the woods runner

The Woods Runner The Woods Runner
GREEN
The Forest—1776
CHAPTER
1
He was not sure exactly when he became a child of
the forest.
One day it seemed he was eleven and playing in the
dirt around the cabin or helping with chores, and
the next, he was thirteen, carrying a .40-caliber
Pennsylvania flintlock rifle, wearing smokedbuckskin clothing and moccasins, moving through
the woods like a knife through water while he
tracked deer to bring home to the cabin for meat.
He sat now by a game trail waiting for the deer he
knew would come soon. He had heard it, a branch
brushing a hairy side, a twig cracking, smelled it
when the wind blew toward him, the musk and urine
of a buck. He checked the priming on his rifle while
he waited, his mind and body relaxed, patient, ears
and eyes and nose alert. Quiet. Every part of him at
rest, yet focused and intense.
And he pictured his life, how he lived in two worlds.
Sometimes Samuel thought that a line dividing
those worlds went right through their cabin. To the
west, beyond the small parchment window made of
grease-soaked sheepskin scraped paper-thin, lay the
forest.
The forest was unimaginably vast, impenetrable,
mysterious and dark. His father had told him that a
man could walk west for a month, walk as fast as he
could, and never see the sun, so high and dense was
the canopy of leaves.
Even close to their homestead—twelve acres clawed
out of the timber with a small log cabin and a leanto for a barn—the forest was so thick that in the
summer Samuel could not see more than ten or
fifteen yards into it. Some oak and elm and maple
trees were four and five feet in diameter and so tall
and thickly foliaged their height could only be
guessed.
A wild world.
And while there were trails made by game and
sometimes used by natives, settlers or trappers, the
paths wandered and meandered so that they were
impossible to use in any sensible way. Except to
hunt.
When he first started going into the forest, Samuel
went only a short distance. That first time, though
he was well armed with his light Pennsylvania rifle
and dry powder and a good knife, he instantly felt
that he was in an alien world.
As a human he did not belong. It was a world that
did not care about man any more than it cared about
dirt, or grass, or leaves. He did not get lost that first
time, because he’d marked trees with his knife as he
walked so he could find his way out; but still, in
some way he felt lost, as if, were he not careful, a
part of him would disappear and never return, gone
to the wildness. Samuel had heard stories of that
happening to some men. They entered the forest to
hunt or trap or look for new land to settle and
simply vanished.
“Gone to the woods,” people said of them.
Some, he knew, were dead. Killed by accident, or
panthers or bear or Indians. He had seen such
bodies. One, a man mauled to death by a bear that
had attacked his horse while the man was plowing;
the man’s head was eaten; another, killed by an
arrow through the throat. An arrow, Samuel knew,
that came out of the woods from a bow that was
never seen, shot by a man who was never known.
And when he was small, safe inside the cabin near
the mud-brick fireplace with his mother and father,
he had heard the panthers scream; they sounded
like a woman gone mad.
Oh, he knew the forest could kill. Once, sitting by
the fire, a distant relative, a shirttail uncle who was a
very old man of nearly fifty named Ishmael, had
looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see
monsters and said, “Nothing dies of old age in the
forest. Not bugs, not deer, not bear nor panthers nor
man. Live long enough, be slow enough, get old
enough and something eats you. Everything kills.”
And yet Samuel loved the forest now. He knew the
sounds and smells and images like he knew his own
mind, his own yard. Each time he had entered he’d
gone farther, learned more, marked more trees with
his knife, until he always knew where he was. Now
he thought of the deep forest as his home, as much
as their cabin.
But some men vanished for other reasons, too.
Because the forest pulled them and the wild would
not let them go. Three years ago, when Samuel was
ten, he had seen one of these men, a man who
moved like smoke, his rifle a part of his arm, a
tomahawk through his belt next to a slab-bladed
knife, eyes that saw all things, ears that heard all
things. One family in the settlement had a room on
their cabin that was a kind of store. The man had
come to the store to buy small bits of cloth and
powder and English flints for his rifle at the same
time Samuel was waiting for his mother to buy
thread.
The man smelled of deep forest, of smoke and blood
and grease and something green—Samuel knew he
smelled that way, too. The stranger could not be
still. As he stood waiting, he moved. Though he was
courteous and nodded to people, as soon as he had
the supplies for his rifle and some salt, he left. He
was there one moment and gone the next, into the
trees, gliding on soft moccasins to become part of
the forest, as much as any tree or leaf or animal. He
went west.
Away from man, away from the buildings and the
settled land.
Now Samuel heard a new sound. He moved his eyes
slowly to the left without turning his head and was
rewarded by seeing a tick-infested rabbit sitting by a
tree trying to clear the insects out of his ears.
Samuel smiled. Even in dead of winter
the rabbits were always trying to rid themselves of
the pests.
The sight made him think of his mother, who was
intensely curious and had once asked him to take
her into the forest. They had not gone far, not over
five hundred yards from the edge of the clearing,
and had stopped under a towering oak where
sunlight could not get through. There was a subdued
green light over everything. Even their faces looked
a gentle green.
“I have to go back,” she said, her eyes wide,
wrapping a shawl tightly around her shoulders,
though it was summer-warm. “This is too … too …
thick. Even the air is green. So thick it feels like it
could be cut. I have to go back now.”
Although Samuel’s parents lived in the wilderness,
they were not a part of it. They had been raised in
towns and had been educated in schools where
they’d been taught to read and write and play
musical instruments. They moved west when
Samuel was a baby, so that they could devote
themselves to a quiet life of hard physical work and
contemplation. They loved the woods, but they did
not understand them. Not like Samuel.
They had told their son that they didn’t belong in
towns, either. They weren’t comfortable in the world
of roads, houses and villages. East of the imaginary
line in the cabin was what his father and mother
called civilization.
They told Samuel about the chaos of towns that
they’d escaped. There were noises—hammers
clanging at blacksmith forges, chickens clucking,
dogs barking, cows lowing, horses whinnying and
whickering, people who always seemed to need to be
talking to one another.
There wasn’t noise in the forest.
There were smells: wood smoke filled the air in
every season because it wasn’t just for heat, but to
cook as well; the smell of oak for long fires, pine for
short and fast and hot fires. The smell of bread, and
sometimes, if they were lucky and
had honey or rock sugar to pulverize in a sack with a
hammer, sweet pie. The odor of stew cooking in the
cast-iron pot over an outside fire or in an iron kettle
hung in the fireplace, the scent flying up through the
chimney and out over the ground as the wind moved
the smoke around. There was the tang of manure,
stacked in back of small shedlike barns to age before
it was put on gardens; horse and cow and chicken
manure from their farm and other farms. So many
smells swirled by the same wind throughout the
small valley.
Their valley was like a huge bowl, nestled in the hills
in far western Pennsylvania. Here lived, and had
always lived, Samuel Lehi Smith, age thirteen, with
his father, Olin, and his mother, Abigail, parents
whom Samuel did not always understand but whom
he loved.
They read to him about the world beyond from their
prized books. All the long winter nights with tallow
candles burning while they sat by the fireplace, they
read aloud to each other. At first he’d listened as
they took turns. Later he read to himself and knew
the joyous romp of words on paper. He read all
the books they had in the cabin and then books from
other cabins in the valley so that he could know
more and more of a world found only in his
imagination and dreams.
To the east lay the faraway world of enormous cities
and the Great Sea and Europe and Ancient Rome
and Darkest Africa and the mysterious land of
the Asias and so many people they couldn’t be
counted. All kinds of different people with foreign
languages and their knowledge of strange worlds.
To the east lay polished shoes and ornate clothes
and formal manners and enormous wealth. His
mother would spin tales for him about cultured men
who wore carefully powdered wigs and dipped snuff
out of little silver snuffboxes and beautiful women
dressed in gowns of silk and satin with swirling
petticoats as they danced in the greathouses and
exclusive salons of London and Paris.
Now. The deer stepped out. It stood in complete
profile not thirty yards away. Samuel held his
breath. He waited for it to turn away, look around in
caution. When it did, he raised the rifle and cocked
the hammer, pulling it back as quietly as he could,
the seardropping in with a soft snick. The rifle had
two triggers, a “set” trigger that armed a second,
front trigger and made it so sensitive that a mere
brush released the hammer. He moved his finger
from the set trigger and laid it next to but
didn’t touch the hair trigger. Then he settled the
German silver blade of the front sight into the tiny
notch of the rear sight and floated the tip of the
blade sight until it rested just below the shoulder of
the young buck.
Directly over its heart.
A half second, no, a quarter second passed. Samuel
could touch the hair trigger now and the hammer
would drop, the flint would scrape the metal
“frizzen,” kicking it out of the way and showering
sparks down on the powder in the small pan, which
would ignite and blow a hot jet of gas into the touch
hole on the side of the barrel of the rifle, setting off
the charge, propelling the small .40-caliber ball
down the bore. Before the buck heard the sound of
the rifle, the ball would pass through the heart and
out the other side of the deer, killing it.
And yet he did not pull the trigger. He waited. Part
of a second, then a full second. And another. The
deer turned, saw him standing there. With a
convulsive explosion of muscle, it jumped straight in
the air. It landed running and disappeared into the
trees.
The whole time Samuel had not really been thinking
of the deer, but what lay east. Ofwhat they called
civilization. He eased the hammer of the rifle down
to the first notch on the sear, a safety position, and
lowered the weapon. Oddly, he wasn’t disappointed
that he’d not taken the deer, though the fresh meat
would have been nice roasted over the hearth. He’d
killed plenty of deer, sometimes ten or fifteen a day,
so many they could not possibly eat all the meat. He
often shot them because the deer raided the
cornfields and had to be killed to save the crops.
Most families did not like deer meat anyway. They
considered it stringy and tough and it was often
wormy. The preferred meat was bear or beaver,
which were richer and less “cordy.”
This deer would have been nice. They had not had
fresh meat in nearly two weeks. But it was gone now.
He could not stop his wondering about what lay to
the east. The World. It was supposed to be a better
place than the frontier, with a more sensible way to
live. And yet he had just learned an ugly truth about
that world only the evening before.
Those people in the world who were supposed to be
civilized, full of knowledge and wisdom and
graciousness and wealth and education, were caught
in the madness of vicious, bloody war.
It did not make any sense.
Samuel started trotting back toward the cabin in an
easy shuffle-walk that moved him quietly and at
some speed without wearing out his moccasins; he
was lucky to get a month per pair before they wore
through at the heels.
He moved without a great deal of effort, his eyes and
ears missing very little as he almost flowed through
the forest.
But his mind was still on the man who had brought
the sheet of paper the night before.
Communication
In the year 1776, the fastest form of travel for any
distance over thirty or forty miles was by ship. With
steady wind, a sailing vessel could clock one to two
hundred miles a day for weeks on end.
A horse could cover thirty, maybe even forty, miles a
day, although not for an extended period without
breaking down.
At best, coaches could do a hundred miles in a
twenty-four-hour day by changing horses every ten
or fifteen miles, but only if the roads were in good
shape, which they almost never were.
A man could walk twenty or thirty miles a day—
faster for short periods, but always depending
on conditions of land, weather and footgear. Fifteen
miles a day was standard.
So there was no fast and dependable way to
transmit information in those years—no telegraph,
no telephone, no Internet, no texting,
no overnight delivery services.
It might take five or six days for knowledge of an
important event to move just ten miles, carried by a
traveler on foot. Settlements were twelve to fifteen
miles apart. And information was carried by hand
from person to person on paper or, in most cases,
shared by word of mouth.
CHAPTER ____________________
2
Samuel had returned home from the forest the night
before and found his parents sipping tea with Isaac,
an old man of the forest who stopped by their cabin
every few months while he was hunting. This time,
though, he had news. He carried information about
a fight in Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts,
where militia had fired on and defeated British
soldiers. The battle had happened months before, all
the way back in April of 1775.
Isaac seemed to be made entirely of scraps of old
leather and rags. He was bald and wore a ratty cap
with patches of fur that had been worn away. He was
tall and thin and for many years had lived in a cabin
some twenty miles to the east. He was so much a
part of the forest that even his brief visits with
Samuel’s family caused him discomfort.
He’d decided to move farther into the frontier when
a wagon, pulled by oxen, came into the clearing near
his cabin. The family was traveling westward,
looking for a piece of land to farm, and had chosen a
spot not far from Isaac’s place.
The family was, Isaac said, “a crowd. And I knew it
was time to move on, seeing as how I don’t do
particular good with crowds of people.”
As he was taking his leave from the small shack
where he had lived, the family had given him the
scrap of paper, soft with wear from all the hands it
had passed through, so he could share the news with
fellow travelers he met on his journey. They told him
of other events they had heard of along the way. He
tried to remember the details, but admitted that he
wasn’t much for conversation.
“Since they was so much noise from the sprats as it
seemed a dozen of them, my thinker fuzzed up like
bad powder and my recollecter might not be all it
could be, but I think they said they was another fight
at a place called Bunker Hill and the patriot militia
got whipped there and sent running when they saw
the bayonets on the British soldiers’ muskets.”
He sat, quietly sipping the evergreen tea he always
carried, a brew made from pine and spruce needles.
He swore it cured colds, and he said he preferred it
over “furriner tea from outside, but thankee,
missus.”
The paper he’d handed to Samuel’s father, Olin,
was a single sheet that had been folded and unfolded
so many times it was near to falling apart. It had
been printed on a crude press with wooden block
letters and was smudged and hard to read. But there
was a brief description of the fight at Lexington and
Concord and a drawing of figures firing muskets at
some other figures that were falling to the ground.
As Samuel studied the paper in his father’s hands,
he thought: Everything in my world just got bigger.
Two other families, the Clarks and the Overtons,
pulled up in wagons. Isaac had spoken to them on
his way to Samuel’s place and they wanted to hear
what Olin had to say about Isaac’s news.
Samuel looked around the small cabin on the edge
of the woods that was suddenly filled with people all
talking over each other about the meaning of the
battles. It seemed that the strong and sturdy log
walls no longer protected his family. The loud
outside world his parents had escaped by moving to
the frontier had found them. Samuel was excited
and frightened and overwhelmed all at the same
time.
“What does it mean?” Ebenezer Clark asked Olin.
His face was red and round as an apple because he
drank home beer, three quarts every morning for
breakfast.
“It could be local. Just some trouble in Boston,”
Samuel’s father said. “A riot or the like. There’s
always a chance of rabble-rousing in the cities. And
it doesn’t seem likely that a group of farmers would
try to take on the entire British army.” He paused,
then added thoughtfully, “England has the most
powerful army and navy in the world, and a gaggle
of farmers would have to be insane to fight them.”
“Likely or not”—this from Lund Harris, a softspoken and careful man whose wife, Clara,
sat nursing an infant—“if it happens, we have to
think what it means for us out here on the edge.”
Nobody spoke. Samuel could hear the crackle of the
fire in the fireplace. In the homey, safe cabin, the
craziness of the information from the east seemed
impossible.
There was always some measure of violence on the
frontier: marauding savages, drunks, thieves—
“evildoers,” men who operated outside the walls of
reason. Harshness was to be expected in the wild.
But nothing like this, nothing that challenged the
established order, the very rule of the Crown, the
civilized life that came from the English way of
living.
The very idea of fighting the British was too big to
understand, too huge to even contemplate. These
settlers had always been loyal to the rules of the
land, obedient to the laws of the country that ruled
them.
Ben Overton stood. He was a tall, thin man whose
sleeves never seemed to come to his wrists. He said,
“Well, I think we should do nothing but wait and see
how the wind blows.”
And with nods and a few mumbles of affirmation the
rest got up and went back to their own homes.
Not a single person in that cabin could have known
what was coming. And even if they had seen the
future, they would not have been able to imagine the
horror.
Frontier Life
The only thing that came easy to people of the
frontier was land. A single family could own
hundreds, even thousands of acres simply by
claiming them.
If getting the land was easily accomplished, using
the land was a different matter. It had to be cleared
of trees for farming. Some oaks were five or six feet
in diameter, and each had to be chopped down by
ax, cut into manageable sections and hauled off.
Then the stump was dug out of the ground, often
with a handmade wooden shovel. One stump might
take a week or two of hard work, and a piece of land
could have tens of dozens of trees.
If a family was lucky they might find a clearing left
by beavers, which log off an area and dam a creek to
make a lake, rotting out all the stumps. When the
trees and the food are gone, the beavers leave, the
dam breaks down, the water drains off and there is a
handy clearing left where the lake was.
CHAPTER_______________________
3
The woods were never completely quiet.
Even in silence, there would be a whisper, a soft
change that told something. If you listened,
complete quiet could speak worlds.
Samuel had gone five ridges away from home,
hunting, feeling the woods. Something was … off. If
not wrong, then different. The woods felt strange, as
if something had changed or was about to change.
Samuel shrugged off the feeling and kept going. It
was hard to measure distance, because the ridges
varied in height and width and the forest canopy
blocked out the sun. He was hunting bear, so he
moved slowly and followed the aimless game trails
looking for signs of life.
Five ridges, going in a straight line, might have
meant four or five miles. The wandering path he
followed probably covered more like seven or eight.
He had seen no fresh sign until he came halfway up
the fifth ridge, a thickly forested round hump
shaped like the back of a giant animal. Then he saw
fresh bear droppings, still steaming, filled with berry
seeds and grass stems, and he slowed his pace
through the thick undergrowth until he came to the
top of the ridge. To his surprise, the trees were gone,
and he could see miles in all directions.
He had hunted this direction many times, but had
never reached this ridge before. The thick
undergrowth in the summer and early fall had kept
him from seeing this high point. He was amazed to
find that below him on the western side of the ridge
lay a small valley perhaps half a mile long and a
quarter mile wide. The graceful chain of round
meadows and lush grass was already perfect
farmland. The treeless patch just needed rail fencing
and a cabin to be complete.
“Perfect,” he said aloud. “Like it was made to be
used.”
A crunching noise to his rear, to the east, brought
him around. The bear was forty or so yards away, a
yearling, slope-shouldered, dark brown more than
black. Like a large dog, it was digging in a rotten
stump on the edge of the clearing. Samuel cocked
his rifle, raised it and then held. He looked above the
bear across the tops of trees.
Smoke.
Thick clouds of smoke were rising to the east, almost
straight to the east, a goodly distance away. Forest
fire? But it wasn’t that dry and there had been no
thunderstorms, the normal cause of forest fires.
Then he remembered that their neighbor Overton
was going to burn limbs and brush from trees he
had felled and cleared. The direction and distance
looked about right for the settlement.
The bear moved, stood and looked at him, then
dropped and was gone without Samuel’s firing.
Another missed kill.
The smoke was in the right direction and at
the probable distance, but there was something
wrong with it, the way there had been something
wrong with the feel of the woods today.
