Patrick Henry and the Frigate’s Keel: And Other Stories of a Young Nation (21 page)

An officer on a horse was riding in front, an aide a little way behind him. When he saw me, he cantered over, drawing up his horse close beside me, and leaning over the pommel.

“Hello there, sonny,” he said.

I didn't say anything, because I thought that maybe he would be thinking of how fat I was, he being so thin. His uniform was all torn and dirty, and his cocked hat flapped wearily. But I liked his face. It was hard and thin, but it had small, dancing blue eyes.

However, I didn't want him to think me entirely a dunce, and I saluted him smartly.

“Well, well,” he smiled, “you've the makings, haven't you, sir? And how old might you be?”

“I'm ten, sir.”

“And what might be your name?”

“Bently Corbatt, sir.”

“And I suppose you live in the big house on the hill? Is this your sister?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, a little ashamed because Ann was so small. “But I've got another, sir.”

“Another house?” he questioned, still smiling.

“No, sir. Another sister, who's much bigger than Ann here. And won't you come up to the house, sir?”

“Well—you're not Tories, then?”

“Oh, no, sir,” I said quickly, and then added: “My father's with the Third Continentals. He's a captain,” I finished proudly.

“Well,” he said, hot smiling now. He stared at me thoughtfully and then shifted his gaze to our house. “Well,” he said again. Then: “I'm General Wayne. I suppose you'll be very kind and introduce me to your mother?”

“She's dead, sir.”

“I'm sorry. Then your sister, if she's the lady of the house.”

I nodded. Bending over, he grasped me about the waist, lifting me to the saddle in front of him. Then he motioned for the aide to do the same with Ann, and we set off for the house.

“When did your mother die, sonny?” he asked me, as we cantered along.

“About three weeks ago—only.” I told him about how she used to watch the valley all the time. “You see, father doesn't know yet,” I said. “Sis thought it would be best not to let him know.”

“I see,” he nodded gravely, but now his blue eyes were warm and merry; I don't think they ever lost that merry look. I twisted around him, so that I could see the troops marching into the valley. Now they were passing through our orchard, and many stooped to pick up rotten apples from the ground. His eyes followed mine. “It's pretty hard, this business of war, isn't it—for soldiers?” He seemed to include me in the last part.

“Not too hard,” I answered evenly, “for soldiers.”

Jane was waiting for us on the porch, looking very grave, the way she looked since mother had died. We rode up, and the general lifted me down to the porch. Then he dismounted himself, bowing very nicely to Jane, sweeping off his cocked hat with a graceful gesture, just as if it wasn't so battered and torn.

“Miss Corbatt?” The general said.

Jane nodded.

“I am General Wayne of the Continental Army, Pennsylvania line. I have two thousand troops, which I would like to encamp in that valley, for a few weeks only—I hope—but possibly for a good part of the winter. I presume the property is yours?”

“Yes.” Jane courtesied to him. “Yes, the property is my father's. Won't you come inside? We can talk about it there.”

General Wayne entered the house after Jane, and his aide followed, and I followed his aide. Ann tried to follow me, but I pushed her back. “This is no place for little girls,” I warned her.

In the living-room, I wasn't noticed, and I made myself small in a corner. Jane sat in a chair, looking very pretty, I thought, and the two officers stood in front of her.

“You see,” General Wayne was saying, “we can't be too far from the British—and we can't be too near. This spot is ideal.”

“I think I understand.”

“But you know what soldiers are—two thousand halfstarved soldiers.”

“My father is with the army, sir.”

“Thank you, then. You are a very brave girl.”

“No, no,” Jane said quickly. “I'm doing nothing. Don't you see that it is safer with the troops here?”

General Wayne smiled sadly. “I'm afraid not. It is not very nice to have one's home turned into a battleground. Yet war is a bitter business all around.”

“I know,” Jane said.

“We should want to use your home as general headquarters. It will mean quartering myself and two or three officers. And a room to undertake business—”

Jane bent her head. “I hope you will be comfortable,” she said.

