The Fighting Ground Page 3

  “Pick that up, you idiot!” came a shout into his ear.

  In a panic, Jonathan reached down and snatched up his gun. Resting it in the crook of his arm and clumsily using both hands, he yanked his cartridge pouch open. The wooden catch broke. His fingers, trembling, touched the cartridges. He pulled one up. It was made of rough, brown paper twisted into a tube, one end further twisted tight like a candle wick. The small package contained a measure of gunpowder and one lead ball.

  Putting the twisted paper to his mouth, Jonathan tore at it with his teeth. It did not give. He tugged harder. This time the paper tore—too much. He could taste powder on his tongue. He spat it out.

  Hands shaking, he tried to maneuver the gun upright while still holding the torn cartridge so it wouldn’t spill. But the barrel was too high. He had to stand on his toes to pour the powder in. Then, crumpling the paper in his fist, he wadded it around the lead ball, poking both into the barrel mouth.

  Unsteadily, Jonathan yanked out the ramrod from beneath the gun barrel, where it was lodged. He reached high, higher, trying to stick the swinging rod into the barrel so as to set the ball snug proper. Just managing to get the rod in, he waited for it to slide down. It would not drop. He had to reach high again, stretching on his toes as far as he could, pushing on the rod and pressing it against the wadded ball but not pressing too hard, lest he crush the powder grains and make the gun misfire.

  Jonathan pulled out the rod and let it drop to the ground, only to remember that that was wrong. He bent over to pick it up, pointing the gun barrel down. To his horror the lead ball rolled out of the gun mouth onto the ground. Frantic, he snatched it up, hoping no one had seen what had happened. He flipped the ball back down into the gun.

  Again he bent over, this time making sure the gun kept pointing up. The ball stayed in. Grabbing the rod, he shoved it into the muzzle once more, pressing the load tightly. Then he pulled the rod out and placed it correctly in its socket.

  Holding the loaded gun before him, pointing it waveringly forward and up, he reached for his powder horn and brought it around. With his teeth, he edged off the cap. Trying not to put in too much or too little, he trickled fine firing grains into the priming pan beneath the hammer lock and flint.

  That done, he pushed the cap back on the horn and let it drop. Then he brought the gun upright with both hands.

  He was ready at last.

  2:40

  Sweating all over, hoping no one had seen his clumsy slowness, Jonathan glanced about. No one was looking at him. Guns ready, faces rigid, the men were staring down the road. Even as he watched, Jonathan saw one of the men stick out his tongue, lick his lips, then hastily wipe away the spittle. Another man kept clearing his throat. A third rubbed an irritated eye.

  Only then did Jonathan realize how much closer was the sound of fife and drum. He snapped his head about. At the end of the road, as it came out from behind the tall trees, soldiers were advancing.

  2:41

  Jonathan watched, spellbound, as the troops marched into view. Three by three they came, ten rows, thirty soldiers, all moving in lockstep, their legs lifting high and stiff.

  Though still at the bottom of the hill, the soldiers seemed enormous. Never had he seen such men. Giants.

  In the growing gloom of the darkening clouds their golden, pointed caps glowed brightly. Many wore great mustaches. Their jackets were blue with red cuffs and bright white buttons, their vests dark yellow. Their trousers, striped in red and white, met boots of crow-feather black. Each had a bayonet at his waist, a crossed white sash around his chest. And in his left hand each carried a tall flintlock gun.

  “Hessians,” the man next to Jonathan said. “Hessians.” The words filled the air with a dreadful weight.

  2:43

  Jonathan felt the men around him shift uneasily, sensing the fear that had settled over the group like a suffocating blanket.

  Hessians. The butchers of Long Island . . .

  “So many of them . . .” came a strained voice from right behind.

  Hessians. The mercenaries who killed for coin . . .

  “Shut up!” roared the Corporal, trying to keep his voice under control. “No talking. Stand your ground!”

  “Them’s grenadiers,” came another voice, unnaturally high. “See how big they are? Their match cases? See them? Do you see that boys? Grenadiers.”

