Forge (Seeds of America) Read online

  Now I’d lost it.

  I lay down under the pumpkin moon, shamed and heartsore. The tears would not stop. I covered my face with the blanket lest anyone take notice of me.

  CHAPTER VII

  Wednesday, October 8, 1777

  I TRUST WE HAVE CONVINCD THE BRITISH BUTCHERS THAT THE COWARDLY YANKEES CAN & WHEN THEIR IS A CALL FOR IT, WILL, FIGHT.

  —JOURNAL OF NEW HAMPSHIRE MAJOR HENRY DEARBORN

  THE CAMP AWOKE BEFORE DAWN—carts rattling, cook pots clanging, axes biting into wood, bold conversating voices, and the drummer boys at their task, announcing the day.

  I stood and brushed the dirt from my breeches, then wrapped my blanket around my shoulders, shivering. My head was particularly cold.

  A group of Oneida and Stockbridge warriors, the best scouts in the army, strode by, followed by a pack of lean riflemen in hunting shirts, likely from Virginia. I rolled my blanket and packed my sack and tried to listen in on every voice around me. General Gates had already ordered several companies out of camp to harass the British. Yesterday’s victory meant nothing until all the redcoats surrendered and became our prisoners.

  The thought startled me. Our prisoners. When had the affairs of this army again become mine?

  My stomach growled, reminding me of larger concerns. I’d been fed the night before in the befuddlement that followed the battle. I’d be spotted as a scoundrel seeking a free meal in the light of day. I walked, pondering my predicament and keeping a watchful eye out for Trumbull.

  The encampment was a huge, rusticated city of tents and brush huts for the thousands who had come to fight the British. Most of the soldiers were white-skinned militiamen who had enlisted with their neighbors and kin. This made it hard for a stranger like me to blend in at dinnertime without being questioned. But every regiment of the Continental army had a goodly number of black and molatto soldiers. I had a fair chance of passing myself off as a Continental, at least long enough to get something to eat.

  I’d conversated with Agrippa, a friendly chap in Paterson’s brigade, a few days earlier. He resembled me close enough to be a cousin, which amused us both. But I dared not seek him out. The Massachusetts regiments were positioned dangerously close to the wagon drivers’ camp. The thought of being so close to Trumbull made the hair on the back of my neck prickle, as if lightning were about to strike.

  I’d try my luck with the Connecticut troops. They had the most black soldiers of all of the states in camp, plus some Narragansetts. If Fortune was smiling, I’d find a company cook there in need of spectacles and eat until I was ready to burst.

  I made my way through the camp, following the nose-trails carved by the smells of roasting meat, fresh bread, and bubbling stews. The first cook I approached was not as nearsighted as he seemed and sent me off with a wicked scolding. The second one did the same, and the third threatened me with his knife when my hand brushed accidentally against a bowl of apples on his table.

  I dragged myself down row after row of tents and cook fires, feeling ever more out of sorts and famished. By a washing tent I spied a young white girl with long straw-colored braids carrying a baby on her hip. She paused to talk with a woman, likely their mother, who was scrubbing bloody bandages in a tub. The girl then took two pieces of bread from a trencher on the table, gave one to the babe, and walked away from the tent, bouncing up and down and singing softly.

  The bread was smeared with apple butter. I wanted it.

  Stealing from children is wrong, I thought. Worse than wrong.

  But the notion planted itself in my head and grew deep roots. I would wait until the girl drew farther away from the tent, run past and snatch the bread out of her hands, and dash away. She would not go hungry; there was more bread on the table.

  The mother squeezed brown water from the bandages and hung them on a line strung between two trees. The bump of her skirt showed another child was on the way, and my thievish thoughts shamed me. I resolved to pay for my meal. I would drop one of Trumbull’s spoons in the road as I grabbed the bread from her daughter. It would be a frontier sort of purchase, not stealing.

  “Ho there! Master Stone Thrower!”

  The voice was loud, but I paid it little heed, worrying that if any gun-toting soldiers saw me take the bread but did not notice my payment, they might well cause problems. Mayhaps it would be safer to trade with the washerwoman direct.

  “I say, you there!” that voice called again.

  I was on the verge of giving the woman a cheery halloo when someone plucked at my sleeve.

