Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  “Ten minutes rest, then we get back to the battery,” Turlock called, and the men searched out canteens and dropped to their blankets. Billy drank and was forcing the wooden plug back into the spout of his canteen when he noticed a young, smooth-cheeked lieutenant make his way to Turlock, take the manifest, and speak briefly. Turlock nodded, then turned and motioned to Billy and Eli.

  Eli looked at Billy inquiringly. “Was that paper all right?”

  “I thought so.”

  They stood and strode to Turlock and waited. “Lieutenant says Thompson wants to see you two.”

  Billy asked, “What about?”

  Turlock shrugged. “Lieutenant will take you. He’s got the manifest.”

  They followed the lieutenant back to the command tent, waited while he disappeared for a moment, then entered while he held the flap.

  Thompson dropped the manifest on his table, then motioned. “Sit.” He looked at Billy. “I’m appointing you a corporal in the Ninth Company. I’ll have the order written by late afternoon and delivered to Turlock. You’ll assume those duties tomorrow morning.”

  Billy swallowed. “Sir, I don’t have an idea what a corporal does.”

  “Neither does any other man in the regiment. Turlock will tell you. Is there any reason you cannot accept the rank of corporal? Health? Politics?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sergeant Turlock will deliver the order to you by morning. Take care of it.” He turned to Eli. “I’m making you a scout for the regiment. You’ll keep the rank of private, but you’ll report directly to me when you’re on scout duty. Otherwise, you’ll remain with the regiment on their regular duties.”

  Eli leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. “Scout? Scout what?”

  “I don’t know, yet. But I see a battle shaping up between an untried army of farmers and merchants and the mightiest army on earth, and I don’t mean to have this regiment walk into any surprises if I can help it. I’m aware of how you handled the Hickey plot, and you told me the British have Mohawk in their ranks, maybe Joseph Brant. I want you available.”

  Eli exhaled held breath. “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s that arm?”

  “Healing. Aches a little.”

  “You remember what I said. Until the surgeon pulls those stitches, it stays in that sling.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thompson dropped his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I think that’s all for now. Any questions?”

  Billy responded. “Yes, sir. I was surprised to see a woman deliver those cartridges.”

  “So was I. I asked about it. Name’s Mary Flint.” He paused to shake his head, and there was pain in his face. “Heartbreaking story. She’s a widow. Her maiden name was Broadhead, and she married Marcus Flint, both prominent families here in New York. He was an officer in the New York militia. Fine man. She gave birth to a stillborn child about ten months ago, and three days later her husband was crushed in what was called an accident, down on the docks, unloading cannon from a captured British man-of-war. Some say it was murder by the Tories, but no one can prove it. A dark shame. She’s thrown herself into the Patriot cause.”

  “That wagon was not military. It was expensive. So were her clothes.”

  “Both families, Broadhead and Flint, are wealthy. One of them owns the wagon.”

  “Those cartridge boxes weren’t marked with regular manufacturer’s marks.”

  “She provided them, too.”

  “Had we better check the cartridges?”

  “No.”

  “Who made them?”

  “Women. She’s organized women. They tie cartridges and roll bandages, gather blankets, shoes, food, anything they can.”

  Eli broke in. “What was that fuss on Reade Street when we marched out at noon?”

  Thompson pursed his mouth for a moment. “I asked. They call it ‘Tory-riding.’ The Patriots catch Tories, tar and feather them, and ride them out of town on a rail. It’s become a sport here in New York. Seems they caught about three at the hanging.”

  “Do we know what those British ships were that came in down south a couple days ago?”

  Thompson leaned forward and picked up a pencil and worked it in his hands for a moment, then laid it down. He leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Yes. General William Howe was on the flagship in the squadron, named the Greyhound. They’re anchored farther south now, off Sandy Hook. We know Howe’s orders are to destroy the Continental army. We also know his brother, Admiral Richard Howe, is on his way here with a fleet and that the general is probably waiting for it to arrive. When it does, there will be a battle. We better be ready.” He looked at Eli. “That’s why you’re becoming my scout. I’ve got to know some things about all this when the time comes.”

