by Ron Carter
Food had not been plentiful since they marched into the valley and set up their army camp near Morristown. But what they did get was so much more than what they had lived on for eight months that it seemed they had arrived in the land of promise. The men had slowly gained flesh and muscle and strength. They had cut trees to build small huts chinked with dry grass and mud for protection from the winter storms, and the regiments had each taken their turn guarding the mountain passes against attack by the British. Then the barren trees had shown the first swelling of bulging buds, and green had appeared on the branches as the days grew longer and warmer. Spirits rose with each passing day.
Billy tugged his damp shirt over his head, then put on his trousers. He pulled on his socks and, with a sense of reverence, he slipped on the thick-soled, lace-up shoes he had taken from British stores following the battle of Princeton. He had never supposed that he could covet anything as he coveted the shoes. The day he found them he had cut the cords holding the tattered blanket strips to his feet, and slowly worked his feet into the stiff leather, then patiently tied them. He had sat for minutes, lost in the feeling of having shoes on his feet once again. Something between his battered, bleeding feet and the ice and the frozen ground. He had slept with the shoes clutched in his arms, beneath his blanket, for weeks.
He finished tying the shoes and rose. Eli was beside him, dressed in his damp buckskins. Together they walked back to camp, to the small hut they shared with four others. They turned at the sound of the familiar nasal voice.
“You lovelies heard?”
Billy shook his head. “Heard what?”
“About Burgoyne.”
Eli glanced at Billy, then turned back to Turlock. “Who’s Burgoyne?”
“Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne. General in His Majesty’s Royal Army, King George the Third. Gambler, carouser, lady’s man, and allaround dandy. I heard he writes plays. Also the commander of one of the crack outfits in the British army. And he’s headed here with an army.”
Billy’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Morristown?”
“No, Canada. And then down Lake Champlain and the Hudson River valley to come in from the west, behind us, and trap us. Burgoyne and an army of about ten thousand on the west, and Howe and his army on the east.”
“How do you know?”
Turlock grunted. “Newspapers. New York, Boston, London. Cat’s out of the bag. King George took it hard when we captured Trenton and Princeton. It appears he means to teach us we ought not do such things.”
Eli’s eyes narrowed and he stood motionless, mind racing. “Wait a minute. Canada? Where in Canada?”
“The Richlieu River, so far as I know.”
“And he’s coming down Lake Champlain and the Hudson valley?”
“Him and his whole army.”
Eli’s mouth clamped shut and Billy saw the instant intensity in his face. “What’s in your mind?” Billy asked.
“He’s coming right through the country where I was raised. Joseph Brant’s up there with his Mohawk, and Red Jacket and Cornplanter right along with him, and they’ve all taken sides with the British. Brant’s one of the smartest men I ever knew, and he knows every hill and valley and stream up there. We might be able to stop Burgoyne, but if Brant joins with him, I can tell you right now, Washington’s got trouble he don’t even know about.” Eli stopped, rounded his cheeks, and blew air.
Turlock spoke. “I’ve heard of Brant. Isn’t he a fighter?”
“One of the best. He can likely raise two or three thousand Mohawk and Iroquois and Onondaga warriors any time he wants. And they don’t fight like the British. The first notion you get they’re even around is when a bullet or an arrow or a tomahawk knocks you down.” Eli paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “When is Burgoyne supposed to be here?”
Turlock shrugged. “Left England sometime in late March. Should be here soon.”
“You sure about all this?”
Turlock hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Major Fitzgerald has the newspapers. I seen ‘em.” He waited for a moment. “Well, I just thought you might want to know. I better get back to the stew pots. I drew cookin’ duties for the day. Servin’ the noon meal soon. Mutton stew, just like for supper.”
For long minutes Eli stared after Turlock, his mind working, calculating.
Billy waited, then spoke. “You got things to think about?”
Eli nodded in silence.
Billy said, “I’m going inside. Call me when you want to go for supper.”
He walked into the dim light of their crude hut and sat on his bunk, then turned and laid down, hands behind his head. He glanced at his old, threadbare blanket coat, with the six letters he had written to Brigitte between the double layers, and for a moment his mind reached back to the gentle times in the warmth and security of Boston, and Brigitte’s face was before him.
Eli’s voice jolted him out of his reveries. “Billy, I got to go see Washington. You want to come?”
Billy swung his feet off the cot. “Washington? Why?”
“There’s some things he better know.”
The two walked through the camp, to the Freeman Tavern on the edge of Morristown’s public square where General Washington had established his headquarters. The picket challenged them and they stopped.
Billy spoke. “Corporal Billy Weems and Scout Eli Stroud to see the general.”
The startled picket stammered, “What? Who sent you?”
Eli broke in. “No one. Just tell the general who’s here.”
The picket shook his head. “Only if you got written orders from a major officer.”
Eli spoke. “We just heard about the British sending a general named Burgoyne to trap us all. I got a few things the general needs to hear about that and there’s no time to waste. If it all goes wrong because I don’t get to talk to him, you might have some trouble.”
