Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Eli pushed the handle of his tomahawk through his weapons belt and turned back south on the dirt path, moving at a trot, unconcerned about being seen or heard. The path ended near an old abandoned shed, and Eli continued on south, moving through the streets until he came to Reade Street, where he turned west. He slowed as he came to the regimental campgrounds, located the nearest pickets, and silently passed between them. He worked his way to Billy’s blanket, where Billy sat before the remains of his fire, the rifle across his lap, waiting. As Eli settled beside Billy, he glanced at the moon and judged the time to be after one a.m.

  “Are you all right?” Billy whispered.

  Eli ignored the question and spoke in hushed tones. “Strange things happening out there.” Both men lost track of time as Eli chose his words, and Billy sat like a statue, groping to believe the wild story. Eli fell silent, and still Billy said nothing while his mind struggled with a hundred questions, each getting in the way of the other.

  Eli shook his head in the darkness. “I don’t know if the Indian was Iroquois. If he’s Mohawk, then maybe Joseph Brant, or maybe Red Jacket or Blacksnake of the Seneca, are with the British. If Joseph Brant’s with them . . .” Again he shook his head.

  “Who’s Joseph Brant?”

  “Mohawk shaman. Earlier this year he went to London with General Howe to visit the king. They made some sort of agreement.”

  “London? An Indian went to London to meet the king?”

  Eli turned his face to Billy and spoke with emphasis. “Don’t underestimate Joseph Brant. He’s likely smarter than King George, and may be the most powerful leader in the northern tribes.”

  “What’s a shaman?”

  “Medicine man. Joseph Brant’s a shaman, but he’s also a great war leader. He’ll get the Mohawk or the Iroquois to do things no other leader can. If he’s the one in command, George Washington has a lot of trouble he doesn’t know about.”

  “Isn’t Joseph Brant an English name?”

  “Yes, but he’s full-blood Mohawk. His Mohawk name is Thayendanegea, but his baptized Christian name is Joseph Brant, and he speaks good English. A long time ago he sided with the English against the French. He’s the one Mohawk with enough power and leadership to make real trouble.”

  “Who’s Red Jacket?”

  “An Iroquois leader. He’s a hothead, but he’s no Joseph Brant.”

  Silence held for a time while Billy let his mind settle and organized his racing thoughts. “We better report this to Colonel Thompson.”

  Eli shook his head. “Not yet. At first light I’m going to be back at that big house where that man met the Indian, and then down to the second house before anyone’s in the streets. I got some tracks to look at. When I’m sure, we tell Thompson.”

  “You’re going back?”

  “I’ll leave about four o’clock.”

  “There’re pickets everywhere.”

  Eli ignored the comment and stood, and Billy handed him his rifle. “Thanks for watching the rifle. I’ll see you before morning reveille.”

  A little before four o’clock a sleepy-eyed picket thought he saw a shadow move forty feet to his left, and he brought his musket around and opened his mouth to challenge, but there was nothing there. He yawned and settled his musket back onto his shoulder.

  At fifteen minutes past four o’clock Eli stopped at the place the two men had met and exchanged something, and he dropped to his haunches behind bushes to study the house. Six pickets were still in a line across the front, and there was still light behind drawn shades, one on the first floor, one on the second. He settled into a sitting position and watched, waiting for first light. Minutes passed while the eastern sky changed from velvet black to deep purple and the morning star dimmed. The roofs of houses and tops of tall trees became defined, and Eli could see bushes in yards, and then white picket fences.

  He moved low and fast to the place where the earlier meeting had taken place in the dirt street, and dropped to one knee. Quickly he examined the prints, one set of moccasins, one of square-toed, flat-heeled boots. The man wearing the moccasins weighed about 170 pounds, the man in the boots about 130 pounds. The moccasins walked toed-in slightly, nearly in-line, authentic Indian. The boots were slightly toed-out and walked side by side. The man came down heavy on his heels, military, and the right foot showed uneven pressure on the outside of the foot, like a crooked leg—a man who had broken a leg earlier in life and got a bad set on the bone.

