Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  The time for the inevitable clash between Caleb and Murphy had arrived, and no one knew it more clearly than Dorman. He shifted his weight and raised a hand to signal two of the men with Murphy to stand away. They looked at Murphy, who nodded, and then stepped back. O’Malley jammed a thick finger into the chest of the third man, and he also backed away. Officers passing by pushed through the circled crowd to the opening in the center. They instantly recognized what was about to happen and opened their mouths to bark orders. Fifty soldiers turned to stare them down, and one by one the officers closed their mouths. They sensed that somehow this conflict was more than two men settling their differences. It was more than that—a part of the eternal battle between right and wrong; evil, ugly power crushing all who opposed. This was every man’s fight. The officers remained silent. Not one remembered or cared that it was their duty to stop all fighting among enlisted men. They became part of the silent, mesmerized crowd that was irresistibly drawn to the unequal combat.

  Murphy flexed his hands, then raised them. Barrel-chested, heavy and muscled above the waist, he had thirty pounds’ advantage over Caleb.

  The Irishman did not hesitate. He moved directly at Caleb, who raised his hands and made his fists and took his stance. His thumbs were wrapped tightly about his fingertips, chin tucked into the cavity of his shoulder, left foot slightly ahead of his right. He began the shuffling circle to his left, staring at Murphy’s chest, eyes taking in every move, every expression in Murphy’s eyes and face. Murphy followed, eyes narrow slits as he tried to bring Caleb to a stand. His right hand flicked out, and Caleb slipped it and continued circling.

  Murphy recovered and moved after him. Setting himself, he swung hard with his left hand. Caleb dropped his head to his left, and the punch grazed his right ear harmlessly. Caleb straightened and continued circling, seeing in Murphy’s eyes the first hint of doubt. Once again Murphy recovered and suddenly rushed. He swung his left hand first, then his right. Caleb again slipped the left hand, then raised his own left forearm upward to deflect Murphy’s right arm outward. In the same instant he set his feet and delivered a powerful right-hand punch to Murphy’s chest. The blow landed over Murphy’s heart, jolting him, causing him to stagger backward a full step.

  Caleb instantly recovered his stance and continued circling, eyes on Murphy’s chest, face expressionless. He glanced upwards once and saw the panic mounting in Murphy’s eyes. He continued his patient circling, waiting. He’s going to rush—means to use his strength—wait—wait—he’ll get foolish.

  Near total silence gripped the crowd. The men stood hypnotized by what they were seeing. Dorman was watching every move with a critical eye. O’Malley had his fists clenched, jaw set.

  Once more Murphy rushed, and again Caleb slipped his punches, struck back, and quickly recovered. In that instant he saw it plain in Murphy’s eyes. It was coming.

  Murphy charged like a raging bull. A thick, animal sound erupting from his throat as he threw caution to the wind and came clawing, trying to seize Caleb, fold him inside massive arms, crush him, break his back.

  The flurry came too fast to follow. Caleb was a blur as he stepped inside the huge arms and swung, left, right, left, hammering with all his strength into Murphy’s middle. It stopped Murphy in his tracks, eyes bulging, wind gone out of him, arms still extended. Caleb danced back, dodged under Murphy’s extended right arm, set his feet, and hooked with his left hand over Murphy’s arm. His fist slammed against Murphy’s right temple, snapping his head sideways while Caleb again shifted his feet and then swung his right hand with every pound he had. His fist crunched flush on Murphy’s mouth and blood flew as his upper lip split wide open. Murphy’s eyes started to glaze as Caleb jabbed with his left hand, then cocked his right hand again and delivered another vicious blow. The fist traveled less than twenty inches, this time to catch Murphy on his forehead. The Irishman’s entire frame shook as Caleb swung again with his left hand, opening a two-inch gash above Murphy’s right eye. With blood and gore covering Murphy’s face, Caleb reset his feet and delivered his right hand once more. His fist caught Murphy flush on the point of his chin, and those nearest heard the crack as Murphy’s jawbone broke.

