“Can’t be but three bells in the first dog watch, and it’s already black as pitch outside,” Ferguson said. He and Rumstick and the rest of the logging party were still reclined on the straw pile in Captain Jonathan Mitnick’s barn. No light came in through the chinks in the barn walls now, and the space was lit by a couple of lanterns that Mitnick had brought out as the sun was beginning to set.
“Every year, right about this time, seems it’s always the same damned thing,” Rumstick observed.
Most of the men had not left the barn since they had first secreted themselves in there, and they did not seem unhappy to just sprawl out on the straw and sleep. Like the true mariners that they were, they had no difficulty drifting off wherever they dropped, particularly not after the food and drink that Mitnick had provided.
Rumstick and Ferguson and Kirby alone had left the barn earlier, accompanying Captain Mitnick to the armory to gather muskets and powder and ball and bayonets for the six men in Rumstick’s company who had no weapons. They had taken a detour first, on Rumstick’s insistence, making their clandestine way down to the wharf by way of various kitchen yards, and sheltering behind outbuildings and other natural cover. If Barnett had posted men in the town, Rumstick did not want to risk being discovered.
But that was not a problem in the end. Mitnick, who had spent every one of his twenty-eight years of life in Great Egg Harbor, was perfectly capable of leading them down to the water unseen by anyone but the good people of the town. And when they were seen, Mitnick was recognized immediately and was greeted with a friendly wave or a nod of the head. No cry was raised.
“There,” Mitnick said as they settled in behind a shed one hundred yards from the head of the wharf. “This is as close as we can get. But you can see from here that villain Barnett, he’s pretty well settled in.”
Rumstick nodded. There were tents pitched haphazardly over the ground all along the edge of the banking that dropped down to the water, and half a dozen stone rings with fires blazing and men huddled around. There were men standing slumped at various places beyond the camp, and Rumstick had to guess they were sentries, though such a poor excuse for vigilance would have earned them a flogging in any real army on earth.
“How do these bastards like camping out here in this damned cold, after having made themselves at home in the tavern?” Rumstick asked.
“Probably not much,” Mitnick said, “though I haven’t exactly enquired after their health. From what I can see, and what folks have told me, the lot of them are drunk all the time, at least when they’re not sleeping. So that has to make things go easier.”
“This Barnett, he allows that?” Kirby asked.
“I doubt there’s much he can do,” Mitnick said. “Scum like this, they’ll only listen to orders for so long, and some things they just won’t put up with. If they want to get drunk, they’ll get drunk.”
“You shouldn’t tell Kirby that,” Ferguson said. “Now he’s gonna go change sides.”
“I reckon all you drunken skipjacks would, if I let you,” Rumstick said, but he was thinking about Barnett’s men and their habit of being drunk the chief of the time.
Good…that’s good… he thought. That’ll help.
They watched for a few moments more but saw nothing else of interest, just a band of ragged, miserable, cold-looking men. They did not seem to be a particularly formidable force, but Rumstick knew well how deceptive that could be. These were men used to brutal ways and tough fighting. The drink might make them clumsy and dull-witted, but it would also erase any bit of fear they might harbor. They would not be easily put down.
From there, they made their way to the armory and collected up six muskets and a dozen bayonets and all the powder and ball they could carry and then returned to the barn. Mitnick left them there to attend to his chores, and Rumstick set his men to rolling cartridges and making certain their firelocks were in perfect working order.
“Say, lieutenant,” Ferguson said. He was sitting next to Rumstick, adjusting the flint in his firelock, then cocking the weapon and pulling the trigger to judge the shower of sparks produced. “If you don’t mind me asking, are we just going to hide out here and hope the militia does something?”
“Here’s my plan,” Rumstick said. “We’ll wait here until Barnett and his men die of old age. And then we’ll come out.”
“We’ll…we wait until they die of old age?” Sullivan, who was sitting nearby, asked.
“That’s right,” Rumstick said. “Or until I get bored. We’ll see which comes first. The thing is, this situation, it’s like a powder magazine in a ship. You got barrels of gunpowder over here. And you got cartridges over there, and priming powder over there, and some damned fool, he’s let loose powder spill on the deck. One spark and the whole thing blows to hell. Well, that’s like what we got here.”
“Uh huh,” Ferguson said. “Of course, as a rule you’d try not to make a spark. You know, with the felt slippers and the copper tools and such.”
“Most times that’s true,” Rumstick said. “But sometimes the spark’s just the thing that’s called for.”
Some time later, Captain Mitnick returned with a big pot of stew and several bowls and spoons and more bread and beer. “These are all the bowls we have, I apologize for that,” he said, handing them out. “I hope you don’t mind sharing.”
“Sharing? Hell, no, we don’t mind. With this lot, you could just pour the stew out on the ground and they’d eat it right up,” Rumstick said. “But don’t…” he added quickly, realizing Mitnick might not understand he was joking.
