Crossing the River

Chapter 3, Pages 39-43

 

     Howe was ecstatic.

     The cage had been unlocked, the door opened; once more, like the trained bear on a short chain, he was walking “the grounds of the fair.”

     They had crossed the River, he and his “keepers” assigned again to spy! Splendid “grounds” they were, made more so by the mid-morning, late-winter sun, the sound of hungry gulls, the sweep of ocean air!

     God Almighty, how much he hated what he had left: during Browne’s absence the half-witted mutter of barrack mates; the preying nastiness of the Sergeant, his brass-tipped, jabbing cane; the foul, grubby scrubbings of latrine benches and mess hall floors; the interminable inspections during which he had stood resentfully alert, obedient, expecting indiscriminate abuse. Then, after the Captain had returned, the purchasing of his fancy food, the polishing of his boots and brass, the washing and ironing of his precious garments, the exercising and grooming of his bay colt. His special duties completed, right-wheels on the Common, drill after drill and standing and waiting, waiting and standing, more marching and more standing and waiting. How he hated this life! How he rejoiced in his reprieve!

     During their meeting with General Gage, Browne and De Berniere had requested his service. According to De Berniere the General had taken an interest in him. Who in the King’s army would have suspicioned that?!

     They had a different destination. Concord. They would be seeing different people. He would be speaking to them.     Each man recognized the rebel’s attentiveness, his sudden decisiveness. Each man would be carrying a pistol. Benefiting from experience, appreciating De Berniere’s abilities, confident of his own, Howe was excited and expectant.

 

 

     He was tested outside Concord.

     They had been instructed to spend the night at the house of a prominent Tory, Daniel Bliss. Their most difficult moment, De Berniere had warned, would be their inquiry of where the Tory resided. They were strangers. Their manner of intercourse with the citizenry, Howe notwithstanding, would attract attention. Requesting directions to the house of a known Loyalist was, of itself, sufficient cause for arrest. Whom they asked, therefore, and where they asked were singularly important. Their having come upon a young maiden, a servant girl in Howe’s opinion, harvesting mushrooms by the road, the first building of the town some fifty rods away, De Berniere ordered Howe to proceed.

     Exhibiting not a shard of suspicion, the girl identified Daniel Bliss’s house. Fifteen minutes later, enjoying a glass of port in their host’s drawing room, tracing the grooves of his chair’s intricately carved arm rests, Howe was enjoying De Berniere’s description of the two officers’ Marlborough escape.

     Yes, Daniel Bliss responded, he did know Henry Barnes. He did appreciate the Tory gentleman’s valor and his allegiance to Crown and country. He hoped that they would not suffer here a similar experience; but, he confessed, he, too, was watched, although he had not been threatened. Their stay (Did they not agree?) should be brief. As soon as they had enjoyed a second glass, he would show them his map.

     A noisy commotion at the front door interrupted their conversation. The girl to whom Howe had spoken, eyes large, face flushed, hurried into the room.

     The four men stared. Abruptly, De Berniere stood. Bliss's servant, having followed the girl into the room, reached to grasp her right forearm, hesitated, removed his hand. Lips quivering, she attempted to speak. Cradling her face, she sobbed.

     “Mary, dear, what has happened that disturbs you so?” Bliss gathered her against his chest.

     Seeing her kneeling by the roadway, Howe had judged her to be no more than fifteen, the same age as his sister Milliscent the week he had enlisted. A poor farmer’s employable daughter. “Oh yes,” the girl had said to him. “Mr. Bliss lives in the two-story house t’the left o' the road. You'll see bricks by his chimney, which's t’be repaired, I believe.” A simple, trusting child. Having smiled at him, she had returned wholeheartedly to her task. “We have been fortunate,” De Berniere had said after they had traveled a hundred yards.

     Leaning forward, Howe listened.

     Her mistress had wanted … men had scolded her! Two men from a house across from where she ... “If I don’t leave town, they said they'd tar an' feather me!” she exclaimed, amid sobs. “They said I did direct Tories in their road!”

     Bliss comforted her. Her “mistake” was but a trifle. “They would never do such a thing. Not for you to worry, my dear.” Their anger was directed at him! With fatherly assurance he escorted her to his front door. “Go to your mistress but say nothing of this,” Howe heard Bliss say. “Let us hope today she’ll be less unpleasant.”

     Having returned, Bliss identified the two men. His old enemy, the mechanic, Joseph Hosmer, was one of them. It had been Hosmer’s house that the girl had spoken of. Months ago Hosmer had denounced him, had belittled him, after Bliss had spoken his mind at the Meeting House. Likely, Hosmer and his companion were alerting one of the militia captains, if not Major Buttrick himself. However, Bliss would challenge them, bluff them. The British soldiers were business associates, he would say, English traders who had journeyed to Concord to speak to him for the very first time. How could Hosmer, or anyone he might bring to the house, know otherwise?