  Murphy’s arms dropped and his eyes went glassy. Caleb set his feet once more and cocked his right hand to deliver another blow when he saw it. Murphy was unconscious on his feet. Caleb held his blow and stepped back. The big man’s knees buckled, and he pitched forward, landing face first in the dirt. He did not move.

  For seconds that seemed an eternity, no one moved or spoke. Then as the men realized what had happened, a murmur began in the crowd and reached a crescendo. The big man was down, beaten, lying in his own blood. The smaller man was standing, unhurt, unmarked. Evil, brute strength had failed. Officers turned and worked their way out of the crowd, aware that they should not interfere with what had happened and what was going to happen.

  Caleb stood over Murphy, and suddenly Dorman was at his right side, O’Malley on his left. No one tried to touch Caleb or Murphy. They stood at a distance, awed by what they had witnessed.

  Then O’Malley handed Caleb his old, scarred, wooden canteen, and Caleb pulled the stopper. He knelt beside Murphy, rolled him onto his back, and began to wash the dirt and blood and gore from his face. He saw the cut above the eye and the split lip and the jaw that would not close straight, and Caleb felt a sense of sadness, of pain.

  He glanced at O’Malley. “Get a doctor.”

  Murphy stirred, then groaned, and a bloody froth came from his nose and mouth. Caleb rinsed it away, and Murphy tried to raise on one elbow.

  Caleb pushed him down. “Lie still. The doctor’s coming.”

  Murphy peered up, eyes still unable to focus.

  The doctor came and knelt beside Murphy. He inspected his face, then raised unbelieving eyes to Caleb. “You did this?”

  Caleb nodded but said nothing.

  “With what? An ax handle?”

  They rigged a stretcher, and the men who were with Murphy carried him off, following the doctor toward the nearest hospital. The crowd still remained, milling about, not yet able to approach or talk with Caleb. O’Malley gestured, Caleb followed, and Dorman called after them as they walked away.

  “I’ll be over after mess. Some things need to be said.”

  Later, in the warmth of the spring evening, Dorman sat down on a log outside Caleb’s hut, and Caleb came to sit beside him. The younger man pulled a shred of bark from the log and began to work it with his fingers. For a time they sat in reflective silence, and then Dorman spoke.

  “How do you feel?”

  “All right.”

  “I mean inside?”

  Caleb stopped peeling at the piece of bark in his hands. He did not raise his eyes. “Bad. I thought it would be different.”

  Relief flooded through Dorman, but his expression did not change. “Would you do it again?”

  Caleb worked at the bark with his thumbnail for a time. “I don’t know.”

  “There’s a lot to think about. He’s a bully. Someone had to stop him. I doubt he’ll be as quick to pick a fight next time.”

  “I know that. Still, it was . . . a bad thing.”

  “No, not bad. It would have been bad if you had picked a fight with a lesser man just to beat him. This was the other way around. He picked the fight because he thought he could beat you. It was evil of him. Not you. Someone has to stand up to his kind. You did it. It wasn’t bad. Sad, but not bad. Do you see?”

  “I see. It was still ugly.”

  “You better think about one more thing.”

  Caleb raised questioning eyes.

  “You’re a marked man. By tomorrow night most of this army will know what you did today. There are men here who are going to pick fights with you just to find out if they can beat you. Better be ready.”

  “That happened to you?”

  “Many times.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Learned to walk away. Pr
ide isn’t worth it. I’m glad I learned that.”

  Dorman dropped his hands to his knees and stood. “Well, I better get back.” He looked at Caleb. “You handled yourself well. In the fight, I mean. He never touched you.”

  “That wasn’t me. I learned it from you.”

  “No, it was you. See you tomorrow.”

  Caleb watched the aging man walk away into the last rays of sunlight casting long shadows to the east, then picked at the bark with his thumbnail once more. Billy’s going to hear—what will he think?—what will he write to his mother?—How long before it reaches my mother?—What will she think?—Does it matter?—It seems like the bad in life goes on and the good dies or goes away—what does it matter?

