by Ron Carter
The sounds of feet in the streets came, faintly at first, then closer, and then the voices, low and harsh.
“Got to be here somewhere.”
“Maybe she’s hiding in one of the buildings or dodged up a street.”
“Not likely, the way she was runnin’. Maybe down in the boats. Maybe gone in a boat.”
She bit down on her panic and remained perfectly still, hardly breathing while her feet and legs became numb, like sticks of wood. The sound of feet thumping on the wharf became louder and then they stopped directly above her head. She could hear their breathing, heavy from their run, and hear their growled cursing as they peered into the pitch-blackness, pausing from time to time to listen.
“There’s nobody here.”
“No? There was somebody here. See the longboat there, floatin’ on the tide? That wasn’t no accident.”
“Think she’s hidin’ inside? Fetch it.”
“You fetch it. That water’s freezin’.”
“I’m not goin’ into no water lookin’ for no woman. Besides, there’s no time to go fetchin’ a boat from the harbor. Them musket shots is goin’ to have the army down here directly, lookin’ for them four we done in. They was wearin’ British uniforms an’ one of ‘em was a sergeant. And that horse and carriage didn’t belong to no farmer. No sir, I ain’t goin’ swimmin’ after that boat, not with the British army comin’. We got us a good haul from our night’s work an’ I’m gettin’ out of here while I can.”
They stood on the wharf a moment longer with Mary directly beneath their feet, mouth clamped shut, not moving. There was a muffled sound by her head and in the next instant something heavy and scrambling landed on her shoulder and brushed her cheek. She jerked and reached and felt the wet fur and the twisting, squirming body of a huge rat. She slapped at it and it hit the water splashing, and she jammed both hands over her mouth to hold in a scream.
“Hear that? There’s something under there.”
“If it’s that woman, she’s keepin’ company with the wharf rats, and that isn’t likely.” For a split second the voice fell silent, and then came a hissed, “Listen!”
Far to the east came the faint shouts of angry men and the sound of feet pounding on the cobblestones.
Above her head one of the voices blurted, “That’s British soldiers. I’m leavin’.”
Running feet sounded loud for a moment and then they were off the wharf into the street going west, and then they were gone, disappeared in Canvas Town.
Mary moved three feet away from the mud of the shore, still on her knees, and the water rose around her. Silently she bowed her head and closed her eyes and strained to hear. The shouts of the oncoming soldiers grew louder and she could hear their boots hitting the cobblestones, and then they stopped. There was faint talking and then the sounds of the soldiers began to fade and were quickly gone.
They’re going back! They can’t! I’m here! They must come here!
For a moment she battled an overpowering need to scramble up onto the wharf and run shouting after them, “Come back, come back!” but she dared not—not in Canvas Town where men and women alike were found every week, face down in the streets and in the harbor, dead for the clothes they wore on their backs.
She huddled in the water, afraid to make a sound, afraid to leave. Seconds became minutes and still she waited. Her feet and legs lost all feeling and as minutes became half an hour, her shivering became uncontrollable and she began to shake violently. She waited until her knees began to buckle before she took charge of herself and faced her terror.
If I stay here I will lose both legs. If someone is waiting for me, so be it. I will remain here no longer.
Her legs were like sticks detached from her body, her mind. She gave commands but they would not move. She reached into the water with her hands, bent over, to lift them and force them forward, and it took minutes for her to move fifteen feet from beneath the wharf into the waist-deep water where the longboats were tied. With a strength born of desperation she pulled herself into a longboat and for a time lay panting, exhausted. Then she forced herself to sit up and reached to massage her legs. Her soaked skirts and petticoats were slick with ice as she pulled them back and began to work her legs with her hands, massaging, working the great muscles. She felt nothing—no pain, no cold—and in panic she began to pound them with the flat of her hands, squeezing them with all her strength, anything to make the blood circulate and return some sense of feeling to them. Slowly they responded and minutes later it was as though a thousand needles were piercing her legs. Silent tears ran freezing down her cheeks as she continued working. She reached for the gunwales of the boat and tried to stand. She could make it to her knees, but she could not force her legs to support her. She sat down on the boat seat and once again pounded and massaged her legs while the needles came and then she could move her feet, and finally could move her toes inside her frozen shoes.
She moved to the bow of the boat and pulled herself up onto the wharf on her hands and knees, and then raised her right knee to try to stand. Two minutes later she took her first step and groaned at the pain while she forced her left foot to move forward. Slowly she moved back towards the street, legs throbbing as feeling came creeping back.
The hospital! I’ve got to make it back to the hospital—Doctor Purcell!
She stayed away from the doorways and the windows of the burned-out buildings near the wharf until it was behind her, then moved steadily towards Broadway, then north. Her water-soaked clothing froze stiff as she forced herself onward. She worked her hands together to keep circulation, and began counting the blocks, then her steps, to distract herself from the pain and the fear.
She pushed on, slowly losing reality. She could not remember making the last turn towards the great lawn of the Flint estate covered with snow and ice, but suddenly she was there and she stumbled towards the huge pillars supporting the portico. Her foot caught in the frozen hem of her dress and she pitched forward onto her hands and knees and she could not rise. Her arms began to tremble and then gave way, and she settled onto her side in the snow, working her legs, still trying to rise.
