by Ron Carter
“Mother, I have to go with Lemuel.”
Dorothy looked at her clasped hands for a moment. “I thought you would.” In an instant his life passed before her eyes. The red-faced, squalling infant—the happy child—the carefree youth—the square, blocky, strong young man—the wounded soldier—the maturing man. “You’ll have to tell Mr. Potter.”
At ten minutes before eight o’clock he was seated opposite Hubert in his office. “I am going to have to go, Mr. Potter. I’m sorry it came without much notice.”
Hubert drew a deep breath and leaned back, studying his desktop for a moment. “It’s all right. You go ahead. You can pick up your wages any time after noon today. I’ll include your bonus, and some extra.”
“I didn’t earn extra.”
“I don’t pay my people what they didn’t earn. Write to your mother often and tell her to let me know how you’re getting along. When you get back, come see me.”
Billy stood. “Thank you, Mr. Potter.”
Potter shook his hand. “God bless you, Billy.”
By suppertime he had split nearly two cords of wood into kindling and stacked it against the back wall of the house. After supper he strung the line across the kitchen, draped the blanket, bathed in the wooden tub, then changed into fresh clothing and walked into the parlor to Dorothy.
“I promised Margaret I’d tell her.”
Ten minutes later Margaret opened her door, and Billy sat at their dining table while Margaret sent Brigitte to get her younger brother, fifteen-year-old Caleb, and the nine-year-old twins, Adam and Priscilla. They all took their places at the table and waited, the children wide-eyed, wondering why they were there.
Margaret spoke. “Billy has something to say.”
“I’m leaving Wednesday with the militia. We’re going to New York with Lemuel.”
Both Brigitte and Margaret dropped their eyes for a moment, and Margaret spoke. “Dorothy agrees?”
Billy nodded.
Margaret covered his hand with hers. “I’m proud of you.”
Caleb’s forehead wrinkled. “You’re joining the army? You just got well.”
Billy looked at him. “I’m going.”
Caleb rounded his lips and blew air.
Adam looked at Margaret, lost. “Billy’s going to war?”
“He’s going to protect our liberty. If he has to fight, he will.”
Adam nodded, then dropped his face to puzzle on it.
Priscilla was white-faced. “Will we ever see you again?” Her lip trembled at the remembrance of her father, who had joined the fighting. Now he was gone.
Margaret smiled. “Of course we will. Don’t worry.”
For a moment Brigitte remained silent while unexpected memories flashed. She could not remember the time before Billy. Billy and Matthew. Three years older. There was nothing they could not do. Always, always they were there to protect her, shield her, slay all her dragons. For her, Matthew was not handsome, nor was Billy plain. They were simply hers.
She swallowed and spoke with unintended intensity. “Billy, you be careful. Promise me.”
“I will.” He turned back to Margaret. “Mother says if you need help with anything, go see her.”
“Tell her the same thing.”
“When you write to Matthew, be sure to tell him.”
“I will.”
He stood and started to speak, and couldn’t find the words. Margaret walked quickly to him and threw her arms about him as if he were one of her own, and Billy wrapped her close and kissed her on the cheek. For long moments they stood in the embrace, and Billy felt the quiet sob shake her before he let her go and took a step backwards.
Suddenly Prissy bolted forward and Billy swept her up into his arms and hugged her and kissed her. “Be good while I’m gone.”
“Come back.”
“I will.”
Adam thrust out his hand and Billy shook it, then gathered the boy into his arms. “Help Caleb.”
He settled the boy back onto the floor and turned to Brigitte—the tagalong, tomboy, nuisance, and then overnight an emerging beauty, and then a beautiful, confident, opinionated, intelligent young woman. But through it all, always, always the little sister whom he and Matthew had looked after.
He drew a deep breath. “I hope you find Captain Buchanan. I’ll see you when I get back.” He didn’t know what else to say.