He eased the hammer down on his rifle and lowered
the butt to the ground. He stood leaning on it,
studying the smoke the way he would read sign from
a wounded animal, trying to see the “why” of it.
The gray smudge was wide, not just at the base but
as it rose up, too wide for a single pileof slash. That
could be explained by wind blowing the smoke
around.
But it was a still, clear day.
All right, he thought, so Overton set fire to the slash
and it spread into some grass and that made it
wider. But the grass in the settlement area had been
grazed to the ground by the livestock and what was
left was still green and hard to burn.
And would not make a wide smoke.
Would not make such a dark, wide smoke that it
could be seen from … how far?
Maybe eight miles?
Smoke that would show that dark and that wide
from eight miles away on a clear, windless day had
to be intentional.
He frowned, looking at the smoke, willing it to not
be what was coming into his mind like a dark snake,
a slithering horror. Some kind of attack. No. He
shook his head.
No.
There had been years of peace. Even with a war, a
real war, starting back east in the towns and cities, it
would not have come out here so soon; it had only
been a week since they’d heard the news.
It could not come this soon.
But even as he thought this, his mind
was calculating. Distance home: eight miles in thick
forest. Time until dark: an hour, hour and a half. No
moon: it would be hard dark.
Could he run eight miles an hour through the woods
in the dark?
It would be like running blind.
An attack.
Had there been an attack on the settlement, on
his home?
He started running down the side of the ridge. Not a
crazy run, but working low and slipping into the
game trails, automatically looking for a turn or shift
that would take him more directly home.
Home.
An attack on his home.
An attack on his mother and father?
And he had not been there to help.
Deep breaths, hard, and deep pulls of air as he
increased his speed, moccasins slapping the ground,
rifle held out in front of him to move limbs out of
the way as he loped through the forest. The green
thickness that once helped him now seemed to
clutch at him, pull him back, hold him.
An attack.
And he had not been there to protect his parents.
The Woods Runner Ch. 4
PART 2
RED
War—1776
Weapons
A single rifle—something every frontier family needed, something
that was an absolute necessity—might take a year or more, and a
year’s wages, to get from one of the rare gunsmiths, located
perhaps miles away.
This was the only weapon many of the rebels carried into
battle against the British.
The firearm issued to the British army was called the Brown
Bess musket. It was a smooth bore and fired a round ball of .75
caliber, approximately three-quarters of an inch in diameter, with
a black-powder charge, ignited by flint, that pushed the ball at
seven or eight hundred feet per second when it left the muzzle
(modern rifles send the bullet out at just over three thousand feet
per second).
Because a round ball fired from a smoothbore is so pitifully
inaccurate—the ball bounces off the side of the bore as it
progresses down the barrel—the Brown Bess was really only good
out to about fifty yards. The ball would vary in flight so widely
t
__________________________________________
CHAPTER
4
Samuel smelled it before he saw anything.
Not just the smoke from the fires. But the thick, heavy smell.
Blood. Death.
No.
The single word took over his brain. Part of his thinking was
automatic, leading him to act with caution, move with stealth. But
the front part, the thinking part, hung on one word.
No.
He’d made good time, running hard until his lungs seemed to be
on fire, then jogging until he got his breath, then back to the fullout run. There was probably another half hour of daylight before
it was too dark to see. As he approached the settlement he slowed
and moved off to the side. It would do no good to run head-on if
the attackers were still there.
He was silent, listening keenly. Surely if anyone was still there
they would make some noise. All Samuel heard was the crackling
of fire, the soft night sounds of evening birds.
No human sound.
At the edge of the clearing near his home he paused, frightened,
no, terrified at what he would find. He was hidden in some
branches and he studied the area through the leaves to make sure
it was clear before he stepped out.
The cabin was gone. Burned to the ground, side shed and all. Here
and there an ember flickered and crackled and smoke rose into
the evening sky but the building was no more.
In the distance he could see that the other cabins, scattered
through the clearing, had been burned as well. Dreading what he
might find, he forced himself to search the ashes, looking for the
slightest indication of … bodies.
He could not bring himself to think about what he was really
looking for: his parents. His brain would not allow it, though he
knew the death smell came from someone. He could not allow
himself to believe it was from them, from Mother and Father.
He found nothing in the ashes. And when he spread the search
out around the cabin, moving in greater circles, he still found no
trace that might have been his parents.
But as the search loop widened, he began to come across bodies—
his neighbors, shot down, lying on the ground. Dead. They were
people, friends and families he had known. A frantic need took
him, the thought that the next body might be the one he dreaded
most to find, and he ran from one to another trying to identify
them in the failing light.
Overton lay by his cabin, lifeless, his shirtsleeves still not down on
his wrists. Eyes closed, and no breath coming from his lips. Not
even he could escape the wrath of the savages.
Samuel ran from body to body in the gathering twilight until at
last there were no more bodies to find. No matter how fast he ran,
how wide he ran, he did not find his parents. Along with six or
seven others, they had not been killed, or at least not been killed
here. They had been taken away. They had not been killed. He
clung to that thought—they had not been killed.
He stood, his breathing ragged, sobbing softly. Twice he had
thrown up, and the smell and taste mixed with the tears of
frustration and grief for his friends, and rage for what had been
done to them. He knew that if he lived to be a hundred, he would
never lose the taste, the smell or the images of what he had seen:
the madness of what men could do to other men in savage rage.
Dark caught him now. He had circled through the settlement and
was back at his own cabin, or where it had been. There was
nothing left that would furnish light; all of the candles had
melted. But he trapped some of the embers that were still glowing
and made a campfire off from the cabin a bit. In its light he found
the woodpile, which, oddly, had not been burned, and at the side
of the pile there was a stack of pine-pitch knots and roots that his
mother had used to start fires. The pitch concentrated in the knots
burned with a smoky hot flame that lasted for an hour or more
and would work as a torch. Near the garden plot he found the oak
shovel they had used to turn the earth for gardening. The
attackers had overlooked it or left it as useless, because anything
of value had been taken or destroyed.
There were nine bodies to be buried before the coyotes, wolves
and bear came. He knew that he would be moving come daylight,
tracking, looking for sign, so the burying had to be done tonight.
Carrying spare pine knots and the shovel, he went from body to
body. He dug a shallow grave next to each one, knowing that it
might not be enough to protect them, that scavengers might dig
them up, but so pressed for time that he had no choice. He
covered each as best he could. Three were children and did not
take as long, and though it was hard to tell exactly who they were
in the dark and with the condition of the bodies, he remembered
the children laughing and playing in front of the Olafsens’ cabin,
two boys and a little girl with a crude doll. He found the doll in the
grass and wept as he buried it with the smallest body. He cried
over each corpse, thinking of them living, thinking of them
meeting in the cabin and living and talking and laughing and …
just being. And now all gone. Gone. He could not stop crying,
thinking of his parents, wondering, worrying.
It took five hours to bury everyone. It was still dark when he
finished and looked around him. Then he realized that he should
have said something over the bodies.
He did not know the right words—something about ashes and
dust—but he took another torch and went back to each grave and
bowed his head and said:
“Please, Lord, take them with you. Please.”
It was all he could think to say and he hoped it was enough.
He went back to the campfire by his own cabin site and sat
looking into the flames.
Praying.
Praying for safety for his parents.
And the others who had not been killed.
Praying for all who survived but praying most for his parents and,
squatting there by the fire, also praying for daylight to come so he
could begin looking for them.
And in half an hour, a little more, his eyes closed and sleep came
and took him down, down, until he was lying on his side by the
fire, sleeping deeply with all the bad dreams that he’d known
would come; sleeping with twitches and jerks and whimpers at
first, and then just sleeping.
Sleep.
______________________________________
The Americans
The American army consisted of three parts: the Continental (or
regular) Army, the volunteer militia (including the elite
Minutemen) and the Rangers, or small groups that were trained
in guerrilla tactics.
The Continentals bore the brunt of the fighting and they were
equipped much like the British, with smoothbore Brown Bess
muskets and sometimes bayonets. Many of them also carried
tomahawks, or small hand axes, which could be very effective
once past the first line, the line of bayonets.
The militia volunteers were usually used to supplement the
Continentals, but were quite often not as dependable or steady as
they could have been had they been trained better, and they
often evaporated after receiving the first volley and before
the bayonets came. Most of them were also issued smoothbore
muskets and some had bayonets for them, but others had rifles,
which were very effective at long range but could not
mount bayonets.
Special Ranger groups, such as Morgan’s Rifles, had an effect far
past their numbers because of the rifles they carried. A rifle,
by definition, has a series of spiral grooves down the inside of the
barrel—with the low pressure of black powder, the rifling then
was with a slow twist, grooved with a turn of about one rotation
for thirty-five or forty inches. A patched ball was gripped tightly in
the bore and the grooved rifling, and the long bore (up to forty
inches) enabled a larger powder charge, which allowed the ball to
achieve a much higher velocity, more than twice that of the
smoothbores. And the high rate of rotation, or spin, stabilized the
ball flight, resulting in greater accuracy.
The Woods Runner
CHAPTER____________________________________________
5
Samuel was just thirteen, but he lived on a frontier where even when things were
normal, someone his age was thirteen going on thirty. Childhood ended when it
was possible to help with chores; for a healthy boy or girl, it ended at eight or
nine, possibly ten.
Because of his parents’ nature—their lack of physical skills, their joy in gentleness,
their love of books and music, their almost childlike wonder in knowing all they
could about the whole wide world, but not necessarily the world right around
them—Samuel had become the provider for his family.
As he embraced the forest, his skill at hunting grew. Actually, the forest embraced
him, took him in, made him, as the French said, a courier du bois, a
woods runner. Soon he provided meat for nearly the whole settlement, and in
turn, the other men and women helped Samuel’s parents with their small farm
and took over Samuel’s chores when he was in the woods.
Samuel’s knowledge grew until when he heard a twig break, he would know
whether it was a deer or bear or squirrel that broke it. He could look at a track and
know when the animal or man made it, and whether or not the creature was in a
hurry and if so, why, and how fast it was going and what, if anything, was chasing
it and how close the pursuer might be.
And the more he was of the woods, of the wild, of the green, the less he was of the
people. He sometimes enjoyed being with others, and of course he loved
his parents. But his skills and his woods knowledge set him apart, made him
different. His neighbors in the settlement saw this and they sought him out when
they had a question about the forest or about game. They marveled at him,
thought of him as a kind of seer, one who could know more than others, divine
things in a spiritual way. Samuel knew this was not the case. He had just learned
to see what others could not.
Now he brought to the fore all his knowledge to read sign as he met the day.
He was on his feet before the first light broke through the trees. He woke
desperately thirsty and went to the creek that trickled past the rear of the cabin,
and he drank long and hard. The water was so cold it hurt his teeth and so sweet it
took some of the taste-stink from the evening before out of his mouth. He was
hungry, but he could find no food that the marauders had overlooked. He would
have to shoot something along the way.
For now, there was nothing to do but read sign and try to figure out what had
happened, how it had happened and exactly when.
He started by circling the cabin, forcing himself to take time to be calm, carefully
studying the ground, looking closely at the soft dirt away from the grass.
First he found small tracks from moccasins he had made for his mother. Then he
saw his father’s prints, also from moccasins, the right foot toed in slightly from a
time when, showing off as a small boy, he’d broken his ankle jumping from a shed
roof.
Both sets of prints were in the soft dirt in front of the door of the cabin, in the
normal patterns they would make going in and out.
Then, in the dirt at the side of the cabin, more moccasin prints. Larger, flatter feet,
digging deeper, running, as the attackers came. And still more prints, too many to
tell them apart. On top of those, which meant they had come later, hard shoes
with leather soles and heels. At least three men with regular shoes—two of normal
weight and one heavier. On top of all the marks, Samuel saw horse prints. Two,
maybe three horses, all unshod and being led, because there was no extra weight
on them.
No men in the settlement wore shoes, or could afford horses to ride. Only one
man had a single workhorse. Others who could afford animals had oxen, because
when they became too old or broken to work, they could be eaten.
The attack had been fast. They had come up along the creek—Samuel backtracked
and found their prints in the soft soil there—and exploded out in the clearing by
the cabin. His parents were probably outside and must have been overrun with no
time to react. His father wouldn’t have had his musket close anyway. It was like
him to leave it inside when working near the house.
Samuel’s father had seen bad things happen to other people, but was too good
inside, too generous, to believe that they could happen to him.
He must believe now, Samuel thought.
The attack widened rapidly. He saw where Overton and others had fallen, lifeless
on the floor. It was a mystery to Samuel, though, why his parents had not been
killed. He was grateful, but it didn’t make any sense.
He lost their tracks as he followed the spreading attack. Larger moccasin prints
and the shoe prints of the three men were everywhere. He could imagine the
terror of the people in the settlement—the war cries of the attackers mixed with
the screams of the victims and the smell of blood and fear and death.
He saw where at least two of the men in shoes had mounted their horses. Here
and there he found single or double tracks of his mother and father as they were
jerked or pulled—the tracks scuffed and misshapen. New tracks joined theirs as
other people were also spared, all of them dragged or pushed toward the eastern
side of the settlement.
Finally he saw how it had ended. The last of the cabins were burned, the surviving
victims—probably neck-tied to each other with rope—lined up and pulled
along the trail. The horses were in front and the attackers split, some in front and
some in back. There was no indication that any prisoners had been wounded or
killed.
When?
When had it happened?
He started following the tracks—which a blind man could have followed—and let
his mind work on that question.
He’d left home early the day before, moving west until he came to new country,
since he’d hunted out the forest around the settlement.
Say by midmorning he was out of earshot of gunfire—if anybody had used a gun.
All the victims he’d buried had been chopped down with either tomahawks or war
clubs.
So … the attack could have come midmorning. That would have been the soonest.
If that was the case then they were just under twenty-four hours ahead of him.
Maybe twenty, twenty-two. Moving slowly—as they would with prisoners—they
might make two miles an hour. With a rest of perhaps six hours they might have
traveled fourteen to sixteen hours. Twenty-four to twenty-eight miles.
He shook his head. Probably less. He studied the trail ahead and the spacing of
the footprints, trying to estimate their speed. They were close together. Even
the horses’ tracks showed they were moving slowly. Twenty miles, at the most, yet
still only a guess.
But he turned out to be wrong.
Later he discovered that he’d forgotten that there was another settlement of four
cabins ten miles farther on.
And the attackers had taken the time to stop and slaughter the people who lived
there.
The British ________________________________________
Generally poorly trained, the British enlisted soldier was also poorly paid—often
going months with no pay at all—poorly cared for (the wounded were virtually
ignored and allowed to die alone, unless a friend had time to help), poorly fed
(salt beef, dried peas and tea were mainstays) and poorly treated (tied to a wagon
wheel and flogged for the slightest mistake).
And yet somehow, amazingly, up until the War for Independence he managed to
conquer most of the world.
Young British officers in England, when they were being shipped out to fight in
the colonies, were told to “settle your affairs and make out a proper will because
the riflemen will almost certainly kill you.”
CHAPTER____________________________________________
6
As he walked, Samuel felt as if he were following some kind of a killing storm.
Even the tracks seemed savage. From the footprints, it was evident that the
prisoners, tied together, were constantly jerked and pulled to increase their speed.
Their prints were scuffed, ragged, and he felt his mother’s anguish terribly. She
was small, and thin, and very strong in her own way, but this brutal treatment,
probably with a rope around her neck, might be too much for her. If she was too
slow they might … He could not finish the thought.
The shock Samuel had felt since he’d come upon the devastation in the settlement
and dealt with the bodies had left him numb. Now it turned to anger, coming into
rage, and that was worse because he had to remain calm.
He had no idea what to do except to follow his parents’ tracks—he saw their
footprints now and then. He had to follow and rescue them. How he could do that,
free his parents … he’d have to wait and see. Wait until he knew more.
He would learn by studying sign. He could not forget himself and his skills now.
The people who were leaving the tracks were the people he had to deal with. He
had to understand them by the time he caught up with them.
He stopped and tried to slow his harsh breathing, tried to still his mind
and remember all he had taught himself about studying trails and the
surrounding ground.
It seemed that all of the captors and captives were walking on the trail, but there
might be others off to the side.
Quickly, he started to swing to the left and right of the trail. It was mostly grass,
and hard to read, but at last he saw scuff marks and some moccasin tracks in open
dirt. They had scouts on each side of the main group.
On the second swing, he found the first body. It was a man in his thirties who’d
been picking berries when they’d come upon him. He must have had a rifle or
musket—no one would be out in the woods without some kind of weapon—but it
was gone, along with his powder horn and “possibles” bag. He had been killed.
Sadly, there was no time for Samuel to give him a decent grave. He scraped a
slight trench with his knife and covered the body with a minimum of dirt. He
bowed his head, then went back to the trail.
Covering the body hadn’t taken much time, but it upset him. As he walked on, he
tried to still the shaking of his hands. He picked up his speed, and came into
the clearing of the next settlement before he was ready for it.
He thought he knew what he would find. It was just the few cabins, but unlike
Samuel’s home it had a name—Draper’s Crossing.
And it was gone. At first it seemed the same devastation he had found at home.
Smoke rising from burned cabins and sheds. But when he stopped, he saw that he
wasn’t alone.
On the southern side of the clearing, there was a figure. It was an old man. As
Samuel approached, he saw that the man was spading dirt with a wooden shovel
onto a mound that was clearly a grave.
And he was singing.
“Rock of ages,
cleft for me,
let me hide
myself in thee….”
Samuel stopped ten yards away. He saw no weapon but he stood ready, rifle held
across his chest, thumb on the hammer. As the old man patted the dirt with the
shovel, Samuel could see four other grave mounds where the cabins had been. The
man said in a singsong voice: “There to sleepy, little darling, there to sleepy with
the Jesus boy, all to sleepy, little darling, all to sleepy with the Jesus boy….”
Samuel coughed, but the old man did not turn.
“… Jesus came, the Jesus boy came and took them all up to heaven—”
“How long ago were they here?” Samuel finally interrupted the man’s song.
The man turned toward Samuel and kept up his singing.
“… Lordy, then the Jesus boy came and took them all to heaven. There was Draper
and Molly and they came in and took them all to the Jesus boy….”
“How long ago? Can you tell me when they were here?”
“… in the dark they came. Took them all to the Jesus boy, took them all but not
Old Bobby, no sir, didn’t take Old Bobby ’cause Old Bobby he sat eating dirt and
pointing up at the Jesus boy and talking through his ear holes, ear holes, and they
thinking Old Bobby was teched but it wasn’t so, wasn’t so, wasn’t so….”
“Water. Is there water or food here?”
“… wasn’t teched at all, just knew how the Jesus boy could save us, save us, so I
sat there eating dirt and laughing and praying….”
With piercing, intense and otherworldly green eyes, he stared, but not at Samuel.