But Mitnick did understand, apparently, as he smiled and passed the spoons around and the men who had bowls set in to eating.
“I appreciate your generosity, Captain,” Rumstick said. “And I promise, once we get back aboard Falmouth we’ll pay you in full for all this. Hard money. Captain Biddlecomb, his father-in-law is rich as Croesus, and that can come in damned handy, I’ll tell you.”
“I reckon it can,” Mitnick agreed. “Oh, but listen here. We have men watching the roads and the camp by the wharf and all, and I’m told that Wilcox and his men, those that were sent out after you, they came back in tonight. I guess they gave up looking.”
“Guess so,” Rumstick said and smiled. “I’d love to hear the report Wilcox makes to Barnett. I reckon he’ll say he never did find us, rather than try to explain the truth of the matter.”
Mitnick smiled as well. “I reckon you’re right. I reckon telling Barnett you made a hash of something is probably not good for a man’s health.”
“Probably not,” Rumstick agreed. “Say, Captain, you said the militia around here are ready to turn out at a minute’s notice? How does that work?”
“Well, most of the men in the militia live within a mile or so of here. When we have a threat like we do now, with Barnett and his men, we keep our muskets and such by the doors, and boots and coats ready,” Mitnick said. “And we have orders to muster on the green, if we get the signal.”
“Signal?”
“The church bell,” Mitnick said. “A couple of fellows are designated to ring it, if me or Colonel Somers sends word.”
“I see,” Rumstick said. “Sounds like a good plan. Does it work out all right?”
“Don’t know,” Mitnick said. “It does when we’re drilling. We’ve never had to turn out like that for real.”
“And the Good Lord willing you never will,” Rumstick said, and Mitnick agreed with that. They spoke a bit longer, then Mitnick made his excuses and left them there in the barn, bedded down in the straw.
One by one they drifted off to sleep, save for Rumstick, who stared into the dark and let his mind work, let various scenarios play out in his head as the hours passed by. Sometime later, after midnight by his best estimate, he stood and brushed the straw off him, then slung his cartridge box over his shoulder. Ferguson was sleeping a few feet away and Rumstick nudged him with the toe of his shoe.
“Up and to arms,” he said in a low voice. “And be quiet about it.” He took a few steps and nudged Sullivan awake, and then Ewald, and soon all of the men were getting groggily to their feet.
“What’s acting, lieutenant?” Kirby asked, the first to find his voice.
“There’s a load of motherless bastards all sitting on the arses at the end of the wharf,” Rumstick said, “and we’re going to go make them get out of our way.”
That met with a moment of silence. “How’s that, sir?” Ferguson asked.
“By shooting the sons of bitches, if need be,” Rumstick said.
Ferguson nodded. “You might recall, lieutenant, there’s something akin to fifty or sixty of them,” he said. “And a dozen of us, by my count.”
“I wasn’t aware you could count that high, Ferguson,” Rumstick said.
“I can’t, Lieutenant. I was just guessing,” Ferguson said.
“Well, pretty good guess,” Rumstick said. “But you missed some. The Gloucester County Militia…they must have fifty good fighting men under arms, or near enough.”
“You mean them fellows that are abed and fast asleep?” Ewald asked.
“The same,” Rumstick said. “But they’ll wake up once the shooting starts, depend on it. And don’t forget our shipmates aboard Falmouth. They’re just at the far end of the dock, and you know they won’t be drunk and asleep like them pine robbers.”
In the light of the lanterns, Rumstick could see heads nodding, the men seeing this play out the way he did, and he hoped they were all correct. He could not imagine how this could go wrong, but then, one rarely imagined how something could go wrong until it did.
“Load up,” Rumstick said. “Muskets on half-cock. Any man fires before I say, the next bullet goes through his heart. Understand?”
Heads nodded again and then the barn was filled with the small scrapes and clicks of a dozen muskets being loaded. Once the last ramrod was pushed back in place, Rumstick took one of the lanterns down from its hook and led the way to the barn door and out into the night.
It was a cold one, and in the lantern light, Rumstick could see the cloud of his breath in front of him. Once all of his men were standing in the frozen yard, he held up his hand for quiet and he listened to the sounds of the night. He could hear a dog barking, far off, and something creaking in the breeze. He could hear the low swish of dead branches swaying somewhere out where he could not see them. Beyond that, he heard nothing.
“Good,” he said in a low voice. “Follow me, and keep your damned mouths shut.” He shuttered the lantern and stepped through the gate from Mitnick’s yard into the frozen street and headed off toward the waterfront.
He kept the column as much in the shadows as he could, but he was not terribly concerned about anyone seeing them. He doubted that Barnett’s men would be that far from the camp, and he did not think any townsfolk would raise an alarm at the sight of a dozen armed men walking down the road. For one thing, they would not know if the dozen were friend or foe, and probably would not care to enquire.
