by Ron Carter
It wasn’t to be like this. We were supposed to march to New York and fight the British. Not this. Who? How? Why?
Outside the command tent, half a dozen men drove poles in the ground, spread a canvas over the poles against the rain, and set a table and chairs. The sound of voices approaching from the far side of the tent brought Billy’s eyes up, and he watched Bascom march the eight pickets who had been on guard duty beneath the overhead canvas. Thompson appeared from inside with two lanterns and sat down at the table. A second young officer followed him with a large ledger in hand and sat beside the colonel, pencil ready. Billy, thirty feet behind them in the shadows, cocked his head to listen.
Bascom saluted and Thompson began. “Damage report?”
“Oral only, sir. No time to write it out yet.”
“Speak.”
“Two known dead. Six seriously injured and in my opinion unable to continue. One foot partially amputated. Thirteen others injured but able to continue. Two cannon destroyed beyond immediate repair. The other four damaged but repairable. All twenty-two kegs of gunpowder accounted for at the magazine. No further damage of any consequence reported, sir.”
“Did you personally count the kegs of gunpowder?”
“I did, sir. Twenty-two. Confirmed.”
“You check that against the regimental ordnance record?”
“I did, sir. We left Boston with twenty-two kegs, twenty-five pounds each. There are none missing.”
Thompson straightened in his chair. “Then what blew the cannon?”
“No one knows, sir.”
The young officer beside Thompson was writing rapidly. Thompson clenched his jaw for a moment, then continued. “Those the pickets?” He pointed.
“Yes, sir.”
“One at a time.”
Bascom motioned and the first picket strode to the table, stopped, and saluted.
Thompson spoke gruffly. “Your name and company?”
“Private Zechariah Sherman. Sixth Company.”
“What was your position when the powder exploded?”
“Northwest corner of the camp, sir.”
“How long had you been there when it blew?”
“Just a few minutes, sir. Since four a.m.”
“Was the previous picket awake when you arrived?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you see or hear from the time you went on duty?”
“Only the rain, sir. Nothing else.”
Thompson leaned forward. “After the blast, what did you see? anyone trying to get out of camp?”
“No, sir. No one.”
“Any lightning during the night? at any time?”
“None I saw, sir.”
“Do you have any explanation for what happened?”
“No, sir. One minute I was standing alone in the rain and the next minute the whole camp was light as noon, and then I got knocked backward a step or two and my ears were ringing and I heard things fly past and fall from the sky. I never been through anything like that before, sir.” He paused before he added, “And I hope never again.”
Thompson glanced at his scribe, head down, writing, then turned back to Bascom. “Next.” The rain began to slack off as the next picket saluted and stood rigid before the table.
In the shadows, Billy listened to Thompson repeat his sharp, precise questions as he worked his way through the pickets, then other men who were within one hundred yards of the explosions. The answers did not change. Billy was aware when the rain stopped, and he could hear the steady drip from the edges of the command tent and the large canvas tarp covering Colonel Thompson’s table. He glanced eastward, where the low, dirty clouds were separating from the skyline and the first hint of deep pre-dawn purple crept through. Billy listened intently as Thompson finished with the last man, and his forehead wrinkled.
They saw nothing, no one. No lightning. No missing gunpowder. Then how? He felt the hair on his arms rise as realization struck into his brain. Someone inside the picket lines! We have a traitor in camp! He started, then settled back, wide-eyed, with a quick rise of anger, then a sense of fear.
Thompson dismissed the pickets and turned to Bascom. “Where’s that body someone found close to the cannon?”
“Here, sir,” Billy called, and came to his feet at attention.
Thompson peered into the shadows beside the tent, seized the two lanterns, and walked rapidly through the sodden grass. “Your name?”
“Billy Weems, sir. Ninth Company.”
Thompson held the lantern high and stared directly into Billy’s face, then handed one lantern to Bascom, dropped to one knee, and threw back the blanket. He froze for a split second at the sight of the staring eyes and the stump of the missing arm. He leaned forward and held the lantern low while he examined the blistered face, the burned, singed hair, the battered remains. Then he rose, knee muddy, and turned to Bascom. “Recognize him?”
“No, sir.”
“When we finish here, find out who he is.” He turned to Billy. “Private, why were you the first to find him?”
“I was asleep with my company, sir. I heard men call from the cannon and ran and stumbled over the body.”
“Show me where?”
Quickly Billy led Thompson and Bascom to the deep, soggy grass and pointed. Thompson turned and calculated the distance to the wrecked cannon, then dropped his head forward in thought. “Anyone find the missing arm?”
“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t.”
Thompson spoke to Bascom. “When it’s light, get a search party.” In afterthought, Thompson turned to Billy. “Did you see anyone, anything that might explain all this?”
“No, sir. I was asleep until the blast.”
Thompson turned to peer intently towards the east, where the break in the clouds was prominent with the first show of deep blue spreading. “We’ll go over the ground in half an hour when it’s full light. Private, go on back to your company.” He turned back to Bascom. “We’re going to talk to that man with the broken ribs.” He turned on his heel as Billy spoke.
