VIII

WE’VE DECIDED to desert, Kenton Brenner, Charley Green, and I. Not at once did we come to the decision, but slowly, working our courage, and giving ourselves all the arguments we needed to leave the army. First Kenton and I—then Charley.

Two days after the Jew died, I walked on sentry beat with Kenton. The fresh meat had lifted us, brought back little fires of strength that were all but gone. I came on Kenton at the end of my beat. He leaned on his musket, looking northward over the hills.

I said to him: “I was watching you—you were silent and unmoving here wondrous long. I thought to myself, you’re frozen and sleeping on your feet.”

“I’m thinking a strong man could walk through the snow.”

“Where to?” I asked him. “Where would you be walking?”

“North—a great stretch north to the Mohawk. I’m sick to look at the Valley land.”

“For five hundred miles? Edward froze. Stiff as a log of wood. They brought him back and laid him down, and he was all ringed over with ice. I don’t forget the sight of Edward, with the ice sealing his lips.”

“Edward was alone.”

Then I looked at him, and I could feel how the hope was tearing inside of me. “We’re like rats in a trap—and lacking all courage,” I muttered.

We asked Charley that night. Charley a Boston man, a city man. A curious man who had read many hundreds of books. He had a round face, tiny blue eyes, and a stoutness that days of starving wouldn’t rid him of.

“We’re enlisted three years,” Charley said.

“For three years, and three hundred men in our regiment,” I said. “Six of us left. There’ll be none of you left for ripe rewards at the end of three years—not enough to hang from an English gibbet.”

“I’ve a woman here,” Charley muttered. “I’d be sleeping alone many a night.”

“You’ve a dirty slut who won’t hunger for you once ye’re gone.”

“I’m sick to be home.”

“There’s food on the way,” I told him eagerly. “There’s a country full of food on the way. Rich, good food for our taking.”

“We’ve no money. Our Continental paper wouldn’t buy a loaf of bread to the thousand dollars.”

“We don’t need money. We’ll take our muskets. Men with muskets can find food.”

“I’m no thief,” Charley said stubbornly. “By God, I’ve become a rotten mock of a man, but I’m no thief.”

“No plunder. I’m not meaning plunder, Charley. Old soldiers could find a little bit of food.”

Then we sit close to the fire, looking at each other, looking around the tiny smoke-blackened dugout. Ely is out on sentry duty. I try not to think about Ely; I try to think only of freedom—of an end to the awful monotony that’s rotting my soul. Jacob lies in his bed, a cloak drawn over him, his feet protruding—ragged, bandaged stumps. His eyes are closed, and he lies without moving. Smith groans softly. Henry Lane is sick with the French disease. He has been sick and silent that way for weeks now—a living dead man lying quietly in his bunk.

We three look at each other and measure each other.

I say: “How long? I’m afraid to die here. Outside—anywhere outside. I’m not afraid to go to sleep in the snow, not wake up—just sleep in the snow. That’s easy. There was no pain in Edward’s heart for his dying.”

“We’d start without food,” Charley says.

Kenton grins. “We’re used to that.”

“You’d go to the Mohawk?”

“Or to Boston until the winter’s over.”

“No women——”

I stare at them, and they both look at me, and I glance over my shoulder; if Bess is awake.

“No women,” Kenton says dully.

I get up, and I go to my bed. Her arms are round me. I watch the fire, pretending not to know that she is awake. I lie there for a long time, not moving, watching the fire, until I think she is asleep.

Ely comes in. Slowly, painfully, he gets out of his clothes. He is very tired; his face is sunken and drawn. Each step he takes draws a grimace of pain from him. I had thought of pleading with Ely to come along with us. But his feet wouldn’t carry him a dozen miles.

He puts wood on the fire. He stands there for a little while, wiping the smoke out of his eyes. Then he walks to Jacob’s bed. He and Jacob are both older than the rest of us, both of them apart from us. He watches Jacob, draws the cloak up to Jacob’s neck. Smith groans. Ely takes a cup of the thin corn-broth that we keep by the fire—when we have corn—and holds it to Smith’s lips. The man drinks a little.

Ely takes something out of his pocket. “A bit of onion,” he says to Smith. “I got it from a Massachusetts man for a few Continental papers. A rare good thing for the scurvy.”

