To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (42 page)

The sergeant winked. “Well, lads, be quick about it, and do as the boy says.”

The three rushed toward the row of boots.

“Damn you, don’t touch them!” Jonathan’s father cried.

“Father!”

The old man turned, eyes blazing.

“Father, look at my feet,” Jonathan whispered.

His father lowered his gaze, and he stood as if struck, than turned away.

“Take the boots. Take anything you want,” Jonathan said again.

Several more came in, the sergeant joining them. In less than a minute a dozen or more were swarming through the small store, clearing the shelves.

“There’s food in the kitchen,” Jonathan announced.

The men needed no urging, flooding down the narrow corridor, loud shouts of delight echoing.

His mother stood pressed up against the side of the door, unable to speak, gazing in horror at the ragged, ill-smelling scarecrows pushing past her.

“Not as neat as your Hessian friends, are they?” Peter asked, addressing his words to Allen.

“I never said I liked their company.”

“But you did keep company with them.”

Allen nodded.

“We all took the king’s offer of pardon. Reverend White suggested that those of us who joined the Loyalists would find far better treatment now that the war is all but over.”

“The same reverend who urged us to fight six months ago, no less.” Peter sighed, shaking his head.

Allen smiled sadly and nodded. “Then he was your preacher. Now he is their preacher.

“Since I know German, they made me an adjutant and liaison.”

“Nice comfortable post, isn’t it?” Peter snapped.

“I used to be able to cuff you down with one blow,” Allen replied, features turning red.

“I wouldn’t suggest it now,” Peter retorted.

Allen looked into his eyes and then seemed to sag.

“Remember, it was you who gave me that copy of Paine’s first pamphlet,” Jonathan added.

“Curse the day.”

“I remember you saying he, in fact, did make some sense.”

“Jonathan, that was nearly a year ago. Before the king sent his fleets, his armies, before thousands died. And you want it to continue?”

“I want it to end. But I doubt if we’ll ever be brothers again,” Jonathan whispered.

“I’ll not hear any more of this,” their mother interjected. “Now, for heaven’s sake, let’s get some dry clothes on him, and then off to bed, my boy.”

He looked at his mother and felt the weight of the months at war.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I am no longer your boy.”

“Listen to her,” Allen whispered. “At least rest for a while.”

Jonathan looked into his brother’s eyes, and at that moment the hatred he felt did start to melt away.

This war, this damned war did this to us. It divided us as so many wars have divided so many families across history. Though Allen was now the enemy, at least he had made a choice and stayed with it, doing so to try and protect his parents. He could forgive him for that, even as he knew he could never fully forgive James, who had turned his back on any belief other than his own needs.

He fought back the tears, and Allen, seeing the emotion, squeezed his shoulders.

From the kitchen came roaring laughter and cheers of greeting as Allen led his brother there and then to the fireplace, where he sat down on a small stool.

The men were at the table, gorging themselves; James standing sullen, leaning against the far wall, watching.

“This your family, son?” Sergeant Howard asked.

“It is,” Jonathan replied weakly.

The sergeant stood and nodded politely to his mother. “Your boy is a brave lad, and we thank you for your hospitality, ma’am.”

She glared at him, unable to reply.

“Did the Hessians here before us act so polite, ma’am?” one of the men cried.

“As a matter of fact they did. They’re Christian men, they are, and eat with manners. Not like you heathens.”

Her response was met with some laughter but no mocking retorts. The men were too busy cramming down what they could.

The sergeant stood up, came over to Jonathan’s side, and knelt down.

“How you feeling, lad?”

“I’ll be fine.”

The sergeant looked to his mother. “Ma’am. He’s had a bad night of it. May I suggest, ma’am, you get this lad stripped down and into a bed for a couple of hours before we move out.”

“Exactly what I’ve been telling you, Jonathan,” his mother exclaimed, actually smiling at the sergeant.

“Do that, and I won’t move for days,” Jonathan whispered. “No.”

“Lad, come along now,” the sergeant said in a fatherly way.

He shook his head. “Just let me warm up a bit by the fire. I’m so cold now.”

“Your son’s a brave one, he is,” the sergeant said.

“Can’t you order him?”

“Not under my command.”

He looked past Jonathan to where Allen stood. The uniform coat was still on the floor, color revealed, and the sergeant’s eyes narrowed.

“You a Hessian?”

“No, sergeant, his brother.”

“A Tory then?”

“Yes. First New Jersey Loyalists. I’m posted with this garrison.”

“A bad day for you then, boy.”

Allen didn’t speak.

The sergeant’s gaze drifted to James.

“And your story?”

“He’s nothing,” Jonathan whispered. “Nothing at all.”

As he spoke, Jonathan fixed James with a withering gaze, and James lowered his eyes, turned away, and stalked out of the room.

The sergeant seemed to sense something and turned back to Jonathan.

“Leave him be,” Jonathan sighed.

“All right, lad. But you should get to bed. We’ll roust you out before the army moves.”

“You’ll have to move,” Allen said. “You know what force is at Princeton, don’t you?”

“Ready to turn traitor again and tell us?” the sergeant asked coldly.

“You don’t need a traitor to tell you what you already know. Once they get word of this, they will be on you like an avalanche.”

The sergeant forced a smile. “We’ll see.”

“You men!”

Jonathan looked up. It was an officer, hands on hips, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“What in hell is going on here?”

“Breakfast, sir,” the, sergeant replied smoothly.

“Out! All of you, out! The General is getting set to move.”

The officer turned to look at Jonathan’s mother.

“Ma’am, have they been looting?”

She paused for a second and then shook her head.

“No. They’re my guests.”

He turned away. “Sergeant, get your men out. Now!”