  Eli glanced up the street. He could see the pickets individually, the color of their uniforms, and the bayonets on their muskets. He drew and released a big breath, then stood and walked rapidly up the middle of the street, rifle held loosely in his hand.

  He was sixty feet from the nearest picket before he was seen, and the man frantically jerked his rifle from his shoulder and pulled back the big hammer. “Stop or I’ll shoot,” he shouted, and the other pickets came running to his side, muskets at the ready, bayonets lowered at Eli.

  Eli raised both hands above his head, holding his rifle loosely, and stopped in his tracks. He opened his eyes wide and his mouth dropped open. “I’m stopped. Don’t shoot.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Eli Stroud of the Boston regiment. I was sent out last night to find General Scott and got lost. Didn’t dare move for fear of getting shot, with all the pickets in town. Can you tell me where the Boston regiment is?”

  The command came sharp. “Move over here.”

  Eli walked forward, hands still up, holding his rifle high. The picket with the cocked musket held it trained on Eli’s chest.

  “Boston regiment?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  Behind him a second picket set his musket on the ground and began searching in a sheaf of papers.

  “Two days ago.”

  “Who’s your commanding officer?”

  “Israel Thompson. Colonel Israel Thompson.”

  “Who’s his aide?”

  “You mean Bascom? Major Bascom?”

  “Your sergeant?”

  “Turlock.”

  “Why aren’t you in uniform. You look like an Indian.”

  “None of us have uniforms. Only the officers. I’m white.”

  The man with the papers raised his head and nodded to the man with the musket and he exhaled nervously. “All right. I don’t know where the Boston regiment is, but whatever you do, don’t come back here in the dark, and don’t come back unless you’re sent on military business by a general.”

  Eli recoiled and lowered his rifle. “Why? What’s in there?” He gestured at the house.

  “General George Washington’s headquarters.”

  For a moment Eli’s breath came short. “No one told me that. I’ll be more careful.” He turned around and walked rapidly west, turned south at the first corner, and slowed while his mind grappled with the shock.

  Washington’s headquarters? An Indian at night?

  He put it in the back of his mind and set out at a trot, working south and east, watching the surroundings and streets, looking for the second house, where the Indian had stopped before going to the river. Five minutes later, with the purple fading into gray, he stopped behind a house and peered towards the front. The two pickets were still there, backs towards the house, faces to the street. Eli crouched and moved quickly, silently to the wall of the house where the man had stopped four hours earlier and left something in the bushes beneath a window.

  There was nothing. He studied the ground, the bushes, the grass, and other than faint moccasin impressions in the long, dew-covered grass, he could find nothing. The single sign that someone had been there was one small broken branch in the bush beneath the window. He glanced at the window two feet above the bush, and it was dark, the shade drawn. He dared not test it to see if it was locked.

  Still crouched, he circled the neighboring house and walked calmly into the street and turned east, directly towards the pickets forty yards ahead, leaning
on their muskets, more asleep than awake. He was nearly upon them before their heads snapped up and they jerked their muskets from the ground, fumbling with the hammers.

  “Halt,” one commanded.

  Eli stopped.

  “What’s your business here?”

  “No business. I’m looking for the Boston regiment.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Eli Stroud.”

  “If you’re looking for the Boston regiment, why are you here?”

  “I’m lost. Can you tell me where they are?”

  “They’re not here. Move on. And don’t come back in the dark. You could be shot.”

  Eli’s mouth dropped open. “Why? What’s here?”

  “The mayor of New York City.”

  “No one told me. I’ll be careful.”