Billy broke in. “We’re the two the general sent to scout the British before the Princeton battle. We were with Hand when he slowed down General Cornwallis.”
The picket’s eyes widened. “Wait here.” He was gone for one minute before he returned. “The general will see you now.”
They left their weapons at the door and followed the picket into a library and glanced at the polished maple bookshelves filled with books of every description. General Washington was seated behind a small desk on one side of the fireplace. He rose as they entered, and Billy spoke.
“Corporal Billy Weems and Scout Eli Stroud, sir. We hope you’ll excuse the interruption. We wouldn’t have come except Scout Stroud has information that may be important.”
“Go on.”
Eli locked eyes with Washington. “We just heard the British are sending a general named Burgoyne with a big force down from Canada. Lake Champlain and on down the Hudson River. They intend trapping us with Burgoyne on one side and Howe on the other.”
Eli stopped, waiting for a response from Washington, and the general answered. “I’ve been informed. Is that what you came to tell me?”
“Not all. I was raised by the Iroquois for seventeen years in those hills. Joseph Brant’s up there in that country with Red Jacket and Cornplanter. They’ve all joined the British, and together they can raise maybe two, three thousand Indian warriors—Mohawk, Iroquois, Onondaga. They know every hill and valley and stream up there, and they know how to fight in those woods. Joseph Brant’s one of the smartest men I know, and if Burgoyne gets them to join him, maybe we’re going to have more trouble than we can handle.”
Washington slowly sat back down on his chair. “What do you recommend?”
“I’ll be a lot more help to you up there than down here watching Howe. I speak the language, and I know how they think, how they fight. I know those mountains.”
“Do you know Joseph Brant?”
“Yes, and Red Jacket and Cornplanter.”
“Will Brant remember you?”
“Yes. I met him once. We had just finished a battle with the Fren
ch. I was part of a small party that broke the French lines and ran off their horses. He wanted to meet me. He was surprised when he saw I was white. He’ll remember.”
“What can you do up there that others cannot?”
“The woods are so thick up there that moving an army south without knowing the trails will likely be impossible. Brant knows those trails, and if Burgoyne takes him on to guide his army, he’ll make it through. I know those trails too. I think I can slow Burgoyne down—maybe even stop him—whether or not Brant and his warriors become his guides.”
“Won’t Brant and his warriors be able to find you and stop you?”
“That’s an interesting question, but one thing is sure. I stand a better chance of doing something to slow them down than any other man in this army.”
“Are you volunteering to go up there to resist General Burgoyne?”
“I am.”
“Alone?”
Eli pondered for a moment, then turned to Billy, silently asking the heavy question.
Billy turned to Washington. “I’ll go.”
Washington shifted back to Eli. “When?”
“When will Burgoyne land up there?”
“He will be there any day.”
“Then we better leave now.”
“Would you two men wait outside for a short time? I want to consider all this.”
Outside, in the warmth of the midday sun, Billy turned to Eli. “You sure you want me along? I might slow you down.”
Eli shook his head and said nothing; they settled into a thoughtful silence, waiting.
The picket opened the door. “The general will see you again.”
Inside the library, General Washington rose to face them. He handed each of them a folded paper, sealed with wax and the imprint of his rank as commander in chief of the Continental army.
“Here are my written orders. You are to leave as soon as you can. I do not yet know who will be commanding our forces up there, but I am certain it will be either General Schuyler or General Gates, with militia. I must remain here to face General Howe. You will have to find the army up there and present these orders. Generally, you both have authority to move about as you see fit, advising our forces according to what you learn. Am I clear?”
Billy replied, “Yes, sir.”
Eli nodded.
He handed them a second, smaller paper. “This is an order allowing you to draw ammunition and food before you leave. Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“Dismissed.”
With their weapons in their hands they walked away from the building, back to the cluster of huts and tents, saying little, lost in the new thoughts that came rushing one on top of another. They got their wooden spoons, bowls, and pewter mugs from their hut, sought out Turlock’s smoking cook pot, and stood in line with the others gathering for their noon meal. Turlock dipped mutton stew with a long-handled, wooden spoon and loaded their bowls. He spoke as they poured steaming coffee from a battered two-gallon pot.
“Did I see you coming from Washington’s headquarters?”
Billy nodded. “Yes. Looks like Eli and I are going north to join the militia up there when they meet Burgoyne.”
Turlock eyed Eli. “Isn’t that where you come from?”
“Yes.”
“Makes sense. When do you leave?”
“Today, soon as we can.”
Turlock shook his head in disgust. “Amazin’ what some folks will do to avoid eatin’ mutton stew twice in one day.” He looked them both in the eye. “You two be careful.” He wanted to say more, but the words he wanted would not come. He shook the dripping wooden spoon at them. “Hear me? You be careful.”
They walked back to their hut and sat on a crude pinewood bench by the front door while they spooned up the smoking stew, blowing on it before they took it gingerly into their mouths. They ate and drank in silence, washed their utensils in the stream, then went back to their hut to sit their utensils on the bench to dry in the sun.