He looked through Samuel at some far place that only he could see, only he could
know. He picked up the shovel and started walking off to the south where Samuel
could see one more burned cabin. Beside it lay what looked like a pile of rags, but
Samuel knew it wasn’t.
One more body …
Now he remembered something he had heard about the Indians. Considering that
he had lived his whole life on the frontier, he knew very little about them, and
what he did know he had learned by listening to adults, to rumors and stories they
sometimes told after they’d had a little too much hard cider or blackstrap rum.
He remembered that some tribes saw crazy people as graced by the Higher Power,
and that they believed that old people who did not think straight should be
protected, or at least not harmed.
Which must be why they had let Old Bobby go.
“Maybe he is crazy,” Samuel said aloud, watching him walk away with the shovel.
“And maybe not … Either way, he’s alive.”
He turned back to the trail. If Old Bobby was right, they had come “in the dark.”
Probably just before dawn, if they had stopped to rest at all.
That meant Samuel was gaining.
And that meant he had to keep moving.
The World________________________________________
The War for Independence very rapidly turned into something like a world war.
Native Americans fought on both sides, and Spain got involved on the American
side, or at least its navy did. Germany sent the mercenaries known as Hessians.
The French were a staunch ally of the United States, with their navy keeping
England from resupplying her troops and distracting it from the American navy.
The English navy, in fact, was so preoccupied with the French that it could not
focus on the American problem.
The Woods Runner
CHAPTER__________________________
7
He had been running for forty hours now. Just as he left
Draper’s Crossing, he passed a cornfield that the attackers
had tried to burn. Some ears of corn had been roasted.
Hunger took him like a wolf and he grabbed a half-dozen
ears, jamming them in his clothing. He ate as he
walked, letting the sweet corn juice slide down his throat
and into his stomach. The hunger was so intense that
eating the corn made his jaws ache. The food made his
body demand water. He hadn’t taken time to find a well
or where one was. When he came to a small creek, he
stopped to drink.
The water was muddy where the creek crossed the trail, so
he moved off into the thick underbrush twenty yards
upstream to where the creek ran clear. He knelt to put his
mouth to the water and this act saved his life.
His lips had no sooner touched the water than he heard
men’s voices. It was a native tongue and they were loud,
and laughing. There were two of them. Had they come
upon Samuel, they surely would have taken or killed him.
Samuel kept his head near the ground. Through small
holes in the brush he could see them from the waist down.
They wore leather leggings and high moccasins and each
carried a musket in one hand—he could see the butts
hanging down at their sides—and either a coup stick or a
killing lance in the other. Both of the men had fresh scalps
hanging on the shafts they carried.
For the first time in his life Samuel wanted to kill a man.
The overwhelming rage that he had begun to feel while
following his mother’s small footprints as she’d been
savagely jerked along the trail was like a hot knife in
his brain.
If there had only been one, he would have done it. But he
carried no tomahawk. All he had was a skinning knife,
and
So he waited until they were out of sight; then, staying
low and moving slowly, he went back to the trail.
Why had the men come back? Whatever the reason, two
men alone would not backtrack too far into potentially
hostile country. If there were any kind of force after them,
they would want to keep moving.
So, Samuel thought—maybe I’m getting close.
He picked up the pace to a jog, but stayed well to the side
of the trail on the edge of the thicker undergrowth in case
he ran into any others. And again, this move saved his
life.
Clearings left by old beaver ponds were scattered through
the forest. Some were small, an acre or two; others were
thirty or forty acres.
A large clearing popped up in front of Samuel now. It was
late afternoon, almost evening, and the sun slanted from
the west behind him into the clearing.
It was another stroke of luck. The clearing had been
turned into a large encampment, filled with Indians, some
British soldiers in red uniforms and, nearly a quarter of a
mile away, freight wagons hooked up to horses.
Samuel slid into the underbrush. He crawled farther back
where he couldn’t be seen. Unfortunately he couldn’t see,
either, and he squatted in the thick foliage and tried to
remember what he’d seen.
Three wagons ready to go out. Ten or fifteen soldiers,
including three officers on horses, and ten or fifteen
Indians.
He shook his head. No. Not so many soldiers. Seven or
eight. And fewer Indians. Eight or nine.
One large fire in the center of the clearing, one smaller
one closer to the wagons. A group of people huddled
there.
The captives.
There hadn’t been time to see them clearly and they were
too far away for him to see if his mother and father were
in the group.
In a rope pen near the wagons were one or two horses,
three or four oxen, maybe a milk cow; there was also a
spit set up over the larger fire with some kind of big
animal cooking.
Which meant they were going to be here for some time,
perhaps the night.
He settled slowly back on his haunches, careful not to
move the brush around him.
He had caught up to them.
There was a chance his mother and father were with that
group of captives. He still had no plan to rescue them.
Everything he’d done was just to catch up, see if they were
still alive. Could they be here? He hadn’t come across
their bodies on the trail, and there were captives by the
fire. For the moment, that was enough.
The plan would come later.
It would be dark soon; there was still no moon. Now he
was astonished that it had only been forty or so hours
since he’d returned from the hunt. His whole life,
everything in it and around it, was different now, torn and
gutted and forever changed from all that it had been, and
it would never be the same.
It would be dark soon.
And in the dark, he thought, with no moon, in the near
pitch-dark of starlight, there might be possibilities.
He had no plan.
But it would be dark soon.
And just then, as he settled back to wait and think on
some way to get to the captives without being
discovered—the whole world blew up.
Warfare___________________________
The British procedure when fighting was to march at the
foe in a close line, with two or three ranks of men. The
front rank would fire at fifty or sixty yards, then drop back
and reload while the second rank stepped forward and
fired, dropping back and reloading while the back rank
came forward and fired.
This “rolling volley” had the effect of creating a kind of
mass firepower. The weapons were very simple, but it was
almost impossible to stand against the line when the men
grew close, quit firing altogether and charged, screaming.
It took a special kind of courage to stand ready when a
line of howling men ran at you with bayonets aimed at
your stomach. Many times, American soldiers turned and
ran rather than face what the British army called the Wall
of British Steel.
The Woods Runner
CHAPTER___________________
8
The natives began whooping and dancing around the large campfire,
firing their muskets in the air in celebration.
Samuel crept out, slowly, until he could partially see what was going
on. He started to move back under cover when there was a sudden
increase in the racket. And the sound was different.
The Indians had been firing in the air as they danced, which caused
the explosions to go up and away. They were firing smoothbore
muskets, weapons that made a muffled barking sound. But this new
sound had the sharper, cracking quality of higher-velocity rifles.
Samuel crept back out to the edge and saw that the shots had come
from the north side of the clearing, where another trail came in.
Six or eight shots. Great clouds of black-powder smoke came rolling
out of the forest. A pause to reload, then eight more shots.
The Indians and British soldiers were stunned. A few Indians and one
soldier went down, probably dead. Several others were wounded and
hobbled into the brush for cover.
But the Indians and British recovered and returned fire. Samuel was
jarred by two important facts: First, whoever was attacking, this
might end in the rescue of his parents. Second, he should help them.
He moved to the clearing near the trail, raised his rifle, cocked it and,
without thinking of the enormity of what he was doing, aimed at the
nearest British soldier. He was less than fifty yards away. The German
silver of Samuel’s front sight settled on the red uniform. He set the
first trigger and was moving his finger to the hair trigger when he
heard a noise behind him.
He wheeled, his rifle coming around in time for him to see the two
Indians who had nearly caught him earlier, running straight at him.
“Wha—” Half a word, then one Indian, the one farther away, leveled
his musket and fired. Samuel felt the ball graze his cheek. Without
thinking, his rifle at his hip, he touched the hair trigger and, in slow
motion, felt the rifle buck, saw the small hole appear in the Indian’s
chest. Then, through a cloud of smoke from his weapon, he watched
the Indian fall as he saw the other Indian swing a tomahawk in a wide
arc. He knew he couldn’t raise his rifle in time to block the blow. The
tomahawk was coming at his head and he tried to duck, but the whitehot pain exploded as the side of the tomahawk smashed into his
forehead.
And then, nothing.
Wounds
Untreated battle injuries often led to gangrene, which causes the body
to literally rot away, turning first green, then black, from infection
that travels rapidly. Because antibiotics were unavailable in the
eighteenth century, amputation was the usual treatment. Due to the
horrific odor of gangrene, surgeons could smell the patient and make
an accurate diagnosis.
If the patient was not lucky enough to benefit from amputation,
maggots would be introduced into the wound in an attempt to
aid healing. They would eat away the infection.
Barring the surgical removal of body parts or the use of parasites,
doing absolutely nothing and letting the patient die was the only
option at the time.
The Woods Runner
CHAPTER_________________
9
Strange dreams.
Visions of unreality.
Endless screams that started with low grunts and
became more and more shrill until they cut his soul …
Dreams of his mother, dressed all in buckskins,
ladling some kind of thick stew with a wooden spoon
into a wooden bowl, chewing tobacco and spitting off
to the side while she held the bowl out, shaking her
head.
“He ain’t anywhere near right yet.” She spit her wad
of tobacco juice out again.
Then a trapdoor came down, a lid, something thick
and dark, and there was no light at all, just blessed
darkness and sleep, sleep, sleep … and more screams.
No sense of time. Once he tried to remember his
name and fought with it for a minute or a day or a
week or ten years. He couldn’t tell.
More dreams. Scattered. His mother, this time
wrapped in a blanket with stringy black hair hanging
down at the sides of her head while she chewed an
obnoxious cud. She disgorged it, slapped it on his
head and tied it on with a filthy rag, spitting more
tobacco juice out and nodding. “Got to get the pizen
out or she’s going to rot on him.”
It was as if his eyes never really opened, as if he saw
everything through closed lids, and the images that
swirled through his mind were so mixed that they
became a blur.
Night, day, night, day—light and darkness seemed to
flop and flow over each other. Pictures would stick for
a moment and then go.
A horse, then a cow, then his mother leaning down,
still in the dirty blanket, greasy black hair hanging
down the sides of her head, raising the poultice and
grinning, spitting more tobacco juice. “Coming clean
now,” she said, “clear pus, looks clean as spring water,
all the yeller gone.”
And then bouncing, incredibly rough bouncing, as if
someone were jumping on a bed while he was trying
to sleep. He would pass out in pain, rolling waves of
pain.
Finally a picture stopped, just stopped in front of his
eyes, in front of his mind. Locked in.
It was dark, or night, and he was on some kind of
wooden frame lying on the ground. A fire burned
nearby and when he opened his eyes wide, the light
from the fire seemed to shove a lance into the middle
of his head. He grunted in pain. He closed his eyes
and waited for the rolling pictures to begin again.
When they didn’t, he opened his eyes, but only in a
slit.
The image was the same. A bed frame of some kind, a
fire, and this time, less pain from the light. As he
watched, an arm came out of nowhere and put a piece
of wood on the fire, then withdrew.
He tried to move his head and see where the arm
went but the pain was so intense he nearly lost
consciousness. He lay back and closed his eyes,
opened them again when the pain receded.
“Where … who …?” The words pealed in his mind like
a bell, echoing around inside his head.
A figure appeared next to the fire. Not his mother but
a young man with stringy black hair and a cheek full
of tobacco juice. He leaned down, his face close to
Samuel’s. “You in there righteous or are you going
away again?”
“I’m … I’m here. Who are you?”
“John. John Cooper, but most just call me Coop.”
“Where …?”
“Long story, that. We be about twelve miles from
where you got that egg on your head. Twelve miles in
distance, more’n that in time.”
“When … I don’t remember … Some Indians. I think I
shot at one and then … nothing. Why did I shoot at an
Indian?”
“Cain’t tell. We come on these Iroquois and some
redcoats. We’d already seen what they took and done
back at Miller’s Crossing, so we snuck up proper and
took them on.”
“I remember. You were shooting. You say ‘we,’ where
are the others?”
“Asleep. I’m the night watch tonight, plus I’ve been
doctoring you and I thought you might lose your light
during the night. You been breathing like an old
pump. I guess you was just sucking air hard because
you didn’t die. Course it could still happen. I had a
cousin got kicked in the head by a mule—they’s
fractious, mules—and he lived for nigh on two months
’fore he lost his light. He never talked none except
now and again a kind of moan—like somebody
stepping on a duck. Then he just up and died.”
Samuel closed his eyes, felt a spinning. Then, as if a
fog were lifted, it all came back.
“I was tracking Ma and Pa. They … I mean the
redcoats, the Indians … hit our place while I was
looking for bear. They killed most everybody but took
my parents and a few others captive.”
Coop nodded. “We saw them, all around a fire. Ropes
tyin’ ’em together.”
“What happened to them?”
Coop shrugged. “Wasn’t much of a fight. We fired
once, reloaded, laid out another round, and they ran.
Them redcoats had wagons already hooked up and
they piled the captives in the wagons and lit out. We
couldn’t shoot no more for fear of hitting the
captives. The Indians just drifted away, like smoke.
That would have been that except one of them put a
musket ball in Paul. It was in his gut—awful place,
that. We knew he was going to die—ain’t nobody
comes back from a belly wound—and kept waiting for
it, but he made four days. He gave up his light last
night. No, night before. Died screaming. It was bad.
Surprised it didn’t bring you out of your stupor, the
screaming. Kept everybody up all night.”
Samuel closed his eyes again, trying to put numbers
together. Died one, two days ago, after making four
days; if a belly wound took four days to kill and it
happened the day of the fight but Paul died two days
ago … “How long since they took the captives? Since
the fight?”
“Five, six days. You been out six days. We like to not
found you and when we did, we almost left you.
Thought you was with the raiders.”
“Me? Why?”
“Well, you wasn’t with us, so we thought you was with
them. But Carl did some thinking on it—Carl’s my
brother and he’s the one to think on things—and said
look how messed up your head was where they
clubbed you and look at the bullet hole in the Indian
you killed—that’s a honey of a little rifle you got—and
how could you be with them and still get clubbed and
shoot one of them, so we took you with us.”
“I’ve been out six days?”
“Closer to seven, counting the night.”
“And did you say we’d come twelve miles?”
Coop nodded. “First three days—no, four—we let you
to lay. Everybody thought you would die and there
wasn’t no sense dragging you. Then there was Paul,
with his belly wound. If we tried to move him he
would scream like a panther. Then we rigged up a
drag and started to pull you back of one of them oxen
they left behind when they ran.”
“All the bumping.”
Coop nodded, spit tobacco juice in the fire and
listened to it hiss. “We couldn’t stay too long and
thought you could die just as well dragging as you
could laying up somewhere. If we’d left you,
something would have come along and ate you, so …
here you are.”
“My head …”
Coop nodded. “Good cut from that ’hawk. Carl took
some deer sinew he had and an old needle he carries
for fixings and sewed it up right pert’. He said in case
you lived wouldn’t be much of a scar. Across your
forehead.” Coop smiled and with some pride added,
“It come on to having green pus and everybody knows
that’s bad, so I made up a spit and ’baccy poultice and
tied it on with a piece of rag. Pus cleared up in two
days.”
“So I’ve been laying for six days?”
Another nod. “Coming on seven.”
“Well, how …” With a start, Samuel realized he didn’t
have any pants on underneath the coarse blanket that
covered him. “How come I’m not all messed up?”
“We took your pants off. Got them wrapped in a
blanket pack with your rifle. Indian must have been in
a hurry or he would have took it, sweet little shooter
like that. Also got your possibles bag and powder
horn. What you feel under your rear is fresh
grass. Anytime you messed we just threw the old
grass away and pulled in a half a foot of fresh new
grass. Slick as a new calf, or maybe slick as a
baby’s bottom.”
“Maybe I should put my leggings on.”
“Only if you ain’t going out of your head again.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suits me. I was the one having to get new grass all
the time. You ain’t eat nothing other than a little
broth I got down you one time and some water now
and again. Man can go long time without food, no
time at all without he has some water.”
“I’m starving,” Samuel said automatically, but with
the words came the feeling and he realized he was as
hungry as he’d ever been.
“You’d ought to drink something soft first.” Coop
handed him a wooden bowl with a mixture of broth
and meat. “Go slow. This is from some salted ox they
was cooking when we jumped them.”
Samuel took the bowl. He tried to drink slowly, but as
the taste and smell hit him he couldn’t help gulping at
it, meat and all, so fast that he gagged and threw up.
“Slow,” Coop repeated, coming back with a blanket
roll and putting it on the ground next to Samuel.
“You’ll founder, you don’t go slow.”
Samuel started over carefully. There was silence as he
ate, chewing completely before swallowing,
small bites, small swallows.
It’s like fire, he thought, when you’re cold. Fire
moving through your body. He ate the first bowl,
handed it to Coop and watched him refill it, this time
with broth and chunks of glistening fat as well as
meat.
This second bowl he drank and ate more slowly than
the first, and while he ate he made a mental list of
questions to ask when his stomach was full.
Why are you here? How many of you are there?
Where are you going? Is there any way you can help
me find my mother and father? Are you, will you, can
you, do you … questions roaring through his mind.
He finished eating.
He lay back.
He opened his mouth to ask the first question and his
eyes closed at the same instant and he was
immediately asleep.
And the last thing he thought as he went under was
that he still hadn’t put his pants on.
American Spirit
Although poorly trained and weakly led and
improperly fed—so badly that soldiers sometimes had
to eat their shoes—the Americans took comfort from
fighting on home soil and usually had much higher
morale than the British. While they were often
outnumbered and fought with inferior equipment,
this spirit had an enormous effect and they took the
phrase “morale is to fighting as four is to one” to heart
on the battlefields.
The Woods Runner
CHAPTER _______________________
10
This time the sounds of men coughing and axes
chopping wood for the fire awakened Samuel. He
opened his eyes—the pain was much less—and saw
that it was daybreak. Men were moving all around
him.
He started to roll, but the head pain stopped him, as
well as the sudden memory that he had no pants on.
The bedroll was next to him where Coop had put it.
He snaked his pants out, pulled them on and fastened
them with the leather cord around the waist.
The pain in his head had abated; it only jabbed if he
moved suddenly. The wound felt tight, as if someone
were pulling the top of his scalp together.
When he unrolled the blanket, his rifle half fell out
and he saw that the lock had dirt jammed around the
flint and pan, pushing up the striker plate, or frizzen,
so the rifle was not able to fire.
The men were making fire, tying bedrolls. One man
had what looked to be a permanently bent left arm
held up at a slight angle. He was sitting on the
ground cleaning his rifle. It made Samuel feel
embarrassed that his own lock was so dirty. He found
his possibles bag in the blanket roll. This was a pouch
with the powder horn attached that hung around his
neck, where he carried odds and ends of
equipment for cleaning and firing his rifle. Inside, he
had a tiny piece of steel wire. After blowing the dirt
out of the pan and frizzen and flint, he used the
wire to clear the touch hole, which fed the jet of flame
from the pan into the powder charge. Then he used an
oily rag to clean the whole area and put some finely
ground black powder into the pan. This was the
ignition powder that the flint-metal sparks would fire
into the powder charge. He closed the frizzen over the
pan, eased the hammer to half cock, safety, and set
the rifle aside.