  “Master Thrower of the Stones,” said the gap-toothed rebel boy from the ravine. “I was beginning to think you were dead.”

  His homespun shirt was torn at the right elbow and his face was still dirty from gunpowder and smoke, but he appeared to be in one piece, body and soul.

  “Not dead yet,” I said. “But I will be soon if I don’t eat.”

  He reached into his sack. “Can’t let that happen.” He handed me an enormous red apple.

  I grabbed it and took a bite. “Hank yoo,” I said, juice running down my chin.

  “My name is Eben,” he said, removing his hat and nodding politely. “Ebenezer Woodruff of the Sixteenth Massachusetts, in your debt and at your service.”

  The heavenly taste of apple made it impossible to lie. I wiped my face on my sleeve. “My name is Curzon.”

  Eben barely noticed. “I told my uncle what you did for me yesterday, what you did for the whole family, because Woodruffs, we set quite a store by family, and my uncle said, ‘You go out there and find that lad. We need to thank him proper and make sure he’s come to no harm.’”

  I took a second large bite and chewed, uncertain about what I ought say.

  “Are you headed out on duty?” he asked.

  Two more quick bites and a swallow. The taste compelled me to further honesty. “I’m not a soldier.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I’m on my own and looking for work.”

  His face brightened. “You could enlist. We lost a few fellows yesterday. Captain needs replacements.”

  I shook my head. “I served once. That was enough.”

  “The war’s almost over,” he said. “Wouldn’t be for long.” I ate the core and shook my head.

  “I can’t change your mind?” he asked.

  “Wolves couldn’t change my mind.”

  Eben sighed. “More’s the pity. Come along for a meal, at least. Uncle will be mad if I let you walk away hungry.”

  “You can get me more food?”

  He punched my shoulder so hard, my fingers went numb. “Eating is the best part of soldiering!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Wednesday, October 8, 1777

  AS THE GENERAL IS INFORMED, THAT NUMBERS OF FREE NEGROES ARE DESIROUS OF INLISTING, HE GIVES LEAVE TO THE RECRUITING OFFICERS TO ENTERTAIN THEM, AND PROMISES TO LAY THE MATTER BEFORE THE CONGRESS, WHO HE DOUBTS NOT WILL APPROVE OF IT.

  —GENERAL ORDERS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON

  THE SIXTEENTH MASSACHUSETTS Regiment was camped on ground that sloped toward the Hudson. I resolved to keep a keen lookout for Trumbull and flee as soon as my belly was full.

  Eben jabbered a flood of stories about his uncle and his uncle’s wife, and all manner of cousins on both sides of his family, and thinking about cousins made him tell a story about his favorite plow horse. The boy could talk the bark off a tree; he didn’t even pause to draw breath.

  Just as I began to wonder if his wits had been rattled in the battle, he stopped in front of a dirty tent that sagged with damp.

  “Best to store your kit in here,” he said. “We’ve had some pilfering by the cook fires. Can’t trust no one, it seems.”

  I hesitated. If I did cross paths with Trumbull, it would be safer to have my stolen treasure here and not on my person. But if I had to flee, how would I get back here to claim what was mine?

  “The cook made biscuits for the chicken stew,” Eben said. “Are you fond of biscu
its?”

  My belly voted louder than my wits. I dropped the haversack and followed him.

  Ebenezer Woodruff was an honest rebel. The biscuits were sand-dry, but they were entirely free of worms and dirt. The chicken stew tasted strongly of fish. I et two bowls and begged for a third. When the cook saw how hungry I was, he rummaged in his trunk and drew out a salty hunk of cheese that he cut in two pieces, then he refilled our cups with cider.

  “Does your cook always feed you so much?” I asked as we walked away.

  “I get extra on account of he lost a game of cards to my uncle last week.”

  “I must ask your uncle to teach me how to play.”

  “He won’t. Says card-playing is a sin.”

  “But he plays?”

  “Uncle is allowed to be a sinner, I’m not. Look!” He grabbed my arm and pointed somewhere at the crowd of folk who swarmed around us. “There he is. Uncle!” he shouted.

  “Shhh,” I warned.

  He ignored me. “Uncle Caleb!” he hollered, waving his hat in the air. “I found him, sir! His name is Curzon!”