  As Jonathan watched, the enemy troops continued to pace themselves to the beat of the drum. He couldn’t see the drummer or the player, but he knew they must be boys. Perhaps, he thought, they were younger than he. He wanted to see them, wanted them to be much younger.

  The Hessians continued to march.

  “Keep your lines!” the Corporal shouted. “Keep them!”

  The men lifted their guns and pointed them straight down the road at the oncoming soldiers.

  “Hold your fire till I tell you!” the Corporal shouted. “Don’t waste your shot. They’re still too far!”

  Jonathan could not take his eyes from the advancing troops. All of them had cleared the bend now, moving so steadily that Jonathan wondered if they saw that the road was blocked. But just as he had the thought, they came to a stop, and the smooth flow of their march broke with a clumsiness that momentarily eased Jonathan’s tension.

  On his horse, the Hessian officer cantered forward, looking up the hill at the Americans.

  Jonathan hefted his gun a little higher. He glanced behind. His father’s friend, his head glistening with sweat, was there.

  “Aim low!” the Corporal cried. “Or your shot’ll go high!”

  Jonathan looked at his own gun. At the moment it felt light. He stole a look at the men around him. He saw their fingers flex, grip, release, and grip again.

  “Where’s your goddamn Snydertown Committee, Corporal?” came a call. “Why don’t they come? Is there something we don’t know?”

  The Corporal, never taking his eyes from the Hessians, and keeping his back to his own men, said nothing. His horse, blowing out its breath, shifted nervously.

  Jonathan’s mouth felt hard and dry, his tongue thick. A bad taste was in his mouth. Whom could he ask for a drink? Who wouldn’t mind? He gazed about, trying to pick someone, thinking only that he was more thirsty than he had ever been in his life. But the men were all too fixed upon the road for him to ask. He did not dare to speak.

  Down the road the Hessians remained standing still. Only the officer on the horse was moving. Jonathan heard the sharp clop of its hooves. The officer’s large mustache was turned up at either end. He carried no gun, but there was a sword in his hand that flashed in the steel-gray light. He kept looking up the hill, craning his neck now this way, now that.

  Jonathan suddenly realized that he had never seen an enemy soldier before. He had seen Tories, but hateful as they were, they were only Americans. What he was seeing right before him were real enemies, foreign ones, the most awful ones, the cruel German-speaking kind.

  Down the road the Hessian officer waved his sword and shouted something to his men. The drum began to beat again. The fife played high, reedy notes. From behind Jonathan felt the wind cold against his neck. The gun, swaying, felt heavy.

  “Spread out a bit,” the Corporal ordered. “Don’t give so much target.”

  Everyone shifted.

  “When I give the call,” he continued, “the first line fires. Then the second moves on forward. You on the first line, you step back and load again. You get that? Two rounds a minute, boys, two!”

  Jonathan’s heart sank. Two rounds a minute. He couldn’t do it. He wished he’d practiced more.

  The tramp of the soldiers cut through his regrets. Jonathan turned. The Hessians, their red-and-white legs moving in high-stepping, winking unison, had begun once more to advance. Their guns rose beside their golden caps.

  The sight made Jonathan dizzy. He swayed. The gun felt heavier.

  “You are ready?” he heard close to his ear. Jonathan turned. It was the Frenchman. He was stan
ding next to him.

  Jonathan tried to answer, but found he had no voice. He nodded.

  “They are the big ones, certainly,” said the Frenchman.

  “Steady boys, keep steady!” the Corporal called, moving off to one side. “Remember, there’s a storm coming. If it rains, keep your pans covered and dry. Wait till we’ve got fifty yards between us, boys, fifty yards or less, fifty yards or less!”

  How far, Jonathan wondered, was fifty yards? How many feet was that? What spot would that be on the road? Would anyone tell him? Why didn’t anyone tell him anything? Don’t they know, he said to himself, that I’m the youngest here?

  His heart beat with every stroke of the drum; the soldiers advanced to the self-same sound. If his heart stopped beating, Jonathan wondered, would they stop too?

  Watching, he couldn’t believe how they came together, shoulder to shoulder, no one moving out of step, their legs lifting stiffly, perfectly.

  The Hessian officer shouted something.