On the portico, the picket huddled over the small metal box with draft holes, filled with glowing coals, shivering while vapors rose from his face. Movement towards the street brought his head up and suddenly he stood, head thrust forward, peering into the darkness.
He muttered, “Wot’s that layin’ out there in the snow? Was that there ‘alf an hour ago? I’m thinkin’ it was not.”
He turned back to pick up his musket from where it leaned against the wall, then walked to the edge of the portico.
“Who comes there?” He waited, head thrust forward, peering. “I say, speak up or I’ll ‘ave to shoot. Who comes there?”
There was no sound or movement.
Cautiously he descended the two steps to the broad brick path, musket held at waist level, bayonet thrust forward, and slowly walked down the bricks, eyes never wavering from the dark form in the snow. Suddenly he jerked upright.
“May lightnin’ strike me if it isn’t a woman!” He slipped his musket strap over his shoulder as he trotted to Mary’s side and peered into her face.
“I know this one!” he exclaimed.
He scooped her up into his arms and moved as fast as he could on the slippery ground to the big entry doors and banged with his foot. The heavy door swung open and Doctor Purcell gasped when he saw the dark form bundled in the picket’s arms.
Two minutes later they had Mary on the doctor’s cot in the library behind a thick portable curtain. The men waited while two women nurses removed the frozen clothing, rubbed her briskly with large towels, worked a heavy nightshirt onto her, and covered her with blankets. They pushed the curtain back and Doctor Purcell came to her side and dropped to one knee to place his hand on her forehead.
“Can you hear me?”
The wide-set dark eyes fluttered open and tried to focus, then closed. “Yes,” she whisper
ed.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Slowly she formed the words with her eyes still closed. “Horse and carriage stolen. Shooting on the wharf. Soldiers gone. Hid under he wharf. Walked back. So sorry. So sorry.”
Doctor Purcell wiped as tears came at the corners of her eyes. “You’re safe now. Rest. We’ll take care of everything.”
She swallowed and roused and her eyes opened for a moment. “You have to write. Get paper. You have to write a letter.”
“It can wait.”
She stirred and tried to raise on one elbow and fell back. “No. Let me have a paper. Got to send a letter. Can’t wait.”
Quickly the doctor stepped to his desk and returned with a pencil and paper. “Go ahead.”
With her eyes closed, fighting against unconsciousness, she began: “To Eli Stroud. Boston Regiment. With General Washington. Your sister was given to a reverend named Cyrus Fielding of New Hampshire. Cyrus Fielding.”
She swallowed and for a moment her eyes opened and she looked into Doctor Purcell’s face. “Did you write it?”
“Yes. Eli Stroud. Cyrus Fielding.”
“Send it today?”
“I will.”
She closed her eyes and her face settled as she yielded to the unutterable fatigue that reached to draw her into the warm blackness.
Notes
The northwest quarter of New York City was burned in a tremendous fire just after midnight on September 21, 1776 (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 2, pp. 118-19). The destruction was severe and eventually the district became known as “Canvas Town.” People still lived there, though in hovels patched together from the burned wreckage. Many people of dark and evil designs—soldiers and roving bands—roamed New York City, entering homes, churches, and schools, including the King’s College, pillaging and stealing whatever they desired, then selling the plunder on the open market. Some churches and other large buildings were converted to hospitals for the wounded (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 179-80).
For additional history on the New York City fire see Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 281-82.
The Dolphin is a fictional ship used to represent the horrific conditions of the prison and hospital ships of the time (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 182-83).
Mary Flint, her father Rufus Broadhead, and Doctor Otis Purcell are fictional characters.
Continental army camp, McKonkey’s Ferry, Pennsylvania
December 23, 1776
CHAPTER VI
The call came unexpected in the twilight of thick, gray storm clouds and the quiet hush of thick-falling snow.
“Weems and Stroud!”
Billy and Eli paused from lacing cut pine boughs to the slanted wall of their lean-to and peered west, searching through the trees for movement. The call came again and Billy raised an arm to point at incoming men, picking their way through the thick woods, and he raised his voice. “Here! Weems and Stroud are here.”
They studied the burly sergeant and two armed corporals as they approached, hair and shoulders covered by snow, vapors rising from their gaunt, bearded faces. They were dressed in filthy, tattered coats, feet wrapped in canvas.
The sergeant walked to the fire to face them, and spoke, surly, demanding. “You Weems and Stroud?”
Billy studied the three men for a moment, searching his memory for recognition but none came. “Yes.”
“You the two who brought in those thirteen deserters yesterday?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re wanted at the court-martial.”
“What court-martial?”
The sergeant was impatient. “Over at headquarters. They got one going over there to decide when we shoot ‘em. Been at it half the day. Can’t finish without you two telling what you done.”
“When do they want us?”
“Now.”
“Whose orders?”
“Colonel Broderick, Connecticut Regiment. Same as the deserters.”
Billy looked at Eli, and Eli shrugged, then picked up his rifle while Billy reached for his musket. “We’ll follow you.”
