The Fighting Ground Page 2

  When they clattered over the first wooden bridge south of the crossroads, Jonathan was still far behind. A little farther on came another bridge. He saw the Corporal had called a stop before they crossed it, and from his horse he was talking to the men. Hurrying, Jonathan ran to catch up, but missed the first part of what had been said.

  “. . . at least that’s my figuring,” he heard the Corporal say. “It couldn’t be helped. But we can stop them if we’ve stomach enough. They won’t think we’ll try.”

  “How many do you think they’ll be?” called a man.

  Jonathan, on the outer fringe of the group, strained to listen, glad to be able to rest his gun on the ground.

  “Twenty, twenty-five” came the Corporal’s off-handed reply.

  His words were met with uneasy silence. Jonathan, sensing that something was wrong, looked around.

  “Before, you said that they weren’t more than fifteen” came an angry voice.

  “Did I?” said the Corporal coolly. “Then I misspoke myself.”

  Again, save for the shifting feet of the men, there was a silence. Jonathan noticed how nervous they were. It hadn’t occurred to him that they would be.

  “Does five more turn you about?” the Corporal asked.

  Jonathan looked from face to face, waiting for a reply. He saw downcast eyes, furtive and unsure.

  Then someone said, “I want to hear again what brought them out. You said a Committee of Public Safety. Aside from yourself, how many were there?”

  The Corporal’s face turned redder. “Ask them,” he snapped.

  “Here,” came a tense voice, “we didn’t elect you Corporal. Sitting on a horse don’t make you so damn high.”

  “You can choose for yourself” came the return, and angrily the Corporal swung down from his horse. “I just beg you gentlemen to make it fast. While you’re holding your congress, they’re coming closer. Who will ye have?”

  Jonathan watched the shifting eyes. No one said a word. No one looked directly at the Corporal.

  “Then, by God,” the Corporal snapped, “I’ll be your man. Is that your silent meaning?”

  Jonathan, trying to understand what was happening, saw the men shift about. No one spoke a word. They seemed cowed.

  Quickly, the Corporal remounted. “Come on, then,” he said. “We need to get to Rocktown before they do. We can ambush them from the trees if that’s your pleasure.”

  The notion of an ambush rather than an open fight cheered the men. Jonathan saw the tension ease. A few men grinned.

  Turning his horse, the Corporal moved on toward the bridge. The men followed briskly.

  Jonathan gathered up his gun and hurried after. For himself, he was glad the Corporal led them. He thought him a strong, forceful man.

  12:30

  When they crossed over the second bridge, the road began to rise. The pace slowed. Some of the men were breathing hard. Jonathan, with a sudden burst, caught up.

  For a while he walked along with a man he knew to be his father’s friend. A large man, he was already perspiring. His bald head was bright and wet. A fringe of whitened hair dripped sweat.

  “What’s it about?” asked Jonathan, taking a step and a half to match each of the strides of the bigger man.

  The man gave Jonathan a quick look as if surprised to see him there. Instead of giving an answer, he said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Going to fight,” said Jonathan. “I heard there were enemy troops. Fifteen, twenty or so. Where are they going? What are they trying to do? Something happen?”

  The man studied Jonathan, then turned and spat on the ground. “Didn’t you hear?” he asked.

  “Just what I said.”

  The man sucked a deep breath and marched in heavy silence. Waiting for an answer, Jonathan did his best to keep up. Suddenly, the man said, “Why’d you come?”

  “What?”

  “Why’d you come, I asked you.”

  Jonathan searched for words. “Wanted to,” he said.

  “Your father know? Give permission?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jonathan, half swallowing his words.

  “How’s his leg?”

  “Still poor.”

  “Maybe he’s better off,” said the man. Then he said, “You sure he sent you?”

  Jonathan, feeling uncomfortable, let the man move on ahead. The man didn’t look back but continued to march on.

  Once more Jonathan allowed himself to drop to the rear, deciding it was better to stay last. As he started to march again, however, he realized his father’s friend hadn’t replied to his questions. The thought came to him: Perhaps he didn’t have the answers.

