by Ron Carter
They finished and set their cups down, and Eli rose. “I’ll be back.”
Billy watched him go, then reached beneath his blanket, inside his shirt, and drew out a notepad and a short stub of pencil. He laid the pad on his knee and for a time looked about, gathering his thoughts. Then he began to write, slowly, numb fingers clumsy from the cold.
December 19th, 1776
My dear Brigitte:
I take first opportunity to write you of the many things that have happened in such a short time. I am with General Washington at a place called McKonkey’s Ferry on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River. It is some distance above Philadelphia, and across the river the Hessians are camped in plain sight. The pencil and paper I use were given to me by Thomas Paine, of whom you know. He was with us for many days, but left a short time ago.
I have never supposed an army could survive what we have experienced the last many days . . . badly beaten at Long Island . . . again at New York . . . retreated from White Plains back to Fort Washington on Manhattan Island . . . the British and Hessians attacked and occupied in less than one day . . . lost 3,000 men dead and captured there, with much of our winter supply of food and blankets, and most of our cannon, muskets, and ammunition . . . surrendered Fort Lee without a battle . . . scarcely avoided total defeat at the Hackensack Bridge . . . ran completely across the state of New Jersey with the British at our heels, and crossed into Pennsylvania to save ourselves.
General Washington left most of the army behind under Generals Lee and Heath for reasons I do not know . . . numbers he has here are growing fewer daily . . . rash, sickness, cold, and hunger take a daily toll . . . men deserting every night. Today I received bitter coffee and one piece of moldy hardtack for my rations. Yesterday we had one half cup of dried peas. I am also recently recovered from a severe fever that robbed me of much strength and substance, since I am quite thin.
I am still wearing the summer clothing I wore leaving Boston. My shoes are in pieces, but I have tied them on with strong cord. My good friend Eli Stroud, who was raised by the Iroquois Indians, has taught me how to dig a shallow depression at night, and to line it with dry leaves and then cover myself with more dry leaves, to avoid freezing to death. Last week we lost nine men to freezing.
I am sorry to say there is open murmuring among the troops against General Washington, and even the officers are beginning to show disaffection. I was also informed four days ago that our men who were taken prisoner have been placed on prison ships in New York Harbor, where they are dying daily, and their bodies dropped overboard every morning.
I believe that General Washington would find it difficult to find five hundred men in this part of his army who today could be called fit for duty. I do wish to tell you, however, that my spirits remain high. I know we are in the right.
Billy stopped and re-read what he had written, and his heart began to race as he continued.
I took a terrible start when I learned of your sad experience in trying to bring food and ammunition to the army. I feel great warmth in my heart for all you tried to do and can only regret that it turned out so badly. I am grateful to the Almighty that you, and Caleb, escaped. I trust you will learn from the experience.
Please give my highest regards to your mother and family. Know that I think of you each day, and that I pray the Almighty will protect you.
With every tender and loving thought,
Billy Weems
His heart was pounding with an excitement he never knew existed. He was seeing her as she was that morning so long ago in the Dunson parlor in Boston when he came to bid them good-bye, when he had embraced Margaret, and then Brigitte had thrown her arms about him and held him, and he had held her, and she had wept for a reason she could not explain. He was seeing her face and the color of her eyes and hair, and he was remembering the smell and the feel of her.
He re-read the last few lines of his letter again and again, not knowing or caring where he had found the courage to speak from the depths of his heart of his feelings for her, aware only that his being was alive, singing, overflowing as it never had before. He reached to wipe at his eyes, and then slowly brought his surging feelings under control.
He did not tear the letter from the pad. He was fumbling to put the notepad back inside his blanket when Eli strode up behind him and went to one knee beside the fire. Eli thrust his hand inside his shirt and drew out a handful of acorns and laid them on the ground.
“Wrote a letter?”
Billy nodded and Eli dropped a second handful of acorns on top of the first.
“Mother?”
“Friend.”
Eli dropped another handful of acorns, mixed with hickory nuts. “The Dunson family?”
Billy looked at him, deciding. “Brigitte.”
Eli slowed. “Matthew’s sister?”
“Yes.”
Eli continued unloading acorns and hickory nuts from his shirt while Billy’s eyes grew wider.
Billy asked, “Where did you find those?”
“Followed a squirrel.”
“Was that his winter storage?”
“Part of it. He has about three more hollow trees half filled.”
“Where’s the squirrel?”
“I expect right now he’s sitting in one of those other hollow trees cursing me.”
Billy smiled and shoved the notepad inside his shirt.
Eli stopped and looked at him. “Aren’t you going to mail it?”
Billy shook his head.
“What’s wrong? Bad letter?”
Billy stared at the fire for a time, shy, embarrassed at the thought of opening his innermost thoughts about a girl to another man.
He cleared his throat. “No. I have no right to send it. I said things that will trouble her.”
Eli settled down, sitting cross-legged. “You have feelings for her?”
