s the surgeon?”

  The man wiped a wet hand across a wet beard. “Albigence Waldo. At a house—brick—about a mile due east, on that trail.” He pointed.

  The teams picked their way through the sprawl of the camp, with Folsom and the others staring in disbelief at the destitute men and the filth. They counted thirteen dead horses within one hundred feet of the wagon, some carcasses half eaten, some frozen stiff, some still warm. There were no latrines; human waste was wherever men had stopped to relieve themselves. Folsom counted three hundred men seated on logs, shaking with fever. He stopped counting.

  They came to the brick house, and the wagons stopped. Folsom clambered down and walked to the door to bang on it with a balled fist. A woman—short, heavy, hair awry, tired eyes—opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  Folsom removed his hat. “I’m Major Leonard Folsom. A doctor. I’m told Albigence Waldo is here.”

  “He is.”

  Folsom pointed over his shoulder. “I’m here with my staff and some medical supplies from Morristown. I’m under orders to deliver them to the Continental Army. I presume Dr. Waldo is the proper person to receive them.”

  “Won’t you come in? I’ll get him.”

  “My staff?”

  “There is no room.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  The door closed, and one minute later it opened again. Dr. Albigence Waldo stood in the door frame, average height and build, goatee beard, piercing dark eyes that were sunken, hollow. His shirt was open at the throat, soiled, and his vest was worn, wrinkled.

  “Dr. Folsom?”

  “Yes. Reporting. I have some people and medical supplies.”

  Waldo’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t know how welcome you are. I’ll get some men to help unload.”

  “The lady said you have no room inside.”

  Waldo’s eyes hardened. “We have one hundred eighty men in here. There is scarcely room for one hundred. We’ll put the supplies in the stables.”

  “Do you have any food? Any place my people can take shelter? We are without.”

  Waldo wiped at his mouth. “I’ll find some. Somehow. For now, drive the wagons behind the house and take shelter in the horse barn. It’s stone. Tear down the partitions for wood to start a fire. There’s straw for bedding. I’ll deliver what blankets I can.”

  Waldo started to turn and Folsom stopped him.

  “I’ve never seen a . . . catas
trophe . . . like this.”

  Waldo shook his head. There was a look of fear in his eyes. “Nor have I. We have a great deal of fever. And pneumonia. The filth—I can’t believe the filth. Two men inside have smallpox, but I don’t dare say it aloud. If an epidemic starts in this camp . . .” Folsom saw the near panic in Waldo’s eyes as he finished. “Dr. Folsom, you don’t know how badly we need your supplies and your people.”

  The barn was tight. The men used a pick and an ax to smash three partitions to kindling. Minutes later they had a fire burning in the center of the floor, and a window open in the hayloft to draw the smoke. They unloaded crates of medical supplies for the women to sit on and brought blankets to wrap about their shoulders.

  Soldiers came to unload the wagons into the long, low stable building next to the barn, then unhitched the horses and led them inside to throw them what little dried grass remained from the fall harvest. The horses buried their noses and didn’t move as the sounds of grinding began.

  Men brought one peck of potatoes sprouting eyes, one strip of salt sowbelly, half a venison ham, a basket of shriveled apples, four loaves of three-day-old bread, and two buckets of buttermilk. The women erected the tripod and hung the cook kettle above the fire, the men brought snow to melt, and half an hour later they bowed their heads while Folsom returned a heartfelt thanks for the bounty. They portioned out a steaming, saltless stew with thick slices of butterless bread and drank thick buttermilk and chewed on soft, shriveled apples. No one spoke a word as the warmth spread from their pinched stomachs. No one could remember food ever tasting sweeter.

  In late dusk Folsom gave his small command their orders to prepare sleeping quarters in the barn, pulled his hat low, and walked out into the freezing night. Nearly two hours later he returned. All but one of his staff had gone to their beds, the men at one end of the barn, the women at the other, with blankets strung on a line to separate them. The single person sitting on a wooden crate, wrapped in a blanket, watching the low flames of the dying fire rose to face him.

  Folsom saw the mixed emotions in Mary’s eyes—hope, fear, anticipation, hesitancy—and he heard it in her voice as she quietly spoke.

  “Did you go to find Eli Stroud?”

  Folsom nodded.

  “Did you find him?”

  “I found the Massachusetts Regiment. Talked with a corporal—Billy Weems—and a sergeant. A little man named Turlock.”

  Mary raised a hand to cover her mouth, and Folsom saw the leap of terror in her eyes.

  “No, he’s not harmed. He came in from the north a few days ago. General Washington sent him to carry a message to Congress. They’re sitting in York, west of here, about seventy or eighty miles. He has at least two rivers to cross and a lot of ground to cover. In this weather it will take a few days. He has a horse. Should be back anytime.”

  Mary dropped her hand. “He’s unharmed?”

  “He’s fit. That’s why Washington picked him. That and the fact he apparently knows how to take care of himself in the woods.”

  Mary’s dark eyes closed for a moment, and her shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Get to your bed. You need rest more than anything else right now.”

  With the fire coals banked for morning, Mary burrowed into the straw fully dressed, as were the others, and pulled her blanket under her chin. He’s alive—unharmed—carrying a message to Congress—return soon—soon—soon.

  She drifted into sleep seeing his face—the eyes—the chin—the scar along his jawline . . .

