The Fighting Ground Read online

  “Well, yes, alas, one person,” said the Frenchman. “And another hurt badly on the shoulder. As for myself . . .” He put his fingers to his head. “I am almost not here.”

  Jonathan looked around. By the light of the fire he could see the Corporal talking to some of the men. They were listening carefully. From time to time they looked over in his direction. He realized that the man who had gotten killed was his father’s friend. And at once he remembered him in the battle, his falling to the ground, the blood upon his blouse. That in turn reminded him of the boy’s parents. He had found them on the ground.

  Whose side, he asked himself, was he on?

  Then into his mind floated the hints made about the Corporal at the tavern, and during the march. “Do people trust him?” he asked the Frenchman.

  “Who is that?”

  “The Corporal.”

  The Frenchman sighed, swiveled around to look across the camp, then turned to consider Jonathan. He shook his head. “Perhaps you should ask them. It is not a matter of the liking. No.

  “Young friend, this Corporal is a man that is known as—well, how to say, a man who—fights. Bravely. When the fighting happens, yes, of course, he is what one wants. To be sure. But when the fighting stops, well, no, perhaps that is something that is different. Then, perhaps, you hope that he . . . that he is not there. Do you understand me?”

  “What will happen to the boy?” asked Jonathan.

  “Do not worry,” said the Frenchman. “I will take him to my house. I shall, perhaps, if possible, seek to find that brother of his, who is, after all, somewhere. But you see, I have to be careful. But we shall do the best we can. My wife and me. There is no fault in the boy. But you?” he said to Jonathan. “What will become of you?”

  Jonathan looked at the man, then looked down. His hand rested on the ground. It was cold. He did not have an answer.

  4:30

  Jonathan woke with a start. He had tried to keep awake, but it had been impossible.

  It was the Corporal who had woken him, bending over and shaking him gently. It took a moment for Jonathan to realize that he was being offered some more johnnycake.

  Taking it, he ate slowly, uncomfortable under the eyes of the Corporal.

  “You have had a bad time, haven’t you?” said the Corporal.

  Jonathan, hearing unexpected kindness in the voice, stopped eating and looked up, puzzled. By the firelight the man’s face was deeply lined and looked terribly tired. Jonathan was reminded of the old soldier. The Corporal’s green jacket, which had begun the day before in poor-enough condition, was now torn about the shoulder, exposing tattered lining. He no longer wore a hat. Jonathan wondered if he was as poor a man as he appeared.

  “How old are you?” asked the Corporal.

  “Thirteen.”

  “Listen to me,” he said.

  Jonathan looked up into the man’s face. He saw sadness there.

  “You did very well,” said the man.

  “Did I?”

  “The best you could. Want some more?” He offered more johnnycake.

  Jonathan shook his head.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ready to go?”

  Jonathan dropped his gaze to the ground.

  “Are you?”

  Jonathan, without looking up, shook his head. He whispered: “I don’t want to.”

  “You must.”

  “Why?”

  “Soldiers do what they’re told to do,” said the Corporal. His voice was almost soothing. “And you’re a soldier. You’re needed.”

  “What for?”

  “You’ll see.” The Corporal held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Jonathan took it, surprised at its hardness. He stood up and looked about. Most of the men were gathered in a group.

  “Where’s the boy?” asked Jonathan, suddenly feeling the absence of the child, who was no longer by his side.

  “The Frenchman took care of him. They’re gone.”

  “I want to go too.”

  The Corporal shook his head.

  “Please.” Jonathan wanted to look at the Corporal but found he could not. He looked instead into the near distance, at the knot of men. One of them had a torch. It was the one who had spoken with him and the Frenchman before he slept. All the others had muskets. They were waiting.

  The Corporal reached out, took Jonathan’s arm, and eased him forward. “It’s time to see this through,” he said in a lifeless tone.

