Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  Primus spoke quietly. “They callin’ on spirits.”

  Caleb’s eyes widened. “Spirits? Religion?”

  “Black religion. Voudon.”

  Caleb started. “Voudon? You mean voodoo?”

  “Some say voodoo. It voudon.”

  For a time the two crouched motionless, Caleb staring wide-eyed, the hackles on his neck and the hair on his arms rising to stand on end at the strange, eerie feeling that reached him. While he watched, something inside, wild and primitive, began to rise, and dark feelings he had never imagined came surging.

  Primus spoke quietly. “They calling on bad spirits. See the chickens.” He pointed.

  Two of the men had seized live chickens by their feet and were whirling them about their heads. They slowed, and held the chickens out away from their bodies, and then they stopped all movement.

  Primus whispered, “Watch the chickens.”

  One instant both chickens were squawking and beating their wings, and the next instant both were dead.

  Caleb gaped. No one had touched them with a weapon. The men holding them had not moved. He stared, and for the first time, he felt fear.

  Primus turned to him. “Bad spirits.”

  Caleb’s voice was too high. “This your religion?”

  The answer was slow coming. “Voudon come with slaves. Africa. Haiti. Spirits all around. Come to the drums and the words. Get inside dancers, talk through dancers. Sometimes good spirits, sometimes bad. This spirit Sobokesou Badesi Koualaronsi. Bad. Like devil. Kill the chickens. Bad.”

  “The devil? These people call on the devil? Do they believe in Jesus?”

  “Believe in spirits. I believe in Jesus.”

  “What are the words they use?”

  “Gullah. From Africa, Haiti, some from white men. Got Gullah Bible like white man Bible.”

  “There’s a Bible in that language?”

  “Part of Bible. Yes.”

  “Where? Where can I see one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can we go on into camp?”

  “Spirits go away if white man go in. I go in later. Then you go back.”

  The drums throbbed on, and the chant repeated over and over again. Some of the dancers fell to the ground, writhing, sweating, groaning. Others began leaping about, sometimes so high Caleb stared in disbelief. They flailed their arms and pounded their bodies with their fists. Then the drums stilled, and the chanting died, and the dancers all slumped to the ground to lay motionless.

  Caleb started. “Are they dead?”

  “Spirits gone. They not move for long time.” He turned to Caleb, eyes intense in the distant firelight. “Chickens dead. Bad spirit. Something bad going to happen.”

  “Bad? What?”

  Primus shook his head. “Maybe big battle. You go now. I be all right.”

  “I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “You go now.”

  Caleb backed away, then turned and walked quickly back to the lean-to. He sat down on the pine boughs and wrapped his blanket about his shoulders, seeing again the fire, the sweating dancers, feeling the strange, dark, fearful cloud rising inside. He glanced around in the darkness, peering into the black forest, struggling to believe what he had seen in a Continental Army camp.

  It was well past midnight before he laid down on the pine boughs and curled up beneath his blanket for warmth, and another hour before his eyes closed. The sky was a black velvet dome studded with diamonds when a hand shook him awake, and he jerked upright, clutching for the throat of the dim figure above him.

  The voice choked out, “It’s Primus! Primus!”

  Slowly Caleb came from sleep to reality, and he released his hold. “Dangerous, coming up like that. You hurt?”

  Primus thrust something into his hand. “Gullah Bible. You read it. I take it back tomorrow.”

  “Can you get back through camp all right?”

  “White men not see black men at night.” Without another word Primus rose and was gone.

  In the darkness, Caleb felt the book. The cover was bent, the spine broken. He pulled his blanket back over his body, clutching it to his chest, and it was a long time before he drifted into a fitful sleep, still seeing sweating images circling a great fire, flailing dead chickens above their heads.

  At first light he was sitting cross-legged with his blanket wrapped about him, staring at the book. The worn cover had no title. The ragged, yellowing pages had been printed by hand. The books of Matthew and Mark were missing altogether; the first book was of Luke, with the first chapter gone. In the gray light he stared at the queer language in chapter two, and traced with his finger as he made it out, slowly, one word at a time.