“I do.”
“You said that in the letter?”
“Not that way. But it’s there.”
“That will give her trouble?”
“She has already given her heart to another. A British officer. A fine man.” Billy shook his head. “Look at me. I know what I am. She has found someone befitting a girl like her—an officer, a fine gentleman, not someone like me. I can’t interfere. I won’t. For her sake.”
Eli dropped acorns into the coals of the fire. A passing soldier slowed to eye them wistfully, and Eli reached to give him a handful, and he continued on to his own fire.
Finally Eli spoke, quietly, without raising his eyes. “You’ve got two problems. You’re ugly, and you’re dumb, and I can’t figure which is the worst.” He raised his face and spoke with sudden intensity. “Send the letter!”
Billy’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, and he stared at Eli, and Eli looked at him in disgust, and then Eli grinned, and a chuckle rolled out of Billy, and then they both threw back their heads and laughed. Men fifty feet away paused to stare at the first sound of laughter they had heard in weeks.
At the south end of the camp, General Washington had established his headquarters on the main floor of the gray thick-walled stone house that stood in a clearing near the ferry dock. The door to his private chambers was locked, as it had been for most of the daylight hours for two days. The heavy curtains were drawn against the sunlight and any who would peer in.
Inside, General Washington sat at his desk, hands clasped before him, hunched forward, head bowed, racked body and mind and soul by the searing white heat of the knowledge that he had led the Continental army to the brink of its destruction. He could not control the sharp images that came flashing again and again. Hessians—the Gowanus swamp—muskets and bayonets—the Americans trapped in the black muck—ten thousand redcoats—the Jamaica Road—behind Sullivan—the night retreat from Brooklyn back to Manhattan Island—Glover’s boats—the torrential rain and fog sent by the Almighty—Chatterton Hill—wiped clean by the British in one morning—a second desperate night retreat—Fort Washington
—three thousand troops and their food and guns for a year—gone—Fort Lee gone without firing a shot—the shameless, headlong running, running across New Jersey, driven like sheep before the British.
He slammed his clenched first down on the desk and rose to his feet to pace, back and forth across the room, in an attempt to escape the endless battering that was destroying him, and he could not stop it.
General Lee openly soliciting Congress—his own adjutant general, Reed, begging him to do something to reverse the months of shameful retreat—favoring Lee—a proposal to reconsider his appointment as commander in chief—desertions by the hundreds from his army every day—sickness everywhere—men without shoes—medicine—clothing—food—muskets—powder—men sleeping in holes like animals at night to avoid freezing—eating anything they could find—rats—crows—anything.
It rang in his brain like an unending refrain—It was my error, my error. I’m responsible, responsible, responsible. Me, me, me.
He wiped at his eyes and he could not stop the tears. He stood on the carpet in the center of the room, head bowed, shoulders slumped, and he wept. He did not know how long he stood there, desolate, beaten, but suddenly he could bear it no longer. Head bowed, hands clasped before him, he spoke.
“Almighty Creator of all, in my anguish I come to thee . . .”
For a long time he remained thus, tears streaming down onto his tunic, despairing, pouring out his heart, baring his soul to his God, pleading, pleading. “This is thy work. Help me in my weakness.”
He fell silent and for a time was unable to move. Then he slowly walked back to his desk and dropped onto his chair, exhausted. He turned to look at the west bank of windows where the curtains were bright with the afternoon sun. He stood and started towards them, when a rap came at the door.
“What is it?”
“A letter, sir.”
“From whom?”
“John Adams.”
Washington’s breath came short. John Adams. From Congress. It was Adams who nominated my appointment. Has he now written to take it away?
“Slide it under the door.”
He watched as the folded document appeared, and he walked to stoop and pick it up. He sat down at his desk and broke the seal.
Philada. 15 Decr. 1776
My dear sir:
I steal a moment’s opportunity to send you a few lines of encouragement. Congress is, as ever, convuls’d by tumult and alarm, but never so much as to do anything of purpose or effect for our cause. Some upbraid you, some defend you, and the result is a deadlock.
I take the liberty of copying out a passage of a letter that my dear wife has sent me from Massachusetts. You will see in it the spirit that animates the people—would that Congress felt it as strongly.
I am, with every assurance of esteem and respect,
Your obed’t serv’t,
John Adams
With trembling fingers Washington quietly read the words Abigail Adams had written to her beloved husband.
We have had many stories concerning engagements upon Long Island this week, of our lines being forced and of our troops retreating to New York. Particulars we have not yet obtained. All we can learn is that we have been unsuccessful there; having lost many men as prisoners, among whom are Lord Stirling and General Sullivan.
But if we should be defeated, I think we shall not be conquered. A people fired, like the Romans, with love of their country and of liberty, a zeal for the public good, and a noble emulation of glory, will not be disheartened or dispirited by a succession of unfortunate events. But, like them, may we learn by defeat the power of becoming invincible.