  He turned on his heel and trotted away, south and west, down to where Reade Street met the river, and stopped behind a high outcropping of sea-worn granite boulders. The eastern sky was showing gray-blue, and Eli could see the pickets clearly, and knew they could see him if he moved. He waited until the camp drummer rose stiff from his blankets, slipped on his shoes without socks, tugged on his shirt, and walked to camp center. He pounded out the five o’clock wake-up, and all the pickets flinched and turned to look, and in that instant Eli sprinted. When the pickets turned back, all they saw was a man walking between them, digging sleep from his eyes, yawning.

  Billy was waiting by his fire, blanket pulled over his shoulders as he sat poking sticks into the low flames. He saw Eli coming in and spread his blanket, and Eli sat down with his rifle across his lap.

  “What happened?”

  Eli shook his head. “I don’t know. The big house where the Indian met the soldier? George Washington’s headquarters.”

  Billy’s head jerked forward.

  “The place where the Indian left something in the bushes under a window? The mayor of New York.”

  “What!” Billy gasped.

  “I stopped at both places. The pickets told me.” Again he shook his head, trying to bring his reeling thoughts to a focus. “The Indian weighs about one hundred seventy pounds and walks strong. The white man wears military boots and weighs about one hundred thirty pounds. He walks deliberate and his right leg is a little crooked.”

  Billy started. “How do you know?”

  “Their tracks.”

  For thirty seconds neither man spoke, both working with thoughts that staggered their minds.

  Billy broke the silence. “We’ve stumbled into some sort of plan, British or American.”

  “Which?”

  “I don’t know.” Then Billy locked eyes with Eli. “I think it has something to do with the papers I got from Brigitte.”

  Eli straightened, waiting.

  Billy continued. “McMurdy and Pinnock were spies headed for New York. They blew up two cannon. Two men came to McMurdy’s home to get papers, and when they didn’t get them they burned his mother’s house. The papers went to my mother and then here. Next we have an Indian and a white soldier talking owl code at night and exchanging things at Washington’s headquarters, and at the mayor’s home.”

  Billy paused, and an inner assurance rose to stand the hair on the back of his neck on end. “I can’t connect the two yet, but it’s there. Somehow it’s there.”

  Slowly Eli’s eyes narrowed as the thought settled in. “You may be right. It could also mean nothing.”

  Billy reached for the packets. “Either way, we better go see Colonel Thompson.”

  Eli touched his arm. “I got a hunch you’re right. Give him the papers, but don’t tell him the rest.”

  “Why?”

  “Wait one more day. There’s one thing I need to know.”

  “What?”

  “Who comes and goes at night at Washington’s headquarters.”

  ______

  Notes

  John Morin Scott was a brigadier general in command of his own brigade at New York (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 127).

  General George Washington took headquarters first at 180 Pearl Street, then at the Mortier house in New York City (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 86).

  The Jersey Battery was at the end of Reade Street and mounted two twelve-pound and three thirty-two-pound cannon (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 85).

  There was an often bitter division in the civilian populace of New York City between the Tories, who remained loyal to Britain, and the Patriots (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 80–81, particularly the footnote thereat).

  The Iroquois words for fox and lantern are skuhnaksu and yachihri thrat‘ah, respectively (see Graymont, The Iroquois in the American Revolution, p. 8). The Iroquois name for their highest god is Taronhiawagon (see Hale, The Iroquois Book of Rites, p. 35). The figures known as the Twin Brothers play a signifcant role in the Iroquois creation story (see Graymont, The Iroquois, pp. 16, 17).

  Joseph Brant was a Mohawk Indian chief and shaman whose Mohawk name was Thayendanegea. He assisted the British against the Americans in the Revolutionary War. Red Jacket and Blacksnake were Seneca chiefs (see Bolton and Wilson, Joseph Brant, pp. 11, 19, 86).

  New York

  Mid-June 1776

  Chapter VII

  * * *

  Lieutenant!” Colonel Israel Thompson wiped sweat from his face and neck and dropped the towel onto his table in the stifling heat inside the command tent.

  The flap opened and a young, smooth-cheeked lieutenant entered, snapped erect, and saluted. His dark blue Boston regiment tunic was sweated black between his shoulder blades and around his arms. “Yes, sir.”