  “Een dat time, Caesar Augustus been da big leada, de emperor ob de Roman people. E make a law een all de town een da wol weh e habe tority, say ebrybody hafta go ta town fa count by de hed and write down e nyame. Dis been da fus time dey count by de hed, same time Cyrenius de gobna ob Syria country. So den, ebrybody gone fa count by de hed, ta e own town weh e ole people been bon.”

  Caleb’s hands dropped to his lap and he murmured, “That’s the story of Joseph and Mary! Going to be taxed! When Jesus was born!”

  He raised the book and started with the next line, then jerked at the sound of Dunphy’s voice calling.

  “We got our orders. We march in one hour.”

  Caleb closed the book, wrapped it in his blanket, plucked up his rifle, and hurried to the clearing where men were gathering. A small fire smoked and sputtered, and a man laid more kindling against the flames. Dunphy squatted down, holding his outstretched hands to the warmth. Caleb held back while two men questioned the sergeant.

  “March where?”

  “West.”

  “Who’s in command?”

  “Morgan. General Daniel Morgan. From up north.”

  Caleb started, then strode to Dunphy’s side.

  “General Morgan’s leading a command west?”

  Dunphy looked up at him, then rose. “Yes.”

  “Morgan from New England?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something happened west of us?”

  “Rumor is they found Tarleton over there. General Greene’s sending Morgan over to find out.”

  Caleb came to a sudden focus. Tarleton! Bloody Tarleton. The great green plume! The fight at Waxhaws. The terrible slaughter. Maybe this time it would be different. In that instant it struck into his brain like a bolt of lightning. Primus standing in the glow of a great fire— “Something bad—maybe a battle.”

  Dunphy broke in. “We leave in one hour. Where’s your friend? The black?”

  “With his own.”

  Dunphy nodded. “Get ready to go.”

  Caleb had his powder horn and shot pouch slung over his shoulder and was rolling his blanket when Primus approached the lean-to. Caleb reached for the Bible and held it out to him.

  “You come for this?”

  Primus took it. “An officer come. Say he want volunteers to go fight. Go west with Morgan. I volunteer.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Yes.”

  “We march in one hour.”

  “We march, too. Separate. Maybe spirit right. Maybe big battle. Bad. I see you there.”

  “Bad for who?”

  “No one know.”

  “You be careful. You hear me?”

  Notes

  The background, history, capabilities, and appearance of Major General Nathanael Greene are correctly described. After generals Lincoln and Gates essentially destroyed any presence of the Continental Army in the South, Congress asked General Washington to nominate their successor. Greene was nominated, accepted, and arrived in Charlotte on 2 December 1780, to accept command. The condition of the deplorable state of the Continental Army, as he found it at that time was as described.

  The background, history, capabilities, and appearance of Brigadier General Daniel Morgan are accurate. He was assigned by General Washington as second in c
ommand to General Greene, and arrived in Charlotte in December 1780. Greene’s unorthodox decision to divide his forces, their deployment, and his strategy are historical.

  The practice known as voodoo (called voudon by its practitioners) is presented to suggest something of the characteristics of the blacks who played such a significant part in the American Revolution. The representation of the nature and origin of the religion and the description of the nighttime ceremony are accurate (Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, pp. 91–104; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 591–99; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 364–66).

  For guidance on voudon, or voodoo, see Laguerre, Voodoo Heritage, pp. 21–208, particularly page 193, where the violent spirit, Sobokesou Badesi Koualaronsi, is identified and described. See also Laguerre, Voodoo and Politics in Haiti, pp. 1–128. The language spoken was Gullah. The quotation in this chapter from the second chapter of Luke in the Christian Bible is accurate, taken verbatim from Edgar, South Carolina: a History, p. 71.