We’ll get those alarms raised soon enough, Rumstick thought as he walked past the dark and silent houses that bordered the road.
They came at last to the place where the buildings yielded to the open ground that ran to the waterfront and Rumstick led the men in behind a blacksmith’s shop that hid them from view of Barnett’s camp. Once they were well hidden, he peeked around the corner to see what he could see.
There was not much: a few fires burning in the pits, a handful of men huddled around them. Sentries, most likely, though staring into the fires as they were, they would be blinded to anything out in the dark. It was possible that Barnett had men posted farther away from the camp, watching for anyone approaching, but he doubted it. Even if Barnett had given those orders, Rumstick did not think anyone would obey. Too cold, too exposed and dangerous, standing all alone, far from the fires and their fellow banditti.
Beyond the fire pits and the huddle of men standing around them, Rumstick could make out the shapes of a few of the tents, and a pinpoint of light that must be a lantern hanging from some sort of hook, but he could see nothing beyond that.
“Ferguson, Kirby, to me,” he said in a loud whisper. He heard a rustling sound, feet moving on frozen ground, and the two men were standing beside him. “Did you see that church, when we were here earlier?” He pointed off into the dark, in the general direction of the squat, white building with its short bell tower.
“Yes, sir,” Ferguson said.
“Good,” Rumstick said. He handed Ferguson the lantern. “You two, get over to the church. Figure out how to ring the bell. The moment you hear a gunshot, one of you start ringing like you’re a man possessed. The other can find a spot to shoot from and start firing away at them banditti. Ring the bell for a couple of minutes, then whoever’s ringing, you start shooting, too. Understand?”
Both men nodded.
“Good. Now go,” Rumstick said, and the two men raced off into the dark. He waited a minute, then another, watching the pine robbers’ camp, but there was nothing to suggest anyone there thought anything amiss.
“Sullivan,” Rumstick whispered.
“Yes, lieutenant?”
“You the best shot here?” he asked. He could see Sullivan hesitate, unwilling to say as much, but Sullivan was a marine, and trained to shoot, which the sailors were not.
“Reckon so,” he said at last.
“Think you can hit one of those men by the fire from here?” Rumstick asked next.
Sullivan peered around the edge of the building, took a quick look, and then turned back to Rumstick. “Don’t know, sir,” he said. “Kind of a long shot.”
“Well, do your best,” Rumstick said, nodding toward the camp.
“Do you mean…just shoot one of them fellows?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“But…they’re just standing there,” Sullivan protested. “They’re not shooting at us.”
“Not yet,” Rumstick said.
Sullivan glanced over at the camp again, and then back at Rumstick. He half lifted his musket to his shoulder and put his thumb on the hammer and then paused again and frowned.
“Oh, for the love of God,” Rumstick said, and thought some bloody marine you are. He lifted his musket to his shoulder, thumbing the hammer back as he did. He sighted over the top of the barrel, pointing the weapon in the general direction of the fire, and pulled the trigger. The priming in the pan hissed and a fraction of a second later the gun went off, slamming the butt back into his shoulder. He had no idea if he hit anyone.
“There,” Rumstick said. “Now, just wait a second and I’ll bet they’ll be shooting at us and you can shoot back with a clear conscience.”
He could hear shouting and the stamp of feet from across the open ground. He could hear yells of surprise and what sounded like orders being called, and questions demanding answers, though he could not make out any individual words.
Oh, well, Rumstick thought. Guess one round wasn’t enough.
“You men, spread it out!” Rumstick shouted, the need for quiet now gone. “Load and fire, fast as you can! Sullivan, get up here and shoot at them bastards!” He reached down and pulled a cartridge from the box at his side and tore the end off with his teeth. He filled the pan and shut the frizzen and then poured the rest of the contents down the barrel. He looked to his right. The others were moving out past the wall of the smith’s shop, taking a knee behind the low fence that enclosed the yard.
He looked back at the camp just as two of his own men fired. The open ground was lit up with the muzzle flash, and in the light of the banditti’s fires, he could see men stumbling around. He jerked the ramrod from under the barrel of his gun as two more muskets went off, and that time he was all but certain he saw one of Barnett’s men go down.
We’ll see how drunk these bastards are… Rumstick thought as he replaced the ramrod and swung the musket up to his shoulder.
To his left, he heard a new sound, sharp and musical, the bell in the church ringing out, and he realized that in the excitement, he had forgotten all about Ferguson and Kirby. Luckily they had not forgotten their instructions, and even as the bell was keeping up its steady clanging, Rumstick saw a jet of flame come from one of the church windows, lighting up a patch of the building’s wall, just for an instant. One man firing while the other tolled the bell.