Ely sits down by the fire, puts out his legs in front of him. He closes his eyes and leans back, his hands spread on his thighs. I look at him until he blurs in front of my eyes, and then I say:

“Ely——”

He turns to me. “Allen? I didn’t think you were awake.”

I don’t say anything now.

“You wanted something, Allen?”

“Nothing—nothing, Ely.”

I turn round. Bess is awake. I see her wide-open dark eyes.

She whispers: “When will you be going, Allen?”

“Going? Where would I be going?”

“Allen, when I came to you that night, and my feet were bleeding, like a pain all through me, and you bound them up, Allen, and said that I was your woman——”

“I said it to keep men from putting hands on you.”

“However you said it, I swore I would make no claims on you, Allen. I swore I would love you as long as I lived, Allen, but make no claim. What they were all thinking—that I was a bad woman and a slut. But it didn’t matter about those Virginian men, Allen. It didn’t matter, their having me. After you, there’s nobody else, Allen. When you go away, I won’t live.”

“What do you want me to do?” I demanded hoarsely. “If we were man and wife, you could make a claim on me. I’d not part from any wife of mine.”

“I make no claim, Allen.”

“I could go mad, staying here—making my insides rot out.”

“I don’t want you to stay here, Allen. I wouldn’t ask you to stay here. It’s two years now of bitter fighting, and I cannot make out yet what they’re fighting for. Only I’ve come to hate war, Allen. What is there, Allen, to make a man give up his life and bring an abiding sorrow in a woman?”

“I don’t know,” I said miserably.

“You’re a northland man, Allen, and cold in the way of the northland men.”

“I can’t take a woman with me——”

“But tonight, Allen. I’m not holding it against you. Put your arms around me and love me tonight.”

I lay without sleeping. Half the night, I lay without sleeping. Finally, I said: “I’ll not go without you.”

The next night, we were ready. When I told Kenton that Bess would come, he shook his head. I argued with him. I told him that having a woman with us would make it easier to get food.

“She won’t walk it.”

“She’s a lean, hard woman,” I said.

“But ye’re a fool, Allen. She’s not fit woman for a man. She’s a slut. So why would you be nailing yourself to a slut?”

“You can go to hell without me,” I said.

“We won’t be fighting over the matter of a woman. If you want the wench, take her with you, Allen.”

Now that we are ready to go, Kenton’s woman and Green’s woman sit and watch us, but say nothing. Kenton’s woman is already glancing at Jacob. There are more than enough men for the women.

Jacob hasn’t said a word. He must have known before that we were going, but he doesn’t speak. He sits on his bed, a ragged, bearded man, hair streaked with grey, watching us. I try to avoid his eyes.

Henry Lane watches wistfully. He says: “When you come to the Mohawk country—if you see kin of mine, you’ll not tell them of my sickness. You’ll tell them I had a fair, clean death.”

Kenton says: “Ye’re not a dying man, Henry. It’s just a slow spell of weakness.”

“But you’ll tell them a quick, clean passing?”

We try to smile at him. We wrap our feet carefully, feeling all eyes in the place upon us. Ely is standing in one corner; he doesn’t look at us.

“You won’t hold it against us, Ely?” I say to him.

He doesn’t answer. We go on with our preparations. We load our muskets carefully. We have about ten rounds of ammunition apiece—no food. If we pause for a moment, the entire hopelessness of our enterprise appears to overwhelm us. When we are ready, we stand round and look at each other. Nobody moves toward the door. We look round the cabin we have lived in for so many weeks now, the smoke-blackened timbers, the beds built against each wall, the dugout floor which has become as hard as rock. Out of our own hands.

Where are we going?

Kenton says: “Time to go——”

I say, desperately: “Come along, Ely. We’re not doing any wrong, Ely. There’s been no pay for weeks, no rum, no food. Two years we’ve fought for them. Come along.”

Ely shakes his head, doesn’t answer.

Jacob cries: “Christ—what are you waiting for? Get to hell outa here! A blessing to be rid of a spineless swine. For once I thought there was the making of a man in you, Allen, but ye’re one with that bloodless Boston printer. Kenton’s mindless, senseless, but I never thought it of you to follow that Boston man.”

“Jacob——”

“I want no words with you. Why don’t you go?”

“We’re going,” I say dully.

Charley moves to the door, opens it. The cold air rushes in. Charley waves to his woman. Kenton follows him. I take Bess’ arm, and we go out after them, closing the door behind us.