“Sir.”

The officer fixed Allen with his gaze. “Your story?”

“A Loyalist, sir.”

The officer grinned slightly.

“Take him in tow then.”

The officer stormed out of the building, shouting for the men to fall in and be ready to move.

“No rest for the wicked,” the sergeant said. “Boys, take what you can.”

He looked to Jonathan’s mother. “How many did you have quartered here?”

“Twelve men.”

“Their kits?”

“Upstairs.”

“Josiah, Steven, Andrew, go upstairs. Take anything we can use.”

The three ran up the stairs.

The men began to clear out.

Jonathan struggled to get to his feet.

“No, please, son.” His mother, with hands on his shoulders, was trying to force him to sit back down.

“Can’t he stay?” she pleaded, looking at the sergeant.

“Son, you’re in no shape to march.”

“Just find me some boots,” Jonathan gasped.

“You can’t make him go.”

“Ma’am, your Tory son there is right. The lobsterbacks will be here before the day is out; most likely moving even now. He has to move. He stays here and they catch him, Loyalist son in your house or not, it will be off to the prison hulks in New York with him. And in his shape he will die aboard those ships. I’m sorry, he has to go.”

“You’re killing him,” she cried.

The sergeant looked down at Jonathan and then sadly at her.

“No, ma’am, I’m not killing him. It is this damn war that is killing him.” Now his gaze lingered on Allen.

He sighed, patting Jonathan on the shoulder and then let fall the boots he had looted from the store.

“Put these on, boy,” the sergeant said, shaking his head. “This war, this damn bloody war.”

“Help me,” Jonathan whispered.

Peter came to his side and was down on his knees, Allen joining him. The boots offered by the sergeant were a loose fit, but just drawing them on sent waves of agony through him so that he could not help but groan, his cries causing his mother to break down completely.

Peter helped him back to his feet.

The sergeant looked at him appraisingly.

“Son, we’ll see if the ferry here can take you across. That or maybe ride one of the limbers for the guns.”

“I can walk.”

The sergeant clapped him again on the back. He spoke to Allen sharply. “You, too; come along with us.”

“Sergeant?”

“What is it?”

“A request.”

“What? Be quick about it.”

“Will you take my parole?”

“Your what?”

“I offer my parole not to try and escape if you will let me help my brother here. Once across the river, you can send me with the others.”

The sergeant looked at him appraisingly. “Fine, then.” He pointed at the coat on the floor. “Turn that coat. Give him something warm to wear.”

Allen picked up his uniform jacket, pulling the sleeves inside out, so that the blue with green facings was concealed. Stripping off Jonathan’s tattered blanket he draped it over his brother’s shoulders.

Jonathan slowly walked to the front of the house, trying to keep his balance with frozen feet stuffed into boots far too big. He could hear his mother crying.

“Maybe the war is over now,” she said between sobs. “Maybe my boys can come home tonight or tomorrow?”

The sergeant looked at her, and wanted to comfort her. “Maybe,” he lied, and then was out the door.

Jonathan felt his mother’s arms go around him, head buried against his back.

“You boys will take care of each other?” she begged.

“Yes, Mother,” Allen whispered, his own voice breaking.

“Then take my blessing.”

They turned to face her. Reaching up she kissed Allen’s forehead, and then touched Jonathan’s fevered brow with her lips.

“May our Lord watch over my boys and bring them safe back to me at day’s end,” she said slowly.

Jonathan fought to hold back his own tears. It was the same blessing she had given them every day across so many years as they had once rushed out together to go to school, to play, to explore the world beyond.

“And may the Lord watch over you, Mother, so that you may greet us at day’s end,” both replied softly, kissing her in return.

Jonathan glanced toward his other brother, James, silent, arms folded, with his father standing beside him, obviously in shock. Neither of them spoke, and he had nothing to say to them. Not now.

He stepped out onto the street. A column was beginning to form up, orders being shouted for the men to make ready to move out.

A shaft of sunlight passed through roiling clouds, bathing him with its feeble warmth.

He fell in with his comrades, and did not look back.

The scent of lilacs drifted on the morning air.

Washington smiled. A dream? Strange that you can at times realize you are in a dream. But is it one?

Martha was standing in the open doorway at Mount Vernon, waving, calling his name, the way she had so often greeted him when he came home after a long trip, unable to contain her excitement, her delight showing when she first caught a glimpse of his horse trotting up the lane. Propriety forgotten in front of the house servants and field hands, she held up the hem of her dress as she sprinted, girl-like, down the steps and onto the graveled path.

It was a beautiful morning. To his left the broad sweep of the Potomac reflected the turquoise blue sky, whitecaps dancing across the river, a schooner, close-hauled, bow wake foaming, catching the sun, sparkling like diamonds.

It was an all so perfect morning. Warm, the kind of warmth that bespoke a hot day to come, but now, in the first hour after dawn, after a long night of travel, the warmth would soak into his bones and make him feel so alive. Looking forward to breakfast at home, catching up on the local news, sharing the day together.

She was coming closer. He could hear her laughing.

Mount Vernon. Strange, some of it was as he remembered it as a young man, still a bit of a rough-hewn look to the place, before her

hand guided the creation of the finer touches, the change of paint, the new curtains from England, the expansion of the porch as a place for a score of friends to sit on a summer evening to watch the sky and river darken. And yet with another look it was indeed changed back again to his memories of an earlier youth.

It must be a dream, but he reveled in it as she drew closer.

“George!”

He slipped out of the saddle, the way he would sometimes do as a younger man, swinging right leg forward and over his horse’s neck and then dropping to the ground, a bit of bravado, for, after all, was he not the finest horseman along fifty miles of the Potomac?