To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (21 page)

“It’s not the Sabbath, is it?” Putnam asked, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“Sabbath?”

“Sunday? No, I don’t think so,” Tom finally replied woodenly. “Monday, or is it Tuesday?”

“Damned if I know.”

Nothing more was said for another mile. The buildings were now closer together, some warehouses lining the river to their left. They were well into the city.

“Putnam. You Putnam?”

Five men were standing on a street corner in front of a warehouse, its doors open, the interior dark and empty.

Putnam slowed and looked over.

“I am.”

The group laughed.

“Looking for your Congress, are you?”

Putnam bristled.

Tom recognized one of the group, Elijah Bellows, an outspoken Tory. “Don’t bother,” he whispered.

The five stood silent, grinning.

“Go on then, damn you. What do you have to say?” Putnam snapped.

“Better ride quick, general, if you want to catch them,” Bellows finally announced. “They’re running like rats jumping off a plague ship. And that’s what I say now——a plague on them, you, and all damn rebels.”

“Damn your eyes,” Putnam snapped and started toward them. They backed up, laughing, into the darkness of the warehouse.

“Don’t,” Tom snapped, as Putnam moved to follow them. “A damn stupid way to get yourself killed.”

Putnam looked back at him, eyes blazing.

Tom could see the setup even if Putnam could not. Once into the building they’d be taken from behind, most likely by a dozen more waiting within, and Putnam’s horse could fetch a fair price. He had left his musket behind in Trenton, the only weapon on him a small knife tucked into his belt.

Putnam was ready to wade in, and Tom reached out, grabbing the horse’s reins.

Bellows stood in the open doorway. “Come on, you damn coward. All you rebels are nothing but damned cowards.”

“Make your report and then find them afterward,” Tom hissed. Putnam, aging features red with rage, yanked the reins away from Tom and turned his mount to ride on.

The knot of laughing men taunted them to come back. Putnam, shoulders back, face twisted with rage, rode on; Tom looked back warily to see if they might follow.

“God damn them,” Putnam hissed. “To give my back to the likes of them.”

“We’d both be dead,” Tom replied. “It’s the way of things sometimes.”

He had long ago lost count of the times he had turned his back and fled. Fled from the son of the local squire long ago, who along with his friends had waylaid him, beat him senseless for the fun of it. A complaint filed with the sheriff, would have been greeted with a laugh: “his lordship’s son was just feeling his oats.” Fled from the gangs that stalked the streets of London. More than once he had awakened in a gutter, not sure that he was lucky to be alive.

He had spent most of his life running, had in a way run clear across the broad ocean to this place, and now he was running again.

He thought of the pages in his pack. “He that stands it now . . .”

He had learned long ago how to survive by running. But now? When do we stop running?

They were near to the center of town and as they turned onto Market Street, Tom realized they presented a pathetic sight. Two veterans returning from the wars, covered with mud and fresh horse droppings thrown by Bellows and his rum-fed crowd. Putnam was at least wearing a semblance of a uniform, but Thomas Paine, soldier from Philadelphia, was returning in borrowed boots that did not fit, the soles of both all but gone, bare knees sticking out of trousers that had gone from white to filthy gray, and a black, threadbare blanket wrapped around his slumped shoulders. His tricornered hat was another joke. A few years back they would have been taken for some bizarre beggars or escapees from a Bedlam riding into town to beg or steal.

And then they turned the corner onto Market Street. They could hear before they got there the buzz of a crowd, not someone rousing the rabble with a speech or a ceremony, just a random noise that echoed, rising and falling, shouting, arguing, laughing, cursing. In the open plaza before the statehouse, where Congress gathered, a large crowd was milling about. Within seconds he knew the rumor that Putnam had been sent to evaluate and the gossip shared by the boy at the tavern was true. Congress was preparing to abandon the capital of the Revolution.

A wagon, stacked high with boxes of papers, rolled past, followed by another, and then a carriage, well appointed, drawn by a matched team, curtains within drawn shut. Someone picked up a fresh horse dropping and hurled it.

“Bloody cowards!”