The sergeant turned on his heel and retraced his steps back through snow that sifted through the trees to the forest floor, and then they were out onto the open field with the lights of the Keith House, five hundred yards due west, glowing yellow in the gathering gloom. The great, silent snowflakes drifted down soft, gentle, to stick to their hair and eyebrows and tattered coats. No human hand could hope to fashion the intricate shapes and designs that nature gave so freely, to be treasured by human eyes but for the moment and then gone forever. They followed the deepening trail through the snow, lost for a moment in the profound beauty of a white, silent world, and then they were passing the stables and the carriage barn. The sergeant spoke to the two pickets standing at the rear entrance of the great, two-storied stone house.
“Sergeant Culhane coming in with witnesses for the court-martial.”
The pickets nodded and stepped aside as he climbed the two steps to the large landing and turned to Billy and Eli.
“Get what snow you can off your feet and come in. You’ll have to wait in the coatroom, just inside the door. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
They stomped their feet hard, then the sergeant opened the door and he and his two men walked into the large coatroom, followed by Billy and Eli. They used a broom to clear the rest of the snow from their feet, and the sergeant gestured to open pegs lining one wall. “Hang your coats there. I’ll come get you when they’re ready.”
They listened to the sound of his wrapped feet moving up the hall, then a knock, and a door opened and closed. The two men left behind gestured, and Billy and Eli took off their coats, shook them before they hung them on pegs. They straightened their shirts as best they could, and ran their hands through their hair to get out as much snow and water as they could, and smooth it. They stood in the lantern light, waiting, and their noses began to drip in the heat. They wiped at them with their sleeves while the ice in the wraps on Billy’s feet and in the wolf hair on Eli’s knee-length moccasins began to melt and leave small puddles on the hardwood floor. Billy glanced at Eli’s wolf skin coat. In late November Eli had gone out for eight nights to bring back four wolf pelts. He had wrapped them around heated rocks to dry them, then carefully cut them, and sewed the pieces together with a sliver of bone and dried gut to fashion a coat with a parka, and moccasins that reached his knees.
They heard a door open up the hall, and seconds later the sergeant was there, pointing. “Follow me.”
They left their weapons in a corner by their coats and walked rapidly behind the sergeant up the long, austere hallway. Eli still wore his weapons belt with the black tomahawk thrust through. The sergeant stopped at a large door on the left and rapped. A lieutenant opened it eight inches and the sergeant spoke.
“Corporal Weems and Private Stroud are here.”
The door opened wide, Sergeant Culhane stepped aside, and the young, smooth-cheeked lieutenant motioned them into the large room, Billy leading, to face a long, plain table ten feet in front of them. Seated behind the table was a colonel with a major on either side, all hunched forward, studying notes. Crowded to the left stood the thirteen men accused of desertion, with ten armed men standing loosely around them, muskets and bayonets ready. To the right was a stone fireplace with a fire crackling. The room was hot, stuffy, the air rank with the smell of wet clothing and wet hair.
The colonel was paunchy, red-faced, thinning gray hair. He raised his head and peered at Billy and Eli for a moment, then spoke. He was direct, curt, and it was obvious that he hated being there, hated the duty that required him to sit in judgment on thirteen of his own men, loathed the thought of entering an order that would put all thirteen of them before twenty-six men who would shoot them dead and bury them in unmarked, shallow graves.
“I’m Colonel Broderick, Fortieth Connecticut. Who are you?”
/> “Corporal Billy Weems, Boston Regiment, Company Nine.”
“Eli Stroud. Scout.”
Broderick looked at the Iroquois hunting shirt and the wolf skin moccasins, and his eyes fixed on the weapons belt with the ominous black tomahawk, and his forehead wrinkled. “Scout? What unit?”
“Same as Corporal Weems. Boston Regiment.”
Broderick cleared his throat and dropped a finger to a paper in front of him, then raised his head. “This court-martial was convened to hear the charge of desertion against these thirteen men. I’m told you two are the ones that brought them in. Am I correct?”
A hush fell over the room as everyone stared at Billy and Eli, waiting, and Billy answered. “Yes, sir.”
“Last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Start at the beginning and tell me the story.”
“Not much to tell. At dusk I saw movement in the trees to the south. Eli went after them and I followed in a few minutes. He got ahead of them and stopped them, and I came in behind. They didn’t fight. We brought them back.” Billy shrugged. “That’s all.”
There was a moment of silence before Broderick spoke again. “You’re saying the two of you braced thirteen men in the dark? Thirteen deserters who knew they could be shot? And there was no trouble? No one tried to escape? fight? Did they have weapons among them?”
“Yes, sir. Ten muskets, eight with bayonets. We brought them back with us.”
“Food?”
“A little in knapsacks. They ate it back in camp while we were waiting for the Connecticut officers to come get them.”
“Did they know there were just two of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“We told them.”
“What else did you tell them?”
“That if they tried to escape or fight, the first man down would be their leader.” Billy turned his head to look at them. “I believe his name was Pratt. Bertram Pratt. We told them that after he was down we would take them as they came. I led them back to camp with Eli at their rear with his rifle in the middle of Pratt’s back. They didn’t fight.”