  5:00

  The Corporal carried a musket in his right hand while his left rested on Jonathan’s shoulder. His touch was light, and there were moments when Jonathan wasn’t even sure if it was there. Still, he sensed that if at any moment he should try to flee, the hand would instantly hold him fast.

  Right behind them came the man with the torch. It was the only light they carried, and its flame was small, just enough for them to find their way. Jonathan felt as if he was walking deep into a cave.

  They went quietly and quickly, the Corporal setting a steady pace. The only sounds were their muffled steps, crackling twigs, rustling leaves.

  They reached the road. Overhead, the moon was bright. In the open sky there were few stars.

  The Corporal insisted that they move with haste lest the Hessians be gone. He wanted to arrive just at dawn. “But make sure your guns are ready now,” he commanded.

  It was done.

  “We going to hold them for ransom or exchange?” asked one of the men as they went.

  “We’ll see,” the Corporal replied.

  “Too bad none of us speak German,” said another.

  “What for?” came the retort. “Nothing to talk about.”

  “No more chatter,” said the Corporal sharply. “And stay together.”

  He took the lead, with Jonathan held close.

  5:30

  The Corporal held up his hand and stopped. The men crowded around.

  “It’s in there,” said the Corporal, speaking softly.

  “You sure?”

  “No question.”

  “How far?”

  “A few hundred yards along the path and we’ll reach their fields. No more than that.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  For the first time Jonathan felt the hand on his shoulder tighten. “Tell him,” the Corporal said.

  “It’s . . . it’s a small house,” Jonathan stammered.

  “Louder.”

  “A small house.”

  “Back door?”

  Jonathan hesitated.

  “Tell them,” the Corporal said.

  “No,” said Jonathan.

  “And they’re just sleeping in there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ducks in a pond.”

  The Corporal gave Jonathan a slight push.

  “This way,” he said.

  5:35

  The path they followed led them easily through the woods, taking them directly to the fence. There they stopped and looked across the field. The house stood in silhouette, small but distinct. The paper window let out a faint orange glow.

  “There it be,” said someone.

  “Sweet and easy.”

  “Quiet!” hissed the Corporal.

  They stood silently, staring across the empty field. An owl called twice. Jonathan could hear the breathing of the men, the slight, nervous shifting of their feet. He tried to see their faces. He wondered how they felt. Was he, he wondered, the only one who didn’t want to be there?

  He looked at the sky. A faint gray haze hung in the east.

  “We only need to cover the front door,” said the Corporal softly. “The boy says there’s no other way out. That’s my memory too. What we’ll do is this: move across the field in a line. Keep your muskets ready, aiming at that door. They just might be up and ready to fight.”

  “Can’t we just jump in?”

  “Too risky. For all I know they’re getting ready. We don’t know what we’ll find. The
boy can go right to the door, open it, and see what they’re doing.” He spoke as if Jonathan was not standing there. “So if they’re up,” he continued, “they won’t suspect anything.”

  “Tied him up, didn’t they?” put in someone.

  “Yeah. Maybe they’ve already seen he’s gone.”

  “They’re liable to suspect something.”

  “He said they got to trusting him,” said the Corporal. “Didn’t you?” he asked Jonathan.

  All eyes turned to Jonathan.

  “Didn’t you?” the Corporal repeated.

  Jonathan, realizing what he was being asked to do, nodded numbly.

  “Right,” said the Corporal. “Now, just walk easy. If something happens, get out of the way. If nothing, you can get right to the door and open it. See what you can see. But you don’t have to go farther. Just poke your head inside and find out if they’re sleeping or not. Then get out of the way, fast.”

  “Fast,” agreed an echoing voice.

  “Is that clear?” the Corporal asked Jonathan.

  Jonathan closed his eyes. He felt ill.

  “Is it?”

  He nodded.

  “Now,” said the Corporal briskly, “go on. Get to it. And be careful, you hear?”

  5:38

  Jonathan stood before the fence, desperately wanting not to go.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” said the Corporal. “Now.”

  “Go on, boy,” encouraged another. “It’ll be all right. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “Move,” said the Corporal, his voice tightening.

