The Fighting Ground Read online

  The boy remained immobile.

  “I need to know,” demanded Jonathan, feeling the dread of coming upon an awful truth. “Do you recognize them?”

  Again he looked back at the old soldier, recalling—with an avalanche of associations—all the stories he had heard about Hessian brutality. He saw the Hessians again as they were on the road, at the fighting place. He saw too his father’s friend, dead. He could see the Frenchman with his shaking, bleeding head. To the boy he said, “They were the ones, weren’t they?”

  “Komm!” shouted the soldier angrily. The sharp command felt like the cut of a whip stroke.

  “Come with me,” Jonathan said to the boy.

  Taking the boy by the hand, he followed the old soldier back to the house.

  7:00

  The young soldier was lying on the bed, his arms thrown over his eyes, his bootless feet dangling over one end. The tall soldier was sitting near the fire, which he had managed to light, his head nodding as he tried to fend off sleep. The old one, who had entered ahead of Jonathan, had taken his place at the table and had already started to work on his pipe, trying to light it. The pipe was like a toy in his large hands.

  Jonathan, the boy at his side, stood by the door and looked in. He could feel the press of his rising anger. The soldiers’ callousness gave more and more strength to his conviction that they had been party to the killing. But even as he believed it, he did not want to believe it. He wanted, yearningly, to give them a chance to prove him wrong.

  “They need to be buried,” he said out loud.

  None of the soldiers paid any attention. The old soldier puffed a cloud of smoke.

  Jonathan went to where the young soldier lay.

  “They need to be buried,” he repeated. “I can’t do it alone.”

  When the young soldier gave no response, Jonathan put out a hand and tentatively shook the man’s arm. The Hessian swatted at him and rolled over so that his back was to Jonathan.

  Hurt by the rebuff, Jonathan turned around. The tall soldier was now stretched out full length, asleep. Only the old soldier was awake.

  For a long while Jonathan stood there, trying to calm his thoughts, which pulled him first one way, then another.

  “Did you do it?” he suddenly blurted out.

  The old soldier puffed his pipe. Behind the smoke the expression on his face seemed lost, vague, absent.

  Seething, Jonathan turned abruptly and grabbed the shovel that was by the door. He held it up so the soldier would see it.

  “I’m going to bury them,” he said.

  For a moment the old soldier’s eyes looked up, but then became indifferent again. Jonathan took the boy’s hand and returned to where the bodies lay.

  The boy watched intently. But whether he understood what was about to happen, Jonathan could not tell.

  Jonathan began to dig alongside the couple, as if he were trying to burst the ground open. The thickly knotted roots and the dull shovel blade conspired against him. Enraged, he chopped into the earth. Then, desperately trying to control himself, he recollected how he had worked his father’s fields. Pressing his foot against the top of the shovel, he flung his full weight down onto it, forcing the blade into the earth. He dug more and more furiously as the ground began to give way.

  And the little boy watched.

  7:35

  Jonathan dug until he could not dig anymore. Yet he knew the grave was too narrow and not nearly deep enough. The boy, his head resting on his mother’s hair, had fallen asleep.

  Jonathan knew he had to get help. He was exhausted and covered with a damp, unclean sweat. He could do no more. He returned to the house, shovel in hand, his fury unspent.

  In the house it was as before: Only the old one was awake. He was sitting with his big feet up on the table. Crumbs from the loaf of bread were before him. The cup lay in a small pool of blue-white milk. The bucket was almost empty.

  “I need some help,” Jonathan said brusquely. He held up the shovel.

  Gradually, the soldier lifted his head and stared at Jonathan. His face took Jonathan by surprise. He hadn’t fully realized until then how old the man was. It was as if the fierce mustache was a disguise. Now he saw that much of his hair was gray, and the day-old stubble of whitish beard on his face made him seem older yet. His eyes were tired.

  “I can’t do it myself,” said Jonathan, suddenly feeling defeated. “I need help,” he repeated, pleading.

  Slowly, stiffly, the man got up and went over to where the young soldier was sleeping. He shook him hard and spoke sharply.