Washington jerked erect in his chair.
Not be disheartened or dispirited by a succession of unfortunate events—learn by defeat the power of becoming invincible!
He read it again, and he felt a tiny ray of light struggling through the black clouds of anguish in his soul.
Learn by defeat.
A tingle began.
He heard the muffled pounding of a horse at the front gate, and the opening of the front door, and brief words were spoken. Running footsteps came up the hall and his aide knocked sharply.
“Yes.”
“Sir, a messenger is here. Thomas Paine sent him from Philadelphia. He has two bags filled with papers he insists you must see at once.”
Washington came off the chair in one fluid move and jerked the door open. “Where is he?”
“Waiting in the parlor, sir.”
Washington strode down the hall and turned through the archway into the parlor, where the man stood between two large canvas sacks on the floor.
“Thomas Paine sent you?”
“Yes, sir, from Philadelphia. He said to tell you that you might want to read these.”
“You’ve come from Philadelphia today?” Washington was incredulous.
“Yes, sir.”
“What are they?”
“Newspapers, sir.”
Washington’s head dropped forward. “Newspapers? About what? What’s happened? Has Congress done something? Has he published more of his writings?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Thank you.” He turned to his aide. “I’ll take the sacks. See to it this man gets food and refreshment and his horse is tended. Use my stores if necessary.”
He grasped one sack in each big hand and walked rapidly back up the hall. He dropped them on the floor of his quarters, and jerked the knot out of the first one. From within he drew out half a dozen copies of the Pennsylvania Journal, dated December 19, 1776, together with a brief note from Paine. The messenger had covered nearly forty miles in less than six hours. Washington unfolded and read the note.
Philada., 19 Decr. 1776
My dear sir,
I write in haste so that the courier can bear this note with the enclos’d newspapers. I hope that the essay printed there may be of use to the glorious cause to which we are devoted.
God bless you and have you in his keeping,
Your obed’t,
Thos. Paine
Washington took the top copy of the newspaper and sat down at his desk and spread it before him, searching for what it was that would drive Thomas Paine to send a horseman such a distance to deliver.
It covered most of the second page and finished on page three, and Washington brought his racing thoughts under control as he read.
The American Crisis.
Number I.
By the Author of Common Sense.
These are the times that try men’s souls: The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.
Washington’s breath came short as he continued.
What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly:—’Tis dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to set a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed, if so celestial an article as Freedom should not be highly rated.
The tingle that had begun when Washington read Abigail Adams’s letter came strong and he felt it spreading through his breast.
Britain, with an army to enforce her tyranny, has declared, that she has a right (not only to tax) but “to bind us in all cases whatsoever,” and if being bound in that manner is not slavery, then is there not such a thing as slavery upon earth. Even the expression is impious, for so unlimited a power can belong only to God.
The deep black cloud that had for so long seized Washington’s soul was gone. Never had he felt the light and the power that were now upon him.
I have as little superstition in me as any man living, but my secret opinion has ever been, and still is, that God Almighty will not give up a people to military destruction, or leave them unsupportedly to perish, who had so earnestly and so repeatedly sought to avoid th
e calamities of war, by every decent method which wisdom could invent.
Washington stopped. His eyes misted. He could not speak. He raised a hand and then dropped it back onto the newspaper and continued.
By perseverance and fortitude we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and submission, the sad choice of a variety of evils—a ravaged country—a depopulated city—habitations without safety, and slavery without hope—our homes turned into barracks and baudy-houses for Hessians, and a future race to provide for whose fathers we shall doubt of.
He finished reading and he sat in his chair unable to move. He had never supposed that a man could be plunged into light so brilliant and power so potent as to rob him of all natural strength of mind and body, strip him of every human foible, everything he had ever supposed, to leave him helpless, able only to know that the Almighty had touched him and that he would never be the same. He was aware a strange feeling of light had filled the room, reached every corner, and he dared not look. He remained motionless for a time—he did not know how long—and then slowly the spirit in the room faded, and his natural strength crept back into his body and his soul.
He turned to look, and the room appeared as normal.
When he could, he stood and rushed to the door and threw it open.
“Lieutenant Brewster!”
The man came running. “Yes, sir.”
“Deliver a copy of this to every corporal’s guard in this command. Do it now. Have every officer read the article styled The American Crisis aloud to every soldier in this camp. Make them listen. Am I clear?”
The man’s eyes were wide. “Yes, sir.” He seized the two bags and dragged them down the hall.
Washington approached the windows and threw back the curtains and stared long and hard at the Delaware River, running full with winter rains, sheet ice forming near the banks. He could see the fires of the British camp on the far shore and the red, white, and blue of the Union Jack flying high, an open insult to the huddled Americans.
In his soul, a resolve formed and it grew until it filled him. He turned on his heel and strode rapidly down the hall to catch Brewster, who was just loading the two canvas sacks onto a cart.