  Slowly, Jonathan climbed the fence and dropped to the other side. It was then that the Corporal reached across the top rail and for a moment held Jonathan’s arm.

  “Do exactly what I told you to do,” he said, “and you’ll be safe.”

  Jonathan remained where he was, unmoving.

  “You ran before,” said the Corporal to Jonathan. “Didn’t you?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  The Corporal’s voice was low. “Now all you have to do is let us know if they’re sleeping or not. That’s all.”

  Jonathan was afraid to look up.

  “Didn’t you hear him, boy?” called one of the men.

  “They didn’t hurt me,” said Jonathan, his voice small. “They didn’t—”

  “You wanted to come, didn’t you? Wanted to fight?” said the Corporal. “Answer me!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be all right” came an encouraging voice. “We’ll be watching.”

  Still Jonathan stood.

  Reaching across the fence again, the Corporal turned Jonathan so hard that the boy stumbled. All the same, he looked back. The men were watching him. The Corporal pointed toward the house. Jonathan remained where he was. “Please,” he said, appealing to the men. He knew he had tears on his face.

  The Corporal cocked the flintlock of his gun. A trickle of horror, like a finger sliding up his spine, came to Jonathan.

  “Do it,” said the Corporal, “now.”

  Slowly, Jonathan turned and began to walk toward the house.

  5:45

  When Jonathan had covered half the distance to the house, he stopped and looked back. The Americans were lined behind the fence, standing in a dark row like cemetery stones against the blue-gray sky. Their muskets were black staffs. Their eyes, possumlike, alone contained some faint light.

  He heard the cow shifting her weight by the shed. Again he looked at the Americans. The Corporal raised a hand and urged him on.

  Turning, Jonathan moved again toward the house.

  He stepped up on the porch. It gave a slight creak. At the door he put a hand to the latch. Again he looked back, paused, then pushed. The door swung open. He could see nothing. He took one more look behind him, then he walked inside.

  5:50

  The fire in the hearth was nothing more than a glow. The room smelled of burned wood. All he could hear was the breathing of the soldiers. They were fast asleep, exactly as he had left them: the young one on the bed, the tall one on the floor before the hearth, the old one in his corner, the rope still attached to his ankle.

  Nothing had changed. They had not noticed he had gone.

  Jonathan knew exactly what he was supposed to do next; turn around and return to the Corporal, tell him that the Hessians were still asleep.

  He gazed about the room again, sighed, then turned and moved toward the door. The old soldier murmured in his sleep. It was enough to make Jonathan stop and swing about once more. He stared at the sleeping man. His head was throbbing, the pain inside unbearable.

  Whose side was he on?

  Slowly, he reached out and lightly touched the door. It swung shut, leaving him inside.

  For a moment he just stood there, trying to understand what he had done.

  Then, with a quick move, he came to life. He leaned against the door and latched it. Hurriedly, he went to where the young soldier slept. Crouching down, he shook him.

  Groaning slightly, partly opening his eyes, the young soldier awoke for a moment, then dropped back to sleep.

  Jonathan shook his arm again, harder this time. Once more the Hessian opened his eyes, finally managing to focus on Jonathan. With an effort he pushed himself up on his elbow.

  “Was gibt’s?” he said, his voice crusted with sleep.

  “Soldiers,” said Jonathan in a strained whisper. “Americans . . . soldiers . . . Soldat!” he said, remembering the word the young soldier had taught him. “Soldat,” he repeated, pointing toward the door.

  “They’re right outside,” said Jonathan. Again he pointed. “They’ll kill you if you don’t give up. Soldiers. Soldat!”

  With sudden comprehension, the young soldier sat up, knocking Jonathan away so hard the boy fell backward.

  The Hessian looked about the room, his eyes wide. Then he jumped to his feet, moved to the door, and tried to open it. He fumbled with the latch, released it, opened the door, looked out, only to slam it shut.