The fire had flared up as the men added wood.
Samuel rose to his feet and went into the nearby
bushes to relieve himself. His legs were wobbly but
seemed to work well enough, even though he felt
weak as a kitten. As one part of his body got better,
another would follow. As the pain in his head went
down, the hunger in his belly came up.
There was the entire back leg from an ox over the fire
on a metal spit. Last night Coop had been cutting bits
of it to put in Samuel’s broth. Looking at it made
Samuel even more ravenous.
But the other men weren’t eating, so he held back.
One, a thin man with a scraggly beard, saw Samuel
looking at the meat. He pulled a knife, really a
short sword, carved off a generous piece
and handed it to Samuel.
“You got to eat. We might walk long today and it’s
going to be hard for you to keep up without your belly
is full.”
“Thank you.” Samuel took the meat—it was very
tough—and he sat chewing and swallowing, watching
the men clear up camp.
While Samuel watched the men and ate, he also rolled
and tied up his bedroll, making certain his powder
was dry and his possibles bag was ready to go. But
these men were even faster.
Without speaking except to grunt and point, they
seemed to get everything done with the least effort
and in the quickest time. The ox was yoked and tied
off to a tree. The skid that Samuel had been on, which
had two long tongues that went up either side of the
ox and attached to the yoke, was hooked up and
packed with extra equipment—the cooking pot,
blankets, muskets, a small keg of powder and another
of whiskey, and, of all things, a drum left by the
fleeing redcoats and Indians.
Then the men came and stood by the fire. In silence,
they cut pieces of meat and ate, drinking creek water
out of a wooden bucket with a wooden dipper.
Samuel still had dozens of questions but since the
men were silent as they stood staring into the fire
while they chewed, he held his tongue.
There were seven men. When everybody was done
eating, they each took a plug of tobacco and poked it
in their cheek or lower jaw. They put the leftover meat
on the skid, wrapped in a piece of green ox hide to
keep the flies off, then used the bucket to fetch water
from the creek to put the fire out.
With no effort at all, they were moving along the trail.
Two men went well ahead, one left, one right of the
trail. The rest formed a column—if five men could be
called a column—just ahead of the ox and Samuel.
In Samuel’s weakened condition, there was absolutely
no way he could have kept up with the men.
But the ox saved him. He knew that oxen tend to plod
a little less than two miles an hour, and this ox was
slower yet. Even Samuel had no trouble keeping up
with him, and when his legs felt a little weak, he
would move to the ox’s side and hold on to the yoke,
letting the ox pull him along for a time.
Every hour and a half the two men walking ahead
would come in and two others would move out. On
one of these cycles, Coop came back and walked near
Samuel.
It was what Samuel had been waiting for.
“You kept me alive. Thank you.”
“It weren’t much. A little tobacco and spit and tough
meat.”
“I’d have been done if you hadn’t come along.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. One never knows how a wind is
going to blow.”
“Why did you all come along? Where are you going?”
Coop spit—the men all spit, almost all the time.
Samuel had once tried tobacco, first in a clay pipe,
then taking a chew, and it had made him sick as a
dog. He couldn’t see the sense in using it, but all these
men seemed to chew all the time. And spit like
fountains. Maybe something happened to your taster
when you got older, he thought, so you didn’t mind it.
“We’re going to jine up,” Coop said, pointing east with
his chin, “and fight them redcoats. There be a feller
named Morgan roundabout Boston City starting up
Morgan’s Rifles. We all shoot rifles and we figure to
give them redcoats a taste of good shooting. They got
nothing but muskets, good for nothing after fifty, sixty
yards. Carl here”—he pointed up to where his brother
walked beside the head of the ox—“he can pink a man
on a horse out to two, three hundred yards. Every
time. Wouldn’t even know what hit him, nor where it
come from….” He nodded his chin at the group.
“Every man here can hit a foot-square piece of paper
every time at two hundred yards. I s’pose you could,
too, took a mind to it.”
“I’m not sure about killing.”
“You did that Indian back there. Laying dead and had
a bullet hole in him.”
“I wasn’t aiming. He shot and I pulled the trigger.”
“What you gonna do when you find your mam and
pap? Shake hands with them that took ’em?”
Samuel felt like spitting, too. “I haven’t thought that
far yet.”
“Best be thinkin’ on it, and keep your powder dry and
your pan primed.”
“Right. Thing is, I didn’t even know there was
anybody to fight. Who was good or bad, which side to
be on.”
Coop snorted. “Don’t take much thinkin’. Them that
starts in to killing people for no reason, them that
comes and takes your folks with a rope around their
necks—they’s the bad ones. Your good people don’t do
that.”
“What reason—” Samuel stumbled on a rock. To his
surprise, the ox was aware of it and hesitated to let
him catch up. “Why did those British redcoats
and Indians attack us like that? There was no reason.
We weren’t against the Crown or rebels or anything.”
Coop spit, neatly taking a fly off the ox’s ear. He
snorted. “Redcoats doing it because they’s redcoats
and ain’t worth a tinker’s damn. Follerin’
orders. Indians doing it because they was hired to do
it. They’s Iroquois, most of ’em work for the English,
always have, always will. Ever since that French War.
They get all the plunder they can carry and scalp
money from the redcoats. Heard there’s a man named
Hamlin, some kind of redcoat officer, buys so many
scalps they call him Hair Buyer Hamlin. What I don’t
understand is why they took your folks instead of
killin’ … Oh look, the front line is comin’ in.”
The column stopped by a clear-water creek and
everybody drank. Then the men took the meat off the
drag and sat in a circle cutting pieces and chewing. At
first Samuel hung back but Carl motioned him to
squat and eat. Samuel was feeling stronger by the
minute and the meat heated him like fire.
No one talked much except for Coop, and when they
finished, they rose, took a chew of tobacco and set off.
Coop and another man went ahead.
Samuel walked in silence, hanging on to the wooden
shaft tied to the ox. It was midmorning and the sun
fell through tall trees on either side of the trail so they
seemed to be walking in a lighted green tunnel. Now
and then insects caught sunlight and flashed white
like small lamps. Any other time, Samuel would have
been taken by the beauty of it.
But now he could not stop thinking of what Coop had
started to say.
Why hadn’t the raiders killed his parents? And would
they do it now?
I’m way behind them, he thought, six, maybe seven
days. Dragging along with an ox. God only knows
what’s happening to them.
I have to go faster.
The Hessians______________________
The British also used mercenary soldiers, issued with
the same Brown Bess musket and bayonet. Most of
them were troops from Germany, called Hessians.
While they were relatively effective as combat
soldiers, they brought with them such savage,
atrocious behavior, and committed war crimes so far
outside civilized behavior—bayoneting unarmed
captive soldiers who had surrendered, farmers,
women (including pregnant women), children and
even infants—that they became known as little more
than beasts and were treated in kind.
CHAPTER_________________________________________
11
He lay under overhanging hazel brush and studied the farm—here,
very close to the middle of the wild, was an almost perfect little
farm.
It had been three days since Samuel left the men behind. He’d eaten
more and more meat, become stronger and stronger, and, at last,
couldn’t stand the slowness of walking beside the ox. The men were
in no particular hurry; or, as Coop said, “Still gonna be a war, catch
it now or catch it later.” And they had gear to move, so had to go
slowly.
But Samuel became more frantic with every step. At last, when
they’d stopped to rest, he had told Coop he was going to take off on
his own.
Coop had nodded. “There’ll be people wantin’ to kill you,” he said.
“Well. Let me cut those stitches out of your head. Healed up good.”
He set to work as he spoke. “Almost everybody you meet will
maybe want to kill you, so keep to the brush, keep your head down
and don’t walk where others walk.” He took out the last stitch.
There was nothing more to say, so, with a nod, Samuel turned away
and trotted ahead of Coop and the rest of the men.
Samuel took the advice to heart and worked well off the trail, which
was becoming more like a road with two tracks. Even so, he
doubled his speed.
He had brought meat with him and took care to eat sparingly. After
three days, it was nearly gone. He’d have to get more soon. Deer
were as thick as fleas and it was just a matter of shooting one. He
was moving quietly through the woods, ready to do just that, when
he came upon the farm.
It had not been attacked and burned. It was a shock to see buildings
standing and unharmed.
And aside from that, this was a proper farm, not a frontier cabin
hacked out of the woods. True, there was deep forest all around it,
but the farm itself was neat as a pin, with split-rail fences all
whitewashed and a frame house, and a barn made not from logs but
from milled lumber. More, the house was painted white and the barn
red, with white trim on the doors and windows. As he watched, he
could see chickens in the yard.
Several thoughts hit him.
First, chicken would taste good. The thought of a roasted chicken
made him salivate.
Second, if they hadn’t been attacked it must mean they were friendly
to the raiders, who must have come right through here.
Third—an easy jump in thinking—it would be all right for Samuel
to “confiscate” a chicken, assuming the farmer was friendly with
Samuel’s mortal enemy.
Now, how to bring it about?
He could wait until dark, but that was still at least eight hours away.
He couldn’t waste time sitting here.
The farm was in the middle of a large clearing.
The tree line came close to the barn. If he worked his way through
the trees, he might get close enough to grab a chicken and run.
He was moving before he stopped thinking of it. Since he saw no
people as he moved around to the clearing in back of the barn, he
moved fast. He kept the barn between him and the house to block
their view. In moments he stood against the barn wall not ten feet
from a small flock of chickens pecking at the ground.
Just as he started to make his move, he heard a scraping sound
overhead and a barn loft door opened. A little girl, eight or nine, was
looking down at him.
“I saw you through a crack in the wall the whole way. You thought
you was sneaking, but I saw you. You looked like a big, two-legged
deer. What’s wrong with your head? How come you’re running like
that? What are you after—oh, the chickens. You want a chicken, go
ahead. I don’t like them anyway.”
Samuel was so stunned he couldn’t say anything, then he croaked in
a whisper: “Is there anybody else here?”
“They’s all up the house eating. They’s eating squash and it makes
me puke, so I came to the loft to play with my dolls. Go ahead, I
won’t tell.”
“Thank you.”
“Take that big red one. She’s mean. Chases me all over the yard and
pecks at my toes.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, Samuel thought. He made a darting
motion and, by luck, actually caught the big red chicken. It
squawked once but he held it tight and it quieted.
He started to leave, then turned. “What’s your name?”
“Anne Marie Pennysworth Clark,” she said, “but everybody calls
me Annie.”
“Well, thank you, Annie. I’ve got to be going now.” He turned to
leave, but her next words stopped him.
“You look just like the man who was here, ’cept he was older and
his head wasn’t all cut up.”
“What man?”
“Some men and a woman came here, some on horses and some in a
wagon.”
At that instant an enormous man holding a rifle came around the end
of the barn. He had shoulders like a bear and his gun was pointed at
Samuel’s face. Samuel dropped the chicken, raised his own rifle and
aimed it at the center of the man.
After a second, Samuel lowered his weapon. As soon as it moved,
the man dropped his. Samuel had forgotten to breathe. He took a
deep breath now.
“My name is Samuel,” he said.
“I thought a fox was in the chickens when I heard the hen squawk.”
The man shrugged. “Wasn’t too far off.”
“I don’t steal”—Samuel’s face burned—“but I’ve been on some
rough trail and I got hungry.”
“He wasn’t stealing, Pa,” Annie piped up. “I told him to take that
red one. She keeps trying to eat my toes.”
“I never turned anybody away from my door hungry,” the man said.
He held out his hand. “Caleb Clark—come up to the house and eat.”
It all seemed so natural and open that Samuel forgot his earlier
suspicion that the farmer was on the enemy’s side. He took the
man’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“Let’s stop by the pump and wash your head first. It’s a sight. Ma
will have a fit.”
“I got hit by an Indian—and these men came along and sewed me
up.”
“It looks,” Caleb said, smiling, “like you got hit by a club and then
some men stitched it up and smeared some kind of dark mud or
something on it.”
“Tobacco juice,” Samuel said. “And spit. They made a poultice. And
it saved me.”
They were at the watering trough and pump. Caleb took Samuel’s
rifle—Samuel handed it over without thinking. Caleb held Samuel’s
head under the pump and started working the handle.
“Scrub,” he said, pumping harder.
Samuel winced at the pain, but went to work. Carefully.
Finally the wound was clean enough to suit Caleb and they went to
the house. Annie followed and, sure enough, the red hen pecked at
her toes. Annie yelped and scurried ahead of Samuel and Caleb to
the house.
Samuel had never been in anything but a cabin, most often with a
dirt floor or at best a crude plank one, and Caleb’s house seemed too
fine, as if Samuel somehow shouldn’t be allowed in; at least not
without being boiled clean first.
The house inside was as neat as the outside, with plastered white
walls and a sugar-pine board floor, polished and rubbed with
beeswax.
“Company, Ma,” Caleb said. “You got another plate?”
Caleb’s wife was quite round, with red cheeks and hair up in a bun.
She had flour dust on her cheek. She pushed a bit of hair back and
smiled at Samuel with the briefest of looks. She pointed at a chair
that backed to the stove. “Sit and eat, we just started.”
There were only three people, four with Samuel, but the table
absolutely groaned with food. There was squash, as Annie had said,
with maple sugar and butter melted in the middle. There was a roast
of venison and potatoes, a loaf of bread with apple butter and some
kind of jelly, and corn on the cob with melted butter dripping from
the cobs.
Samuel had never seen anything like it. Huge bowls of food, and a
gravy tub that held at least a quart of rich brown steaming-hot gravy.
His stomach growled as Caleb poured him some buttermilk and they
all sat. There were a fork and spoon and knife at each place. Samuel
waited to see how things were done. Caleb smiled. “We’ll say
grace.”
They held hands, which seemed strange. Annie was to his left—she
decided that since he was there she’d sit to eat—and she grabbed his
hand. Caleb’s big paw took his other hand and in a deep voice he
rumbled:
“Thank you, Lord, for this food and this company. In Jesus’ name,
amen.”
And they set to. Nobody spoke. Ma heaped his plate with food. It
seemed more than he could possibly eat—he was sure his stomach
had shrunk—but he somehow got it all tucked in and felt full as a
tick.
Then Ma brought out rhubarb pie with thick cream sprinkled with
maple sugar and somehow he got that down as well.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve never eaten like that, not in my
whole life. Even at fall feast it wasn’t that good, or that much. I
won’t have to eat for a week. I just wish my folks …”
He stopped, remembering what Annie had said. He turned to her.
“You said some men came and one of them looked like me.”
Caleb cut in. “Some British soldiers came here with two wagons
holding fugitives or captives. Five of them. I fed the soldiers and
they were civil enough and didn’t bother us, though I heard some
bad stories of the Hessians that hit some farms east of here. Then I
took food and water out to the captives and one man, had his wife
with him, was very polite and thanked me. He looked like you, same
eyes and nose.”
“He was my father. And that was my mother.”
Samuel looked down at the floor and blinked away the burning in
his eyes. Annie softly patted his shoulder.
He told the story of the attack, leaving out the worst details because
of Annie. When he was finished, Ma was crying and he was having
trouble holding tears back himself.
“When were they here?” he asked. “How long ago?”
“Two, no, three days. After they ate, they watered the horses, and
while they were waiting for the horses to blow and settle the water,
the lead officer pulled out a little traveling chessboard. I don’t know
how to play but he went to the captives and your pa sat and played a
game with him on the edge of the wagon.”
“He loves chess.”
“I heard the officer say to another soldier that the only reason he
brought your father was that he saw a chessboard when they raided
the cabin and he wanted somebody to play with.”
Thank God, Samuel thought. Thank God for such a little thing to
mean so much. His father’s life spared for a chessboard. His
mother’s life, too. He stood. “Thank you for the food. I have to be
going. If I’m only three days behind and they keep taking it slow, I
could catch them.”
Caleb said, “They’re headed for New York. The city. The British
hold it and they keep a lot of prisoners there in old warehouses and
out in the harbor on old ships. If you don’t catch them along the trail
you might just go there. Good luck to you, son. We’ll keep you in
our prayers.”
Ma pressed more food on him—venison, potatoes and corn,
wrapped in a piece of linen. Annie and Ma hugged him and Caleb
shook his hand. Then he trotted slowly, his stomach still heavy, out
of the yard to the edge of the woods, where he entered thick forest.
He stayed well off to the side of the trail. Once again, this small act
saved his life.
He heard one clink—metal on metal—and dropped to his stomach,
out of sight, though he could see through gaps in the brush.
He watched them pass: an organized body of troops with tall hats
moving at a quickstep in a tight formation. They followed an officer
on a large bay horse. They did not look like British soldiers—they
had brownish instead of red uniforms and were more disciplined
than the redcoats. Hessians, he thought, Germans.
They were quickly past Samuel. Their march would take them
directly to Caleb’s farm. Curious, and with some fear, Samuel
turned and followed them, off to the side, fifty yards to the rear.
He’d relive that decision for many sleepless nights.
The attack was over in minutes.
The Hessians quick-marched into the yard, broke formation and
spread out into the farmyard, grabbing chickens as they moved.
Caleb and Ma came out onto the porch. Caleb wasn’t armed, though
he raised his arm and pointed at the soldiers.
He and Ma were immediately gunned down. Annie exploded out of
the house and ran toward the barn. Three or four of the soldiers shot
at her but missed, and once she was around the barn she ran for the
trees. More men tried to hit her but missed. Samuel was amazed at
how fast she ran. She stumbled once and it looked as if she might be
hit, but she jumped to her feet and kept running.
They took the bodies of Caleb and Ma and dragged them back into
the house. Eight or ten men went in the house then and looted it,
taking anything shiny and all the food they could find.
Then they set fire to the house and barn and when those were
roaring with flames, the soldiers fell into formation and quickmarched out of the yard, disappearing down the trail.
It had taken less than ten minutes.
Samuel was sickened by the cruelty, the absolute viciousness, of the
attack, and he hunched over and retched. He felt that he should have
run to Caleb and his wife, to help in some way, but knew there was
nothing he could have done. He would have been dead long before
he’d got at them.
He was helpless. He sat crying, watching the house and barn burn,
the Hessians gone like a plague. Caleb and Ma. The food, eating
together, how open and gentle and pleasant and good it had been to
sit with them and talk.
Destroyed. Gone.
Gone in this ugly war with these evil men. Gone and never coming
back and there was nothing, nothing, he could do or could have
done to save them, help them.
Except find Annie.
Take her with him to New York.