  “Don’t shout.” I felt like every man in the army was staring at us.

  “He didn’t hear me.” Eben replaced his hat on his head. “We’ll chase him down.”

  From within the crowd came a familiar roar of rage. My bowels twisted.

  “Come on,” Eben urged me.

  “I need a privy,” I lied, looking for the source of the Trumbull-like noise. “I’ll meet you at your tent.”

  Eben grinned. “Don’t get lost!”

  I turned to run in the opposite direction just as Trumbull spotted me.

  “Found you, you thieving rogue!” he bellowed.

  I leapt over a cook fire, stumbled on a rock, fell to the ground, and scuttled on all fours like a crab past a collection of soldiers cleaning their muskets.

  “Get him,” yelled Trumbull. “Stop that boy!”

  A few fellows gave me chase and caught me easily. Trumbull approached, snorting and steaming. He drew so close that I could smell his rotting teeth.

  “Where are they?” he demanded.

  “Where are what, sir?” I asked, trying to appear innocent.

  “You know what I’m after,” Trumbull growled.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” I said.

  He smacked the side of my head with his fist. “My bloody spoons, whelp!”

  The blow staggered me and a few fellows cheered. Trumbull drew back his fist again, and I raised my arms to protect myself.

  “Sir!”

  “The sergeant!” someone warned.

  All the soldiers fell silent and stood ramrod straight as a tall man strode toward us with Eben close on his heels. They had the same large ears, high brows, and long, freckled noses. Eben had not mentioned his uncle was a steel-eyed sergeant. The man glared at me, and I stood straighter too.

  “What cause have you to beat this boy?” the sergeant asked my former boss.

  “He stole from me,” Trumbull said. “Four shoe buckles and a handful of spoons. ’Tis no concern of the army.”

  “Is this true?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, sir,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

  “He can’t breathe without lying.” Trumbull grabbed my arm tight. “I’ll take care of the matter. We’ll not bother you any longer.”

  “He’s a soldier,” Eben blurted. “You can’t take him.”

  “You’re a soldier?” the sergeant asked me.

  “He wants to enlist, sir,” Eben said quickly. “I told you what he did yesterday. He’s exactly the kind of fellow we need. In fact, him and me were just on our way to your tent to sign the enlistment papers.”

  We were?

  The sergeant looked me over. “Where’s your kit? Your gun?”

  “I know where it is,” Eben said.

  “Bring it to my tent,” his uncle answered. “You two”—he pointed at Trumbull and me—“come this way.”

  The sergeant’s tent stood with the other officers’ in a grove of birch trees with golden leaves. Before I could figger a plan of escape, Eben arrived, grinning like a lackbrain and carrying my haversack and musket. He hailed his uncle, who was setting a piece of paper, a quill, and a bottle of ink on an upturned log.

  “This is his.” Eben handed the musket to his uncle and set my sack on the ground.

  The sergeant examined the flintlock. “You took this from the redcoat who shot at Ebenezer?” he asked me.

  “Yessir,” I answered.

  “He could have stolen it from one of our boys,” Trumbull said.

  The sergeant leaned the musket against the log and picked up the haversack. “And this is yours too?”

  That broken compass was not a good omen, I decided. It was a curse.

  “I believe so, sir. Many haversacks look alike.”

  He untied the knotted rope and spilled the contents of the sack onto the ground. “Shirt, stockings, blanket, musket tools, knife,” he listed, setting each item apart from the others. “Drinking cup. Tinderbox.” He shook out the sack to prove it was empty. “I see no spoons, Mister Trumbull.”

  Nor did I. Not only were the spoons and buckles missing, but so was the compass and Isabel’s little bag of seeds. I’d been robbed!

  Trumbull frowned. “He must have sold them yesterday. Search his person and you’ll find the money.”

  “He was occupied yesterday,” said the sergeant. “Fighting the British.”

  “Another lie,” said Trumbull.

  “This boy saved my nephew, sir,” the sergeant said sharply.

  Trumbull spat in the dirt. “Don’t believe it.”

  “Hand upon the Bible, I swear,” Eben said, “I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”

  “We are beholden to you for that,” the sergeant said as he bowed to me.