“You are very kind. And now, if you will excuse me, you can make all arrangements with Captain Jones here.”

The general left the room, and I followed him. Outside, he looked at me curiously.

“I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that you will want to be a soldier some day?”

“Yes, sir.”

His face was very grave, his mouth thin as a thread; with one hand, he shook out my long hair; the other was clasping and unclasping itself nervously. “Suppose,” he considered—“suppose I make you a sort of general's special aide, to look after things I miss on?”

I was thrilling with pride, and I could hardly keep from bursting into shouts of pure joy; however, I managed to stand very still, saluting him. “That will be very fine, sir,” I said. And I stood looking after him as he rode down into the valley.

I couldn't go in just yet. I had to stand there for a while, and be alone in my glory; so I remained as he left me, very still, looking over the valley to where the sun was setting, making the river a band of gleaming red. Then, after a little while, I went inside.

I heard Jane laughing in the parlor, and it surprised me. It was the first time she had laughed since mother died. I went in, and there she was, standing with the aide, laughing at something he had said. When she saw me, she stopped, and Captain Jones came forward, offering me his hand.

“How do you do, sir,” I said, with dignity, since I was of the army now.

“How do you do,” he answered.

“Captain Jones and General Wayne and some others will live at the house, Bently,” Jane told me.

“I know,” I replied.

I turned to go, and as I left the room, I heard Captain Jones saying: “I must apologize for my regimentals. We're pretty close to being beggars now—all of us.”

The next few days were as exciting as any I had known. I had always considered our house a very lonely place, there being nobody I could play with outside of Ann and Jack, the caretaker's boy. And now, all of a sudden, there were two thousand men, encamped in a sprawling fashion through the apple orchard, over the hay-fields, and down the long slope to the river. Almost overnight, bubbles of tents had sprung up all over the place, and in and around our sheds a hundred horses were quartered. On the lawn, in front of our house, there were sixteen field pieces, ugly, sinister things, but oh, how fascinating!

And the soldiers—I made great friends of many of the soldiers before the bookman came, and I will get to the bookman later. I guess General Wayne spread the word around, about the commission he had given me, because the men took to calling me lieutenant, which I was very proud of, though I tried not to show it. I stole cakes and bread for them from the kitchen—not that we had so much, but they had almost nothing at all; and all the time I had to myself, I spent down in their camp. They were always telling me stories, and some of them knew my father. Sometimes, they would let me handle a musket; but the muskets were taller than I, and so heavy I could hardly lift them. What I saw in the camp used to make me sick sometimes. The men were always cold, because they were short of clothing and blankets; hardly any had shoes, and most were woefully thin. It would make me sick, and then I didn't know whether I wanted to be a soldier or not. But the men were always talking about their pay, which was to come from Philadelphia some day, and how much better all things would be after that.

The winter stole on, and the men remained in the valley. More men came, until there were almost three thousand of them. At night, their fires twinkled like glow-worms, and in the daytime they were always drilling and parading. I didn't know why they drilled so much, but one day Captain Jones told me the reason. He said it was to keep them knowing that they were soldiers, and to make them forget that they were starving. I wondered how men could starve, yet live so long; but war is very strange, and you do not understand all the parts of it.

Our house became a busy place. In the parlor, General Wayne set up his main headquarters, and sometimes he sat there all day writing at his desk, receiving couriers, and dispatching couriers, too. I knew that most of his writing was for pay and food for his soldiers, because that was the main topic of talk. All day, men rode up to our house and away from it, and many times in the night I woke to hear a horse stamping his hoofs in front of the door.

I guess during that time Jane came to sort of like Captain Jones, and I guess she couldn't help it, he being around the house so much, and being such a handsome young gentleman, not at all thin and worn, like General Wayne.

Then the bookman came, after the troops had been in the valley for almost three weeks. They don't have many bookmen any more, men who wander around the country, stopping at houses to peddle books and give away news. Many of them write their own books, publish them, and peddle them. That is what Parson Weems did with his stories of General Washington.