We go a few paces into the night, and then we stand and look back at the dugout. As if we expect movement, as if we expect some sign of life. The dugouts stand in a long row, and we walk past them.

I glance down at Bess’ face. It’s lit with happiness. She walks apart from me, as if she wishes to prove that there’s enough strength in her. She says:

“I can walk, Allen. Don’t fear for me. I’m a strong walker, Allen.”

I try to feel glad. We’re free; and there’s no going back.

“If we’re stopped,” Kenton says. “What if we’re stopped?”

We grip our muskets. We’ve passed the Pennsylvania dugouts. On our right is the encampment of General Poor’s men. We push through the thin strip of woods and come out into the open. A sentry standing on the hill sees us.

“Shall we make a run for it?” Green asks.

“He’ll fire if we run,” Kenton says. “He’s no officer. We’ll talk to him.”

“He’ll listen to reasonable talk,” I say hopefully.

Bess shrinks against me. We go on more slowly. When we come up to the sentry, we stop and stand there. We don’t know what to say.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“We’re Pennsylvania men.”

Then he sees that Bess is a woman, and his eyes open. He’s like us, bearded, ragged. He can’t mistake us for anything but what we are.

I say, desperately: “We’re deserters. We won’t go back. If you want to die—we’ll die along with you.” Green is covering him with his gun.

“Deserters—” the man says, oddly.

“Which is it?” Kenton demands.

“Go ahead—Jesus Christ, I’ll keep no man here.”

We go on, and when I glance back, the sentry is still standing there, where we had left him. We cross the Gulph Road, string out over the parade ground. A moon is in the sky. We throw long shadows in the snow.

Bess is limping, and I see that the wrappings on one of her feet have come undone. I stop to fasten them. Green mutters:

“I told you—about a woman.”

The moment I bare my hands, they get numb. There’s no wind, but it’s mercilessly cold. I fumble with the wrappings, finally manage to fasten them. We go on. A grey stone house looms ahead.

“Varnum’s quarters, I think,” Kenton says. “We’ll go round.”

We go back, avoiding the redoubt. We skirt a row of dugouts. At the end, we come across a sentry again. He stands blocking our way, but he makes no move toward us.

“Go on,” Kenton says.

We walk past him, and he follows us with his eyes; but he makes no effort to halt us. We begin to run, enter the woods panting, and fling ourselves down. Bess clings to me, sobbing hoarsely.

“How’ll we cross the river?” I ask Kenton.

Kenton shrugs. He says: “It’s better to die this way, better to be shot clean. We’ll freeze to death from the river.”

“I made you go, Allen,” Bess sobs. “You’ll hold it up to me that I made you go.”

“Christ—shut up!” Green whispers.

We go on, falling, rolling over, clutching at trees and tearing our clothes. Our muskets are useless, clogged with snow, the powder wet in the firing pans. Our strength is pretty much gone, but somehow we manage to stagger through the woods down to the bank of the Schuylkill. At the bank, we lie in the snow, panting hoarsely, unable to move.

“The bridge is guarded,” I mutter. “We can’t cross the bridge—it’s guarded.”

“You damn fool, the river’s frozen.”

Somehow, none of us had realized that. We laugh like idiots. Bess hugs me. She says: “Allen—Allen, I don’t care—we’re out of it.”

It’s terribly cold. As we lie there, I can feel myself growing numb, sleepy. I close my eyes, and almost instantly a deep rush of relaxation overtakes me. I want to sleep. I draw Bess close to me.

Kenton is gripping my shoulder. “Allen—we have to get out of here. Sentries patrol the riverbank.”

We stumble to our feet. There is a great drift of snow against the bank, and we flounder through it. Bess almost disappears. Then we are out on the river. Some of the ice has been swept bare by the wind, and we go sprawling. We have no strength left for directed action. Green drops his musket, claws at it, and then creeps after it. And all the time we are in an agony of fear that we will be seen from the bank we left.

Finally, we gain the shore. It takes all our strength to scramble up onto the bank.

We go up slowly, panting, breathing heavily; then through the forest. It’s black in the forest. We fall, bruise and cut ourselves. Finally, we come out on a stretch of open fields.

Kenton says: “Ah—I’m used up. We’ll make no distance tonight.”

“We have to keep going,” I pant.

Bess looks at me; her face is drawn with an agony of weariness. As we walk, slow as we are going, she falls behind. She can’t keep our pace. Forcing herself to run a little, she’ll catch up with us, drop back.