He looked back over the barrel of his gun. It was indeed a long shot for a smooth-bore weapon so he found a knot of men and steadied the gun and pulled the trigger. He let the butt drop to the ground and reached for another cartridge. He had no idea if he had hit anyone, nor did he care terribly much. This was more about causing panic and raising the alarm. The real killing, he hoped, would soon start in earnest.
Hiss, bang! Hiss, bang! Two more muskets went off, priming and powder, the muzzle flashes like lightning bolts illuminating the ground ahead of them, just for an instant.
“Load and fire, fast as you can!” Rumstick shouted as he once again pulled his ramrod free. “Bastards’ll be coming over the ground here any minute, you best be ready to meet them!”
He lifted his musket and sighted down the barrel and as he did he saw a muzzle flash from Barnett’s camp, heard the sound of the firelock, the first return fire. He shifted his aim left and lined up with the place where the flash had been and pulled the trigger.
As he let the butt of the musket fall to the ground, he swung around and looked behind him. No militia racing toward the sound of the guns, no lanterns moving frenetically through the streets, no shouts of alarm.
Ready to turn out at a moment’s notice, my arse, he though. Hurry it up, you lazy sods… He reached for another cartridge and tore off the top with his teeth. The taste of powder was strong in mouth now. He spilled the powder down the barrel and pushed the ball in after and looked off toward the waterfront. Two, three, four muzzle flashes as Barnett’s men recovered from the shock of the attack and took up their weapons, sobered by cold and surprise.
Rumstick heard two of the balls strike the building next to him, but he had no idea where the others had gone. To his right, three more guns went off, and he saw Manning lean his ramrod against the fence, kneel, and take aim.
Barnett and those bastards, they’ll be coming soon, he thought. The pine robbers were exposed, with no cover, and they were not the sort to stand and endure volleys of fire. They would want to get at their enemy, hand to hand, and while Rumstick and his men had bayonets, and he doubted that the pine robbers did, those weapons would only go so far. As it stood, Barnett had at least a five to one advantage in men, and bayonets would not change that.
The tolling of the bell had stopped and Rumstick heard more shots from the church, two in rapid succession, both Ferguson and Kirby joining in the volleys. That was good. It would make Barnett’s men think they were facing more men than they were.
He could see Barnett himself now, walking fast down the line of tents, waving his sorry-looking sword, shouting orders. His men were tumbling into some sort of line, some loading and firing, some just looking across the open ground as if they had no notion of where they were.
“Stand ready!” Rumstick shouted. Barnett’s men were like an ocean swell, ready to break on the shore. “We’ll greet these bastards with a hail of lead!” It sounded good, but how much of a hail his dozen men could muster, he was not sure.
And then they came. Barnett, to his credit, took the lead, stepping off, sword raised, shouting as loud as he could, and behind him another forty men began to move forward, also shouting, muskets held across their chests.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Rumstick called. “Load and make ready, let ‘em get close!” He’d heard enough accounts of Bunker Hill to know how effective this could be.
Barnett’s men were moving faster now, their walk turning to a jog as they tried to get across the open ground in the face of an unknown number of muskets. They moved like men who were aware of just how vulnerable they were. Rumstick watched them come, trying to judge how close to let them approach. Close enough that the volley would tell, not so close that his men would not have time to reload.
“Fire!” he shouted as he lifted his own gun, leveled it, and pulled the trigger. The blast from his muzzle joined the other nine and Rumstick saw a number of Barnett’s men flung back. And, more satisfying still, he saw the rest hesitate and slow in their advance, while Barnett continued to scream and wave his sword.
Rumstick looked to his right. His men were reloading as fast as they were able. Two more shots came from the church, and now Barnett’s men had stopped completely, some taking a knee and firing, some just looking confused.
That’s right…you just wait there, Rumstick thought as his hands went through the business of reloading his gun. He brought it up to his shoulder even as two of the other men at the fence fired and two of Barnett’s men went down.
Rumstick looked over the barrel, swung it down the line until it was aimed directly at Barnett. He pressed the trigger in the same instant that Barnett lunged at one of his men, grabbed him by the coat, and pushed him forward. The man stumbled and Rumstick’s ball missed entirely and then Barnett was pushing the next in line, and the next.
More of Rumstick’s men were firing, but he could see that Barnett was getting his men moving forward now, getting the momentum back up. His own men would get in one, maybe two more shots before the pine robbers were on top of them.
“Fix bayonets!” Rumstick shouted. “Fix bayonets!” He looked right and left. The low fence would be an impediment to Barnett’s advance; the banditti would die on the bayonets as they tried to get over it. But only a few. The rest would get over. Or around. Or they would stand back and fire into the struggling men.
We’ll give them one go with the bayonets, Rumstick thought. One go, then we run like the devil is after us. Those that still can. Not exactly a bold stand, not exactly the battle of Thermopylae, but it was all that they could do.