She impulsively stepped to Billy and reached up to throw her arms about his neck. She had never embraced him before. For a moment he could not move; then he hesitantly raised his arms around her and she buried her face in his shoulder, and he felt the sob and the tremble. Then she released him and stepped back, and he saw the tears in her eyes. She tried to laugh and it became a sob. “Why am I crying?” she said, and laughed through her tears. “Billy, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you or Matthew. Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise.”
“I will.” He thought he should say something else but nothing would come. He turned back to Margaret. “God bless you all.”
“God bless you, Billy. Bless you and keep you.”
He walked to the front door and opened it and then was outside in the shadows of late dusk. Past the gate, on the cobblestone street, he turned for a last look, and they were all at the gate, waving. He waved back, then turned toward home. He was unprepared for the strange new realization that rose in his breast.
She’s become a woman, grown!
______
Notes
The character Billy Weems and his mother and family are fictional, as are all members of the John and Margaret Dunson family, including Brigitte, as well as the Reverend Silas Olmsted.
The insights or visions of the approaching war credited to Silas Olmsted were not uncommon. Many men of the cloth believed the Revolution was inspired of God, since many of the colonies were originally founded by religious leaders, such as William Penn of Pennsylvania (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 10 and following).
General Lemuel Hosking and Colonel Israel Thompson are fictional characters.
Thomas Paine’s pamphlet Common Sense is credited with being instrumental in the movement toward the drafting of the Declaration of Independence and with inspiring countless thousands to support the Revolution. One author has dubbed it “the most successful political pamphlet of all time” (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 244–50).
Connecticut
Early June 1776
Chapter III
* * *
At three o’clock a.m. low clouds came creeping from the Atlantic to cover the stars and the quarter moon hanging low in the east and turn the heavy, dead air sultry. A gentle rain quietly began pelting the 513 men in the Boston regiment as they lay on their blankets in the sweaty, road-stained clothing they had worn for the two days since they marched out of Boston under the command of Colonel Israel Thompson. Tall, hawk-faced, proper, precise, tough, he had marched them fourteen hours each day, south and west on the winding dirt road leading through the lush Connecticut countryside towards New York. They lay on a grassy knoll by the roadside, sleeping the sleep of men exhausted in body and soul, and they pulled their blankets over their heads against the rain without waking.
In the dead silence just past four a.m., twin columns of flame leaped a hundred feet into the heavens and lighted the underbellies of the black clouds for a mile, while the ground shook and the deafening blast and the concussion and shock wave rolled in all directions. Bits and pieces of wood and metal ripped through the camp and began falling from the sky. Those nearest the blast were thrown twenty feet from their blankets, splinters and shrapnel stinging as they drove home. Pickets standing night guard at the north end of camp were knocked backwards, stunned, staring at the smoke and flames to the south.
Stay down—don’t move! The thought flashed as Billy Weems heard the broken pieces of metal and wood falling all around, and he lay on his side, curled, arms covering his head while he waited. For ten seconds there was no movement,
no sound in camp other than the quiet rain and the falling debris; and then, above the ringing in his ears, Billy heard the moans and the pleading and the calling of the wounded, and of men searching for them in the rain.
He rolled onto his feet and stared at the place the cannon had been lined for the night, thirty yards from where he had spread his blanket. A thick, rank cloud of acrid gun smoke engulfed him for a moment, then passed; and he saw pieces of the two heavy gun carriages still smouldering, flames licking. The six-foot, heavy-spoked wheels of two cannon and the great oak cross members that had supported the two-thousand-pound guns were gone, blown to splinters. One cannon barrel lay on the ground ten feet from the wreckage, the carriage on which it rested gone. Another was jammed muzzle upward against the wheel of the gun next to it, carriage smashed beyond recognition, one trunnion missing. The remaining four cannon were askew, tipped crazily, one on its side with the wheel on top turning lazily.