  Boston

  January 1781

  CHAPTER XXVII

  * * *

  A bitter January wind in chill morning sunlight blew steadily in from the Atlantic across Boston harbor and down the cobblestone streets, sighing in the chimneys and gusting in the stark, bare branches of the trees. Kathleen Dunson stood in her felt slippers at the stove in the kitchen of her childhood home, apron over her heavy woolen robe, dark hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon, while she stirred thick oatmeal porridge. She breathed heavily, head tipped back, eyes closed, as she struggled with the nausea that came in waves at the foul odor of a dead mouse coming from somewhere in the kitchen. She jerked at a quick nudge and looked down to see the front of her apron move, and she placed her hand on her extended midsection to feel the tiny life inside settle and the movement stop.

  Knee, or maybe an elbow, she thought, then clenched her eyes one more time as the rank stench of the dead mouse came again. At four o’clock in the black of night she had awakened to the foul smell, and with a lamp searched the pantry for the dead remains. There was nothing. She went back to her bedroom to get into her bed and lay on her side, searching for a comfortable position. At six o’clock she was up, boiling water for the breakfast porridge for Charles and Faith, gagging at the thought of them eating it.

  She turned to call, “Charles! Faith! It’s time.”

  Her younger brother and sister came from their bedrooms, dressed for school, quietly looking to see if Kathleen’s mouth was clenched shut. It was, and they silently went to their places at the table. Kathleen set the pot of porridge on a hot pad in the center of the table, and said, “Charles, you offer grace.”

  The two children bowed their heads, Charles quietly recited the morning prayer, and they reached for cream and molasses while Kathleen walked quickly back into the kitchen, out of sight. The two finished their breakfast, and Kathleen came back to help them with their heavy coats and scarves and wool hats. She handed them their books and lunches, said, “Stay together—listen at school,” and opened the door to watch them hunch into the wind and walk through the front gate into the morning traffic. She closed the door, took one look at the porridge pot on the table, clamped a hand over her mouth, and walked quickly to her room to get into her bed and pull the thick comforter up to her chin.

  She thought of Matthew, and for a long moment felt the need to vent her misery on him. Five months along with their first child made each day an adventure in extremes. Mornings brought nausea, afternoons hope, evenings the greatest joy and anticipation she had ever known. Thoughts of Matthew followed the same pattern: nausea and despair, followed by hope, joy, and anticipation.

  She lay for half an hour before throwing the comforter back and swinging her feet to the braided carpet on the hardwood floor.

  “Well,” she said aloud, “the work isn’t going to do itself.” She took an iron grip on her stomach and marched out to the parlor. By noon the house was in order, and she was sitting in a rocking chair before a fire in the great fireplace, knitting a blue baby cap to add to the blanket already knitted and carefully folded into a dresser drawer in her bedroom. A little past one o’clock the wind quieted. At two o’clock she bravely went out the back door to the root cellar with a saucer to cut a chunk of cheese for the house, then returned to break a small piece to nibble on. The thought of eating anything beyond the cheese was more than she could bear.

  At ten minutes before three o’clock, with the sun warming the outdoors, she laid her knitting aside and answered a rap at the front door.

  “Reverend Olmsted! How nice to have you come visiting. Do come in.”

  The small, wiry, gray-haired man nodded his greeting, entered, and Kathleen hung his heavy black coat and hat on one of the pegs beside the door. She held her gorge down as she said, “Come sit at the dining table. Can I prepare something hot? Chocolate? Tea?”

  “Thank you, no. I just stopped by to deliver a letter. I was at the inn when the mail came in a while ago and there was a letter for you from Matthew. Thought I’d save you the walk down to get it.” He drew the letter from inside his coat and handed it to her.

  Hands trembling, heart racing, Kathleen took the letter, then glanced at Reverend Olmsted. He nodded and smiled. “Go ahead and read it,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until you’re through.”

  Kathleen broke the seal, smoothed the letter on the tabletop, and began reading, eyes racing over the neatly written page.