  The young soldier sat up, looking first at the old soldier and then at Jonathan. Again the old soldier spoke. To Jonathan, it sounded as if he was giving commands.

  Sullenly, the young soldier swung about, groped for his boots, and pulled them on.

  Jonathan, shovel in hand, stood by the door, waiting.

  Staggering slightly from sleepiness, the young soldier came to the door, looked out, and saw that it had become dark. He went back to catch up a burning brand from the fire.

  Torch held high, the Hessian followed Jonathan. It wasn’t a bright flame, only a feeble, orange light, fussing and spitting in the damp air. It seemed to make the darkness darker.

  7:40

  Jonathan led the way. He found the boy where he had left him, asleep beside his parents.

  The young soldier stopped and looked at what Jonathan had done. Speaking sharply, with obvious disgust, he thrust the burning stick into Jonathan’s hand and snatched up the shovel. Jonathan, terrified for a moment that the soldier was going to strike him, jumped back.

  But the young soldier only stood in the shallow grave and began to dig hurriedly, throwing out the dirt while talking in muttering tones to himself, and giving Jonathan angry looks. Jonathan’s own anger returned. He stood stonily by. When the young soldier tired—which was soon—he flipped the shovel to Jonathan and climbed out.

  Jonathan let himself down into the grave and began to dig again, but the young soldier impatiently jumped back in, took back the shovel, and fairly flung Jonathan out of the way.

  “Das genügt,” the Hessian finally said with a dusting of his hands. Throwing the shovel out, he hauled himself up.

  Jonathan went to the boy and gently tried to rouse him. At first he would not waken, until, with a jerk of his head, he sat up, shying from Jonathan’s touch. The boy’s eyes moved from him to the young soldier and widened. Jonathan looked around. The young soldier was holding the burning stick high, making the shadows on his face long and severe, as if his head had been stretched. Jonathan saw him in a new way—powerful and evil.

  The Hessian stuck the stick into the ground so that it stood like a candle. Then he went to the man’s feet. “Halt ihn fest,” he said curtly to Jonathan.

  Jonathan went to the man’s arms. After a moment’s hesitation, he braced himself and gripped the man’s wrists. The skin was cold and stiff. The boy, sitting on the ground, watched, wide-eyed.

  First they turned the man into the grave. Then they moved the woman. She rolled in, landing upon the man on her back. For the first time Jonathan saw her face. Her mouth was open, her eyes closed, her sallow face smeared with dirt. Her teeth were large and crooked, eyeteeth missing. Her bloodless lips were drawn back, and Jonathan could see her tongue. It was black.

  “Los, beeil dich!” the young soldier commanded. He reached down and grabbed a handful of dirt, which he tossed onto the couple. Then he pointed at Jonathan and made hurried motions with his hand.

  Jonathan reluctantly picked up the shovel. Taking earth from the pile that had been made, he began to cover the bodies. When the dirt hit the woman’s face and went into her open mouth, he stopped, trying to catch his breath. Then he turned and retched.

  Trembling, he turned back to the grave. The young soldier grabbed the shovel from him and flung in the rest of the dirt. Jonathan stood aside, ashamed.

  When the grave was filled, the young soldier tossed the shovel aside
and then pointed to the watching boy, making a rising gesture with his hand.

  Jonathan crossed over and pulled the boy to his feet. This time the boy came willingly and stood close by. But when Jonathan tried to take his hand, he snatched it away and made a fist. Jonathan fought back his tears. It was for his own sake he wished to hold the boy’s hand.

  The young soldier closed two of his jacket buttons and touched his thin mustache as if to straighten it, an imitation of the gesture Jonathan had seen the old soldier make many times. Then, standing a little straighter, the soldier began to speak. Because of the singsong cadence, Jonathan sensed it was a prayer and wished he knew its meaning.

  Finishing quickly—all too quickly in Jonathan’s judgment—the young soldier wiped his hands on his jacket, then, picking up the torch, made a motion to Jonathan that they were to return to the house. Jonathan looked over his shoulder. He could see the glowing oil-paper window.