Billy heard the strangled moan and the faint call for help, and he broke into a trot, then a hard run to the guns. In the darkness he stumbled over something and went down on his hands and knees and turned back and made out a dim shape lying on the ground. It lay face down, and the cloying smell of burned hair and flesh came strong as Billy turned the body to look. In the shadows he saw the open dead eyes, with the black blood running from the nose and ears, and he saw the stump at the shoulder where the left arm had been, and the blistered flesh on the left side of the face, and the hair, burned and melted. The clothing was still smoking. Billy recoiled, wild-eyed, and his gorge rose sour, and for a moment he gagged as he reared back on his knees, staring at the dead face before him while other men worked their way past in the gray-black, placing their feet carefully, probing.
From behind came a strained voice, pitched too high. “This one’s alive!”
Billy swallowed against the bitter taste and for a moment longer stared at the still shape before him, then turned and was on his feet, trotting towards the place where men were gathered around a cannon and carriage that had been blown onto its side, one wheel up, the other down. He saw the man pinned beneath the spokes, with the axle hub driven into the midsection, and he realized the man was suffocating, unable to breathe or speak. Two men threw their weight against the cannon carriage trying to tip it upwards, but could not.
Without thought, Billy shoved the men aside until he was at one edge of the wheel, and he bent his knees and reached down. He grasped it with both hands, bowed his neck, and began to straighten his legs. The great muscles in his shoulders bunched, and the veins in his neck stood out like cords, and he clenched his eyes shut and his jaw muscles made ridges. The muscles in his thighs knotted, and slowly the wheel began to leave the ground. Men stood back, awestruck, as Billy’s legs straightened and he stood there, his entire body trembling as he held one side of the great wheel three feet off the ground while strong hands grasped the injured man and slid him from beneath the spokes and the axle hub, and moved him onto the grass. Only then did Billy release the wheel, and the ground shook as the great gun dropped. Instantly he was at the man’s side with the others as they gingerly felt the alignment of his arms and legs and then carefully unbuttoned his shirt.
Billy bit off a groan. The wheel had smashed into the man’s sternum and separated two ribs on the left side. The ribs were still beneath the skin but were pushing the flesh outward, three inches out of line. The man’s eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain, and his breath came shallow in short, quick gasps. Small trickles of blood showed from his nose and his ears.
“Get the regimental surgeon!” The call went out and someone sprinted, to return in seconds with an elderly, bespectacled, gray-haired man in shirtsleeves carrying a black leather case. He moved with a clear sense of authority and a path opened. He knelt beside the injured man, swiftly gauging the damage, and he raised his face to the knot of men gathered around. “I’m Charles Nolan. Regimental surgeon. What happened?”
“That cannon fell on him.”
From behind came another frantic call. “Surgeon! Surgeon!”
Nolan’s head pivoted, then came back to the man before him as he spat orders. “Get some rope. Wrap his chest tight and I’ll be right back.” He rose and was gone.
Someone slipped a musket ball between the man’s teeth while someone else passed a coil of rope forward, and gentle hands lifted him. His teeth sank into the lead ball while quick hands passed the rope from one side to the other, tightening the coils as they went, until they had wrapped him from his outstretched arms to his waist. Then they tied it off and settled him back onto the grass. A piece of canvas tarp was thrust forward and spread, and men held it over him while the rain tapped. A coat was wadded and slipped under his head. Someone dug the lead ball from between his teeth, and his shallow breathing steadied and became regular. He raised a hand, weakly, and motioned, and Billy knelt beside him, and he felt the clutch in his chest when he saw the raw terror in the man’s eyes. The man tried to speak, and could not, but his hand locked on to Billy’s arm, and his mouth slowly formed the words, “Will I die?”
Billy grasped the hand and shook his head. “No. Don’t talk. The surgeon’s coming.”
“Alive or dead?” The stern, piercing voice of Colonel Thompson came from behind Billy and he turned his head. “Alive, sir.”
The colonel hunched forward to peer under the tarp. “Ribs?”
Billy answered. “Two.”
“The surgeon?”
“Been here. He’s coming back.”
“What broke his ribs?”
“A cannon rolled on him.”
“Was he close to the cannon when the explosions came?”
Billy shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I was over there.” He pointed.