  12:40

  When the road reached the top of a ridge, they paused once more. It was hotter, much more humid. Jonathan scanned the sky, noticing clouds building to the west.

  Even though they hadn’t gone long, some of the men threw themselves on the ground as if exhausted. Others sprawled against trees. Most removed their hats. Some fanned themselves. The Corporal alone seemed anxious to get on. Atop his horse, he kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  Jonathan rested by a tree. His legs weren’t tired, but his arms ached. He placed his gun against the tree and studied where they were.

  Off to one side of the ridge he could see a small, meandering creek and two small ponds that fed it. Thick woods stood beyond the pond. Farther on, perhaps half a mile, were more high hills. To the south it was also high and heavily wooded. Jonathan could see where the road ran south and climbed again. At the highest point, only a little way beyond, was Rocktown, where they were going to fight.

  He looked back and took measure of the clouds. A storm was coming, a big one. He gazed about again. It was so quiet. He could hear no birds. Not even the men were talking. Nor was there any wind, not the smallest hint of a breeze. The leaves on the trees, spring new and kelly green, hung limp. Such birds as there were flew too high.

  The stillness made him uneasy. It was as if nothing was allowed to move but themselves, rushing on—to what, he was not sure.

  Suddenly aware that his heart was beating fast, he felt a great need to know what was happening and what he had to do. But he was afraid of the kinds of questions his father’s friend had asked. He didn’t want to be noticed too much. They might send him home. Reluctantly, he decided he would just have to wait, and learn by watching the others.

  12:50

  “Corporal!” someone called. “Where’s your Snydertown folks?”

  Jonathan had heard of Snydertown. He believed it was three miles somewhere to the east, but wasn’t sure. He was already farther from his home than he’d been in many months.

  “They joining us?” someone else threw in.

  Jonathan could see from the way the men were watching that these were important questions.

  “Wouldn’t be fair for us to do their work,” added another.

  The Corporal shifted slowly and gazed stony faced down the road. Some of the men looked knowingly at one another.

  “We going or not?” asked the Corporal. He spoke without looking back.

  “You’ve got a reputation for being overfond of killing,” someone said. “That ever reach your ears?”

  That time the Corporal turned. “Sir,” he said evenly, “if they do come, it’ll be your home they’ll burn, as well as mine.”

  No more words were spoken. Instead, slowly, the men came to their feet. The Corporal urged his horse forward. Silently, the men followed.

  So did Jonathan. But he saw that once again the men had grown uneasy. In the face of the man who had last spoken, he thought he recognized the same look his father had had when they parted: fear.

  1:00

  Marching made Jonathan feel better. He started to whistle. But someone in front swiveled around and gave him an angry look. Jonathan stopped whistling. The silence pressed him once again.

  1:05

  After a slight dip the road began to rise. The men moved slower. It wasn’t lon
g before Jonathan was marching in their midst. He wished they would talk, but words came very seldom.

  “Your wife,” he heard one man ask another. “She is perhaps better?”

  Jonathan recognized the man. He was one of the French people who had lately come to live in the area. He spoke with an accent.

  “She’s better” came the reply.

  “That is very good,” the Frenchman said. The conversation ended.

  The only sound was the shuffling of feet, an empty and hollow sound. Jonathan wondered how many such hollow steps it would take for them to reach the fighting ground.

  1:30

  Clustered about a water well, Rocktown consisted of six houses by the road. Jonathan couldn’t recall if he’d been there before. It looked familiar. But then, most of the houses thereabouts looked very much the same.

  He puzzled over the name “Rocktown.” He saw no rocks. He wondered if there was a nearby quarry. He thought his father had gone there a few months ago. He tried to remember why, but couldn’t. It annoyed him that he couldn’t.

  The men stopped at the well, where a woman was drawing water. She didn’t pause in her work, nor did she speak. But the band of men clearly made her uneasy.