  The twenty-ninth day of December, 1780.

  West Indies, aboard the Swallow.

  My Dear Wife,

  It is my greatest wish that this letter finds you well. I do not have the words to tell you how I miss you. My thoughts are with you always in this time, and were it possible I would be there with you as we prepare for the coming of our family. I can only hope you understand that I felt I had no choice when General Washington requested that a ship sail into these waters to gather information concerning the French and British navies that are now contending for possession of the various islands here in the West Indies. When I was selected to be the navigator, I could not refuse. That you must be alone at this time is a sacrifice that is justified only because it is in the cause of freedom for all of the United States.

  I am well. The food is acceptable, and our Captain, Dominicus Mears, is competent. The schooner on which I am writing is small and speedy. There is no ship in the West Indies capable of catching us. We have been within two hundred yards of many British ships, and less than one hundred yards from their ships anchored near St. Lucia, St. John, Barbados, and Jamaica. None have fired on us, simply because they cannot load and bring their guns to bear quickly enough.

  It is apparent the French remain here primarily to protect their interest in the sugar and rum trade, and secondarily to await any opportunity that may present itself to make a strike at the British. Their naval forces are under command of Comte Guichen. The Spanish also have ships in the West Indies under Admiral Solano, however, they are not as ambitious to offend the British as are the French. The British are commanded by Admiral Rodney. Matters between these forces are worsening rapidly, and it appears to me that one way or another, the French and British are going to eventually enter into a grand battle to settle matters between them.

  Unfortunately the United States does not have a navy capable of lending support to the French. However, I quickly add, the French Admiral, de Grasse, appears to be a most competent commander and has the unqualified support of his command. It appears the British Admiral Rodney is also competent, but in the balance, the French probably have the edge, both in determination and in numbers of ships and cannon.

  I do not know when we will conclude our mission here and return home. We are going to sail north tomorrow morning to deliver our written findings thus far to a small frigate on the open seas, which will then sail north to deliver the report to General Washington near New York. I shall include this letter with the report, hoping it will find it
s way to you. We will then return to the West Indies to complete our mission.

  We survived the stormy season of October and November in good condition. We had two hard storms but rode them out without misfortune. The weather here in winter is much balmier than in Boston.

  I carry my watch fob over my heart. You are never out of my thoughts. How I wish I could sit with you before the fire in the evenings and share in your special time. I beseech the Almighty to watch over you and protect you. You hold my heart in your hands.

  Until I see you again, I remain your faithful and loving husband,

  Matthew Dunson

  Kathleen raised her head, looked at the kindly, old, wrinkled face of Silas Olmsted, and tears came welling. She shook her head.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying. Matthew’s well. I’m so grateful you brought the letter. I’ve been worried sick about him.” She wiped at her tears, and more tears came, and she laughed. “Sometimes I feel so big, so disgusting to look at. This morning I smelled a dead mouse at four o’clock, and I got up and searched the pantry. There was no dead mouse, and I knew it, but I searched anyway. And when I fixed the lunches for the children, and their breakfast, I was so sick I just . . . I don’t know why I’m crying.”

  Reverend Olmsted chuckled and reached to take her hand. “In about four months the dead mouse will be gone. You’ll still have tears, but they’ll be from the greatest joy you will ever know.”

  “I know it. I knew it this morning. I just feel so . . . ridiculous, sitting here, big, crying when I have everything I ever wanted.”

  Silas laughed out loud. “Kathleen, you’ll never be more beautiful. You’ve entered into a partnership with the Almighty. He’s sending one of his precious little ones to you. Be patient, and don’t worry about the dead mice and the tears. You’ll not remember either of them when they place that little child in your arms and you see the miracle.”

  Kathleen drew a handkerchief from her robe pocket and blew her nose. “I must be a sight, sitting here, red eyes, red nose.” She laughed. “It’s so good to have you come.”