Thompson raised his head to look into the faces of the gathered men. “Anyone know this man? why he was by the cannon when the powder blew?”
“Sir, he’s Private Darren McMurdy. Company Six. Assigned to the cannon. He sleeps there alone.”
Thompson crouched down and winced as he studied McMurdy’s chest. He gently touched his shoulder. “I’m Colonel Thompson. Do you know what made the gunpowder blow?”
McMurdy moved his mouth but no words would come.
Billy cut in. “I don’t know if he can hear, sir, and he can’t talk. He can hardly breathe.”
Thompson saw the blood at the ears and he nodded and straightened. “Anyone know how this happened?”
No one spoke.
“Anyone see lightning?”
There was no answer. In the silence, rain tapped on the tarp and on their hat brims.
“Where are the pickets? They see anyone?”
A white-faced, wide-eyed young lieutenant spoke. “Only four have reported. They saw no one. We’re looking for the other four.”
Voices rose from behind, and Thompson turned as the surgeon made his way back to McMurdy. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his shirtfront was blood spattered and rain soaked. He faced Thompson, eyes narrowed, intense, and gave orders as though to an assistant. “Colonel, I’m going to need your tent and a big table, or the side of a wagon on barrels, and a lot of alcohol and sheeting and hot water, with some long, straight sticks and a dozen lanterns.”
“Surgery?”
“Foot amputation, broken arms and legs, wood fragments to dig out, two dislocated ribs to set.” He gestured downward towards McMurdy.
Instantly Thompson turned to his second in command. “Major Bascom, see to whatever Doctor Nolan requires. And I want a damage report within twenty minutes, and an accurate count of the barrels of gunpowder down at the magazine, and a statement of how gunpowder got up here near the cannon.”
“Yes, sir!” Bascom barked orders and men jumped. Four of them quickly rigged a blanket between two poles, and while others raised McMurdy groaning, eyes clenched, they slipped it under him, lifted him, and followed Nolan, striding off to the command tent.
Thompson turned to the young lieutenant, still standin
g wide-eyed in shock. “Lieutenant Holgate, clear everyone away from this area and set guards to keep it as it is. At first light we’re going over this ground inch by inch.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Then get to my tent all the pickets that were on duty, along with everyone who was within one hundred yards of these cannon when they blew up. I’ll set up a table and we’ll begin our inquiry immediately. Get fires going to light up this entire area. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Billy spoke and pointed. “Colonel, sir, there’s a body over there. It’s burned and one arm’s missing. Maybe that man was close when it happened.”
Thompson’s response was instant. “Private, get some men and bring the body to my tent.”
“Yes, sir,” Billy answered.
Thompson pursed his mouth for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked off briskly towards his tent. Four volunteers gathered around Billy and he led them to the body, nearly invisible in the grass, and they lifted it onto a blanket and carried it to the side of the command tent, where they gently settled it onto the mud and grass and covered it against the rain. Billy nodded to them, then sat cross-legged in the wet grass next to the folded blanket, elbows on knees, to remain with the body until further orders from Colonel Thompson. The others disappeared in the chaos of fires and men running to carry out orders barked by officers struggling to understand what had happened.
Billy sat motionless in the rain, staring without seeing, groping inside to rise above the numbness in his brain and bring some sense of order to his shattered thoughts and to the nightmare of bright, grotesque images that danced in his memory of the past twenty minutes.
Was it two? two blasts, one right after the other? Lightning struck the gunpowder? Not lightning—none before and none since—not lightning. Gunpowder stored under the cannon? Never—only in the magazine—away from camp. But I saw the gun smoke and smelled it. It was there. How? How?
He watched as men brought the wounded to the command tent, and the shadows from inside played on the canvas tent walls as Doctor Charles Nolan made the hard decisions. Billy listened as men groaned and ground their teeth on a piece of leather belt shoved into their jaws while Nolan cut chunks of wood and metal out of their bodies, dropped the pieces clattering into brass pans, and then stitched the incisions closed with catgut soaked in hot, raw alcohol.