  “Auf! Auf!” he cried, moving from one soldier to the other. “Angriff! Angriff!”

  The two pushed themselves up and stared stupidly at him.

  “Die Amerikaner! Sie sind draussen!” the young soldier shouted.

  As if to echo what he said, a volley of shots smashed up against the wood house like a host of hammers.

  The two other Hessians leaped to their feet. Casting aside furniture that lay in their paths, they rushed for their guns.

  Jonathan, crouching on the floor to one side, looked on in terror.

  A second round of shots slammed against the house. One ball split the paper window and struck against the hearth with a hard, shattering crack. A chunk of stone fell to the floor.

  “Surrender!” came a voice from outside. It was the Corporal’s voice. “You’re surrounded. Give yourselves up. Your lives will be spared.”

  The Hessians, completely disheveled, unbuttoned, bootless, listened intently. They stood in the middle of the room, guns in their hands, with looks of utter stupefaction on their faces.

  “Surrender or be killed!” came the Corporal’s voice again.

  Jonathan listened, horrified. The Corporal knew the Hessians understood no English—Jonathan had told him.

  It was the old soldier who finally reacted. Leaping for his knapsack, he ripped out his cartridge case and powder, loaded his gun, and thrust on his bayonet. The rope—the rope to which Jonathan had been tied—remained tied to his ankle and flayed about like a writhing snake.

  The other Hessians frantically prepared their guns. As they did, the old soldier edged forward, the rope trailing, and yanked open the door, then leaped to one side.

  Rapidly, he spoke to the others, a flood of words to which the other two blankly nodded. While he spoke, the old soldier kept checking his gun, making sure it was ready.

  Jonathan, realizing that they were going to attempt to fight their way out, began to shout: “They’ll kill you if you try. They will. Just give up. Giv
e up!”

  At the sound of his voice, the old soldier spun about, took two long steps across the room, and made a grab for Jonathan. Jonathan tried to dodge away, scrambling toward the door on his hands and knees. The Hessian snatched at him, missed, grabbed again. Catching Jonathan’s foot, he dragged him back and whipped him upright. With an iron grip his arm instantly went around Jonathan’s neck as he yanked him up against his body like a shield.

  Jonathan, gasping for breath, writhed and clawed at the Hessian’s arm, while the old soldier shouted orders to his companions.

  Twisting wildly, attempting to turn and kick, even to bite the soldier’s arm, Jonathan kept trying to free himself. In response, the old soldier brought his knee sharply up against the small of his back. The pain was intense, and his struggle faltered. The old soldier held him closer yet.

  The young soldier cried out: “Lass ihn los! Lass ihn los!”

  The old soldier barked an answer. The young one stood still, his chest heaving, rubbing a hand over his sweaty forehead, through his hair, around his mouth. He nodded.

  Again the old soldier spoke sharply.

  Jonathan, realizing he could not free himself, called out, “Don’t do it. Give up. They’ll kill you!”

  The old soldier responded by tightening his grip around his neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

  “Fertig?” whispered the old soldier to the others.

  They nodded.

  The old soldier, one arm around the boy, the other hand gripping his gun, inched toward the door. The two others pressed close behind.

  They reached the doorway. Jonathan could see out. Fifty feet in front of the house the Americans were standing in a semicircle, guns to their shoulders, aiming at the doorway.

  “Los!” grunted the old soldier and stepped into the doorway. Jonathan twitched spasmodically. The grip around his neck tightened. He was choking.

  In a knot of tangled arms, legs, and muskets, the four of them wedged into the doorframe. Searching for his footing, Jonathan looked at the Americans—their guns ready. The Hessian pressed him from behind. They edged out to the porch and stood on the top step.

  In a last, desperate effort, Jonathan twisted violently, butting his head into the old soldier’s chest. For an instant the Hessian lost his grip. Jonathan wildly struck out with his arms. The soldier teetered at the top of the porch and released Jonathan. Instantly, Jonathan pulled away and, dropping low, dove back into the house.