  When he bent over to pick up the boy, the boy resisted. But this time Jonathan clung to him, knowing that he needed to hold the child. The young soldier started off. Jonathan followed, feeling the soft, steady, and comforting breath of the boy against his neck.

  8:15

  Once in the house, Jonathan set the boy on the floor. The young soldier went straight to where he had been before, pulled off his boots, and lay down. Within moments he was asleep.

  The tall soldier sprawled before the fire, his long body stretched full length, his head cradled in one arm. His other, fisted hand was pressed against his mouth like a child’s. Occasionally, he snored.

  The old soldier remained awake. Sitting on the ground, he had wedged himself into a corner, pipe in hand. From it a thin line of smoke rose. He seemed to deliberately avoid looking at Jonathan or the boy.

  Jonathan looked at the soldiers, feeling miserable and bitter. Then he poured out the last cup of milk and gave it to the boy, who, holding the cup in two hands, drained it slowly. When he was done, he gave the cup back, then gazed about as if in search of something. After a moment he pointed across the room and tugged at Jonathan’s leg. At first Jonathan wasn’t sure what he wanted. Then he saw that there was a long, boxlike object under the young soldier’s bed.

  Jonathan pulled it out. The box contained a linen sack filled with straw. There was also a blanket. It was the boy’s bed.

  The boy helped him drag it along the floor, guiding it until it sat directly under the table. The boy got in. Turning on his side, he pulled the blanket up and simply lay there, staring at the side of the box.

  Jonathan watched. Then he reached in and briefly touched the nape of the boy’s neck, where the hair was soft. The boy shifted slightly, then lay still.

  Jonathan stood up. Once again he glanced about the room, his eyes meeting the old soldier’s. The Hessian beckoned to him. As Jonathan nervously approached him, he realized that the Hessian was holding the rope. As soon as Jonathan was close enough, the Hessian leaned forward and quickly tied the rope around Jonathan’s ankle, then tied a tight knot. Jonathan saw that the other end of the rope was fastened to the soldier’s ankle.

  The old soldier shifted about and smoked his pipe indifferently.

  Jonathan suddenly felt his own weariness. He sat down as far away from the Hessian as the rope would allow, and with his back to him.

  He looked down at the rope, which pinched tightly. In a glance he saw that it was a knot he could untie.

  He felt his heart begin to beat rapidly.

  He quickly glanced about the room. The old soldier’s head was now bent back against the wall, his chest moving with the deep rhythm of sleep. His mouth was slightly agape. From his hand the pipe dangled and then fell, spilling sparks of red ash so that for a moment the earth floor glowed like a deep, star-filled sky.

  Jonathan studied the other sleeping men. He swung about on his knees and saw the boy, who was also asleep.

  Keeping an eye on the old soldier, Jonathan tentatively plucked at the rope that held him. Then, working with increasing sureness, he looked down and used both hands. The knot fell open.

  Jonathan stood up, listening to the night sounds—peepers, an owl. The scurrying of something on the roof above. He remained motionless, as if waiting for something to happen.

  Gradually, it came to him that he could do anything, anything he chose to do. The soldiers, all asleep, were powerless. He could, he knew, simply walk away and be free. He could stay and be their prisoner. Or—he realized with a quickening sense of dread—he could do what any true soldier would do. He could kill them.

  8:45

  “Do it,” he whispered to himself. “Do it. . . .” His eyes searched the room for the muskets. He found them in a corner, neatly stacked, the Hessians’ caps nearby.

  Caught between the hatred he felt toward the soldiers and his fear, he remained unmoving. “Do it,” his own voice told himself. “Do what soldiers do . . . pick up the gun . . . make them pay for what they’ve done. . . .”

  He forced himself to look at the old soldier. “He’s cruel,” he told himself, “a murderer . . . an enemy.”

  Silently, Jonathan moved across the room and picked up his own gun. Remembering how wet it had gotten, he set it back down and picked up one of the Hessians’ guns. It lay across his hands. “Do it,” he heard himself say yet again. “It’s your duty.”

  Near the guns lay the cartridge pouches. Jonathan removed one cartridge.