  Eli rounded his lips and blew air for a moment. “How many ships coming?”

  Thompson considered for a moment. “We don’t know. Dozens—hundreds.”

  Billy caught his breath and Eli straightened. “Hundreds?”

  Thompson nodded but said nothing.

  “When?”

  “No one knows.” He stood. “This needs to go no further than this tent. We’ll all know soon enough. In the meantime, go on back to your duties with the regiment.”

  Billy and Eli ducked out the tent flap into the sweltering afternoon heat. Eli took his rifle from the picket, then paused to turn south and shade his eyes, searching for the four ships, but they had vanished. Eli followed Billy back to the regimental campsite, where they drank from their canteens, then walked on to the battery, where the last of the split logs were being countersunk to form the inclined recoil ramp for the big guns.

  Billy settled into his assignment of swinging a pick to loosen the top eighteen inches of soil, while others used shovels to dig it out to form trenches thirty feet long. Others moved the split logs into the trench, flat side up, rounded side down, and bedded the logs in cement to form the ramp. Eli settled into a rhythm, swinging a hatchet with his right hand, trimming all branches from the logs until they were smooth, ready for the splitting wedges and sledgehammers.

  At six o’clock Sergeant Turlock straightened from his shovel, wiped his dripping face with his sleeve, and bawled, “Supper.” The men leaned their shovels and picks against the battery wall and walked to the river to thrust their heads under and come up spouting water, soaked hair flying, then wash the sweat and grime from their hands.

  Ten minutes later the cooking pots were boiling dried fish and wild turnips. The men stood in line to take their rations and their chunks of wormy hardtack, then went to their blankets where they sat cross-legged with their faces turned from their plates to avoid the stench while they worked with knife and fork to cut the steaming food into pieces to cool.

  Billy breathed shallow while he cut, and Eli suddenly set his plate aside and stood and walked towards the river. Twenty minutes later he returned with ten dark brown hard-shelled clams and some salt in the palm of his hand. He set the clams on a piece of firewood and settled them into the middle of Billy’s campfire.

  Billy looked at him in question.

  “Quahaugs,” Eli said.

  “What’s a quahaug?”

  “Iroquois word. Hard-shelled clams. They dig into the mud. Not much, but with a little salt they’re better than what we got.”

  Fifteen minutes later Eli poked the clams out of the fire with a stick, then used his knife to pry them open steaming. He grasped a pinch of salt between his finger and thumb, dropped several grains onto the gray meat on the shell, and speared it into his mouth with his knife. He gestured to Billy, who repeated what he had seen.

  The meat was mild, nearly tasteless, but better than the bitter boiled turnips and fish. With the meal finished and their utensils washed and drying in gathering dusk, Eli picked up his rifle and started towards his own blanket, when Turlock came picking his way through the sprawl of men and blankets with a document in his hand.

  “Weems, here’s your appointment as corporal
. Take care of it. I’m supposed to teach you. Tomorrow we’ll start.” He turned his eyes to Eli. “You’re a scout, but when you aren’t on orders from Thompson, you’re still a private in Ninth Company.”

  “I know.”

  “That arm all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Weems, come find me in the morning after breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir. I’m no officer. I’m a sergeant.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Turlock bobbed his head, turned, and was gone.

  Eli glanced down at Billy, nodded, and walked away towards his own blanket in the gathering gloom of night.

  For a time Billy sat with his arms on his knees, staring into the firelight, and let his thoughts run. In full darkness he dug his pad and pencil from his knapsack, got a piece of planking, and turned to catch the firelight on the paper. He pondered a moment, then carefully began to write.