     They heard a resounding knock on the front door.

     Bliss directed Howe and the two officers into a large kitchen. Leaving them, he walked into the vestibule. Staring at a meandering crack in the plastered ceiling, Howe heard the opening and the closing of the large front door. Bliss swiftly returned.

     “I have been handed a message.” With squinting eyes he read it. Looking up, he said, “If I attempt to leave, I am to die.” His expression indicated quiet disbelief. “I find this difficult to countenance.” His lips moved across the tops of his teeth.

     “You must leave with us!” Captain Brown revealed his pistol.

     “Be assured that we will protect you,” De Berniere answered.

     Turning away, Daniel Bliss stared across the kitchen, at cooking utensils dangling from iron hooks.

     No. Stay, where you have the right, Howe thought. Defeat them! Stay and fight!

     Their message made no sense. Why would they not want him to leave? Because of what he knew? He could pass everything he knew on to them! Without stepping outside his house! Their message, their nastiness, what they had done to the servant girl, all of it angered him. He hated bullying. Whatever you thought about somebody, by right you ought to leave him alone! You didn't just … threaten his life!

     “In truth, I’m in greater danger if I stay. This moment has been long in coming.” Eyes tearing, Daniel Bliss sought their advice.

     “Go with us,” Browne insisted.

     “The Committee of Safety knows I have misused them.”

     “I regret that our presence has forced this,” De Berniere declared.

     Stay, Howe had wanted to say. But the man now standing before him was not the defiant Tory that moments ago had thought to play-act. His leaving seemed suddenly the right choice.

     “There are so few of us.” Bliss expelled a lengthy breath. “I may not see this house again.” His voice quavered. “Alas, we give up everything.”

     This man, holding fast to his beliefs, was called a traitor. Because of what he had bravely chosen, because of what his enemies believed, he would lose everything he had the right to own!

     Howe wanted to say something. Because of his station -- and because instinct was telling him that something about his thinking was wrong -- he didn’t.

     He wondered. What of the rebel? Was he bullied? So he said. Wasn’t his rebelness a standing up to the bully also? In so doing wasn't he choosing a future, too, and wouldn't he also suffer? Howe thought about his musing of the day before, of being “released” from the bear cage at the country fair. Forced to return to his own cage, the rebel farmer had balked! Better to fight and suffer and hope to prosper than to give up and definitely suffer. Here he was, John Howe, a stable boy from England, servant to an officer with a limited brain, doing exciting work for the King. He had seen what these rebels were about and he had seen what this prosperous Tory countryman was about and he knew everything he needed to know about the King's men!

     Who were the bullies?

     Howe hadn’t chosen this work, but he loved it.

     Wrongnesses. Actions. Outcomes.

     His misfortune had been that he had chosen to be a redcoat soldier. If he wanted to change that, what in fact would he gain and how might he suffer if he tried? The thought agitated him. The “poltroon” provincial was Howe's opponent, true, but not without exception his mortal enemy, so he had the mind to believe.



Crossing the River

Chapter 3, Pages 37-39

 

     It had been the cruelest day of Henry De Berniere’s young life.

     He and Browne had walked sixteen miles in the teeth of a blizzard. They had had but the preamble of sanctuary before they had been forced back into the storm. Having no other recourse to evade arrest, they had traveled half the distance back to Weston not daring, except for one brief detour, to stop.

     Not one rider had passed them.

 They had run from Henry Barnes’s house, found the Sudbury Road, and hurried on until, thoroughly spent, they had turned into a wood near a causeway to devour the apple-jack merchant’s bread rolls. Back on the road, not having gone twenty rods, they had been challenged by an elderly man who had rushed out at them from a white-shrouded house.

     “What do you think will become of you now?!” he had shouted.

     They had deigned not to answer. Or inquire.

     De Berniere knew all he needed to know. While they had been eating in the wood, Marlborough militiamen had ridden past. Having gone this far, would they not ride to the Sudbury causeway to lie in wait? The image of a crouching cat -- eyes iridescent, chin on paws, haunches tensed -- appended his thoughts.

     A prayer? However dire their circumstance he would not, like the Sunday psalm singer, implore divine intercession. He had seen in the hovels and the taverns of his father’s parish enough of the meanness of life not to countenance a benevolent Father. Man made his own way, cunningly, stupidly, reaping apposite consequences. He, De Berniere, had acted rashly. Nothing else but happenstance, utter coincidence -- their stopping in the wood to eat -- could rescue them.

     Kinetic indefatigability brought them finally to the stretch of road that De Berniere feared most. Approaching the dreaded causeway, he saw appearing out of the darkness four tightly grouped horsemen. First would come pistol shots, immediately thereafter, searing pain.

