Conceived in Liberty (29 page)

One of the men remains in the brook. I say to him: “Get up there, you damn fool!”

“My brother's back there, Captain Hale.”

“He's dead. Get out of here.”

“He's not dead. I saw him move when he fell.”

“I tell you, he's dead. Get out of here.”

He walks on, looking back over his shoulder, shaking his head. Wayne passes me, his horse grinding water from the brook. Wayne is lost in the battle, a madman shrieking his battlecry.

I look for Ely. He didn't pass me by with the men. I look for him to come, and I see only the rolling mass of the British attack.

I say to myself: “Ely's dead. He's back there—somewhere, and he's dead.”

Walking toward our lines, I hear men shrieking in warning. The attack is coming—behind me. I try to think, to cut the rushing, blasting sound of fire out of my ears. I must think. I must kill the emptiness inside of me and think about Ely. I must understand what has happened to Ely—who was with me all my life, who stood outside my house with my father when my mother gave birth to me, who heard my mother scream with agony. Where is Ely? Why have I lost him?

Ely's dead, and why does his death mean nothing? They are all dead—and I am the last. I'm alive, and all the rest of them are dead.

I'm running. I must live. I can't rest.

I break into the Continental lines. What's left of the Pennsylvania men are there, sprawled and half-asleep over their muskets. It's a New Jersey line, men fresh for the battle and waiting. It's hot. It's too hot to think, but not hot enough to kill the cold inside of me. I'm in command of men. I must tell them to load and shoot, to dry their flints. My head is aching, bursting with pain, but I must tell them to dry their flints. I wake them. They want to sleep, but I won't let them sleep. I drive them into a battle line.

The British are attacking. A great wave of them roll down to Wenrock Brook. My voice is lost in sound, a solid wall of sound. I see the Hessians sprawling into the brook. They die in the brook. The American front is one solid wall of flame, thousands of men shooting together. A wall of sound and a wall of flame. A pain in my head—bursting it apart. The brook runs red with blood. The British officers, horses shot under them, roll on the ground. The attack falters and gives back. Grapeshot tears the front to pieces. The brook is red; the whole world is red. The blazing sun of day is beginning to set, leaving a red world behind. The Pennsylvanians sleep over their guns. They are no more a part of battle. The crash of sound does not awaken them. A long, long sleep.

A long sleep—to forget. Sleep to forget about Ely. Ely is dead. A good company—a great, fair company. They sleep in peace. No sound can wake them, no sound that the world makes can ever wake them. A deep peace and a deep sleep, without heat and without cold, without trouble, without longing. A rest as sweet as the heart of Ely—a great golden heart.

A heart for man. Man is a holy thing, and his body is a holy thing. Man is made in the image of God, in the holy image of God.

Smoke out of the battlefield and a sighing that is not sound. They have turned the water of the brook red.

The British retreat. Their retreat turns into a rout, and broken columns flee the field. The Hessians, who bore the brunt of the first fire, can no longer endure the weight of their heavy uniforms. They stagger, sprawl and roll over. The field is dotted with little green heaps of their bodies. The lie in and out of the brook. We stop firing, but the dull booming of the cannon goes on. A wall of grapeshot between them and us.

They splotch the field with red and green patches. They try to form as they retreat. They leave their dead behind them. They leave us the field, the dead and the dying.

Time has been lost. The only measure of time is weariness, and how long have we been weary? Tonight, we'll sleep.

The sun is low. There is almost a breeze, a movement of air that sends the powder smoke into curling tendrils. A curl of smoke from the muzzle of my musket. Like a machine, I have been loading and reloading, firing. The musket is hot as fire in my hands. The bayonet is bent. I try to think how I bent my bayonet. I touch it gingerly. Dry blood—the life-blood of man.

Like the blood of Ely. Ely sleeps. All round me, men are dropping to sleep over their guns. dropping to sleep where they lie. The officers try to wake them. Why? Why? The battle is over. They've earned their sleep—a long sleep and a deep one, a sleep to forget.

But I can't sleep. The pain in my head increases, a beating, rushing pain.