“Sir, I’d like to know if that man lived.”
Thompson turned. “Why?”
“I helped him.”
Thompson’s eyes narrowed. “Are you the one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come along.”
The clouds in the east were showing pink fringes as the men approached the tent where Doctor Nolan was washing his hands. Bandaged men lay on cots or on blankets spread on the ground. Nolan’s assistants were scrubbing dried blood from the large table they had used for surgery. In one corner a man sitting on a chair rocked back and forth with his eyes closed. His foot was propped on the seat of another chair, leg straight, and at a glance Billy saw the bandaged foot was half missing. Other men sat on the ground, arms and legs splinted with wood sticks and tied.
Doctor Nolan turned as Thompson ducked his head to clear the tent flap and walked in, Bascom and Billy following. “Any more injured out there?” Nolan asked.
Thompson shook his head. “I need to talk to the man with broken ribs.”
Nolan pointed with his chin. “Over there.”
“Can he hear? speak? Is he going to survive?”
“He’ll survive. His eardrums are ruptured but he can hear. His ribs are wrapped. Don’t talk long.”
The man lay on his back, unmoving, one arm thrown across his eyes. Thompson dropped to one knee beside him. “Can you hear me?”
The man moved his arm, his eyes slowly focused, and he nodded his head.
“Do you remember what happened?”
The man shook his head.
“Did you hear the explosions?”
Again the head shook.
“You didn’t hear the explosions?”
The answer was almost inaudible. “No. Nothing until here.”
Thompson paused, perplexed. “Do you know how gunpowder got over to the cannon?”
“No.” The man was breathing rapidly, face flushed and drawn
in pain.
“That’s enough,” Nolan said.
Thompson rose back to his feet, shaking his head. “Why didn’t he hear the blasts?”
No one answered.
Still shaking his head, Thompson spoke to Doctor Nolan. “As soon as you can, I’ll need a list of the men we have to send back.”
Nolan wearily nodded his head.
Thompson turned to Bascom. “Let’s go look at the cannon.”
They ducked out the tent flap into a clean, dripping world, with the eastern sky a kaleidoscope as the first arc of the rising sun cleared the skyline and set the underbellies of the breaking clouds on fire with a thousand hues of reds and pinks and golds and yellows. For a moment Billy felt an unexpected surge of renewal, and he breathed deep in the cool air, caught up in the humbling power of earth and sky. And the thought came, Why war? He marched on behind the officers, through the wet, knee-high grass, feeling the cold bite as it drenched his legs and shoes.
Thompson stopped in front of Lieutenant Martin Holgate, who snapped to rigid attention and saluted. Behind Holgate, men had formed a box, inside which was the cannon emplacement, exactly as it had been following the destruction by the gunpowder. The men carried muskets, and all came to attention.
Thompson spoke to Holgate. “Anyone disturbed anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Open up.”
Holgate gave orders and the guard lines opened to admit Thompson, Bascom, Holgate, and Billy. They walked to the tangle of cannons, thrown crazily, blackened, spokes cracked, broken.
Thompson spoke to Billy. “Private, which one was the man under?”
“There, sir.”
Thompson dropped to his haunches and looked at the ground. The rain had washed away all tracks; there was nothing. He looked at the cannon, then at Billy, incredulous. “You lifted that gun alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thompson rounded his lips and blew air, then pointed. “His blanket is over there, maybe twenty feet. How did he get caught under the wheel over here?”
Holgate broke in. “Maybe the blast.”
Billy shook his head. “That would have moved him and the blanket the same direction, not apart.”
Thompson stood and his eyes widened for a moment before he stepped to the shallow, powder-burned, muddy craters dug by the blasts, and once again he went to one knee, peering intently at the ground. He moved to the second crater and again leaned forward, missing nothing. He dug into the mud in the center of each depression and pulled out charred wood chunks and tossed them into a small heap between the craters.
“Keg bottoms. Driven straight down.” He backed up and for two minutes studied the positions of the big guns and the scarred ground. “Someone set a keg of powder beneath each of the two center cannon and ignited them at about the same time. Maybe it was the dead man with the missing arm.” He shook his head. “That leaves a lot unanswered.”
He turned to Bascom. “Get a few officers and a dozen men and go over this ground one step at a time. Get me at the command tent if you find anything. And have the men begin the morning meal. We’ll march as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thompson turned to leave, when the murmur of voices and then loud exclamations brought him back around. All eyes turned toward the rising commotion at the south end of camp. They watched two pickets, muskets at the ready, marching towards them with a man between them, while more than fifteen others crowded around and behind, faces contorted, loud in their anger and threats.
Billy studied the man. He walked with the peculiar in-line, swinging stride of an Indian. Taller than average, well built, he was dressed in deerskin hunting shirt, breeches, and moccasins. The sleeves of the shirt were fringed, and the breast and the moccasins were decorated with blue and white Indian quill and bead work. A leather thong held his long brown hair at the back. The nose was prominent, tended to be hawked, the cheekbones not high like those of an Indian, the chin firm, with a three-inch scar along the left jawbone. He carried a .50-caliber Pennsylvania rifle more than five feet long, and his powder horn and bullet pouch hung at his right side, looped over his shoulder. A second, larger pouch hung on his left side. The thigh-length hunting shirt was gathered at his middle by a weapons belt, with a broad knife scabbard on his right hip, and beside it Billy saw the black iron head and handle of a tomahawk.