Together they walked down to the commissary where they drew hardtack, dried corn, salt pork, coffee, sugar, and rice rations for fourteen days. At the powder magazine they got fifty rifle balls, and a onepound canvas bag of gunpowder for each rifle. In thoughtful silence they walked back towards their small log hut. They put their food and ammunition rations on the rough, split-log table.
Eli turned to Billy. “We’ll be gone a while. Anything you need to do before we leave?”
Billy reflected for a moment. “I should write to Mother. You?”
Eli shrugged. “I’ve got no family.”
“Maybe Mary Flint would like to know.”
For a moment Eli saw her face, the dark eyes and dark hair. A quiet longing he had never known before arose inside, and a faraway look stole over his face. “I wouldn’t know what to say.” He pushed it aside and spoke abruptly. “Want to write to your family while I go tell the captain we’re leaving?” His wry smile flickered. “Wouldn’t want to get shot for a deserter.”
He ducked out the low door frame and strode away in the sunlight as Billy dug his stub pencil and rumpled writing pad from his coat. He smoothed the wrinkled sheets on the uneven tabletop and thoughtfully wrote:
May 5, 1777
Morristown, New Jersey
My Dear Mother and Sister:
I first assure you I am well in mind and body. Since I wrote last, I have enjoyed good food and a warm log hut. The army remains camped here at Morristown, where we are safe. Spring has arrived and the mountains here are green—the weather generally warm.
I am obliged to inform you that I am being sent north with my friend, Eli Stroud. We are to join the militia in the region of Lake Champlain where it is thought Eli can be of help in fighting the British, since he knows the country and the language of the Indian people up there. I do not know when I will return, or when I will be able to write again. You are not to worry. We are in the right cause and the Almighty favors us, as I have seen many times.
I think of you often. Trudy, I will try to bring you a surprise from the north country when I return. Obey Mother and help her in every way. You are a fine daughter and sister.
I am sorry I do not have more time. I think of you every day and you are in my prayers always. I look forward to the day when I can return. I have much to tell. Please let Margaret and Brigitte read this letter, and ask them to tell Matthew when they write to him next.
I place you all in the hands of the Almighty.
Your loving and ob’dt son and brother,
Billy Weems
As he folded the paper, troubling thoughts came to slow him. I may be killed up north. I may never return! What would become of Mother! Trudy!
He stared down at the letter, grappling with the sudden, startling inner acceptance of his own mortality. He could be killed! He could be one of the bodies lying face down in a field, or on a riverbank, or in the forest. A shallow grave dug by hasty hands, his body rolled in, the earth thrown on by men who did not know his name or care. A brief letter to his mother by an officer she had never heard of, and her heartbreak as she lived out her days in a world of gray loneliness.
His mouth went dry as he struggled. What’s happening to me? Battles—death all around me—how many times? How many men have I killed? How many have tried to kill me? How many times could I have been dead? I’ve known it—why is it different now?
He slowly straightened, staring down at his hands, comprehending for the first time that a British cannon or musket could instantly turn them white, limp, lifeless. His breathing slowed as he stared, wide-eyed.
Suddenly an overpowering compulsion came flowing. He had to be home, safe with his mother and Trudy. Going to work at the accounts house, coming home to a warm supper, reading by the firelight in the evenings, talking with Mother, cutting firewood. Never had he felt such a powerful need to be with his family, doing the quiet, ordinary, unremarkable things of life. How precious, how wonderful they seemed as he sat there, staring.
The impulse washed over him to walk out of the small hut and leave behind his weapons of war, the army camp, the war, and he swallowed hard at the lump that sprang into his throat to choke him.
From a place deep inside a new intuitive sensation rose to calm him, steady him. Without putting it to words, he knew something had happened to the foundations of how he saw the world. Somehow he had reached new depths. He was seeing what had always been there plainly before him, but lost to him as though he were blind. A tingle arose, and his hands trembled as he realized that the new, sobering vistas opening in his mind and soul would clarify only with the passage of time.
He drew and exhaled a great breath. His hands steadied as he finished folding the letter, pressed a seal onto it, then addressed it. He reached to shove his pencil and the worn pad back into his coat when he heard the soft tread of Eli at the door as he entered the hut.
“I told the captain. We ought to get our bedrolls packed.”
They laid their spread coats on their bunks, placed their food rations, extra rifle balls, the gunpowder bag on them, and wrapped them tight. They rolled the coats inside their blankets, then tied their blankets with long rawhide strips, leaving a loop large enough to sling the bundle on their backs. They buckled on their weapons belts, Eli shoved his black tomahawk through his, and they each glanced about the room for a moment. Standing in the unlighted hut, with the sunlight streaming in through the open door, Billy turned to Eli.
“Which direction do we take from here?”
“The streams and river will be running high with the spring snowmelt. If we go north and then a little east from here, we’ll miss the Passaic River and the Ramapo and the Hackensack, and some other small ones, and then we can cut east and come out at the Hudson River. From there we can follow it north to its headwaters, then on to the south end of Lake Champlain and follow it north from there. If Burgoyne’s coming down Lake Champlain and the Hudson River valley, we ought to find them if we go up the same way.”