  The 28th day of June, 1776

  My dear Mother:

  Important events have happened of which you will surely hear, and I write to let you know I am in good health and am sound.

  Terrible plot to kill officers—discovered—caught some of the men—one was hanged this morning before entire army—city is divided, Tories and Patriots—four British men-of-war anchored to the south—waiting for more—great battle expected soon—women made cartridges—delivered them in a wagon—I am made corporal—will try to do my duty. Tell Margaret and Brigitte—have them tell Matthew—tell Trudy—I have not yet been paid and regret I cannot yet send money—no money available—food in short supply. Will write again soon.

  Faithfully your loving son,

  Billy Weems

  He read the letter again, folded it, and stuffed it back into his knapsack, then turned back to sit cross-legged before his campfire and stare into the dancing, dwindling flames and the orange coals that were slowly turning black. He let his thoughts go where they would, and in his mind he once again saw a man standing on a gallows and then dropping through and the rope swinging, twisting. Terrified men in a front yard, held down while being smeared with tar. A dark-eyed woman expertly handling the long leather lines on a team of Percheron geldings, driving a heavy, expensive wagon into camp with 36,000 cartridges in 180 small pine boxes. Counting them into the regimental magazine. Corporal. Eli a scout. British men-of-war anchored to the south, waiting, watching.

  He drew a great breath and exhaled it slowly. Too much. Moving too fast. No time to tug at it and pull at it and make it all fit together. No time.

  A wistful smile crept. Mother. Need to talk with Mother. Mother and Margaret. And Brigitte. Need to sit at the table after supper with hot custard and maple syrup sauce and talk with them.

  He reached for his knapsack and once again dug out his pad and pencil. I wonder how things are with them. With Margaret and her family. Caleb. The twins. Brigitte. Would they read a letter? Would they have any interest?

  He pondered for a time before he turned the pad to the light and began.

  My dear friends:

  I sit at my campfire with pencil and pad in hand, hoping a letter will not intrude upon your busy lives. Many things have happened which I hope will be of interest to you. Sadly, this morning the entire army was required to witness the hanging of a man named Thos. Hickey, who was convicted of mutiny and corresponding with the enemy. I also witnessed Patriots tar some men who were Tories.

  This afternoon the regiment commander, Colonel Israel Thompson, made me a corporal, though I do not know why, since I know nothing of being a soldier, except how to march and haul rocks to build a cannon battery.

  He paused. That should make her smile. He continued writing.

  Today we saw four British men-of-war in New York Harbor far to the south, and were told they are gathering to invade New York. We are very busy preparing to meet them. Today we received 36,000 more cartridges, which I was obliged to count into the regimental magazine. Women tied the cartridges, and a young widow delivered them in a splendid wagon. Women are doing many things to assist the army.

  He re-read the last lines and his face fell in concern. A young widow—will that concern her? He considered for a moment, then continued.

  Tonight my friend Eli Stroud brought quahaugs from the Hudson River for supper. That is an Iroquois word meaning hard-shelled clams. Cooked and salted they are edible, and better than the boiled fish with wild turnips from the regimental cooking kettles. However, none of the regimental meals compares with the bounties we have shared at

  Billy suddenly stopped and slowly lowered the pad and re-read the letter, and his eyes widened. He read it again, and his face clouded as thoughts formed. That should make her smile—will mention of a young widow concern her—the bounties we have shared . . .

  Make whom smile? Concern whom? Bounties shared with whom?

  His breath came short as the answer moved to the front of his consciousness and every other thought faded.

  Brigitte!

  He did not know how long he sat before his dying fire, staring at the pad without seeing. The fire was dead and the camp was dark when he folded the unfinished letter and worked it into his knapsack, and then lay on his blanket and stared into the countless stars overhead for a long time before his eyes closed and he slept.