  Carefully, his fingers trembling, he went through the loading steps. This time, he did it right. The tearing of the cartridge. The pouring in of the powder. Wadding the ball. Stuffing it into the muzzle. Setting the firing grains in the pan . . . until it was all set.

  Moving as quietly as he could, he went to the door and opened it. Gun in hand, he went out onto the porch and looked back in. He knew he would have but one shot, one shot and then he would run.

  One shot.

  Taking a deep breath, he drew back the flintlock and lifted the gun, then positioned himself in the doorway, one foot in, one foot out. His body began to tremble as he aimed the gun directly at the old soldier. He swallowed hard. He closed his eyes.

  For a moment he saw and heard the fighting as it had been on the road. He opened his eyes and looked at the old soldier. His teeth clenched. He could feel tears on his face.

  “Do it!”

  He tried to pull the trigger. His fingers would not move. He could not shoot.

  Jonathan slowly let the weight of the gun carry the muzzle down.

  Swept by shame, he crept back into the house and, afraid he’d be found out, quietly unloaded the gun and put it back where it had been. All the while he kept wiping tears from his face with his fingers. Then, on unsteady legs, he went outside, threw himself on the ground and looked up at the sky.

  9:00

  The crisp night air had cut away the mist. Overhead, stars had spread into a fancy, motelike glitter. Jonathan inhaled deeply, filling his chest with bright, biting air.

  As he lay there, he saw himself as he had been that morning, listening to the tavern bell. The bell! He could feel himself—see himself—so eager to go to battle, to be a hero, to destroy the enemy. It seemed such a long time ago!

  Despair choked him. Why, he asked himself, had he done so little? What was the matter with him? Why hadn’t he been able to act?

  Groping, he sought some way out, something to do that might redeem him.

  It was then that he remembered the Corporal. He had seen him on the road. He was convinced of that. Perhaps he was close by, after all, looking for him. If he was, maybe he could find him.

  Jonathan sat up.

  He would tell the Corporal where the Hessians were. The Corporal would act for him.

  9:15

  Jonathan crept back into the house. After the cool outside air, the room was hot and smoky. The old soldier was now sprawled on the floor, fast asleep. The other soldiers had not moved.

  The fire, though much lower, still gave Jonathan enough light to see by. By the table he
studied the sleeping boy. He realized he could not leave him.

  Jonathan went to the door, pulled it open, and returned to the table.

  On hands and knees he drew the boy’s sleeping box out, making a scratching sound. The young soldier shifted. Jonathan froze. When he was certain he was safe, he slipped his arms beneath the boy and gathered him up. The boy partially opened his eyes, only to close them again when he saw that it was Jonathan.

  Jonathan wrapped his arms around him and pressed him to his shoulder. The boy seemed heavier than before.

  At the door Jonathan stopped and looked about, sensing he had forgotten something. His gun. For a moment he considered taking it, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to carry both the boy and the gun. Besides, it was too wet to be used. He turned and walked out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

  9:30

  Grateful for the moonlight, Jonathan walked a short distance from the house, holding the boy as best he could. His feet made hardly a sound. He had only the vaguest sense that he was crossing the field in the right direction. More than once he stopped, trying to find the direction from which he had come earlier in the day.

  That was his only plan—to find the road. Once he found it, he would walk north. Sooner or later he was certain he would come to a place he’d recognize. From there he would somehow find the Corporal.

  He shifted the boy on his shoulder. Unlike the first, brief time he had carried him, this time the boy did not hold on. Jonathan knew he would not be able to carry him for all the miles he needed to go. But he had to go much farther before he could take a rest.

  He looked back. The soft glow of the paper window in the house was nothing more than a spot of gold.

  Once more he adjusted his grip on the boy, then he continued to move across the dark field.

  9:45

  Jonathan bumped against the wooden fence. It took him by surprise, but he felt great relief. The first part of his escape was done. He was safely away and they hadn’t noticed that he and the boy were gone.

  It was difficult to get over the fence. With the boy in his arms he could not climb it. He had to lift him, put him over the rails, then lay him on the ground. It strained his arms, but he did it. The boy didn’t wake.