He made certain nobody was coming down the trail, then set off at a
trot around the clearing, staying well in the undergrowth, looking
for Annie and trying to erase from his mind what he had seen.
He had to find Annie. Then find his parents.
That was all that mattered.
PART 3
GREEN
New York—1776
War Orphans
Children orphaned by war, as countless were during the
Revolutionary War, suffer from nightmares and sleeping problems,
headaches, stomachaches, anger, irritability and anxiety. Severely
traumatized children may become withdrawn, appearing numb and
unresponsive and sometimes becoming mute. When the danger and
devastation end, children can show remarkable resilience and
recovery if they are in a safe and stable environment where they are
cared for and nurtured.
After the Revolutionary War, however, many orphans, if they were
not taken in by other family members, grew up in institutions.
Formal adoptions were very rare.
CHAPTER
12
He found Annie huddled in some hazel bushes, crying. When she saw
him, she ran and threw herself at him, grabbing the edge of his shirt,
silent except for the soft sobbing.
For three days.
Unless she was asleep or tending to herself, she would not get more
than four feet away from him for three solid days. She held on to his
clothing and did not say a word in all that time. At night he would
wrap her in his blanket and sit away from the glow of the fire and doze,
and she would cry in her sleep, almost all night.
It bothered him that she had no shoes or moccasins, and he had no
leather to make a pair for her, but her bare feet were amazingly tough
and she kept up with his rapid pace much better than he would have
expected.
They drank from creeks, which were common, and shared the small
amount of food Ma had given him. Annie did not eat for the first three
days and he worried at that—although she drank—but in the evening
of the third day she took some food and seemed to come out of the
cloud she was in, little by little.
He was having a very difficult time. With almost everything. The jolt
from what his life had been just short weeks ago to what it was now
had been so sudden, the gulf so vast, that he felt he was in a
completely different world, one dominated by violence and insanity.
The woods were the one thing he knew and still believed in. He was
thankful for the haven of the forest as they traveled.
Still, his rage would not go away. He stifled it, but he seethed with
anger every time he thought of the Hessians and how they had killed
the Clarks, of how they had tried to kill Annie, of how the raiders had
slaughtered the peaceful settlers for no reason.
He wanted to punish them, make them pay for what they’d done, and
could think of nothing to do except act as insane and violent as they
had.
Kill someone.
Find someone in a red coat and shoot him.
He knew it was not something he could do, even though he thought of
it. And so he drove himself—and, unfortunately, Annie—in a forced
march that covered over fifteen miles a day. It would not have been so
hard except that the trail had become a proper road. There was still
forest on either side, but settlements, then small towns, appeared
regularly. They often saw local people or detachments of redcoats
marching on the road.
They avoided everybody. Samuel trusted no one, not even people who
might have been friendly. Annie complained only once.
“We jump into the woods every time we see somebody,” she said.
“They can’t all be bad.”
“Yes,” Samuel said, thinking of the Hessians, “they can. Every single
one of them can be bad. So we hide. And that’s it.” His voice had an
edge that kept her from arguing.
They worked around settlements and small towns, sticking to the
trees, and on day five—they’d been out of food for a day and a half—
Samuel shot a deer and took an afternoon, well back in the woods, to
make a small fire with flint and steel and a little powder. He cooked
the two back legs of the deer with stakes holding them over the fire
and, when the meat was still rare, cut pieces from one of the legs, and
they ate it squatting by the fire. He also cut off the strips of meat
alongside the lower backbone—the tenderloin. Although it was quite
small, he cooked that as well, to save for later.
They ate a whole back leg sitting there, until Annie’s face was coated
with grease. They wrapped the excess in the cloth Ma had given him
and were up and moving again, Samuel not wanting to waste daylight.
He could think of little but finding his parents and getting them away
from their captors. But he also realized that the odds were not good.
He knew nothing of cities, or even towns, but New York City must be
large, and filled with people who would not be helpful since the British
were there. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a way to get into the
city safely to find his mother and father.
With meat in his belly he fairly loped along, so fast that at last Annie
gasped, “You got to slow down. I can’t run like a deer.”
He slowed but kept the pace steady, so that when it was dark, hard
dark, and he stopped, Annie fell asleep almost the instant he wrapped
the bedroll blanket around her.
He decided to make a cold camp and didn’t start a fire. Since there was
no smoke, the bugs, mostly mosquitoes, found him at once. They
weren’t as bad as they’d been on his hunting trips on the frontier, but
then he’d always had a fire with the smoke to keep them away.
He was tired, although not like Annie, and he had some thinking to do.
It took him a while to get his mind off the mosquitoes, and by that
time there was a new sliver of a moon. In the pale silver light he saw
Annie’s face, wrapped in the blanket, just showing enough to let her
breathe, and his heart went out to her.
She was only eight, he thought, maybe nine, and her whole world had
been absolutely destroyed.
Were there many like her? Everything gone because of this war? The
innocent ones were the worst part of it all. His mother and father
making a life on the frontier, just wanting to be left alone, his mother
trying to get the garden to grow, his father learning how to use tools,
how to make his own house, wanting only to work and read and think
and live a quiet, simple life with his family.
All gone. His own life gutted, not as much as Annie’s, but enough.
He had to get his parents back.
How? What to do? There were so many unknown factors that the
questions seemed impossible.
He was one person with a rifle.
Oh yes, he thought, smiling grimly, and a knife.
And he felt that the entire world he was heading into was against him.
He would have to get around them, the people in that world, some
way, somehow….
How?
His eyes closed, opened, closed again, his questions spiraling down as
he leaned back against a tree and slept.
Civilian Deaths________________________________
Civilian mortalities have always been underreported in wars, and are
nearly impossible to verify. Most historians and governments are
forced to guess at the numbers because not only are birth and death
certificates, church records, tax rolls and emigration documentation
frequently destroyed during combat, but the true numbers are, in
many cases, never counted, in order to hide them from a country’s
own people as well as the enemy.
Once mass weapons such as cannons and guns were developed and
used by the military, far more civilians were killed simply by being in
the wrong place at the wrong time.
CHAPTER______________________________
13
The signs were on the side of a tree, two boards hacked into
the shape of an arrow and nailed up with large, handmade cut
nails.
One pointed to a trail that went straight south. Crude letters:
“Philadelphia—41 m.”
The other arrow pointed straight east: “New York—38 m.”
“What do they say?” Annie asked. “I can get the letters but I
can’t put them together so good. Yet.”
Samuel told her. “About the same to either place. A three-day
walk…. Let’s get off the trail. I’ve got to think on it.”
They moved back into the undergrowth and settled out of
sight.
“What’s to think about?” Annie said. “We go to New York to
get our ma and pa.”
She did not realize what she said, but Samuel heard the our.
Something had happened in her mind, she’d found a way to
stand it all, to keep going.
Samuel nodded.
What had Caleb said? Oh yes, New York was British.
But the Americans still held Philadelphia, the center of the
new government. Had his mother and father come by here
and seen this sign? Did they know that safety and refuge were
just forty miles away, and then did they have to go on to New
York?
He shook his head.
“I should … I ought to take you into Philadelphia, where it’s
safe, and find a place for you.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No. I ain’t going to leave you. You’re the only family I have. It
won’t help to leave me someplace because I’ll just run and
follow you. No matter what you say. We’re going to find our
folks. That’s all there is to it. We’re going to New York.”
“What I was going to say—”
“Together.”
“—was that it would take too long to go down there and come
back—six or seven days—so I guess we’ll stick together.”
“Good. That’s settled.”
Samuel almost smiled. She looked so ragged—her dress was
indescribably dirty and so was her face. Her hair stuck out at
odd angles. The dirt was caked on her legs, and her feet looked
like shoe leather—and yet she was ready to do what had to be
done. I’m proud, he thought, to have you as a sister.
“All right then,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They had a stroke of luck after they turned toward New York.
Later that day they saw a farm with fresh corn in the field.
They crept into the edge of the field and took enough ears for
dinner.
Just after leaving the field, back in the woods alongside the
trail, they heard an awful racket coming up the road from the
rear. Something on wheels was clanging and clanking and
rattling along. They were far enough back in the thickest part
of the undergrowth so they couldn’t see what it was. It
stopped nearby.
All was quiet, and then Samuel heard dogs panting. Before he
and Annie could move, two black-and-white mostly collie dogs
came up to them in the brush, looked at them each for a
moment—directly into their eyes—and gently tried to push
them out toward the road, using their shoulders against
Samuel’s and Annie’s legs.
“Hey!” Samuel whispered. “Leave off!”
He heard a laugh.
“You might as well come out of there,” a coarse, deep voice
shouted. “I know right where you are and I’ve got a two-gauge
swivel gun aimed at you.”
“You stay here,” Samuel whispered to Annie. “I’ll see what’s
going on.”
But no, she was not going to stay, and they both stood and
walked out of the brush, the collies nudging them along.
A huge freight wagon stood on the road, so stacked up with all
sorts of everything—from bundles of rags to loops of tin pots
tied up like garlands, to two saddles, to barrels and buckets
and a rocking chair—that it looked enormous: a junk pile on
wheels being pulled by two scruffy mules.
“How’s your day?” the man on the wagon asked, spitting, and
in such a thick Scottish brogue that it was difficult to
understand him. “I’m Abner McDougal, tinker at large. The
two dogs are William and Wallace—named after a Scottish
hero.” He saw Samuel’s rifle and he held up his hands. “Don’t
shoot, I was making a jest about the swivel gun. I’m not
armed, as you can see—don’t believe in shooting things.”
He seemed to be dressed in sewn-together rags and looked as
untidy as the junk he was carrying. His voice had a horrible
rasping sound, like a steel shovel edge hitting rocks in gravel,
and he was absolutely covered in unkempt gray hair. It was
almost impossible to see his face for the hair, and the lower
part of his beard was soaked with tobacco stains from
dribbled spit.
“I’m Samuel,” Samuel said, “and this is Annie.”
Abner nodded and then looked at the dogs, which had moved
in front of the mules and were peering down the trail in the
direction of New York.
“Get in the back of the wagon,” Abner said.
“What?”
“Get in the back of the wagon. Hide the rifle. Now. Quick.
Someone wrong is coming.”
“Wrong?”
“Move! Hide the gun!”
Abner’s firm voice left no room for argument. Samuel took
Annie’s hand and they climbed up in the back of the wagon.
There was just room for them to sit with their legs out on the
opened wagon bed. Samuel hid his rifle and powder horn
beneath a pile of cloth.
He had no sooner done this than there was the sound of
hooves. A troop of British cavalry dragoons came around the
bend in front of the wagon and stopped. Samuel could see
through the side of the wagon. There were about twenty riders
in red uniforms and high fur hats and knee-high boots. They
were carrying short muskets and sabers. The horses were well
lathered, snorting and breathing hard, and the group broke
formation and spread around the wagon. Two men pulled
their sabers and started poking in the load from the sides until
Abner said, “Careful there! There’s my bairn’s bairns inside.”
“Your what?” The commanding officer pulled up next to
Abner.
“My grandchildren. Don’t go poking them with your stickers.”
“The purpose of your trip?”
“We’re headed for New York. I buy things and sell things.
Would you be looking for anything in particular yourself?”
“You could have any kind of illegal goods in there”—the officer
nodded at the wagon—“any kind of contraband.”
“I could, but I don’t. And besides, I have a merchant’s pass
from the commanding general’s staff, handwrit and signed
and sealed. All official.”
“Let me see it.”
Samuel heard the rustle of paper being passed back and
forth—he could not see the front of the wagon—and then the
officer’s brusque voice: “All right then, pass on. But watch for
anything suspicious. We’ve just taken New York and a lot of
the rebel runners and deserters are trying to make their way
to Philadelphia.”
Samuel looked at the troopers around the back of the wagon,
who were looking at him. One smiled and nodded at Annie but
she sat quietly, her eyes big and her jaw tight.
“Fall in!” the officer commanded, and the men wheeled their
horses into formation and rode past.
“Up, Brutus! Up, Jill!” Abner slapped the reins across the
rumps of the mules and they grunted and started pulling the
wagon, which began to roll ahead slowly.
“Stay in the wagon until they’re out of sight,” Abner said.
“Until they’re gone. Then come up on the seat. We’ll talk.”
Samuel was confused. He’d decided to trust no one and yet
this old man had come forward and lied for them. He wasn’t
sure what to do, but some part of him wanted to trust Abner.
He watched the cavalry unit disappear around a bend in the
road and then stood and climbed alongside the load until he
was at the seat looking down at the backs of the mules. Annie
sat down in the middle next to Abner, and Samuel took the
outside.
“How did you know they were … wrong?” Samuel asked.
“The dogs. They told me.”
“The dogs told you?” Annie scoffed. “I didn’t hear nothing.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to listen. It’s in the way
they stand, how their ears set, the hair on their back. If you
know the dogs and they know you, they will tell you what to
expect.”
“How did you know we might think the British soldiers were
bad?”
Abner slapped the reins on the mules. “Pick it up, pick it up!
How could I think otherwise? Somebody comes down the trail
and you hide in the bushes. This is largely a British road. You
come out carrying a gun at the ready.” He laughed. “It’s hard
to think you’d act that way with a friend.”
“We don’t like the British,” Annie said suddenly. “They’re all
bad. Every damn one of them.”
They both stared at her. “They killed our folks, our family….”
Her voice cracked. “And I miss them. I miss my ma and my
pa—I even miss the red chicken that pecked my toes.” She
started crying, leaning against Samuel.
“I think,” Abner said, “you’d better tell me what happened.”
And to Samuel’s complete surprise, he took a deep breath and
did just that.
New York City
New York was the main city where prisoners of the British
troops were held. By the end of 1776, there were over five
thousand prisoners in New York and, since the population of
the city was only twenty-five thousand, more than twenty
percent of the people within city limits were captives.
At that time, there was only one prison in New York, so the
British held their prisoners in warehouse buildings or on
Royal Navy ships anchored in the harbor. Although these
ships were built to hold 350 sailors, the British kept over one
thousand prisoners at a time on board. The only latrines were
buckets, which soon became full and spilled into the
prisoners’ sleeping quarters.
Disease was rampant. At first, an average of five or six
prisoners died on these ships every day. In the end more
American soldiers died in prison than in actual combat.
The Woods Runner
CHAPTER_______________________________________
14
Abner sat silent for a long time after Samuel had finished telling the story
of the attack and the raid, although he was less bloody in his telling than
he might have been, because Annie was listening.
At length Abner coughed and spit tobacco juice between the mules. “So
you’re thinking your folks are in New York.”
“It’s a guess. From what I understand, Philadelphia is in American hands,
and I don’t think the British would take them there. Caleb heard them
talking about going to New York.”
“And once you’re in New York you’re going to find them somehow, and
then with your little shooter you’re going to lope in there and shoot your
way out?”
“Well, no. I mean, I don’t know….”
“Right in the middle of the whole British army you’re going to sneak in
and take them clean away.”
“When you put it that way, I guess …”
“I heard they had fourteen thousand troops for the battle to take Brooklyn
Heights alone; the Continentals never had a chance, started running
before the fight started. They’ve probably got twenty, twenty-five
thousand troops swarming all over the area. And you’re going to jump in
the middle of ’em—it’d be like climbing into a swarm of bees.”
“I don’t have a plan just yet. All I know is to follow them as best I can and
then work on something if I find them. When I find them.”
“You know what I think?” Abner looked at him.
“No, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, I don’t know what you think.”
“I think you need help from an old coot and a couple of dogs, that’s what I
think.”
“You’d do that? Couldn’t that land you in a lot of trouble? I mean, you’ve
got that pass that lets you go places—why would you want to help us and
risk losing the pass?”
Abner snorted. “Ain’t no pass at all. Got a friend in Philadelphia with a
printing press, and I had him make me a peck of forms with the date blank
and a place for somebody to sign. Official-looking. I just fill in the blank
with the right general’s name and sign it—works every time.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question. About helping us.” Samuel
watched as the dogs moved to the front of the mules, one on either side,
looked ahead intently, then dropped back.
“Somebody’s coming,” Annie said. She’d seen the dogs move. “Shouldn’t
we stop?”
“Not soldiers,” Abner said, shrugging and spitting. “Just people
traveling—maybe getting out of New York. Was it soldiers, the dogs would
have stayed up front, kept watching.”
“How do they know?”
Abner shook his head. “No way to know that unless you’re a dog. They
kind of feel things, in the air, maybe, or along the ground. Sometimes
they’ll put their noses down and tell it that way. But they’re always right.”
And they were right this time. A freight wagon was coming. Not as full as
Abner’s, and pulled by a team of oxen rather than mules. There was a man
walking on one side of the oxen, carrying a wooden staff, which he used to
guide them, and a woman walking on the other side. On the wagon seat
were two children, probably three and four years old.
They passed head-on and Samuel thought neither of them would say
anything. The man just nodded at Abner. But before he was well past,
Abner called: “Dragoons ahead, patrolling the road west.”
“Thankee,” the man said with a nod. “We’re obliged for the knowledge, but
we’re going south at the turn. Head down for Philadelphia, if ’n it’s still
held.”
“Held solid. Good journey,” Abner said, “for you and the family, and good
health.”
“The same to you.”
And they were gone.
“Why don’t the British soldiers come at them? Do they have a pass?”
“Probably not. I doubt anybody really gets a pass like mine. But the
soldiers aren’t always a problem. Sometimes they take things, act up
rough, but other times they seem to follow some kind of rule. Unless they
be Hessians. Then even the pass might not work.” He shook his head.
“They ain’t nothing good about the Hessians. They were born bad.”
Annie nodded. She had been so quiet Samuel had almost forgotten she
was there, sitting between them. Her voice was brittle, like it could break
in the middle of a word. “They’re all bad.”
It will be years, Samuel thought, before she can forget. Maybe her whole
life. And I don’t blame her—I feel the same and I didn’t see my parents
bayoneted.
The thought of his parents brought back the memory of the question he
had asked Abner, which had not been answered. “We never heard why you
want to help us,” he said. “Couldn’t it make trouble for you?”
“No more’n I make for myself.”
“Still.”
“You’re pushing at this, ain’t you?” Abner smiled, though in the hair and
spit stains it was hard to tell. “Kind of like a root hog, digging at it.”
“I want to know. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t know anything about us.
But you’d risk trouble to help us? You’ve got to admit it seems strange—I
mean, I’m grateful. Mighty grateful. But …”
“Well, thinking on it, there’s two reasons.”
“We’re listening.”
“First, when you get old and start to smell an end to things, your brain
starts doing things on its own, whether you like it or not. You might be
looking at a piece of meat cooking on a fire, hungry and ready to eat, or
sitting up here alone, watching the mules pull on a lazy sunny afternoon,
and your brain starts in adding and subtracting, measuring your life.”
“What do you mean?” Annie looked up at him.