  He bowed. At the waist.

  To me.

  Gentlemen bowed out of courtesy. Out of respect. I’d seen thousands upon thousands of bows whilst serving Judge Bellingham and later his son. They bowed when greeting each other. Upon taking their leave. They bowed to ladies and to their elders. They did not bow to slaves or thieves or ditch scoundrels.

  But Sergeant Woodruff bowed to me and I was all of those things.

  I returned his bow slowly, and more deeply, to show I understood the honor he paid me. “Sir.”

  “I claim possession of that weapon,” brayed Trumbull. “To pay for what the whelp stole from me.”

  The sergeant leveled his gaze at Trumbull. “A soldier needs that musket more than you.”

  “He’ll not enlist,” Trumbull said. “It’s a ruse.”

  “Care to wager on that?” The sergeant uncorked his ink pot and dipped his quill. “What’s your name, lad?”

  I had the unpleasant sensation that I was about to jump from a fry pan into the fire.

  CHAPTER IX

  Wednesday, October 8, 1777

  I WENT DOWN . . . TO THE OFFICERS TO OFFER MY SERVICES . . . THEY QUESTIONED ME A LITTLE AND FINALLY SAID THAT I MIGHT STAY. . . IF I THOUGHT THAT I COULD DO THE DUTY OF A SOLDIER.

  —JOURNAL OF DANIEL GRANGER, WHO ENLISTED IN THE CONTINENTAL ARMY AT AGE THIRTEEN

  AH . . .,” I STAMMERED. “UM . . .” Caution was called for. I needed a name with no connection to me or my father or the family that had owned us.

  “His name is Curzon,” Eben said.

  “Likely another lie,” Trumbull said. “He’s got all sorts of dark blood running in him; could be injun as well as negar. He’ll slit your throats as you sleep.”

  I took a deep breath and fought the desire to beat in Trumbull’s skull with my musket. I’d grown used to his insults—they were, in part, why I felt no remorse at stealing from him—but to hear him call me such foul names in front of Eben and his uncle was hard to bear.

  That’s his aim, I realized. Cause me to lose my temper and attack him, then he’d win.

  In that moment I resolved to be a soldier again.
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  I took a second deep breath and spoke calm and refined, the way I’d learned whilst serving at Judge Bellingham’s table in Boston. “My name is Curzon Smith, sir.”

  “You are free to enlist, not run away from a master or indenture?”

  “I am my own master, sir.”

  Trumbull wagged his finger at the sergeant. “You’ll rue this day if you enlist him. He’s nothing but a bag of trouble.”

  The sergeant pressed his lips together and drew a slow breath. “If you do not leave this moment, sir, I shall summon the guard.”

  Trumbull spat on the ground, turned on his heel, and stalked off, shouting to himself like a madman. I sorely wanted to stick out my tongue and make a rude noise, but it would not have been a soldierly gesture.

  “What a foul-smelling, son-of-the-devil!” Eben said.

  “No cursing, Ebenezer. Now, then.” The sergeant again picked up the pen. “How old are you, Curzon Smith?”

  “Near sixteen,” I said, which was not entirely a lie, for I would turn sixteen the next October, which was only eleven months and some weeks hence.

  He scratched on the enlistment paper with his quill. “Your regular pay will be twenty shillings a month. You will be provided with two shirts, two pair of breeches, a cap, and two pair of shoes when the state’s shipment arrives. If you don’t want the clothes, I am authorized to pay you a cash bonus of twenty dollars, which you will receive from the paymaster at the end of the month.”

  “What about the land, Uncle?” asked Eben.

  “Some say that every soldier will receive a hundred acres at war’s end,” the older Woodruff said. “I don’t know how much truth there is to the notion.” He dipped his quill again. “Do you want to enlist for three years or for the rest of the war?”

  “Three years!” Eben exclaimed. “Only a fool would sign up for that.”

  I weighed the choice. A ship would have to carry the news that we’d beat Burgoyne to the King across the ocean, then another ship would have to sail back, bringing the British offer of peace. War would likely end by February or early March, if the seas were rough. The British wouldn’t fight after winter set in; the armies would hole up in encampments and wait for spring. That meant I’d have a place to sleep and food to eat for months, along with new clothes and pay.