  “What did he say?” asked one of the Americans.

  “Don’t know.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Ready!” cried the Corporal.

  Feeling the backs of his legs grow tight, Jonathan pulled his gun up. He tried to sight down along the muzzle, tried to remember to aim low, but was afraid to point down lest he lose the ball again. The gun lurched up, down, right and left. It took all his strength to keep it still. His back hurt. The Hessians kept coming closer. Should he aim at someone, he wondered? Who?

  He heard a click. The Frenchman had drawn back his flintlock. Jonathan pulled one of his hands away from his gun to do the same. The gun dipped dangerously. He grabbed the lock anyway, yanking back. It came with a snap.

  “Steady!” shouted the Corporal. “Steady!” Jonathan was sure the Corporal was shouting at him alone.

  He watched the blue coats, the crossed white sashes, the tall yellow caps. They were, he thought, no more than two hundred feet away. Why are they here? he asked himself. Why are they coming toward me? He felt his skin prickle. His stomach hurt.

  The Hessian officer shouted more words that Jonathan could not understand. Without warning, the Hessians began to shift, some to the right and some to the left, until as if by magic they were no longer three in a row but ten men to the line: an advancing wall.

  “Almost!” cried the Corporal.

  Again the Hessian officer shouted. Upon his command, the soldiers lowered their guns. Without missing a step they snapped their bayonets onto their guns, presenting the glistening blades directly at the Americans.

  Jonathan tried to swallow. He could not. His throat was too stiff, too dry. He was so thirsty.

  A sudden explosion burst from the American line. Someone had fired.

  The Corporal screamed a curse. His horse reared.

  Someone else fired.

  A wave of hysteria welled up inside Jonathan. His arms tensed. Without meaning to, he pulled the trigger. There was a flash and an explosion as the musket jerked against his body, spinning him halfway around.

  More guns fired. Explosions burst about his ears, the percussion punching him like unseen fists.

  “Out of my way!” someone screamed at him, roughly shoving him aside. Jonathan almost fell as another man pushed past him. More explosions, this time in front of him. Someone began to cry, “O Lord, O Lord.”

  Jonathan’s ears rang. His eyes were smarting. The air was thick with smoke, and stank.

  He knew that he had to reload and shoot again, but he stood where he was, confused. Why were things happening so quickly? It was unfair. The smoke got thicker. He could not see through it to understand what was happening. On all sides guns kept shooting. Sometimes they went off two at a time. Then came long, terrible empty pauses when nothing happened at all. Then orange flashes burst through the smoke again. Through it all, Jonathan heard the Corporal’s voice raging above the din: “In line! In line! In order, idiots! Damn all, in order!”

  The smoke shifted, briefly lifting. The Hessians moved closer yet, their lines unbroken, their bayonets thrust forward, their drum pounding, their fife screaming.

  2:50

  Jonathan plunged his hand into his cartridge case, took out a cartridge, and bit through the twisted paper end. Hurriedly he went through the loading steps, trying to think only of what he had to do, concentrating so hard his head hurt.

  When his gun was once more loaded, he lifted it. Drawing back the lock, he looked about, prepared to fire. But there he paused, bewildered, not sure which way to shoot. A roar of muskets came from one side, followed by another. The wind seemed to rise. Nearby came a loud, thick sound, a heavy “Huff!” as if someone had lost his breath. A weight fell against him, then tumbled to the ground. Jonathan stepped aside. His father’s friend lay upon the ground, his legs twisted under him, eyes open wide, arms flung to either side, his sweaty blouse red with blood.

  “In order! In order!” came the Corporal’s piercing cry.

  Jonathan knelt by the fallen man’s side.

  Another crash of gunfire came, followed by another.

  Jonathan put his hand to the man’s face, touching it with shaking fingers. The flesh was soft, wet, and warm.

  Jonathan reached for his gun. It wasn’t where he thought it was. Turning, he found it, but when he pulled at it, it wouldn’t come. His eyes followed its line. The gun was caught under someone’s twisting body—the Frenchman’s.