     The distance between De Berniere and Browne and the horsemen shortened. Thirty feet … twenty … ten …

     Moving to De Berniere and Browne’s left and right, the riders passed.

 

 

     Very late that evening the two soldiers entered Isaac Jones's Golden Ball Tavern.

     “All the way back!” His arms folded across his chest, Jones wagged his head. “Nit ‘n’grit! I say. Amazing luck!” The two men were pulling off each other’s clothing. “You must tell me all, once you’ve rested!”

     De Berniere’s friend disappeared behind the closing door. Friend he was, as was this room, the very room in which he had agonized about the pitfalls that he had predicted had been awaiting them.

     Anxieties verified. Safety achieved. He could now be charitable. Browne seemed even the most valued of companions. In this room all that was animate and all that was not merited his approval. Soon he would lie upon the left side of their bed, wrap himself in many blankets, and sleep, hours later to awake analytical and confident.

     They had been valiant! He would detail their intrepid endeavors. If his service were not immediately rewarded, it would be remembered. The door to promotion would remain open. Worthy officer that he was, he would analyze his mistakes, most of which, given their circumstances, had been unavoidable. (He sensed that he had already begun) He would examine them all tomorrow, allow his sharp mind to draw conclusions. Tomorrow, he would begin anew.

     “To walk thirty-two miles in a snow storm, in one day!” the innkeeper had marveled.

     Just so.

     Using pitchers provided by Jones, they bathed. Attired in borrowed robes, they savored hot mulled Madeira wine. Ensconced in woolen blankets, they drifted into a lengthy sleep.



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Crossing the River

Chapter 3, Pages 32-37

 

“You needn't explain who you are,” Barnes interrupted as they began their apology. “Every person in this town knows who you are. Monday night a party of liberty men had planned a welcome for you. Captain Bigelow did see you previously on the road.”

     The silent horseman that had stared at them three days ago, De Berniere concluded.

     “Is there a safe tavern for us here?” Captain Browne asked.

     “No.”

     “Any place?” De Berniere asked.

     “Not one!”

     Browne's harried look matched De Berniere’s.

     “This town is violent, gentlemen. Consider my house but a temporary sanctuary.” Again De Berniere nodded. “Did you speak to anyone within the town?”

     “A burly man wearing an apron. He stopped us,” Brown answered. “He directed us to your house.”

     The merchant's ruddy face paled.

     “A man of importance, I conjecture,” De Berniere responded.

     “A leading militiaman of this town.” Henry Barnes tightened his face, pressed together opposite fingertips. “He hates anything British. So much so that he harbors a deserter. A drummer boy named Swain.”

     “God’s wounds!”

     De Berniere looked at Browne's astonished expression.

     “Did you … say 'Swain'?!”

     “I did.” The Tory merchant frowned. “Of what matter is it to you?”

     Browne pivoted. Lips issuing silent words, he glared. Wide-legged, he rocked.

     De Berniere looked for someplace to sit. Limb-enervating, thought-destroying fatigue had vanquished him. “Temporary sanctuary,” he had heard Barnes say. God’s love, he wanted everything -- hot food, good liquor, a snapping fire!

     “What is it?” the Loyalist asked. Browne had faced about. De Berniere observed the Captain’s twisted mouth.

     “Until less than a month ago, this ‘Swain,’ Private Swain, was my drummer boy!”

     Barnes inhaled, then grimaced.

     De Berniere’s mindfulness returned.

Had the drummer boy accompanied his protector out into the cold?! While the aproned man had spoken to them, had Swain recognized Browne?

     Barnes opened the front door, just as quickly closed it. “You can’t be seen again,” he declared. “You must leave before dawn even if the storm continues! Let us hope Swain remained indoors. Let us hope your enemies hold greater import to their physical comfort!”

     De Berniere removed his coat. Happenstance. Coincidence. His machinations had availed him nothing. Holding the dripping garment in his right hand, he shook his head.

     Barnes walked to the doorway of the adjacent room. Beckoning them to follow, he said, “You’ll find a good fire in my study. Take off your clothing. I will bring you robes.”

     A heavy knock on the front door stopped them.

     “I saw nothing just now,” Barnes whispered.

     De Berniere followed Browne out of the foyer. Barnes pointed to the wall that separated the entryway from his drawing room. Behind it, listening for voices, they heard initially the raw wind.

     “Hello, Barnes,” a voice insulted. “I've come to pay you a friendly visit.”

     “Doctor Curtis, how kind of you. We haven't spoken in two years.” A pause. “But I beg that you excuse me. I have guests to entertain.”

     Another pause. “Who are your father's guests, my dear?” the first voice said, this time without malice.