  Jonathan watched her with curiosity, trying to guess her thoughts. How could she just be doing nothing when so much was about to happen?

  “Let’s be quick about it,” the Corporal called. He had—as before—remained seated on his horse.

  The woman grew agitated under the scrutiny of the men. “Here,” she finally said, as she drew the water-filled bucket up. “You can have it.”

  It was the Frenchman who, stepping forward, touched his forehead and said, “Merci.” Grasping the bucket in his hands, he drank deeply. Then he passed the bucket to the next. Most of the men drank. No one offered anything to Jonathan. He was too shy to ask.

  The woman watched the bucket go around. “Where are you heading?” she asked.

  Jonathan was surprised by her question. He had thought that everyone would know the fighting was to come.

  “Enemy troops are headed this way,” the Corporal said.

  “Here?” exclaimed the woman. Her face had turned pale.

  “If we don’t stop them.”

  It took a moment for the woman to absorb the news. “From which way?” she asked. Her voice was small. One hand was at her throat.

  “Up from Pennington.”

  With a suddenness that took them all by surprise, the woman gathered up her skirts, turned, and fled. It made the men laugh. Jonathan wasn’t sure why it seemed funny, but it did.

  Only the Corporal hadn’t laughed. “It’s time to go,” he said.

  The laughter had eased the men. It was as if seeing the woman frightened made them feel better. I won’t be scared the way she was, Jonathan thought.

  As they got ready to move again, they kept watching the house into which the woman had fled. Sure enough, she reappeared in a few moments with two young children and an old man. Hurriedly, they began swinging the wooden shutters over their windows. Then they rushed back inside. The door slammed loudly. The house looked dead.

  The men laughed again. Without any warning, one of them raised his gun and fired into the air.

  Everyone jumped.

  The Corporal whirled, his face a crimson red. The man who had shot the gun was grinning broadly. “Damn you!” the Corporal cried. “Want them to know we’re here?”

  The grinning man looked about. He saw that others were also angry.

  “Just a joke,” he said, his grin fading.

  “Fool!” the Corporal barked.

  The man turned red.

  “Now, damn all, hurry,” said the Corporal. “We’re late as it is.” He kicked at his horse. Sullenly, all the laughter gone, the men went too.

  For a moment Jonathan remained behind, upset. He turned to look at the Rocktown homes. From some of them people emerged. They stood watching as the band moved off. Jonathan began to find his pride again. They were, he reminded himself, looking at him, for he too was a soldier. Then, realizing he was being left behind, he bolted down the road.

  2:05

  Half a mile south of Rocktown the road reached its highest point. The men moved slowly, almost reluctantly, to its crest. The Corporal, impatient as ever, kept the lead. At the top he jumped to the ground.

  They had arrived.

  2:10

  Some of the men sat down, some lay on their backs. Jonathan noticed a number had brought flasks and were taking drinks. He wished he had taken some water at the Rocktown well. He was thirsty now.

  A few of the men went to where the Corporal stood. Side by side they studied the road, which sloped gradually down toward the south.

  It was a wide valley through which the road passed, as if the road itself had once been a river that now ran dry. Trees to either side rose up like palisades. Because the road turned, it wasn’t possible to see very far, no more than a quarter mile.

  Jonathan looked back over his shoulder. The clouds had rolled up higher. They were thunderclouds of deep gray-blue, rising columns of layered darkness. If it rained, he knew, it would come hard, making it difficult for them to fire their guns.

  The men, including the Corporal, paid no mind to the clouds. Instead, they continued looking down the road that went beyond the hill.

  “We’ll wait for them here,” the Corporal said.

  “They’ll have to come on up,” agreed one man. “Rising men shoot high,” he added.

  They all considered that.

  “Thought you said we’d ambush them!” It was the man Jonathan had tried to talk to, his father’s friend. His face was pale, tense.

  “We could, sure we could,” agreed another quickly. “It’d be better. It would.”

  The Corporal shook his head. “No place to hide behind,” he replied. “Too wide. No walls. No fences. Nothing.”