I stand up and watch the retreat. The haze of twilight has fallen over the fields. The British columns are moving slowly, dragging themselves off a field they lost. A cannon booms, again and again. From somewhere in the distance, there is the crackle of musket fire.

There is a wisp of white cloud in the sky in the east, and the setting sun stains it—a pink and then a blood-red. As if the groaning pain of the battlefield had gone into the sky.

The cannon booms, again and again. Gradually, other sounds die away. The cannon booms out in a great stillness.

Why don't they stop firing?

The British columns lose themselves in a haze of twilight. Green and red merge with the brown and green of the ground. I wait for the cannon, but it doesn't come.

The sun has set.

The army sleep. Sprawled over their guns, sprawled in long lines behind their breastworks, the men sleep. The dead sleep beside them, but they are not afraid of the dead. It's a long sleep.

A sighing wind in the trees. I stand there, staring at my musket, which lies at my feet.

I step over the breastworks—begin to walk. Each step is pain, but I have to walk.

A man challenges me.

I say: “Captain Hale—the Fourteenth Pennsylvania.”

The man says: “It's hell on guard. Let them have the dead. I'm going to sleep.”

I walk on. Wounded men are groaning. A doctor and some stretcher bearers pass me by. “A man needs some sleep,” the doctor is muttering.

A wounded man clutches at my foot. I call to the doctor.

“Christ—I'm one man! How much can one man do?”

The dead and the living lie together, naked, sleeping. I stumble on. Cold inside—cold as ice. Ely knew.

I walk through the brook, walk among the bodies of the British dead. It is quite dark now. How long ago was it that we fought a battle?

Somewhere—out there—is Ely. I could explain to Ely. He would understand. He understood how it was with Jacob.

I walk toward a tree. There are two men sprawled under it. They are speaking. I make out the voice of Washington; I would know that voice anywhere. The other is La Fayette's.

I walk toward them. I walk on until I stand under the tree where they are.

“Who are you?” Washington asks.

I am laughing in spite of myself, laughing while my head bursts with pain. I answer:

“A deserter—a murderer. But Wayne made me a captain. The brave General Wayne made me a captain—to lead my men into hell. Do you know what hell is? I was there. I led my men into hell today. Ask Wayne. Ask him. He made me a captain.”

“Mad,” Washington mutters. “No wonder—the heat and what we've seen today.”

“I'm not mad,” I say calmly. “I know when a man is mad. I'm not mad—only tired and wanting to sleep.”

“Then go and sleep.”

“I'll go and sleep,” I say.

I walk through the apple orchard, looking at the faces of men. I find Ely at last, lying near the stone wall. Even in the dark, I know him.

I bend over him and whisper: “Ely—it's Allen Hale.”

The wound is in his breast. I try to fold his hands over it. I close his eyes. His face is not tired any more. His face is the peaceful face of a man who has given out of a great heart.

I lie down next to him. I whisper: “I'll sleep now, Ely. I'm fair dying to sleep. You know how it is with me. You have a heart for understanding.”

Sleep comes slowly, but the hot pain in my head goes. I lie there, next to Ely—listening to the sighing of the wind through the trees of the orchard.

XXV

T
HE NEXT
morning, I bury Ely. There is much burying to be done—British and Hessians and Americans. Most of the Americans are naked, and we wrap them in the green coats of the Hessians. It's not good that a comrade should go into the earth naked. Stripped and dirty, the Hessians lie in a row. They go into a trench, and no stone marks their graves.

I bury Ely where he fell, in the apple orchard. Close to the stone wall, where there will be no ploughing. And when the sun is low, the wall will shade him. Grass grows greener in the shade, and the grass will grow over Ely's grave.

The farmer who owns the orchard stands there watching us. A tall thin man, he curses under his breath and speaks of money to be paid for damage done. He stops his cursing to stare at his apple trees, stripped and shattered by the rain of shot. Then he begins to curse again, yelling:

“Bury them deep! I'll turn them in my ploughing!”

Some of us look at him, and then he's quiet. We haven't washed; we are bloody, filthy figures, but victors …

I want a sword for Ely. A sword to place by his side, and regimental colours to cover his face. Our regiment is gone and there are no colours. Ely never wore a sword, but there are swords on the field.