  “Go find the Ninth Company and bring back two privates named Weems and Stroud.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man ducked out the tent flap and trotted south through camp, past exhausted men still dripping from their evening bath in the river and cooks slicing the last of the beef and carrots into steaming stew pots. He worked past the stack of cut timbers at the back side of the Jersey Battery, where men had used sledgehammers and wedges to split logs and lay the inclined ramps for the big guns that had not yet arrived.

  He angled up towards the place where Company Nine was camped and found Sergeant Alvin Turlock. “Colonel Thompson wants Privates Weems and Stroud, right now,” he panted.

  Turlock’s eyebrows rose. “What they done?”

  “Colonel didn’t say. Where are they?”

  Turlock pointed. “You let me know what they done.” The tough little sergeant turned his head to look at Eli and Billy, and he added, “Sir,” as the young lieutenant trotted away without realizing Turlock’s breach of military etiquette.

  Billy and Eli followed the lieutenant as he picked his way back through camp to the command tent, ordered them to stand, and ducked past the tent flap. He reappeared in five seconds and held the flap. “Colonel Thompson will see you now. I’ll take the rifle.”

  Eli reluctantly handed his rifle to the young officer and followed Billy into the tent. They stood at attention before the table and Billy spoke. “Privates Weems and Stroud reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Thompson picked up the tied bundle of brown packets from one side of his desk. “Those documents you gave me this morning were returned by General Scott late this afternoon. He said he got copies about six or eight days ago from an officer named Pearlman in Boston, and Scott’s men have gone over them half a dozen times. They know something’s going on but don’t know what. Scott said to return these to you. Take care of them.”

  Billy picked up the bundle. “Thank you, sir.”

  Thompson’s face puckered for a second. “Scott said there are a lot of things like this happening right now on both sides, and he doesn’t expect much to come of it, so keep it quiet. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all. Dismissed.” He watched them duck out the tent flap, then reached for the towel to wipe sweat and wave away mosquitoes and flies.

  Eli took
his rifle from the young officer, checked the pan, and followed Billy picking his way back through the blankets and men and evening fires of the camp. A faint, distant rumble brought his head around south, and low on the horizon, far past Staten Island, he saw the purple clouds building.

  Weather before dark.

  They got their plates and stood in line for the thin, watery beef and vegetable soup, waited while the cook handed them two pieces of hardtack, and made their way back to Billy’s blanket. They ate in silence, lost in their thoughts, then scrubbed their utensils with river water and sand and returned to prop them up to dry at the edge of Billy’s blanket. A soft, hot south breeze stirred the grass and then died as they sat down.

  Billy shoved the bundled packets into his knapsack. “You still plan to go back to that house tonight?”

  “I think so.”

  “Storm coming.”

  “I saw.” Eli rose and picked up his rifle. “See you sometime later.” He walked away.

  Billy gathered his supper utensils and packed them in his knapsack, then sat down on his blanket, cross-legged, arms over his knees. In the golden glow of a sun settling towards the skyline across the river, he watched the men of the regiment shake sand and dirt from their blankets, spread them for the night, and sit. They moved slowly, talking little, exhausted, gathering their strength and their resolve for the coming day in which they would swing the heavy axes and sledges, and lift the river rocks onto sleds, and drain their bodies and souls as they had done today.

  His thoughts drifted and he let them run unchecked. Is Mother watching the sunset across the Back Bay right now? A faint smile tugged at the thought. Are the apricots turning? What did Mother and Trudy have for supper? ham? Ham and greens. Sweet potatoes. Custard. He saw his mother rocking in her chair with her Bible, and deep longing welled up for a time, and he swallowed and shifted his feet. Did Mother and Brigitte ever see that woman again—Beatrice McMurdy? I’ll have to answer Brigitte’s letter—when I know how things turn out. Has Brigitte heard from Richard Buchanan? Is he well? Is she well?