Billy pursed his mouth. Indian? Maybe. Maybe half.
They waited until the pickets stopped, with the man facing Thompson. “Sir, he was at the south end of camp on the road. We thought we should bring him here.”
For a full five seconds Thompson studied the man, and he did not miss the belt knife or the tomahawk. “I don’t recall seeing you. Are you in my command?”
“No.” The gaze was steady, the face noncommittal.
“Do you have business here?”
“Yes.”
“State your name.”
“Eli Stroud.”
“From where?”
“Lately, Boston.”
“Before that?”
The man hesitated for a moment. “A longhouse.”
“Longhouse?”
“An Iroquois longhouse in an Iroquois village southwest of Quebec, near the Richelieu.”
Thompson’s eyes widened. “Are you an Iroquois Indian?”
“No. White. The Iroquois raised me after I lost my family.”
Billy detected the slight accent in the man’s speech and the flat intonation, like that of an Indian.
“Orphaned? By whom? At what age?”
“The Iroquois. I was two.”
For a split second the colonel gaped, then continued. “Who taught you to speak English?”
“Jesuits.”
“What’s your business here?”
For the first time the man dropped his eyes for a moment, then raised them and made his answer. “Personal to me.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a spy?”
“No.”
“Someone blew up two of our cannon this morning and killed two men, and crippled others. Then we find you in camp three hours later. If you had anything to do with it, you’ll hang. Where were you at four o’clock this morning?”
“About eighteen miles northeast. I heard it. I saw the light.”
“You could have walked around us but you didn’t. Why?”
The man measured his answer before he spoke. “I want to join your regiment.” The words were level, calm.
Dead silence fell and held for several seconds while Thompson’s mouth dropped open. He clacked it shut. “We’re from Boston. Why not a regiment from the north? New Hampshire?”
“I have my reasons. Nothing to do with Boston.”
Thompson began to shake his head, slowly at first, then firmly. “I don’t like this. You show up at the wrong time and won’t tell us your business. I think we better take you along with us.”
The pickets reached for the man, and his hand rose to his tomahawk. The pickets gasped, startled, and involuntarily took a step backwards. In the instant tension no one moved for a moment, and the man lowered his hand and spoke directly to Thompson. “Before something bad happens let me ask, did you catch the guilty man?”
“No, but that has nothing to do with you.”
“Let me take a look at the cannon.”
“Why?”
Stroud shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Might help.”
For reasons known only to Thompson, he turned and pointed, and Stroud walked over to the ugly craters and the damaged guns. He knelt to study the ground, then the craters, then the blown guns. He pointed to the small pile of charred wood between the craters. “Bottoms of the powder kegs?”
“Yes.”
A sergeant handed a slip of paper to Lieutenant Holgate and he glanced at it, then handed it to Thompson. His forehead wrinkled as he read the brief message, and then he spoke as though to himself, “The dead man with the missing arm was Corporal Oren Pinnock. He’s a cook for Company
Eight.” He brought his focus back to Stroud. “You’ve looked. Let’s get on with it. Pickets, take—”
Stroud raised a hand. “You counted your powder kegs?”
“Yes. None missing.”
“What else you got in kegs?”
“What do you mean?”
“Flour? Rum? Dried fish?”
Billy felt a rise in the tension.
“Flour.”
“I’d count my flour kegs if I were you.”
Billy could hear the morning insects and birds in the silence.
Thompson turned to Bascom. “Check the flour kegs against the commissary inventory.”
They stood in awkward silence while Bascom hurried away, then returned, face flushed. “Fifty-two kegs when we left, eight used, forty-two remaining. There are two unaccounted for.”
Billy felt the hackles rise on his neck. The cook. Pinnock.
Thompson studied Stroud long and hard. “If you weren’t part of it, how did you know?”
Stroud dropped his eyes for a moment, and Billy saw him form a decision, and then he spoke. “That’s how I did it once.”
“Did what?”
“Blew the gates off a French stockade forty-eight miles west of Quebec. The French sent in supplies that included ten kegs of rum. Four of us on the outside switched four rum kegs with kegs of gunpowder. Three of our people on the inside put it against the gates and set it off. From what I heard, a cook tried it here, but he either cut the fuse too short or it flashed. Whichever, it killed him.”
Thompson was incredulous. He looked at Bascom. “Do you agree with that?”
Bascom swallowed and found his voice. “It would explain almost everything, sir.”
Thompson stood stock-still for a moment, eyes locked with Stroud’s. “For now I’ll accept that, but don’t leave camp without my permission. I have to think this over.” He started to give further orders to Bascom, when Stroud interrupted.
“That cook didn’t do this alone. He had help.”