  Two miles east, among the tiny log buildings of the Massachusetts Regiment, Billy finished scrubbing the large, black company cook kettle with sand and water and leaned it against the west wall of his hut. He wiped his hands on his tattered breeches and was walking toward the front door when color caught his eye, and he glanced west, into the glow of sunset. Fifteen yards away, Eli was seated on the trunk of an ancient, wind-felled pine. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, slowly working his hands together, head bowed in deep thought. Rarely had Billy seen him so. He turned away from the hut toward his friend and was five yards away when Eli raised his head to watch him come the last few paces and sit down.

  Seconds passed in silence before Billy spoke. “Trouble?”

  For a time Eli continued to study his hands. “Can’t get my mind to come clear.”

  “About what?”

  “Mary.”

  “What about her?” Billy saw the reluctance in Eli, and he left the question hanging for a time before Eli raised his head and looked him squarely in the eyes.

  “I want to marry her, and I know it’s wrong.”

  Billy slowly straightened, startled, shocked. “Wrong? How?”

  “I’m more Iroquois than white. I know the woods. It’s where I belong. I doubt I can live in a city. I own a rifle and a knife and a tomahawk and nothing more. I don’t much like a lot of what people in towns do and think. Mary comes from New York. Wealth. Position. Power. She doesn’t belong in the woods. She belongs in a city. I can’t get my head to make it work.”

  “You talk to her about it?”

  “No. Nothing to be gained by troubling her.”

  From the corner of the hut came the high, raspy voice of Turlock. “What are you two doing?”

  Billy answered. “Nothing.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” Without invitation Turlock walked over. Before he reached them he was aware something heavy had happened. He dropped to his haunches in the thick spring grass, facing them, and looked up at Eli and waited. Billy remained silent, giving Eli the choice of either opening up to Turlock or not.

  For a time Eli remained silent, then spoke quietly. “It’s Mary.”

  “The one you made that coat for? I hear every woman in camp is jealous of that wolf-skin coat.”

  “I want to marry her, but it’s wrong.”

  Turlock’s eyes widened. “Wrong?”

  “I’m more Indian than white. She’s a lady from the city. I doubt I can live in her world or that she can live in mine.”

  Turlock rounded his lips and blew air. “That does sound thorny. You talk to her about it?”

  “No. No sense in it.”

  “You already made up her mind?”

  It took Eli two seconds to catch it. “Me? Make up her mind?”

  “I thought that’s what you said. You won’t talk to her because there’s no sense to it. You already made up her mind.”

  “You think I should trouble her with this? She belongs in a city, with wealth and the things she knows. I can never give her that.”

  “You already decided she belongs in a city?”

  Eli straightened, and a slight cutting edge crept into his voice. “She does! That’s where she came from. That’s the life she knows.”

  “You looked at her lately? It’s been a long time since she saw a city. Money? Clothes? She’s over there in that hospital, workin’ herself to death in poverty and disease, and she’s doin’ it because that’s where she wants to be. And she wants to be there because that’s as close as she can get to you.”

  Billy saw the slow realization come into Eli’s face.

  Eli asked, “You think I should tell her?”

  Turlock answered. “I think you should follow your heart. You got a head like few men I ever met, but you got a lot to learn about your heart. And more to learn about a woman’s heart. You go talk to her.”

  Eli turned to Billy with imploring eyes, and Billy spoke.

  “Go see her. Tell her just what you told us.”

  Eli slowly rose to his feet, and both men stood with him. He picked up his rifle, handed it to Billy, and without a word he left at a trot.

  The first shades of purple evening were filtering into the woods when Eli rapped on the door of the long stone building behind the hospital. A plump woman opened the door.

  “Oh. It’s you. Wait here.”

  Three minutes later Mary appeared. She wore a plain, long-sleeved gray dress to her ankles. Her dark hair was held back by a white scarf. Her eyes were glowing as she came to him.

  “Eli, it’s so good to see you. Do come in.”

  “Is it all right if we walk?”

  Mary sensed his need. “Of course.”

  He took her hand and led her into the trees twenty yards east of the building. Full twilight had set in. He stopped and faced her, and he knew no other way than to speak plainly.