“Well, it says you’ve done this many things wrong and this many things
right. Like a ledger with lines down the middle. Maybe you helped
somebody load a wagon once and that would go on the good side, and
then maybe you ate a piece of pie somebody else wanted, somebody else
deserved, and that would go on the bad side.”
“Well, we all do that, don’t we?” Samuel asked. “Think about things and
then try to do the right one?”
“We can hope so, but until you get old you don’t really start adding them
up. When you’re young you forget some of the things, both good and bad,
but when you get old, it’s amazing how much you remember. I keep
pulling up parts of my life from when I was barely off the milk, bawling
after my mum in Scotland. I stole a tiny piece of bread I wasn’t supposed
to eat on the ship on the way over here, and that’s in there, waiting to be
added in, even though I puked it up not two minutes after I ate it.” He
snorted and spit, this time almost to the noses of the mules. “I wasn’t one
for sailing. The boat rocked once, the first time I got on it, and I was sick
all the way across.”
He stopped the wagon because they met some young men on foot,
obviously fleeing. There were three of them and one had bandages around
his upper left arm. They waved but kept moving west along the trail at a
trot.
Abner warned the men about the cavalry and they nodded. Samuel
thought they should be moving off the side of the trail into the brush but
didn’t say anything. They probably knew more than he did, since they’d
been fighting.
He was very glad that he and Annie had run into Abner but knew that if
they hadn’t, they would have traveled as much as possible in the thick
brush. In the woods was life. Out here in the open …
“You said two,” Samuel said, watching the men until they were out of
sight. If the cavalry were coming back they would be caught, probably
killed. It all seemed so crazy: men walking down a road, somebody coming
along and killing them. “Two reasons to help us. What’s the other one?”
“Well, the first one was almost all rubbish. I mean, it’s true, but maybe a
little too flowery to be real. I like the way it sounds, though, almost like it
might be written somewhere.” Abner chuckled. “Being alone most of the
time, I don’t get much chance to flower things up. Maybe I should write it
down. Somebody might read it sometime and think I was more than I
really am.”
Lord, Samuel thought, for somebody who spends most of his time alone,
he sure does like to hear his own voice. He waited.
“But the second is quick. The truth is that I’m too old to fight.” Abner
laughed; Annie jumped and Samuel realized she’d been dozing. “I like a
good scrap and I’m too old for this one. So I go back and forth with news.
Try to help.”
“You’re a spy?”
“No, no, that’s too hard a word. Though I ’spect these redcoats would hang
me proper if they knew. I go back and forth with news about things that
are happening that some might be interested in hearing about. I sell a
little and buy a little and carry a word now and then, and I help them that
needs it when I can. I can’t really fight—my bones would break. But if I
help those who are against the redcoats, it’s right close to fighting. I can’t
stand the redcoats and you don’t like them, either. Is that good enough for
you?”
Samuel nodded, watching the dogs move up the trail and back again.
“That’s good enough for me. And thank you for the help.”
Covert Communication
Both the American and the British military forces disguised their
communications so that messages could not be easily read if captured by
their enemies. Prearranged letters or words replaced other letters or
words, all of which had to be memorized by huge numbers of different
people, but the secret codes were frequently and easily broken.
Mathematical codes were experimented with, but the complexity limited
their effectiveness, especially given the length of time it took to pass
messages from one party to another.
Invisible inks that could be made visible with heat or a series of chemicals,
as well as messages hidden in common publications such as pamphlets
and almanacs, were common ways to ensure the security of sensitive
information.
Woods Runner
CHAPTER__________________________________
15
They were still several days away from the city of New York and an
almost constant stream of refugees came at them.
Some had obviously been soldiers, or fighting men of one kind or
another. There were many with wounds, wrapped in crude
bandages. Abner stopped the wagon and furnished bandages for
those who didn’t have them; he also had a supply of laudanum, a
painkiller that was half opium and half alcohol, and he gave some
of the more gravely wounded a small bottle. “Take it sparingly,” he
said in his deep voice, “best at night before sleeping.” To everyone
he said, “Stay off the roads, redcoats are about.”
Cart after wagon after cart passed them, being pulled by mules or
oxen. A goodly number of the people were soldiers, but the vast
majority were civilians—often whole families.
“Where do you suppose they’re all going?” Samuel thought of the
devastation on the trail to his rear. It certainly didn’t seem like a
safe place. Hessians, soldiers, savages. “Down to Philadelphia?”
Abner nodded.
At times travelers were so thick Abner had trouble moving the
wagon through.
“Are they running from the redcoats?” This from Annie, who
teared up when she saw a little girl trudging along and holding a
doll by one arm.
“That. And more,” Abner said. “Not just the soldiers—like I said,
some of them aren’t that bad. I mean, a while ago, we were all loyal
Englishmen. It’s more what redcoats signify—the English Crown
has become a way of life these people no longer want. Part is
they’re scared, don’t know what will happen, but along with that,
these people are sick of being told what to do by a crazy king who
lives three thousand miles away and doesn’t care about them one
way or the other.”
“What do you mean, ‘crazy’?” Samuel asked.
“King George,” Abner said, “they say he’s teched, crazy as a bag of
hazelnuts. They’ve got people to catch him when he runs wild, put
his clothes on when he tears them off, watch him when he sleeps so
he doesn’t kill himself—he’s no man to run a kingdom.”
“Did he start the war?” It seemed a logical question; the war was so
crazy. Maybe a crazy man started it.
“Probably not. It began on this side of the ocean in Boston, not
over there. People were sick of being treated like livestock.”
The dogs had been going ahead now and then to greet some
people, their tails wagging, holding back with others, but now they
dropped well back and Abner stopped the wagon. “British coming.”
If he hadn’t seen the dogs, he would have known anyway; all the
men who looked like patriot soldiers evaporated off the trail into
the brush.
The soldiers came marching in a file. Not Hessians but regular
British soldiers. There must have been two or three hundred of
them, as near as Samuel could estimate, marching in loose route
step, followed by supply wagons. They did nothing threatening,
they didn’t stop at all, except to work around wagons that couldn’t
get out of the way soon enough.
Abner watched them go by in silence, nodding at some of them,
and when they were gone, he started up the mules. It was late in
the day and he said, “Why don’t we stop for a good meal tonight?”
They had been eating corn and the venison, which was about gone.
Samuel had been thinking he should take his rifle and head off into
the woods for another deer tomorrow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean have somebody cook us a meal … say the people in that
farm over there.” He pointed to a farm set well back off the road,
with neat white fences and a white painted house. “Right there.”
Samuel and Annie said nothing. The house reminded Samuel of
Annie’s home before the Hessians and he wondered if she felt the
same.
As they had gotten closer to the city, there had been more and
more cleared farms. Some were nice, even beautiful. Some had
been attacked and burned—probably by the Hessians—but many
had not. It made no sense, nor did it follow any logic—like so much
of what had happened.
Abner pulled the wagon into the long drive and then the yard.
There was a wooden watering trough by a hand pump and the
mules went to it and started drinking. Abner, Samuel and Annie
climbed down from the wagon.
“Let them drink,” Abner said. “Mules won’t blow themselves by
over drinking the way horses do.”
There was a barn—painted red, as Caleb’s had been. Samuel
sneaked a look at Annie, but she seemed to take it in stride.
A man came from the barn. He was tall, thin, and had a tired felt
hat, which he pushed to the back of his head. He started to say
something but before he could get anything out, Abner held up his
hand.
“Name’s Abner McDougal. Honor to the house and we come in
peace. I have a fine surface-sharpening stone wheel and I repair
and sharpen all tools, in the house and barn, all work for one good
meal for me and the bairns.”
“Well …”
“Also buy and sell rags. Have some nice linen rags if the lady of the
house needs some soft garment material.” He spoke fast, never
letting the man get a word in. “If you don’t need anything we’ve
got, we’ll just thank you for the water for the mules and be on our
way.”
The man removed his hat and rubbed his head. “Well, I’ve got
some sickle bars that could use a honing and I ’spect Martha has
some knives that need touching up.”
“No sooner said than done. Sam, why don’t you get that sharpening
wheel down and we’ll get to edging things up.”
Samuel—who had never been called Sam in his life—went to the
back of the wagon and peered into the mess. He hadn’t really
looked at it before but now, as he pulled some things aside, he
found a sharpening wheel, a wooden frame with a treadle and a
small tin cup to drip water on the stone. When he pulled it out of
the way, he found a wire-covered crate pushed under some things.
It had some kind of birds in it and on closer examination he saw
they were pigeons; live pigeons. How strange.
He hadn’t even known they were there. Why were they hidden? He
took the wheel down and put it by the trough, filled the tin cup and
hung it by the wire over the wheel so water would drip from a small
hole in the can onto the stone. He made sure the treadle worked
and the wheel spun.
The man came from the barn with three hand sickles that had the
long curved blade used for harvesting wheat or other grains. Abner
took one, stood by the wheel and gestured to Samuel to start
pumping with his leg to get the stone spinning. Abner held the first
blade against the stone as it turned, making a scraping-hissing
sound, and the steel edge ground down to razor sharpness.
Samuel was amazed at how easily the stone spun. This shouldn’t
take too long. How peaceful it all seemed. He kept pumping until
the sickle was done.
Then another, and Samuel switched pumping legs.
Legs a little tired.
And another. He switched legs again.
Legs a little more tired.
Then three axes, two picks, a tomahawk, a set of rail-splitting
wedges—six of them—four slaughtering and sticking knives, and
four butcher knives that Martha, a short, thin woman who was all
smiles, brought from the house. Then an ice chisel, two serrated
hay knives, two planking adzes, one shingle froe, and, at last, an
old cavalry saber that the farmer—named Micah—used for
chopping corn.
Samuel staggered over to the trough to wash. Abner put his whole
head underwater and then shook like a dog. He pulled his hair
back and combed his beard down and Samuel saw Micah smile at
him. He saw something else there, a look of what? Recognition? As
if they already knew each other?
The meal was good, very good, though not up to what they had
eaten at Caleb’s. Venison stew, piles of new potatoes, fresh bread
with new butter, apple pie made with maple sugar, and fresh
buttermilk cool from the spring-house on the side of the barn, in
quantities to fill even Samuel. He was shy about asking for
seconds, but Martha kept piling it on and he ate it gratefully. Sitdown meals were always rare in his life, even before the war—he
winced at that thought, before the war; there didn’t seem to be
such a thing anymore—what with his living in the woods on the
hunt most of the time. But being a guest was almost unheard of
and he wasn’t sure how to act.
He needn’t have worried. As with Caleb and Ma, Micah and Martha
made eating enjoyable, not something to fret over. When they were
done with seconds, and thirds on the pie—even Annie ate like a
wolf—they went out to sit on the porch while Micah and Abner lit
up clay pipes with coals from the fireplace.
“Food gets better every time I stop here,” Abner said, ending the
mystery. “I didn’t think it was possible.”
“She can cook.” Micah nodded, smiling. “In fact, there ain’t much
she can’t do.”
Annie and Samuel sat on the edge of the porch. The dogs were in
the dirt in front of them. Annie was about to doze off but Samuel
wanted to listen, so he sat drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick,
the dogs watching with a kind of casual interest as the stick moved
around.
“Know anything about the happenings in New York?” Abner asked.
“How it went?”
Micah shook his head. “Not much. The English took it and a bunch
of prisoners. They’ve moved in, the English. Took over houses for
their own—they ain’t making a lot of friends. Course that doesn’t
seem to bother them much, not making friends, the way they
brought those damn Hessians into it. Hiring mad dogs.”
“The passes I brought you working out?”
“So far. I’m more worried about scavengers hitting us. The wild
ones would kill you for a turnip. But we’re still here, ain’t we?”
“Good. I’ve got some more birds to leave. You still have that hutch
in back of the barn?”
“Yes.”
“Same as before. Send one if anything big comes along. I’ll send
one this evening. We saw a large detachment heading up the road
today—maybe two hundred. They ought to know about it back in
Philadelphia.”
“If the hawks don’t get him. I don’t know how any of them get past
the hawks.”
“Well, there’s always that. Always some risk. But it’s better than
nothing.”
The pigeons are for carrying messages, Samuel thought. He
glanced at Abner out of the corner of his eye—there was so much
more to him than he’d thought at first.
The men sat smoking in silence for a moment; then Abner said:
“You said they took some prisoners. Sam’s parents weren’t military
but they took them prisoners anyway.”
“They’re doing that.” Micah nodded. “No sense to it. Just see a man
working in a field and take him prisoner. Stupid. Like they think
the crops are going to plant themselves.”
“You know where they’re keeping the prisoners?”
“Not certain. There are warehouses and an old sugar mill—you
remember that three-story thing they built to mill sugar?”
Abner nodded. “Along the waterfront.”
“Yes. I think they might use that, along with the warehouses. There
are thousands of prisoners. I don’t know how they’ll feed them,
plus I s’pose plenty of them were wounded. It can’t be good for
them.”
“Well,” Abner said, knocking his pipe out on the side of the porch.
This, Samuel saw, made the dogs stand up and get ready. He was
amazed by them. They saw everything. “We’ll see what we can see,”
Abner said. It was starting to get dark. “You mind if we sleep here
tonight? We’ll be out of here early.”
“Why would I mind? There’s new hay in the loft, makes a good bed,
long as you don’t smoke.”
And with the mules unharnessed, fed hay and put out in a pen for
the night, Abner took time to put two pigeons in the hutch in back
of the barn. He wrote something on a tiny piece of thin paper, tied
it to a third pigeon’s leg and let him go. He and Samuel and Annie
watched the bird fly away to the south.
“He’ll roost somewhere tonight if he doesn’t get there before dark.
It’s probably only forty miles in a straight flight, an hour the way
they move, so he should make it. Imagine, moving through the air
at forty miles an hour. Just imagine.”
Later, lying on the new hay with the clover smell thick around him,
Samuel could hear Annie breathing regularly in sleep. He teetered
on the edge of it, but before it came he said to Abner, who was
lying just above him on the stacked hay bales: “You and Micah
aren’t what you seem to be, are you?”
“We are,” Abner chuckled, “exactly what we seem to be—and
maybe just a little bit more.”
Civilian Intelligence
Individuals and civilian spy networks carried out the most vital
American intelligence operations of the Revolutionary War. Men
and women whose daily lives and work brought them into
proximity with the British military, such as farmers and
merchants, fed important information to the American authorities
throughout the war. Some patriots even posed as loyalists to
infiltrate pro-British groups, collecting detailed facts about British
military operations and defenses, supply lines and battle plans.
Woods Runner
CHAPTER________________________________
16
There was a long, shallow hill as they came into what Samuel
would have called a city, and Abner stopped the mules at the top
of it, still half a mile out, and studied it.
Samuel had never even imagined such a place. Houses and other
buildings everywhere, built on the land next to the open water.
And that water was another thing he’d never seen. “Is that it?” he
asked. “That water—is that part of the ocean?”
“That’s the Hudson River,” Abner sighed. As they’d moved from
settlement to settlement, each one bigger than the last, Samuel
and Annie had been asking, “Is this New York?”
“And that’s not New York, either,” Abner said. “Not yet. We’re in
New Jersey. Look there, across the river, through the fog—that’s
New York. We’ll leave the wagon here and the mules and get a
boat across. I know somebody who might help us.”
Down below, on mudflats that led out to the river, Samuel saw
dozens of boats pulled up to the shoreline, some large, some
small, and men waiting to row them across the river. Now and
then through the mist, he could make out what seemed to be a
large city.
Large? Huge.
“Wait here,” Abner said. “I’m going to go look for a friend.”
Between the wagon and the river were many buildings, some with
fenced-in pens full of oxen and horses and mules.
Abner came back. “Very well.” With him was a man who looked a
lot like him: gray hair everywhere, tobacco spit down his chin, old
clothes. “Matthew here is going to take us across and bring us
back. We have had enterprise with each other before and he
understands the nature of our business. I told him we hope it
won’t take long and that we prefer coming back in the dark, if
possible, and fast. We’ll leave the wagon and mules and dogs with
his boys on this side. They’ll keep them ready for us. Samuel, you
may take your knife, but leave your rifle here. There are soldiers
everywhere and a rifle will draw attention. Annie, you wait here
with the wagon.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He is all I’ve got.”
“And he will be back. If this works right there will be two more
people coming back with us, and the boat is not that big. We
might need the room….”
She looked at Samuel. “You come back.”
“I will.”
“I’m telling you, you better or else.”
Samuel could see that she was crying and he found himself
choking up but hid it. “Don’t worry.” He put his hand on her
shoulder.
The truth was he had no idea … about anything. They didn’t even
know for certain if his parents were over there. He looked across
the river. It was late afternoon and the sun was burning the fog
off. The city was huge, with buildings standing three and four
stories high, and houses spread out in a grid.
How could they hope to find anybody in all those buildings?
Looking at the city, imagining how many people must be there,
made the rest of the trip seem almost easy. The woods, the forest,
was nothing compared to this.
“Away,” Matthew croaked. “We must go. Darkness comes fast on
the river and we must be across when there is still light for to see.
Follow.”
Abner moved with him toward the boats and after a moment’s
hesitation Samuel followed. There were about a hundred boats
pulled up along the mud bank in a long line, tied to brush or small
trees, and most of them looked to be on their last legs. Watersoaked, unpainted clunkers, covered with mud and filth that came
down the river. Samuel was surprised—considering that Matthew
looked even rougher than Abner—to find that he brought them to
a beautifully maintained, painted double-ended boat about twenty
feet long. There was a small cabin in the center and a short mast
up over the cabin.
The cabin itself could only take two people. Matthew said, “Get
inside. What isn’t seen isn’t noted.” He grunted as he heaved the
boat out of the mud and into the slow current. Then he jumped in,
pulled the sail up—the canvas surprisingly clean and well tended
—and stood to the tiller. There were no seats or benches except in
the cabin, but a wooden bailing bucket was in the stern. As soon
as the boat was moving in the soft breeze, Matthew pulled the
bucket over and sat, put a chew of tobacco in the corner of his
cheek, smiled through discolored teeth at Samuel and said, “Your
ma and pa know you’re coming to get ’em?”
Samuel looked sharply at Abner—he must have told Matthew the
whole story. Abner smiled. “We have done a mite of business
together. I told him what we were doing. You can trust him with
your life, which”—he snorted—“is exactly what you’re doing.”
Abner has a whole network, Samuel thought, to work against the
British. People on farms, pigeons, and now the man with this
boat. Abner was the most amazing man Samuel had ever met.
“No,” Samuel said. “They probably think I’m dead, killed by the
Indians.”
Matthew nodded. “A fair surprise for them, then. It’s good to have
surprises for your family.”