  ______

  Notes

  For his involvement in the plot to assassinate General Washington, Thomas Hickey was convicted of mutiny, sedition, and treachery, and was hanged in public June 28, 1776. Also involved in the plot were Governor Tryon of the colony of New York, and Mayor Matthews of New York City, among others. Matthews was arrested, but the evidence against him was insufficient and he was not convicted. The warrant for the hanging of Thomas Hickey, signed by General George Washington, is quoted verbatim in this chapter (see Godfrey, The Commander-in-Chief’s Guard, p. 31). The dialogue between the chaplain and Thomas Hickey just prior to the hanging is taken from the letter appearing in Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 2, p. 129.

  The practice of “Tory-riding” and of stripping Tories and abusing them with tar occurred frequently (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 92, particularly the footnote).

  There is a record of an Indian chief who saw George Washington miraculously unharmed in an Iroquois ambush and prophesied that he could not be harmed in battle and that he would found a great nation (see Parry and Allison, The Real George Washington, pp. 48–49).

  Mary Flint is a fictitious character.

  A “quahaug” is a hard-shelled clam that buries itself in mud. Soldiers who had too little food often dug them up and roasted them to eat (see Fitch, New York Diary, p. 45).

  Sandy Hook Bay, New Jersey Coast

  June 29, 1776

  Chapter IX

  * * *

  The general will see you now.”

  The deck of the Greyhound rose and fell slowly on the incoming swells of the Atlantic tides inside Sandy Hook Bay. Her sails were furled and her masts and yards thrust stark into the bright, clear New Jersey skies like skeletal ribs of a huge squat animal, with the British Union Jack fluttering high in the wind.

  Ship’s captain Averman Plessy led a cluster of five men to the rear of the main deck and rapped on the door of the quarters of General William Howe.

  “Come.”

  He opened the door and led the group inside. For a moment they blinked, passing from the bright sunlight into the confines of the general’s large, extravagantly appointed room. General Sir William Howe, in full uniform, sat in a decorated upholstered chair behind a large, ornately carved English walnut desk. He raised his face from half a dozen maps and documents and waited.

  “Sir,” Captain Plessy said, “may I present the honorable royal governor of the province of New York, William Tryon.”

  Tryon shifted a large, flat documents folder to his left hand, took a stride forward, bowed from the waist, and thrust his right hand forward. “I am deeply honored, General.”

 
Howe rose and returned the bow. “My pleasure.” Tryon turned to his entourage. “May I present Sergeant Graham and Misters Rutledge, Ungerman, and Willet, who have been of great assistance in our work.” They stepped forward in turn, exchanged bows with General Howe, and stepped back into line.

  “Be seated, gentlemen.” Howe waited, then settled back into his own chair and came directly to the point. “Governor Tryon, I understand you have some information?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I inquire?”

  “Of course.”

  “What is the mix in the colonial forces, continental and militia?”

  Tryon turned to Sergeant Graham. “Sir, Sergeant Graham has gathered that information and made diagrams and sketches, as you requested. He will answer.”

  Graham sat ramrod straight on his chair, facing Howe. “Nearly all undisciplined rabble. The Continental army is over ninety percent inexperienced citizens. Less than ten percent have been in battle.”

  “What are their numbers?”

  “Nearing eighteen thousand, and more arriving regularly.”

  “Who are their officers?”

  “George Washington, Israel Putnam, John Sullivan, Nathanael Greene, Charles Lee, Lord Stirling.”

  “I believe I know Lee and Stirling.”

  “Yes, sir. They are both traitors—formerly officers in the Royal Army.”

  Howe’s eyes fell for a moment. “Any other officers I should be aware of?”

  “Several lesser officers, but none of concern.”

  “Who commands in New York?”

  “Mr. George Washington, of Virginia.”

  “Who on Long Island?”

  “At the moment, Mr. Nathanael Greene.”

  “Who commands their cannon?”

  “Mr. Henry Knox.”

  A crooked smile split Howe’s face. “The, uh, fat printer?”

  “Yes, sir.”