  “I’m more Indian than white. I was raised in the woods. It’s the only life I know. I own a Pennsylvania rifle and this knife and tomahawk. I’ve never lived in a city, and I doubt I could.”

  He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. Mary started to speak, and he cut her off. “You were raised in New York City. Wealth. A grand home. Society. I could never give you those things.”

  Mary reached to cover his mouth with her hand. “Eli, you’re trying to say something. Say it.”

  He looked down into her dark eyes, and his heart rose to choke him. “I want you to marry me, but I can’t—”

  Again she stopped him. “You can’t what?”

  “I can’t ask you to live the only way I know, and I can’t give you what you should have.”

  “What I should have? You haven’t given me the only thing I need. How do you feel about me, Eli? Tell me how you feel about me.”

  His brow knitted down in bewilderment. “How I feel about you? I thought you knew. Understood. You hold my heart. I love you.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and raised her face and kissed him. After a moment she drew back. “That’s all I need. You want me to marry you? Yes. Yes, Eli. You want me to come live in the forest with you? If that’s where you are, that’s where I belong. Yes, I will marry you. I love you with all my heart.”

  He started to speak, and she kissed him again, all the passion in her heart rising to reach him. He held her and never in his life had he known the fulfillment that surged through his being. Neither knew, nor cared, how long they stood in the twilight of the forest, lost in each other.

  He released her, and she whispered, “When?”

  “As soon as we finish our battle with Clinton. I can’t leave before then.”

  “Leave?”

  “When we’re married, would you come with me north? To my sister? We can stay with her for a time—her and her husband and two children. They have a small home in the north woods. You’ll love her, and she’ll love you.”

  “How will we get there?”

  “Walk. Canoe.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “Yes.”

  “It sounds like heaven. Of course we’ll go.”

  Full darkness had set in when Eli returned to the hut. Billy sat on a pile of firewood near the door. Turlock walked out into the moonlight, waiting. Billy stood and spoke.

&
nbsp; “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “We’re going to marry as soon as we finish our fight with Clinton.”

  Turlock looked up into his face. Eli saw the strange tenderness in his eyes as the little man spoke. “I’m glad for you, son. Glad.”

  Turlock turned and disappeared into the hut, his mind reaching far back into memories of a girl who had passed on before he could speak to her of his love.

  Notes

  The letter written by Billy to his mother is fictional; however, the facts set forth therein are correct. General Anthony Wayne did bring in cattle and was given the nickname “Wayne the Drover.” In the five months at Valley Forge, over 3,000 American soldiers died. Over 1,500 horses died. The 120 select soldiers did march in demonstration before the Continental Army. General Washington was lavish in his praise of the contribution made by Baron von Steuben. Lacking medicines, the men resorted to homemade cures, including a mixture of gunpowder (in which there was the necessary sulphur) and tallow, to smear on scabs, sores, and itches. Herbs and plants were used for cures. Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 442–43; Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, pp. 22, 35–36; Busch, Winter Quarters, pp. 71, 171.

  General Washington extended every courtesy to General Charles Lee after his return as an exchanged prisoner of war. Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, p. 50.

  On May 4, 1778, Congress ratified and approved the treaty with France. To commemorate the critically important event, a great celebration was conducted on May 6 at Valley Forge in which Lafayette was given command of “the right of the first line.” For full details as set forth herein, see Freeman, Washington, p. 390; Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, pp. 55–56.

  On Washington’s recommendation, Baron von Steuben was in fact appointed inspector general and given the rank of major general. Valley Forge Orderly Book, p. 273; Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, pp. 38–40.

  General Washington entered an order that all officers and soldiers would attend church services on the Sabbath. Valley Forge Orderly Book, p. 303.

  The British Parliament accepted Howe’s resignation. A great farewell party called a meschianza was held in Philadelphia in his honor on May 18, 1778. The French sent Vice Admiral d’Estaing to Toulon in the Mediterranean, then on to America, which caused the British to fear he would blockade Philadelphia. Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, pp. 59–63