     De Berniere was startled by a child's voice. “Papa said it's not my business to know.” Polite but emphatic. Notwithstanding his alarm, De Berniere smiled.

     The sound of the storm silenced, Barnes entered the drawing room. “He is off to the Meeting House.”

     “Who is he?” Browne rubbed his left eye vigorously.

     “Doctor Samuel Curtis. A leader of the local Committee of Correspondence.”

     Barnes directed them into his study, where he advised them to spread their clothing on the hearth’s bricks.

     “You realize now you must leave much sooner,” he said, returning, the robes folded over his right forearm. “I think it best that we change our plans. You will not have time to wear these.”

     “The militiamen will be arriving,” De Berniere responded.

     “I’m certain of it.” He looked at their clothing, steam starting to rise from the fabric. “You’d better clothe yourselves, now, however wet they may be. Then come into the next room. You have arrived just after dinner. You may have time yet for a steaming meal. Let us hope.”

     His soaked clothing adhering to his skin, De Berniere eased his body down upon one of the dining table’s cushioned chairs. Smelling the roasted venison, he felt conjointly the release of tension and absence of volition. So this is resignation. This is capitulation, he thought. There is nothing, nothing whatsoever that I can achieve, save appease my appetite.

     He was ravenously hungry. Making eye contact with his host, he smiled. A sumptuous, final meal, he thought. Intending to enjoy every morsel, he reached for a bread roll.

     “Sir! Sir!”

     The animated servant commanded the passageway between the foyer and dining room. Barnes rose instantly from his chair.

     “Sir, many men! From the Meeting House! They carry muskets!” Snow was embedded in the man’s hair, layered on the shoulders of his coat.

     “How many?!” Barnes asked.

     “Maybe, … twenty!”

     “Be gone!” Barnes ordered. They rose from the table. “Hurry!”

     “I’ll attempt to delay them,” he said as they pulled on their coats.

     Having snatched four bread rolls off the table setting, De Berniere and Browne followed Barnes’s servant out a back door into a yard. The servant pointed at what appeared to be stables, were stables. The two officers hurried past them, hurried across a snow-laden field, scrambled over a whitened rail fence.

     Discovering a country lane a half mile away, the wind at their backs, the cold seeping through their coats, fearfully, miserably, they fled.

 

 

“Stand aside, Barnes,” the aproned militiaman demanded. “We aim t’have ‘em!”

     “Whom?!”

     “The British officers, damn you!” Thrusting a thick forearm against Barnes’s chest, the blacksmith shoved the merchant aside. The file of townsmen, the first two snickering, tramped into the house.

     “They are my wife's relatives, from Penobscot! They’re traveling to Lancaster,” Barnes told Doctor Curtis, the last to soil his entry hall carpet. “They’ve already left!”

     Half turning, Curtis sneered.

     The militiamen began their “search.” They overturned chairs, lifted and dropped beds, yanked off their rods drapes, scattered books, and emptied desk drawers. Two men hurled to the floor every garment hung in the bedroom closet. They tracked across his clothing, drapes, books, papers, the oak plank floor, and every imported carpet liquid filth. So angry did he become that, returning to the foyer, Barnes withdrew from his ornate floor vase his mahogany walking stick.

     The aproned militiaman, carrying a gilt-edged serving plate, approached him. His belligerent eyes moved from Barnes's grip on the walking stick to the Loyalist's compressed lips. A grin cleaved the man’s heavy face. Away from his belly, gift-like, he advanced the plate. Barnes reached for it; the militiaman watched it drop. With the sole of his right shoe he pulverized the largest piece of broken china. “Barnes!” he snarled, pressing his belly against the merchant’s abdomen. “You hide and feed the enemy! You're a damned traitor! If we don’t catch them, we're going t’burn this house down!”

     They went through his rooms a second time. Two of them scoffed at him, walking stick held impotently across his thighs. Briefly unattended, shame-faced, he placed it back inside the vase.

     Staring at its handle, he listened to the mob’s utterances. His disdain had become full-bore hatred. Like a potion heated in a cast-iron pot it would bubble, until His Majesty's fist expunged every trespassing criminal! Save physical confrontation he would do anything to assist his government. He would celebrate the red-coated army’s arrival; he would direct joyously their plunder. They, his Majesty's foot, would be his redeemer, their destructiveness his rejuvenation!

     He would prepare for the event with disciplined restraint. He would exercise forbearance, as he had not wielding his cane. The deadliest enemy is he who by appearance is judged the milksop. How vengefully he would assist all to rent them asunder!

     As they were preparing to leave, one of them said, “If we catch ‘em in your house again, we'll pull it all the way down about your ears!” The villain’s right hand struck Barnes’s stomach. “Mind my words!”

     He would. He was heeding their threats, their insults, their wanton destruction, safe-keeping every injury this day and the many days antecedent!