And he tended to sailing the boat and didn’t say another word all
the way across the river. It was just as well because with the lack
of anything productive to think about—Samuel didn’t know where
they were going, wasn’t sure what he would find, and didn’t know
what he would do when he found or didn’t find his parents—his
mind was taken up by the sailing.
The boat must have been fairly heavy, yet it skimmed along over
the water like a leaf. It wasn’t so terribly fast—maybe three or four
miles an hour—but it seemed … graceful in some way. No, that
wasn’t it. Free. The wind moved them along quietly and nobody
worked to make it so—it just happened.
The boat nudged into the bank.
“Out,” Matthew said. “And up the bank. The road into town is on
the left, sugar mill down to the right a quarter mile. I’ll come back
every night at midnight and wait until three in the morning for
four nights. If you’re not here by then I’ll figure the worst. What
do you want done with the girl if you get scragged?”
“Can you take her?” Abner paused. “Into your family?”
Matthew hesitated. “Well,” he said, “Emily always wanted a
daughter. So be it. But we’ll bet against it.”
And he pushed the boat back out into the current and was gone.
Abner said, “Let’s get to it.” And he moved up the bank with
Samuel following.
At the top Samuel stopped dead. There were people everywhere,
all along the road into the city and down the side road that led to
the sugar mill, maybe hundreds of them, and it seemed that
almost every man was wearing a red coat.
Soldiers were wherever you looked, armed and walking next to the
buildings, roughly forcing civilians to move out into the street.
“Let’s start down toward the mill,” Abner said. “There might be
somebody we can talk to, get a mite of information.”
They hadn’t gone twenty yards when two soldiers, rifles fixed with
bayonets, stopped them. “State your business,” one said.
“I’m on the Crown’s business,” Abner answered. “From across the
river. Looking to bring food to the prisoners. I was told they’re in
the old sugar mill, is that so?”
The soldiers laughed. “Aye,” said one. “There and in warehouses
and churches. But don’t waste food on the rebels. You might as
well feed it to hogs, for all the good it will do. They’re all marked
for the box.”
They went off laughing and Abner started walking again, heading
for the sugar mill, Samuel following. What had the soldiers meant
by “marked for the box”? He was so engrossed in his thoughts and
in keeping up with Abner, who could walk surprisingly fast, that
he almost ran full-on into his mother.
His mother.
Right in front of him.
It was a thing that could not happen. Impossible. For the first
moment, neither of them believed it.
She was dumping out a bucket of slops in the gutter as he was
dashing down the street after Abner. She glanced up at him and
then back at the pail, just as he dodged out of her way, hurrying to
keep up with Abner.
In that instant, though, their heads jerked back to face each other.
And they stood stunned, the world around them stopped.
“Sa … Samuel?” She dropped the bucket to the ground, reaching
out her hand, cracked and red and worn, to gently touch his
cheek. “Are you … We thought you were … after the attack … Is it
… is it really you?”
Samuel couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. “I … We …”
And then they were holding each other, both crying, until Abner
said:
“Leave off! Dammit, leave off! People are watching. Back away!”
They moved away from each other. She was very thin and drawn
and looked so small, Samuel thought. “Father? Is he …?”
“Down the road, in that big building. An old sugar mill, full of
men, prisoners. I work in this house”—she pointed—“cleaning. I
get a corner to sleep in and leftover and scrap food, which I take to
your father each night. I’m a prisoner, too, but this family treats
me fairly.” She stopped. “What happened to your head?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s scarred—”
“Tell us about the prisoners,” Abner cut in. “Everything you
know.”
She looked at Abner, then at Samuel. “He’s helping me,” Samuel
said. “Tell him. Everything.”
“Helping you what?”
“We don’t have time now, Mother. Tell him what he asks.” Samuel
worried they’d be caught talking and she’d have to go in. “Please.”
“The prisoners are barely fed. Your father can hardly stand or
walk.”
“Guards,” Abner said. “How many guards?”
“There are guards inside with the prisoners. At the door—two. But
one sleeps almost all the time. The other is by the main door. The
back door is nailed and boarded shut. There’s only one way out. If
there was a fire—”
“Can you get a private message to your husband? Today or early
tonight?”
She nodded. “When I bring the food. The guard goes through it
and takes anything good. It’s such a small amount, you’d think
he’d just let it be. But I will find a way to hide a message.”
“Tell him to be at the front door at midnight, at the middle of the
night if he hasn’t a watch. Tell him to be there hiding close by the
guard. Alone. Just him, understand?”
“Yes.”
“Can you slip out at midnight?” Abner was abrupt, terse. “Right
here, at midnight?”
“I will. There are a lot of drunken soldiers on the street at night.
But yes.”
“All right. Do that. Tell your husband to get by the door at
midnight alone, and you be out here at midnight or just a few
minutes after.”
She nodded, looking from Abner to Samuel.
“We’ll come for you then, if everything works right. Now say your
goodbyes and get back in the house before we get discovered.”
“Samuel,” she said, turning toward him, “you’re sure you’re all
right?”
“Everything will be right after tonight, Mother.”
“Please, please, be careful. I thought you were dead and I just got
you back. I can’t lose you again.”
“Go inside,” he whispered. He almost smiled. Telling him to be
careful now, after all that had happened—that horse was well and
truly gone from the barn. “We’ll be back later.”
They looked at each other. She smiled, her lips trembling, staring
at him as if to memorize his face. Then, at last, she picked up the
slop bucket and went back into the house.
Prisoners of the British
During the war, at least sixteen British hulks—ships that had been
damaged and abandoned—lay in the waters off the shores of New
York City as floating prisons. Over ten thousand prisoners died of
intentional neglect—starvation and untreated disease. Their
bodies were tossed overboard into the harbor or buried in shallow
graves at the shoreline by fellow prisoners.
CHAPTER____________________________________________
17
Darkness.
Like the inside of a dead cow. There had been a sliver of a
moon but clouds covered it and with them came a soft rain.
Enough to make everything wet and uncomfortable outside. A
godsend. Even drunken soldiers didn’t like to be out in the
rain.
Abner and Samuel had gone by the sugar mill just before dark
to look it over. Samuel’s mother had been right. Only one door
was being used and two guards stood there talking. One had a
chair. There was a small roof over the entry to keep the rain off.
The building was strangely quiet. If there are hundreds of men
packed inside, Samuel thought, there should be more noise.
They walked past the guards, who paid them no mind, and
down alongside the building. Now and then they could hear
scuffling and thumping against the wall on the inside, but
nothing else.
When they had walked completely past the building, they
crossed the street and came back on the other side. Because of
the rain, there weren’t many soldiers along the walkways and
no one bothered them.
They went along the river to a point close to where Matthew
would come across and then moved into some trees along the
bank. It was starting to get dark. Abner pulled a small oilsoaked bag from the inside of his coat and took out a watch.
“Seven-thirty.” He put the watch back, settled down against a
tree, hunched up the collar of his coat. “Try to get a little sleep,
because later tonight there won’t be any.”
“How are we going to do it?” Samuel asked. “Get him out?”
“Simple plans are best,” Abner said. “Did you see all the bricks
around the steps? They probably had more of a porch when the
place was new; now the bricks have all fallen down. I’ll distract
the guard; you take a brick and hit him over the head.”
“That’s your plan?” Samuel stared at him. “What if both guards
are there?”
Abner said, “I’ll be ready for him. You just do your part.”
Samuel still stared. “We’ve come this far and you tell me to just
hit him over the head with a brick?”
“Hard,” Abner added. “Hit him over the head hard. Then we
open the door, grab your father and run like crazy. Or as fast as
we can go. Scoop up your mother, get in the boat, get across the
Hudson, hook up the mules, get in the wagon and head out. A
good, simple plan.”
And in the end that was exactly the way it worked.
Almost.
Samuel surprised himself. After an hour of his thoughts
tumbling over each other without sense or reason, in spite of
the rain, a veil slipped over his mind and he slept, leaning
against the same tree as Abner.
“Let’s get to it.” Abner shook him awake close to midnight.
Samuel rubbed his face and stood.
Abner was gone in the darkness and Samuel had to hurry to
catch up. Their path took them past the house where Samuel’s
mother worked. She was already outside and saw them
approach. “I’m coming with you,” she said softly as they
neared. “To help.”
“No. Hold. Hold here. We’ll be back,” Abner whispered.
“Shortly.”
As they walked closer to the sugar mill Abner took off his coat
and wrapped it so that it seemed he was carrying a bundle.
There was a tiny glow from a lantern near the guard, the kind
with a small candle inside and a slit to let out a sliver of light.
It was enough for Samuel to see some bricks. He picked one up
before they moved within range of the guard.
“Halt!” the guard said as he saw them. Samuel held the brick
behind him. “State your purpose.”
“Bringing food,” Abner said, holding up the bundle, “for the
prisoners.”
“Advance.” The guard stepped forward, interested in the
package.
They climbed the steps to the entrance, Abner in front of the
guard and Samuel slightly to the side, gripping the brick.
Abner held the bundle out. The guard put the butt of his
musket on the ground to free one hand to open the package. He
leaned forward and Abner said, in a soft, conversational tone,
“Now, Samuel.”
And Samuel hit the guard with the brick.
Hard.
A moment’s hesitation, then the guard fell. Abner caught him,
slid him off to the side of the door, laid him on the platform,
turned to the door. “Padlocked.” He swore.
Gently, delicately, he worked the keys off the guard’s belt and
unlocked the door. He flung it open.
Samuel’s father was in the doorway and even in the dim glow
Samuel could see that he was in bad shape—face skull-like,
eyes sunken. He almost fell into Samuel’s arms.
But he wasn’t alone.
Thirty, forty more men were waiting with him, and as soon as
he was outside they piled out, scattering like quail, a stream of
prisoners, thin as cadavers, pouring out of the shed in a strange
silence, moving off in all directions.
“Come.” Abner took Samuel’s father’s arm. “No time.”
With Abner on one side and Samuel on the other, they carried
Samuel’s father, toes dragging, through the darkness. Samuel’s
mother was waiting and hurried over to help. Twice they
tripped and stumbled in the darkness, but they were up fast
and moved as rapidly as possible to where Matthew would be
with the boat.
He wasn’t there.
“I’ll look up and down the bank,” Abner said. “Stay here and
watch.” He vanished upstream in the darkness. Minutes that
seemed like hours passed before he came back.
“Nothing—I’ll check downstream.”
Again, an interminable time while the three of them stood in
silence. Abner came back shaking his head.
“Are you sure Matthew—” Samuel started to ask.
They heard a dull thump in the darkness on the water and then
Matthew’s voice.
“Here, over here! Caught a crab of wind on the way over that
kicked me downstream. Had to tack back up. Here—over here.”
They found the boat almost by feel, out in a foot of water.
Samuel half-carried his father to the side, and he fell into the
boat.
“He needs help,” Samuel said. “Get him up and in the cabin—
please, help him.”
Matthew pulled him into the cabin, then helped Samuel’s
mother onto the boat and into the cabin as well. Abner jumped
in and Matthew pulled up the sail, which filled in the
freshening breeze. He said to Samuel: “Push off as you come
aboard.”
Samuel did so, tripped, flopped into the mud and water, lost
the boat and was nearly left behind. In one lunge he caught the
gunwale—the boat was picking up speed rapidly—pulled
himself up and in, and nearly fell in Abner’s lap.
Right then the world ashore went berserk. A gunshot, another;
lighted torches could be seen in the vicinity of the sugar mill,
carried every which way.
“You didn’t,” Abner said, “hit him hard enough.”
“I thought I killed him!”
“He raised the alarm.”
“It matters not at all,” Matthew said. “We’re away from the
light. Torches won’t cast out here. Besides, they’re looking in all
directions.”
“A passel of other men came out at the same time. They went
all over.” Abner sighed and leaned back, resting. “It was good
fortune.”
“Fortune favors the well prepared,” Matthew said. He stood
from the bucket, where he was sitting, and took out a package
wrapped in cloth. “Emily sent beef sandwiches and milk mixed
with rum.”
“Rum?” Samuel asked. “Milk and rum?”
“Heats the blood, makes the food go in better. It’s not for you,
but your father. Here, hand it in the cabin. Tell him to eat slow
or he’ll lose it.”
Samuel took the package and moved into the cabin. If possible
it was darker inside than it was outside.
“Mother? Father?”
“Here,” his mother said, and he felt a hand on his arm. “Father
is next to me.”
“I’m here,” his father said. “Samuel—I am so thankful to see
you.” Small laugh. “Well, I can’t see you at all. My son, I never
dreamed you were still alive, much less that you would win me
my freedom in this bold manner.” His voice was faint.
“Hold your hand out.” Samuel fumbled in the package and
pulled out a sandwich. “Matthew brought food.”
He held a sandwich out in the void, felt a hand grasp it. He
heard his father wolfing it. “Eat slow, or Matthew says you’ll
lose it.” He fished a small lidded crock out of the package.
“Here’s some warm milk mixed with rum. He says it will make
the food go down better.”
The chewing slowed as he held the crock out in the darkness,
felt his mother’s hand take it. “Here,” she said, “I’ve got it.
Samuel, who are these men? We owe them so much and we
don’t even know them.”
“They’re friends—Abner and Matthew. Matthew owns the boat.
We met Abner on the way. We—oh, yes, you have a daughter.”
“What?”
“You’ll meet her when we get to the wagon. Her name is Annie.
She … well, she needs us. It’s been part of this run.” He took a
few moments to tell them the part about Annie, without too
many details of the Hessian attack. It was too terrible to
describe.
“Then she’s our daughter,” his mother said in a firm voice.
“From now on, as good as blood.”
His father stopped chewing, swallowed, drank some of the
rum-and-milk mixture. “Food. Food. When you haven’t had it
for a while, it tastes as sweet as anything you’ve ever eaten. Tell
Mr. Matthew thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” Matthew said from the tiller, which was
only six feet away. “I’ll tell Emily you like her food.”
“Like it? It’s life itself.”
“Aye.”
“I feel guilty, though,” Samuel’s father whispered. “So many
men in that shed, in other sheds. Starving. And I get food.”
“It is the way of it,” Abner put in from the darkness, “of war.
Some get, some don’t, some live, some … don’t. It’s the way of
it.”
“It’s bad.”
“Yes. It is. But it is our lot now, and we must live it.” Abner
sighed. “The best we know how.”
And with that, there was silence the rest of the way across the
river, broken only by the lap of water on the side of the boat.
Treatment of Prisoners of War
Prisoners were given only one cup of water a day belowdecks.
The rations, issued only in the morning and only half those
received by British soldiers, were largely inedible—leftover food
from England that was old, stale and, in many cases, rotten. It
was not until the nineteenth century that supplies for captives
were expected to be provided by their captors; during the
Revolutionary War, their own army, government and families
attempted to provide for the prisoners.
CHAPTER_______________________________
18
When they reached the other side of the river and made their
way to Abner’s wagon, Samuel found Annie asleep, curled up
next to Abner’s collies.
“Annie.” He touched her shoulder to wake her.
She opened her eyes and threw herself into his arms. He
staggered backward under her weight and turned to his
parents.
“This is our Annie,” he said.
His mother reached out and stroked her hair. “Annie. I always
wanted a little girl.”
“I had a ma,” Annie told her, “but then I didn’t.” She smiled
shyly even as the tears welled in her eyes.
“And now you have a ma again,” Samuel’s mother whispered
through her own tears.
“And a pa,” Samuel’s father said as he stepped next to her.
Abner cleared his throat and started to hook up the mules in
the light of the slit lantern.
“No sentries this side of the river,” Matthew said. “Just stay to
the main road north for a time.” He handed them a cloth bag.
“Emily fixed food for you to take. Good fortune to all of you.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Samuel’s father said. “You
men have given us back our lives, restored our family.”
“Help when you can,” Matthew said. “We all need to help. I will
go back to the boat now and across the river again. There might
be others I can reach before daylight.”
And he was gone, and with him the dim glow from the lantern.
“Here now,” Abner said. “Everybody inside the wagon except
Samuel. Samuel, you come up and ride with me. We must talk.”
With his parents and Annie in the wagon, Samuel felt his way
up to the front and climbed up in the seat. In near silence,
Abner made a soft clucking sound with his tongue and the
mules started pulling the wagon up the road. Even with the
uproar across the river there was nothing moving on this side.
They progressed in quiet for half an hour or so.
The mules, Samuel saw, had no trouble seeing the road in the
darkness—were they like cats? Aside from a bump in a rut now
and then, it was comfortable. The rain had let up a bit.
Samuel’s rifle and powder were inside the wagon, covered, so
he had no concern on that level.
“We cannot stay together,” Abner said suddenly.
“All right,” Samuel said, startled. “But why?”
“Too dangerous. If we were stopped before, I could say you
were my grandchildren. Now, with your mother and father
here, that won’t work. There would be questions and, with
them, danger. I’m afraid we’d be taken prisoner, in spite of my
passes. So we must separate.”
“I understand,” Samuel said, nodding, though in the darkness
Abner could not see it. “You’ve already done enough—more
than enough. I never thought I would see them again. And you
have given them back. Well, thank you.”
“We all do what we can do. Now, here’s the lay of it. We go
three more hours on this road. It will get light in four hours.
We’ll be back in forest, or almost, at that time. Enough for you
to have cover. You leave me then and take the forest straight
west for two, maybe three hours—your father will be slow for a
time.
“There you will come on a large swamp. Just before you get
into it, turn left and go southwest toward Philadelphia. It’s safe
there. You’ll be about seven days’ travel from town. Here, take
this.” He handed Samuel something in the darkness, a small
brass object like a watch. “A compass.”
“Don’t you need it?”
“Take it.”
“Thank you again.”
“Southwest,” Abner repeated. “Seven days’ walking, maybe
eight. It’s near on ninety miles to Philadelphia and you’ll find
trails to help you along. As your father gets stronger you’ll
move better.”
Samuel sat in silence, thinking.
“That’s the good news,” Abner said. “Now for the bad.
Somewhere along there—nobody seems to know exactly where,
although it was thought to be down in Trenton for a time—
there will be a place where the British have a defensive line.
You might not even know you’re going through it—but you may
run into the redcoats. They’ll be a mite jumpy and will probably
shoot before talking, so avoid them if you can. If you see them
at all. Stay straight southwest, don’t fall toward the south over
by the main road—that’s where they’ll be.”
Southwest. Samuel was silent, memorizing Abner’s
instructions. Then he said, “Thank you. There aren’t words to
—”
“I said that’s enough. Now, I don’t know what Matthew’s Emily
put up for food, but try to get something with a lot of fat into
your father. Fat is where the power is, red meat and fat. Maybe
some raccoon or, if you can, a bear along the way. Thick meat.
It’s going to be hard for him to walk ninety miles. Be patient.”
Again, Samuel nodded. “Yes. I will.”