“I told you not to bring the woman,” Charley said.

“She’s here—leave her be. It was a fair hard run out of camp.”

Bess says: “Allen—I’ll stay with you. It’s easy for me, Allen.”

She falls once, lies in the snow. We turn, and I can see her straining to raise herself.

“You shoulda known,” Kenton nods.

I go back and lift her up. She clings to my arm, and says: “Forgive me, Allen. I’m no fit woman.”

We walk on. More and more, I feel Bess’s weight on me. We’ve been half-starved for weeks—sick. None of us has shoes. Our feet are bandaged, covered over with cloth, and then bandaged again up to our knees. Our breeches are torn. Our coats are thin as paper. Kenton wears a forlorn cocked hat, two of the cocks down and flapping. Charley and I have no hats. Our heads are bound like Turks’.

We come to a little dirt road, walk along it. I seem to sleep, even while I’m walking. Suddenly, I come awake. Kenton is walking on ahead. Charley has stopped; he stands looking at me. I turn around, and see Bess crumpled in a heap on the snow. I go back to her.

“Go on, Allen,” she says.

I draw her up to me, and she clings close, sobbing into my coat. We go on, with Charley and Kenton ahead of us.

We made camp. We couldn’t have been much more than a mile or two from the Schuylkill. How far, I don’t know, because half the walking was a nightmare. But we couldn’t have been very far from the river. Half-frozen, we stopped and tried to build a fire.

All I could think of was Edward Flagg, the skin of ice over his lips when they brought him back. He was a great, strong man, Edward; but they brought him back stiff as a log.

We break branches and gather bits of wood together. Bess crouches close to the ground, trembling.

Charley tries to make a fire. He uses a handflint. For minutes he tries, striking again and again, until the flint drops from his numbed hand. He tries to rub life back into his hands.

I tear a bit of cloth from my leg bindings, drop some powder onto it. Kenton takes the flint, and a spark ignites the powder. We feed the fire carefully, nurse it and blow on it. It grows larger. We build up a great, roaring mass of fire.

“They’ll see it,” Kenton says.

“We need fire. We’ll never live the night out unless we have fire.”

As the fire grows, we gather around it and absorb the heat. Bess crowds close; her thin, white face lights a little. Kenton grins. He says:

“Edward made a great mistake, walking alone. It’s a wonder to me how any man could think to win northward, walking alone.”

“Don’t speak of Edward.”

“You can speak of a dead fool,” he says lightheadedly.

“My belly’s tight and empty,” Charley says. “By God, I’d give ten years of my life for a steak to feed that fire with.”

“There’s food—we’ll feed well enough tomorrow.”

We stayed close to the fire. We arranged for a watch through the night to feed the fire. We wiped our muskets clean and reloaded them.

Kenton stood the first watch. I lay down with Bess in my arms, Charley sprawled by the fire a little distance away. I could see how Charley envied me the having of a woman to spend the night through.

“In my arms, Bess still trembled. I couldn’t make her warm. I tried to soothe her, tried to tell myself that we wouldn’t freeze. But if Kenton slept and the fire went out——”

“I’m no fit woman, Allen,” Bess said as if repeating a lesson she had learned. “You made a mistake to bring me along, Allen. I’ll be nothing else but a drag on you.”

“We’ll go together,” I told her. “We’ll find a place where we can rest and warm ourselves. Then we’ll go together. It’ll be nowhere as hard as tonight.”

“You’re a good man, Allen. You’re a strong, good man to be so tender with me.”

“I said you’d go, and I’ll care for you,” I told her proudly.

“I won’t ask any care of you, Allen. I’ll fend for myself——”

“I’ll fend for you. It’ll be like you were wedded to me. I’ll fend for you.”

“Some day, Allen—you might wed me?”

“There’s a fair lot of things I’m thinking to do,” I said.

Then she slept. I held her close to me, and I lay looking up at the stars, watching the slow rise and sway of sparks against the dark sky. I thought of Ely and Jacob, and tried to understand that I would not be with them again. For the first time, I recalled how Ely had been when we left.

I must have slept. Kenton was waking me.

“Your watch, Allen,” he said.

I got up, feeling the cold eat into me as I moved from Bess. She murmured my name in her sleep.

“You saw anything?”

“Nothing,” Kenton said.

He curled up by the fire. I leaned on my musket and watched the flames.