  “Trees,” suggested someone.

  “We have any rifles here?” the Corporal asked, looking about. “No. Just smooth bore. We’d be too far away.” He turned about and acknowledged the storm clouds. “And if a wind comes up, it’ll blow our shot to nothing. We’ll line up here,” he said firmly.

  Jonathan’s father’s friend objected, shaking his head violently. “No,” he said, “I don’t care for it.” He glanced about, seeking support from others. “We drill. We do. Regular. But not against such as these.” He made a nod of his head as if to suggest what was coming up the road.

  His words brought a nervous quiet. Then someone said, “I’m willing to stand here. I can’t see any other way.” It was the man who had shot off his gun in Rocktown.

  The Corporal took off his hat and pushed back his hair. “All agreed?” he asked.

  No one replied.

  “How much longer you think they’ll be?” someone asked.

  “Soon enough.”

  “Where’s your Snydertown folks, Corporal? That’s what I’d like to know,” someone called from the side of the road.

  The Corporal kept his eyes down the road.

  “They better come,” said another. “You and them, you all started this.”

  The Corporal’s mouth pinched tighter.

  It was then that Jonathan first heard the distant tapping of the drum. As the others caught the sound, they lifted their heads. Steadily, monotonously, the tapping came. To it was added the high, piercing squeal of a fife. It slit through the air like the cutting edge of a blade.

  Slowly, the men on the ground stood up.

  “They be coming,” someone said.

  2:30

  Nobody moved. They just stood there, listening to the drum. It came loud and regular, like an angry clock. Then slyly, the fife music slid into a playful tune, poking, plucking at their brittle senses. A tightness ran up and down Jonathan’s spine, into the nape of his neck. He tried to cough, only to realize he had been holding his breath.

  He looked about. The men were all staring. What they were seeing he couldn’t tel
l. One man pressed an open hand to his jaw, drawing his fingers across, pulling at his lips, making them grotesque. Another man kept licking his lips.

  The Corporal listened with great intensity, as if the sound of fife and drum brought a special message to his ears.

  “Line! Line!” he suddenly shouted, springing to life. “Line here! Seven in front! The short ones! The rest in back! The taller. Damn all, gentlemen, hurry!”

  The men began to run forward and back in a frenzy. Jonathan, not understanding where he should stand, stood in place where he was until he felt a hard slap against his back.

  “Move!” came the angry command.

  Mechanically, he turned toward the Corporal who, reaching out, took hold of his shoulder and shoved him forward, then spun him into position. “Front line!” he ordered. “Front line!”

  Jonathan stayed where he had been put.

  But other men came forward. There was more pushing, more shoving. The Corporal, holding to his horse’s bridle, tried to keep the beast calm, all the while shouting directions.

  “Here, here! No, fool, there! Take your place! Damn all, there! No, there. Two paces back! Dress your lines! Not right behind! Dress them, you fools! Gentlemen, your lines!”

  Jonathan found himself moved this way and that, one step this direction, two the other. People stepped on his feet. The Corporal attempted to mount his horse, only to slip and fall to the ground. The men gawked, but made no move to help. The Corporal sprang up on his own. This time he climbed up successfully. Holding a pistol in one hand, he wheeled his horse about in a useless circle.

  Jonathan could hear the breathing of the men all about, quick and agitated. Beyond that, he heard the tap-tapping of the drum, the nagging, relentless curl of the fife.

  “There!” cried the Corporal. “That’s it. Now, gentlemen, load your guns, for God’s sake. Load your guns!”

  All around came thudding as guns dropped to the ground, stocks to earth, followed by the pop of snaps, as leather cartridge pouches opened.

  “You, boy!” came a cry. “Do your loading! Are you daft! Load your gun!”

  2:35

  Hurriedly, Jonathan lowered his gun to the ground. With one hand he held the muzzle, with the other he tried to open the cartridge pouch. The fastening would not give. He placed the gun on the ground before his feet.