“And with your mother, too. She’s very strong but this is
different. They’re going to try to be your ma and pa, but for
now, you have to be the leader. They don’t have the knowledge
for what’s coming. You do. And one more thing: Take an extra
blanket.”
And then silence, except for the sound of the mules clopping
along, and their breathing.
They met no one, or at least didn’t see anybody in the pitchdarkness. After a time Samuel realized he could make out the
white markings on the dogs. About then Abner pulled the
mules to a stop.
“Out here,” he said. “Remember, west to the swamp and then
southwest.”
“Yes. And again, thank—”
“Enough. Away.”
Samuel jumped off the wagon and went around to the back. In
the dim light he motioned to them to get out. Annie came out
of the back half-asleep. Samuel found the food, two bundles,
and he gave one to his mother and the other to Annie. Next he
tied a blanket to his bedroll and put it over his shoulder; then
he located his rifle and powder horn, checked the priming in
the quarter-light and found it to be good. As soon as he said,
“All right,” Abner clucked at the mules and in a moment was
gone in the morning mist.
“We didn’t get to say thank you,” his mother said.
“We can’t talk now,” Samuel said. “Later. Now we have to get
moving. Are you all right to walk, Father?”
“Yes. Maybe a little slow. We’ll see.”
“Good. Follow me. And again, we can’t talk.”
He set off without really thinking. He’d been away from the
woods and sitting in the wagon for days, out of his element. His
body was sick of it, wanted to move, to move, and he took off at
a near lope.
Annie held the pace, as she had when they’d been traveling
together before, but within thirty yards his father gasped,
“Samuel, I can’t….” His mother was out of breath and limping,
but she didn’t complain and tried to help support his father.
Samuel slowed then, but he wanted to be well away from the
road before stopping, so he kept them moving for over a mile.
The sun was near enough to the horizon then to shed light
everywhere, even through the clouds. He stopped in a small
clearing, unrolled his bedroll and took out the moccasins he
had made those days sitting in the wagon. “Father, try these
on,” he whispered.
“Can we talk now?” his mother also whispered, but he shook
his head.
“Not yet. Two more hours.” He continued whispering, “Annie, I
will walk in front, you in the rear. If I stop, we all stop. Not a
sound. If I go down, you all go down—again, not a sound.
Annie, every forty or fifty paces you turn and listen with your
hands cupped to your ears. If you hear something strange or
that bothers you, whistle softly. Then we all stop. Is all that
clear?”
“Yes—” his mother started, but he put a finger to her lips.
“We are still in danger, great danger. Please, for now just do as
I say.”
She smiled at him and rested her hand on Annie’s shoulder. He
turned to his father. “Can you hold a slow pace for two or three
hours?”
His father nodded. “I’ll do it.”
“Then we go.”
Samuel started off, this time at a much slower pace, and as
quietly as possible, moving along game trails when he found
them, below the tops of ridges if there were any so they
wouldn’t be silhouetted against the skyline. Stopping every
forty or fifty paces for Annie—and Samuel—and to listen, to
watch, to know, to know if anyone was following them.
His parents and Annie obeyed him and they moved, if not
rapidly, at least steadily until Samuel looked down and saw
water seeping into his footsteps. The edge of a swamp lay
ahead of him.
He found another clearing on slightly higher and drier ground,
and let everybody sit while he dug food out of one of the
packages. It was slabs of venison—but with little fat—and corn
dodgers: corn bread made into small muffins. They had some
lard in them, but not much. He fed the others and pretended to
eat, but put it back. There was still a long way to go and unless
he killed something, they would need all the food they could
save.
“All right.” He spoke low, almost in a whisper. “A short rest,
just a few minutes. Then we start southwest. Ask questions
now, but soft.”
“What happened to your head?” his father asked. “That scar?”
“I was hit with a tomahawk …,” he started, then realized he’d
have to tell the whole story. He did so, leaving out the worst
parts.
“We saw you! We saw you!” his mother said. “On the other side
of the clearing when the shooting started. It was too far away
for us to know it was you, but we saw you when you shot. Did
you … did you hit …”
He nodded. “I fired, he went down, the second one clubbed me
and I went down. All very fast.”
Then he told of Cooper and the other volunteers who had
helped him, leaving out the part about the man screaming for
days. He worked past the rest of it—telling about Caleb and Ma,
leaving out the Hessians—to the present.
“But how could you …,” his father started. “You’re thirteen!”
“We’ll have time for me to answer everything later. But now let
me tell you what Abner said,” and he told of the British line
they might have to cross, the possible danger, the situation in
Philadelphia. When he was done he stood and picked up his
rifle. “We go again now, all day if we can. Father?”
“If we go slowly I think it will be all right.”
“Drink as much water as you can from each stream. The water
helps.” And he didn’t add that water keeps the stomach full and
so less hungry. “Annie, you’re in back, me in front. No talking.
A soft whistle.”
And he set out. He knew his father was weak but he worried
that if they favored the weakness, it could get worse. He kept
the pace all day, checking the compass every few minutes. They
stopped often to drink from the small streams and creeks—and
there were many—with short, silent breaks every hour and a
half or so, until it was early evening, and he saw his father
weaving.
They came to a small rise out of the moist lowlands and he
pulled up there, on the back or western side, and stopped.
“No fire,” he said softly. “Cold camp. Father, you eat until
you’re full. Mother and Annie, hold it down to a little, just a
taste. I’m going to go check the back trail. Wait here for me.”
He trotted back the way they had come, stopping often to
listen, smell, absorb. He didn’t feel completely safe until he had
gone half a mile and had not seen or heard anything. Then he
moved back to where he’d left them and found them sitting
back against trees, his father and Annie wrapped in his blanket
roll, already dozing.
“We’re clear,” he whispered to his mother, his rifle across his
lap. “Get some sleep.”
She was studying him. “You’re so different. Grown.”
“No. I’m the same. It’s everything else that’s changed.”
She shook her head. “No. You’ve changed. Not in a bad way.
You … know things. See differently. Think differently. If I didn’t
know you, I don’t think I would recognize you. It’s like you’ve
gone to some far place and come back a different person. But I
love the new Samuel as much as I loved the old. And I’m very
glad, I’m so thankful, that you’re with us, to show us, to lead
us.” She held his hand.
“Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, New Samuel.”
British Behavior
The British, on their military tear through the countryside as
they tried to regain control of the wayward colonists, adopted
what later became known as a “fire and sword” strategy rather
than a “hearts and minds” policy. That is, rather than
attempting to placate and persuade the rebels, they destroyed
towns and warehouses; they sacked and burned plantations,
crops and livestock; they plundered and stole from households
and stores alike without regard to law or justice or the wellbeing of the people they encountered.
CHAPTER______________________________
19
They slept fitfully that first night, especially Samuel. He
could not get over the feeling that somebody was following
them.
The next day the feeling abated somewhat, but by evening
Samuel saw that his father was sliding back a bit. The food
Emily had sent was good, but his father needed fat meat.
Samuel decided to do a quick evening hunt for raccoon. One
shot, hopefully away to the west, was all he would allow
himself. With luck, nobody would hear it. They were
walking southwest in marshy country, perfect for coon, and
he saw tracks all over the place.
He left the group resting and moved to the west an eighth of
a mile, walk-hunting, and hadn’t gone fifty yards before he
saw a small female with two kits. That wasn’t what he
wanted and he kept going, out from her in circles. Within
twenty minutes he came on what he was looking for: a large
boar coon halfway up a tall oak, sitting on a side branch.
He moved east of the coon so the sound would go west into
the forest, aimed carefully and took him in the head, so that
the animal fell backward off the limb, dead when he hit the
ground.
Samuel gutted him quickly and left the entrails for
scavengers. Some people ate coon liver, he knew, and bear
liver—bear and raccoon meat were similar—but he never
trusted it. An old man had once told him, “Bear and coon
liver will give you the gut gripes,” so he stayed away from it.
Back with the others, he skinned the coon, built a small,
very small, fire with the driest wood he could locate and
cooked the meat in half-pound chunks, fat dripping from it.
He killed the fire as soon as the meat was cooked. He forced
his father to eat several helpings of it; then he and his
mother and Annie ate until they were full. He saved the rest
for his father to eat over the next two or three days.
They wanted to talk then, especially Annie, who was nearly
bursting. “My talker is about to blow up,” she told him. But
he shook his head, wiped the grease off his mouth, took his
rifle and went back up the trail a quarter mile. He sat in a
small stand of hazel brush next to the trail, dozing all night,
watching. The sound of the gunshot worried him
immensely, as did the smell of smoke from the fire—even a
soft breeze could carry the odor of smoke for miles.
But he needn’t have worried. Nobody came along and he
went back to the family at dawn and awakened them. After
letting them tend to themselves in the woods, since there
were no privies, he started moving, again, in silence.
That day they stopped for breaks four times and he forced
his father to eat more coon. The rest of them ate the
remainder of Emily’s venison and corn dodgers. They
started to hit cross trails about midday.
There was still good forest all around them and they walked
in a beautiful green tunnel, although the trail seemed to get
more beaten down as they moved southwest. Now and
again, they came to cross trails that ran east-west and they
went west. These trails were even more compacted, and
twice they crossed over paths with twin ruts where carts and
wagons had moved through.
These frightened Samuel. They were so wide and exposed
that he was especially cautious in the way he let his family
cross them. He stood and waited for ten, twenty, thirty
beats, listening, then sent one person across at a run,
waiting and listening for another long stretch before
sending the next person and the next and then, finally,
himself.
Which made it all the more difficult to believe when after all
that care he got caught.
On day four—even at the slow pace, Samuel thought they
had made close to fifteen miles a day—they came into an
area that seemed slightly more civilized. Forest, still, but
here and there a farm off to the east. They had to bear west
to avoid the larger cleared areas.
The cross trails were becoming more substantial as well,
double-rutted roads appearing fairly often and, now and
then, proper roads—well traveled, hand-graded and
planked over the muddy spots.
They came on such a road near the end of the fourth day. It
was sunny, although nearly evening, and they had relaxed,
knowing they would soon stop for the night. Samuel came
around a tight turn in the trail and stepped out onto a real
road without thinking.
He was two feet away from the rear end of a British cavalry
horse. Samuel froze. The man on the horse, an officer, was
looking into the brush on the other side of the road, as was
his horse, both ears cocked.
The officer had his saber drawn, held down at his side at a
slight angle. Ready.
To his left were five more men on horses, all facing the same
way, staring intently, short muskets at the ready, their
sabers still in the scabbards.
A second, two, and they still hadn’t seen Samuel. The
picture would be frozen in his mind for the rest of his life: a
split second when everything was still, sane, controlled,
nobody hurt, nobody dead; all sitting on their horses, all
staring at the other side of the road, all alive, and then, and
then … chaos.
One man, young, with rosy cheeks, caught sight of Samuel
and turned. His mouth opened, he called, started to aim his
musket at Samuel at the same instant that Samuel raised
his rifle, cocking the hammer. But before he could shoot, or
the soldier could shoot, the officer wheeled his horse, which
knocked Samuel away, and chopped his saber down at
Samuel just as Samuel pulled the trigger on his rifle, aiming
up at the officer, the ball taking the man just beneath the
chin, killing him instantly as the saber barely caught the
edge of Samuel’s shoulder. Samuel fell back to see his father
coming out of the woods to help him.
“No!” he said as the other soldiers swung their muskets
around, when, like thunder, like the very voice of the god of
war gone mad, the other side of the road erupted in a
shattering roar of flame and smoke. The men on the horses
were blown off their mounts into the brush.
Dead. By rebel fire.
Two horses were hit, screaming, staggering back into the
brush. Samuel leaned back on his father’s arm and, without
thinking, reloaded.
The rebels reloaded, followed the redcoats off the road
where they had fled, and killed the wounded horses.
Then silence as about fifteen men came out of the brush and
checked the British dead for papers.
Samuel tried not to look at the officer he had killed. As with
the Indian, it had happened by reflex. So quick. And final.
The death bothered him, but when he thought of that saber
coming down at him, he knew there had been no choice.
A soldier in a blue Continental uniform came up to him.
“I’m Sergeant Whitby. We’re from the Thirtieth Foot, out of
Philadelphia. And you?”
Samuel pointed with a vague wave to his rear, where
Mother and Annie came out of the brush to stand by Father.
Samuel couldn’t talk—he kept staring at the dead officer,
whose hat had come off. The man had long brown hair that
waved in the light breeze near the ground. It’s like he’s still
alive, Samuel thought; like that part of him is still not dead
somehow. Maybe I didn’t really …
Samuel’s father cleared his throat. “We’re—refugees. Trying
to get to Philadelphia and safety. My wife and I were
prisoners in New York and my son, Samuel, rescued us.
This is our daughter, Annie. May we walk with you?”
“Sir, we can do better than that.” Sergeant Whitby turned to
his troop. “Peters, Donaldson, gather up those four horses.
Put this man and his wife and little girl on three horses and
all the rest of the equipment, muskets and sabers, on the
other. The rest of you get these bodies off the road.” He
turned back to Samuel’s father. “We were sent to set up an
ambuscade and take a prisoner or two to find out the
situation in New York. Since you came from there I’m going
to consider the mission accomplished—you tell us what you
know—and there’s no reason you can’t ride in comfort.” He
turned to Samuel, smiled and said, “I take it you have no
objections to walking?”
Samuel shook his head, then watched the soldiers drag the
officer’s body back into the brush with the rest, load the
horses and start back down the road toward Philadelphia.
Toward safety.
But Samuel hung back, leaning on his rifle, watching them
until they were out of sight around a bend.
It was over now, he knew. The run, the madness, listening
to every crack of a twig, worrying over every brush of a leaf.
His parents and Annie would be safe now. A great weight
came off him then and he thought, No, we will be safe now.
It’s over.
But still he hung there, hesitant to go, to follow, until a
young soldier came trotting back and waved at him to come.
He nodded, picked up his rifle and jogged to catch up.
It was over.
Epilogue
He stood leaning on his rifle, on the high ground where he
had first seen the smoke from the attack on the settlement.
Three years had passed.
They had settled in Philadelphia and safety. The frontier
would never be the same for his parents; the forest would
always threaten them. So they had found a house, two
stories of wood frame, among the many vacant houses in
Philadelphia. Samuel’s parents had started a school to take
in and teach some of the many children orphaned by the
war. Annie had become a great help.
But Samuel had trouble fitting in.
Too much city, too much town, too many people, for him to
feel settled, calm; and then there was that other thing that
kept bothering him.
The back trail.
After a few months in the city, he told his parents,
“Everybody helped us; at great risk they helped us, helped
me. Everybody back there gave us everything they had—I
have to go back. I owe.”
There were arguments, of course, almost outright fighting,
that went on for nearly two weeks, but in the end—
surprisingly—it was his mother who stopped it. “No,” she
said finally. “He’s right. He may be only sixteen, but age
doesn’t matter now. He’s his own man and if he feels that
strong, he must do it.”
And, after he sat and talked with Annie and promised he
would come back, made a sacred promise that he would
come back, she agreed to stay, and let him leave.
And he went back to the war.
He worked his way up to Boston and joined Morgan’s
Rifles, where he also found Coop and some of the other men
who had rescued him. He stayed with them for nearly three
years. He saw fighting as he’d never seen it before, but he
did not join in the firing; instead he hunted for meat, fixed
equipment, helped the sick and wounded as best he could.
He stayed until Coop died, streaming with dysentery over a
slit trench in an agony of jabbering delirium, killed by
dehydration. At the end, Coop didn’t even know where he
was, didn’t know his own name.
Samuel left then.
He went back, but not to Philadelphia, not yet. He went
back to the healing forest, where it had all started for him,
and where the war had nearly vanished by this time. He
found the clearing back in the woods that he had seen that
first day, when he’d gone so far from home hunting bear.
He stood there, trying to make the last three years not be.
Thinking at last it was over.
But, of course, it wasn’t finished.
Philadelphia would be briefly taken by the British. Samuel’s
parents did not leave, but stayed to help the children. This
time, oddly, the British treated them with great kindness;
brought them food and blankets.
Thousands more men would be killed, dying from bullets,
bayonets and sickness. The world would bring the war to
the oceans and naval men would die horribly at sea; France
would send troops to help the American colonies, getting so
deeply involved that it would destroy the French economy,
weaken the government and contribute to causing the
French Revolution, in which many of the leaders who had
helped America would die, beheaded on guillotines. The
madness didn’t end. Perhaps it has never ended.
But for Samuel, it would come to a close in the soft beauty
of the forest. The peace, for him, would hold.
Afterword
Woods Runner is not an attempt to write the history of the
War for Independence. Rather, this book, along with being
the story of Samuel and his parents and their part in the
war, is meant to clarify some aspects of that conflict that
have often been brushed over.
Some of the dreadful nuts and bolts of battle, the real and
horrible truths, are frequently overlooked because other
parts are more dramatic and appealing. There is a tendency
to clean up the tales of war to make them more palatable,
focusing on rousing stories of heroism and stirring
examples of patriotism, all clean, pristine, antiseptic.
But the simple fact is that all combat is outrageous—
thousands and thousands of young soldiers die horrible,
painful deaths lying in their own filth, alone and far from
home, weak and hallucinating, forgotten and lost.
The Revolutionary War lasted for eight long slaughtering
years. Over two hundred thousand men between the ages of
sixteen and twenty-five answered the call in the War for
Independence and stood to.
Stood to when that often meant death.
Approximately 4,400 young men were killed in combat—by
a musket ball, exploding artillery, grapeshot from a cannon,
or a steel bayonet shoved through their bodies.
Disease accounts for another thirty to fifty thousand losses.
Although it is difficult to determine accurately the number
of wounded men who subsequently died of infection,
estimates put the figure between fifteen and thirty
thousand. Open wounds were bathed with dirty sponges
kept in pails of filthy, bloody water. Surgeons went days
between washing their hands or instruments. Most of the
wounded, seething with dirt, bacteria and infection, were
sent home to die months later, well past any documented
casualty roll.
The total figure might be on the order of sixty thousand
deaths.
Although accurate records of the wounded never existed,
the figure is generally thought to be about four wounded for
every man who died on the battlefield or died of disease in
the camps.
Back then, however, most of the wounded did not live, and
so the proportion was more like two wounded for every man
killed.
That puts the total casualty figure, conservatively, at a
staggering 100,000 to 110,000. Out of just over 200,000
men who fought, at least half of them died.
In the eastern colonies, whole towns were denuded of young
men; they sent their sons and fathers and husbands off and
never saw them again, not even to bury them.
The men fighting, and dying, in the War for Independence
were, for the most part, average young workingmen with
little or no military training. They were fighting the most
powerful nation on earth. And they suffered those
horrendous casualty rates for an appalling eight years. That
these young men and boys stood to as they did, in the face
of withering odds, and actually won and created a new
country with their blood, is nothing short of astonishing.