The crowd lining the street roared its approval and joined in the fun, pelting the wagon with filth. Others cursed. Many stood sullen, silent. Only a few seemed distraught, heads lowered in shame.

Another wagon passed, this one with a couple of street urchins hanging on the back. They knew their business well, one diverting the soldier who was sitting atop small bales of papers, while the other grabbed one and jumped off. Half a dozen boys fell in about the
thief, and laughing, they tore the package open. It contained continentals, five-dollar bills, and the boys started to pocket their find, a crowd swarming around. But this was not a mob falling on a rich man’s purse dropped in the street, ready to tear each other apart for the guineas waiting to be taken by the strongest. It was more of a lark——money being tossed in the air, snatched by some, trampled by others——more than a few making obscene comments about what they intended to do with the paper.

Paine watched in silence. When the army had been paid last month at Fort Lee, just before it fell, men had lined up in a freezing rain to draw their ten dollars continental——pay for a month of agony, of brutality, of facing death——and now it was merely worthless paper lying in the street.

As they rode the few yards to the hall that had been the home of the grandly named Congress of the United States of America, Tom looked about at the disorganized, milling crowd. He recognized more than a few, clerks, dockyard workers, day laborers. Men he had first met and drunk with upon arriving in this city. A few merchants with cloaks drawn tight, as if not wanting to be recognized, were scurrying about on business. Lawyers dressed in finery who had pressed their cases and causes while a hundred miles away an army was bleeding to death. He noticed a few of his former comrades from the Associators with whom he had marched months before. None were in uniform, which had been shucked when the entire regiment deserted. Some stood silent; more than a few were gathered with obvious knots of Tories enjoying the spectacle of the rabble fleeing the city.

In the heady months after the publication of
Common Sense
he had been the toast of this town. For the first time in his life he actually owned a well-made coat of fine broadcloth, proper stockings, even shoes with pewter buckles, and a wig. Dr. Rush had insisted that he have at least some semblance of respectability, especially when asked to dine with the likes of Jefferson, Adams, and others to discuss the issues of the day.

After
Common Sense
was printed, how life had changed, at least in that springtime when the city was aswarm with troops from the southlands, and members of the Continental Congress debated in the statehouse, debated on street corners, and at night boasted in taverns as all quoted Paine and cried for independence.

Hats had been doffed to him as he walked the streets that remarkable spring, as a rebellion for the rights of Englishmen became instead a war for independence. More than a few said it was his pamphlet that had shifted the thinking of so many.

Then he could barely walk a block without handshakes and, whenever he wished, free drinks in any of the taverns in town, and not just the swill he had drowned himself in in London. Instead there were the finest wines, or the raw hot drink of this new land, whiskey made from corn, and sometimes dark-colored rums.

Now, as he rode in worn clothing up Market Street, no one noticed him. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, actually a matted beard now, his face chilblained and sore. He had lost weight, perhaps a stone or more. He was just another scarecrow soldier drifting back from the war.

“I’m not sure where to report,” Putnam grumbled as they reined in before the city meeting hall, some stragglers dragging out more boxes of documents, more paper. Amazing how much paper they have, Tom thought, as he watched them heaving it aboard a wagon.

The wind was picking up, turning colder, the spectators beginning to disperse. The militia guard surrounding the building were relaxed, leaning on muskets, some sitting on the steps, others gathered around a small bonfire in the street, trying to warm themselves. The scene had the feel of an ending of things, not with a spectacular roaring explosion of a mob storming the building, fighting in the streets, a defiant stand, but a sputtering out, a dying away, a movement dying, and few seemed to care.

Such a contrast, he thought bitterly. But forty miles north of here Washington was struggling to get his army across the river to safety
after a grueling two and a half weeks of fighting withdrawal across Jersey. For all he knew, at this minute the army might be pinned with its back to the river, dying. Here Congress was running, the once cheering crowds silent, more than a few slipping home to find a concealed Union Jack, ready to hoist it in surrender or even celebration, when Cornwallis’s columns marched into town, which surely all expected.

Barricaded street by street this city could hold off entire armies, but obviously none of these had the stomach for that. All he could feel was disgust.