  Twenty-eight miles to the west, in the hush of deep woods in snow, Eli sat cross-legged on pine boughs piled a foot deep beneath the lean-to he had built at nightfall—one for himself, another for the bay gelding that had carried him to York, where he had delivered two messages to Henry Laurens. One from General George Washington, the second from his son, Colonel John Laurens, personal aide-de-camp to the general. Laurens requested he remain for one day while he decided if there would be a return message. There were two, one for Washington, the other for his son. Laurens thanked Eli warmly, gave him a sack of oats for the horse, a second pouch of meat and potatoes for himself, and watched him out of sight as he raised the gelding to a gentle lope to disappear in the falling snow, traveling east with both sacks tied to the saddle.

  * * * * *

  Eli looked across the five-foot gap between himself and the lean-to sheltering the horse, where the firelight reflected ruby-red in the horse’s eyes. For a time Eli listened to the grinding as the horse worked on the oats, and he let his thoughts go as they would.

  Peaceful—always peaceful in heavy snow—Laurens is a good man—he’ll help Washington if he can—if no help comes the army will fall to pieces—the revolution will be finished—must find help.

  He stopped to listen for sounds in the forest, and there were none, save the crackle and hiss of his small fire and the grinding of his horse’s teeth. In heavy snow the wild creatures knew to find their nests or their burrows or their caves.

  I’ve seen no British—no patrols—must all be in Philadelphia in comfort. Not the Continentals—never seen an army in that condition.

  He reached to bank the fire, then lay down on the pine boughs and pulled his blanket up.

  I wonder if Mary is coming—is she all right?—when will I see her? He yearned to touch her, hold her close. The beautiful dark eyes and the generous mouth were the last thing he saw as sleep came.

  Four o’clock found him mounting the bay gelding, with a breakfast of sizzling meat and baked potato in his belly and what remained of his food in the two sacks wrapped in his blanket and tied behind the saddle. At eight o’clock the snow stopped, and a bright winter sun came through the clouds to turn the Pennsylvania woods into a blinding, shining world of white. Nine o’clock found horse and rider fourteen miles farther east, pushing steadily on through the snow, two-feet deep in places where it had drifted. A little past ten o’clock the horse tossed its head and pricked its ears, and Eli eased back on the reins, instantly searching for what the horse had seen or heard that he had not. His rifle lay balanced across his thighs, behind the saddle bow, muzzle pointing left.

  Movement brought his head around, eyes narrowed, as he watched five mounted horsemen break clear of the woods one hundred fifty yards away, each with a musket, bringing their horses in at a lope from the north, to his left. The heavily bearded men wore black, flat-brimmed felt hats, and on the shoulders of their leader were the epaulets of a captain. On the captain’s signal, the four riders behind him spread slightly, opening a clear line between themselves and Eli. Eli had his reins in his left hand. His right hand was away from the approaching riders, and they could not see him move it far enough to cock his rifle and slip his finger inside the trigger guard.

  They were fifty yards away when the leader pulled his horse down to a walk and raised his right hand, then called, his voice echoing in the silence.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “Stroud.”

  “White or Injun? You look Injun.”

  “White.”

  “Loyalist or patriot?”

  Eli had two seconds to make up his mind. “American. Who are you?” He moved the rifle far enough to bring the muzzle in line with the leader, and he waited.

  “Pennsylvania Militia. Where are you going?”

  “To the army camp. Valley Forge. You?”

  “Same place. We’ll ride along with you.”

  “You out on patrol?”

  “Yes.”

  “From Valley Forge?”

  “Yes.”

  Eli studied them as they walked their horses toward him. They all wore heavy woolen coats. Their horses were in good flesh. All wore boots. Their cheeks were full, ruddy. Each man carried his musket across his thighs, with his right hand on the hammer and trigger.

  At ten feet their leader reined his horse to a stop, a broad smile showing through his beard. “We thought for sure you was an Injun, with that wolf-skin coat and
them moccasins and all and that rifle.”

  “I spent some time with the Iroquois.” The eyes of the four silent men were going over Eli and his rifle, his horse, his saddle.

  Eli continued. “Been out on patrol long?”

  “Yesterday. Got to report back today. Heard the British were out stealing from the farmers. We was sent to find out. What are you doing out here?”

  “Sent to deliver a message.”

  “To who?”

  “A man in York. West of here. Who sent you out on scout?”

  There was a pause. The smile disappeared in the beard. “You with the Pennsylvania Division at camp?”

  “No, but I know most of the officers. Which one sent you?”

  All five men started to raise their muskets to swing the barrels to bear on Eli when Eli raised his rifle, the muzzle steady on the middle button of the thick woolen coat on the leader, and Eli’s voice rang out.

  “Stop where you are or this man dies.”

  Looking into the muzzle of the long Pennsylvania rifle, the five immediately eased their muskets back down across their thighs.

  “Now open the pans and empty out all the powder and then drop your muskets in the snow.”

  The leader shook his head. “You can’t get us all.”

  “After the first shot, you won’t much care. Empty the powder and drop the muskets. Now!”

  For three full seconds the five men battled indecision before their leader nodded. He hit the frizzen on his musket, opened the pan, dumped the powder, and tossed his musket away. It disappeared in the snow. The others dumped the powder and threw theirs down.

  “Undo your weapons belts and throw them away.”

  All five weapons belts, with the belt knives, were thrown into the snow.