Well, the bookman came one day toward evening, not from the river valley, but riding the trail that trickled over the hills. He was dressed in worn homespun, an old broad-brimmed hat on his head, and a great pack of books on either side of his saddle. He didn't come to the house, but stopped at the barn, and I ran over to see what he had to sell. I knew he was a bookman, and I knew how rarely bookmen came nowadays.

“Hello,” I called. “Hello, there, you bookman, you!”

He looked at me very gravely, and right there I liked him, from the beginning. He had little blue eyes, like General Wayne's, always sparkling, and long yellow hair that fell to his shoulders. He seemed very old to me then, as most grownups did, but he couldn't have been much past thirty.

“Hello, sir,” he said. He had a funny accent, vaguely familiar, and I took it to be back country talk. “Yes,” he went on, “how do you do?”

“Fine,” I answered. “And I hope you have English books, though Jane says I shouldn't read them now.”

“And why shouldn't you read them now?” he asked.

“You know we're at war.”

“Oh, yes, I do know it. I had a devil of a time getting through the sentries.” He spoke as if he didn't approve of sentries of war. And then his eyes roved past me, down into the valley. He seemed surprised when he saw all the tents and soldiers.

“That looks like a big encampment,” he said.

“Yes,” I nodded proudly, “most all of the New Jersey line.”

But he did not seem to wish to speak of the troops or the war. “What kind of books do you like?” he inquired, measuring me with his eyes.

Then I remembered my manners. “Won't you come in,” I asked him, “and have something hot to drink. I am sure my sister would like your books, too.”

Picking up his packs, he followed me into the kitchen, and while Mary, the cook, put up the kettle, I ran to call Jane. Jane liked bookmen, because they made things less lonely. “I'm sorry,” she told him, “that you have to eat in the kitchen, but our house has become a regular military depot. I should like to offer you tea, but you know that we have none now.”

“You are a very loyal family, aren't you?” the bookman said.

“My father is with the Third Continentals,” Jane said quietly.

The bookman looked at her, as though he knew what Jane was probably thinking, how much more likely it would be for a strong man like him to be in the army than wandering around with a pack of books. And then he said, a slow smile coming to his lips: “But somebody has to sell books. They are as necessary as war.”

“Perhaps,” Jane answered him.

I went out then, because Ann was calling me, and together we walked down into the valley. When I came back, the bookman was showing Jane his books.

He and Jane were close together, kneeling on the floor, where the books were spread out, and there, in the fading twilight, his yellow head made a very nice contrast with Jane's dark one. When I came in, Jane glanced at me.

“Don't you want to look at the books, Bently?”

“I was down in the valley,” I said importantly, “and there's a great bustle there. I think that the troops are going to move soon, maybe at the end of this week or before that.”

The bookman was looking at me very curiously, which I thought strange for a person who had so little interest in war. But a moment later, I had forgotten that, and I was looking at the books with Jane. He had a great many books for children, fascinating books full of pictures, such books as we saw very little of. And he seemed to have read every book, for he spoke of them in a way that no other person I had known ever had. He spoke of the books Jane wanted, too, and I could see that there was a lot in him that fascinated Jane, the same way it fascinated me.

I had my dinner, and after dinner, Jane was still with the bookman talking about books and other things. Then I went out on the porch, where Captain Jones was smoking his pipe.

“Who is that tattered wreck?” Captain Jones asked me.

“Oh, he's just a bookman.”

“Just a bookman, eh?”

“Yes,” I nodded, and then I sat down to keep him company.

That evening I sat in the kitchen, listening to the bookman. His stories weren't like the soldiers', about war, but about strange, distant lands. I could see right away that he liked me, and I was drawn to him more than I had ever been drawn to a stranger before. Later, Jane sat before the fire with us, and most of the talk was between her and the bookman. I remember some of the things he said.