Putnam dismounted, tethered his horse, and looked up at the meeting hall.

“Get it done, Paine. Lord knows, we need the power of your words at a time like this. But first of all, for God’s sake, get something to eat,” he sighed, then without another word started up the steps. No one among the guards bothered to offer a salute as the general passed by.

Paine turned his weary old mount, kicking its ribs hard to get it to move, and the animal plodded along. He rode another block, the world hazy, red-rimmed it seemed. When he stopped, the building in front of him was familiar. There was even a warm memory to it.

MCKINNEY & SONS
the sign read above the door,
PRINTER AND PURVEYOR OF FINE BOOKS
. Like all the shops this day, its windows were shuttered. It took a moment to work up the strength to stand in the saddle, swing a leg over and dismount.

He tried the door. It was locked, and he pounded on it. No answer, and he pounded again and again.

He heard the bolt thrown back, and a face peeked out.

“And what do you want?”

“I have something for you,” Tom said softly, throat so dry he felt as if it would crack apart when he spoke.

“Go away.” McKinney started to close the door.

Tom put his foot in, blocking him. “I’m Paine.”

McKinney’s eyes widened. “The devil you say!”

More than a bit startled, the printer opened the door, looking about nervously as Tom shuffled in.

The smells that greeted him gave him a thrill. The smell of paper, of ink, raised a memory of another world.

McKinney closed the door and stepped away from Tom.

“My God, man, you look near dead.”

“Could I have something to drink?”

McKinney hesitated, nodded. Not bothering to offer Tom a place to sit, he went into a back room and returned with a tepid cup of coffee. Tom drank it down, the brew rousing him slightly but leaving him feeling nauseous.

“Now best be on your way,” McKinney announced. “I have no work for you, Thomas.”

Tom shook his head and struggled to slip off his backpack. Untying the leather bindings, he drew out the rolled-up oilskin, untied the string holding it tight, and handed it to McKinney.

“Just take a moment,” Tom asked.

McKinney went over to a table and unrolled the papers, picking up the first sheet. Adjusting his spectacles he scanned the page, and then shook his head.

“You think me daft?” McKinney announced.

“What?”

“To print this now?”

Tom could not reply.

“You’re back from the war, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t know what it is like here. Word is the British will come marching up Market Street by tomorrow.”

“They’re a week or more away.”

“Oh really?” McKinney replied with a rueful laugh. “I heard that not an hour ago from a clerk from Congress. Put this on my press as they come marching in, and both of us will be dancing at the end of a rope.”

“They’re a week away.”

“The army is gone, Paine. Finished.”

“That’s a damn lie. I was just with them this time yesterday.”

“A lot’s happened since yesterday, Paine.”

“I can see that,” Tom replied bitterly. “A lot since the last time I saw you.”

McKinney tried to hold his gaze and then lowered his eyes.

“Thomas, my advice to you: Burn this devil’s tract.” He gestured toward the fireplace with the pages as if ready to do the deed.

Thomas leapt forward and snatched them from McKinney and stuffed them into his pack, not bothering to roll them up.

“Listen to me, Thomas. It is over. Leave now. They will hang you, you know that?”

“Let them try.”

McKinney sadly shook his head.

“Leave, follow the damn fools to Baltimore if you must. Or just go west, where they can’t find you. There’ll be a price on your head. Take my advice.”

“So you won’t print it?”

McKinney laughed. “Even if I could, I can’t. Paper is not to be found unless you have the money.”

“So that’s it?” Thomas retorted. “You’re afraid to print it, but if the price is right and I bring paper?”

“If I’m still here,” McKinney replied. “I printed that last pamphlet of yours, so they have my name, too.”

“Just crawl out when they do come and beg the king’s pardon,” Tom replied bitterly, “Hell, you might make money printing up pardons for them. They’ll sell well.”

The printer stood silent, and Tom went for the door.

“Paine.”

Tom turned and looked back. McKinney was reaching into his vest pocket. He drew out a couple of shillings and came over, trying to put them in Tom’s hand.