I walk among the Fusiliers. They have not been buried yet, and some of them lie on their backs, their eyes open. Most of them are boys, and even in death they manage to look gallant in their red coats. I would pity them, but there is no pity in me for anything, not even for Ely.

I find a slim dress sword. I find a blue flag. Blue is a good colour, cool. I cover Ely with the flag, and the sword I place by his side. Dirt falls on the flag, and then there is a little mound to show where Ely lies. I mark the grave with a bayonet—a rusty, bent bayonet that is no use to anyone. It will stand for a little while.

Ely is dead. Jacob is dead.

I walk aimlessly. The field is death, but death doesn't move me.

It is not so hot as yesterday. The sky has a few scudding clouds, that throw shadows along the ground. I sit down under a tree and stretch my legs out. A long rest …

A man comes over to me and stands waiting.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

“I can't find my regiment, Captain.”

“Why do you call me Captain?”

“You led us yesterday.”

He stands waiting.

“Well?”

“You led my brigade.”

“That was yesterday.”

“Shall I report to you, Captain?”

“That was yesterday,” I whisper.

I go to the brook and wash. There are other men there—naked, rolling in the cool water. I lie in the water with them; I lie on my back and let the water ripple over my body. It is very cool and very pleasant. I watch the clouds tumbling across the sky.

There is talk about what we will do now, where we will go. They talk as if the war were over. The British have been defeated; France is our ally.

They talk of going home, and the talk makes me uneasy. There is no place for me to go, no life for me except this. What was my home once is a dream now; the reality is here—with the revolution.

I dress myself. No shirt; a pair of torn breeches and my musket.

I walk back to the orchard, and I see Wayne. He is sitting on the grass, and Steuben stands next to him. Wayne is talking eagerly and quickly, smiling, and Steuben, frowning, tries to follow his English.

I go up to them and stand waiting. Finally, Wayne looks at me; as he looks at me, I see that he remembers, and he smiles.

“Allen Hale,” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

He nods at Steuben. “This is the man——”

In German, Steuben says: “You are a very brave man.”

I shake my head. The brave men are dead. I say to Wayne: “My brigade is gone; my regiment is disbanded.”

“Who disbanded them?”

I point to Ely's grave.

Wayne rises and gives me his hand.

“You refused my hand once before,” he remembers.

I nod.

“Where are the rest of you—the New York men?”

“Dead, sir.”

He is silent for a while. Then he says: “I brevetted you captain. You commanded a brigade.”

“There is no longer a brigade, sir.”

“Nevertheless, I'll have your rank confirmed.”

I nod, salute, and walk away. I pass Ely's grave. Already, the bayonet has lost its grip in the soil. It will not stand long.

We paraded before we marched away. We lined up on the field of battle. Front and centre, there was the Pennsylvania line, militia mostly, but in every company of militia a few enlisted men who had been through the winter. But only a few.

We stood in our ranks with the hot sun over us, with green twigs in back of our ears, with our hot muskets in our hands. The generals reviewed us and praised us. The beggars were an army, standing on a victorious field. The beggars had proven their right to exist.

That is written.

Ely lies on the field of Monmouth, with Jacob. The others are at a place called Valley Forge.

In the summer, Valley Forge is green and lovely. In the winter it is never so cold as that winter—never so cold that the ground will freeze deep to where they lie.

A BIOGRAPHY OF

HOWARD FAST

Howard Fast (1914-2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast's commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.

Born on November 11, 1914, in New York City, Fast was the son of two immigrants. His mother, Ida, came from a Jewish family in Britain, while his father, Barney, emigrated from the Ukraine, changing his last name to Fast on arrival at Ellis Island. Fast's mother passed away when he was only eight, and when his father lost steady work in the garment industry, Fast began to take odd jobs to help support the family. One such job was at the New York Public Library, where Fast, surrounded by books, was able to read widely. Among the books that made a mark on him was Jack London's
The Iron Heel
, containing prescient warnings against fascism that set his course both as a writer and as an advocate for human rights.