  Afraid to get closer, Jonathan’s first thought was to leave the gun. Just as quickly, he told himself that he had to get it, that it wasn’t his but borrowed, that he had to bring it back. It was his responsibility, his duty, his word.

  Twisting awkwardly, the Frenchman lurched up on his hands and knees. His head, hanging low, moved from side to side. Blood dripped to the ground.

  With a growing sense of horror, Jonathan took up the gun, then stood. The smoke had cleared from the road. The Hessian line was standing erect, guns high, aiming. As he watched, one of the Hessians dropped his gun and crumpled forward, his bright, golden cap hitting the ground and bouncing twice before it came to rest.

  The Corporal had a musket in his hands and was reloading. His lips were drawn back from his teeth.

  Jonathan searched for other Americans. They seemed to have gone. He whirled about. He saw them behind him, quickly backing away.

  A shout came from the Hessian lines. Jonathan turned again. The Hessians had lowered their guns. Their bayonets were thrust forward ready to charge. As Jonathan watched, they began to trot forward, directly toward where he stood.

  With a shock he realized that he was standing alone, and that the entire line of enemy troops was rushing at him and at no one else.

  He spun about and began to run.

  3:01

  Jonathan ran away from the road, tripping, sprawling, falling on his knees. In one motion he sprang up, using his gun as a staff, and twisted to look back. A rapid rattle of musket shots came from a completely unexpected place. He stood transfixed, feeling lost, incapable of deciding which way to go. Where had the others gone? Where was the Corporal? Why hadn’t they waited? Why hadn’t they taken him along?

  In his confusion, Jonathan turned a half circle, only to see three Hessian soldiers charging in his direction.

  “Halt!” came the cry.

  One of the soldiers stopped, lifted his gun, and fired. Jonathan saw the plume of flame, and heard the hard report. Whirling, he ran again.

  He ran in terror, straining every muscle, pumping his legs, his arms, not daring to look back. His only salvation was the protection of the woods—he plunged among the trees. Several times the heavy gun almost slipped from his hands. He clutched at it frantically, grabbing it back when it started to fall as if it were the linchpin that held what was left of him together.

  Shouts and shots pursued him from behind, branches and vines caught at him. His side ached terribly. His cartridge box and powder horn kept banging against his knees. Pulling them from around
his neck, he flung them away. His foot caught upon a root. He crashed down, seeing nothing but a blur of green, his breath blown, completely spent, leaving him without the strength to move at all.

  3:05

  He lay upon the ground telling himself that he had to get up. Yet he could not. Exhausted, he remained where he was. Gunshots crackled dimly in the distance. A whispering wind, carrying the echo of the fife, floated high. Then it all grew faint and fainter still until the only sounds were forest sounds. Soon they too drifted from his mind, leaving only silence.

  3:16

  In the immense silence all that Jonathan could hear was his own breath. It came at first in short, reaching gasps. As it slowed to normal, he felt a pain growing inside, a pain spreading through his body, pressing from within.

  He began to cry. The cry came at first in pieces, as if the cry itself had been shattered and existed only in fragmentary, jagged bits. But bit by bit the cry grew whole, taking over until every part of him cried.

  Deep, racking sobs came then, dry and hard. He felt a terrible loneliness. He did not know what he was or what would become of him. He did not know what to do, where to go. All he knew was pain.

  3:30

  Exhausted, Jonathan could cry no more. He rolled over onto his back and realized he was still holding the gun. Slowly, he let it go. But his fingers, as if frozen in memory, remained tightly cramped and clawed, shaped like a shell over what they no longer held.

  Lying on his back, Jonathan stared up at the overhanging trees, a laced and dark-green net. High above him the leaves constantly shifted, making a soft, hissing sound. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

  3:35

  Jonathan pushed himself to a sitting posture and looked about, wondering where he was. He tried to recall which direction he had come from, but could not. He pulled up his knees and, leaning forward, rested his chin on his arms. Tightly hugging himself, he rocked softly back and forth, sniffling.

  His sleeve was torn. There was a smear of blood on his shoe. He touched the spot, finding it still sticky. He wondered whose blood it was.

  “O God, O God, O God,” he whispered. He had failed in all he had meant to do.