WE COULD TELL by the look on Abel Aikin’s face that he had some special news. We were almost ready to tell him what it was, we had heard so much about it. For weeks we had been wondering whether the British peace commissioners, with their supposed concessions to every imaginable American demand short of independence, would win the race with the French diplomats offering us a treaty of alliance.

Meanwhile we enjoyed the beauties of a Jersey spring. The snowy wreaths of the shadbush appeared on the hillsides and in the dry open woods along with trillium, hepatica, and the eggshell-white blossoms of bloodroot. In the woodlands and south-sloping hills arbutus bloomed along with the pale yellow blossoms of the spicebush, the delicate pinkish white nodding clusters of the staggerbush. As the land flowered we sowed corn and wheat, flax and oats in long furrows of moist gleaming soil - a gesture that was in itself a symbol of hope in the future.

This was our chief emotion as we encircled Abel Aikin, who sat smugly in his saddle as usual, his needles clacking away while his old mare rewarded herself with a drink.

“Have the French arrived, Abel?”

“What are the chances of us getting a regiment or two to replace our Yankee heroes?”

“Come, Abel, tell us the news, or we will drown you and your nag in that trough.”

“What day of the month is it?” Abel asked.

“The thirteenth of May.”

“Nine days ago, the honorable Congress announced its ratification of the treaty of alliance with France.”

With a cheer we trooped into Liberty Tavern to celebrate. Jonathan Gifford stood the house to a round of French brandy. We toasted King Louis XVI and Dr. Franklin, who negotiated the treaty for us. Everyone confidently predicted that the war would be over by September.

Captain Gifford seemed to agree with us. “I would not be commander in chief of the British army for all the money in the Bank of England,” he said, running his finger across his maps. “They have done exactly what I always thought they would do to conquer a country as big as America. Spread themselves thin. They have garrisons in Rhode Island, New York-, and Philadelphia. Even if the French send no troops, but only a strong fleet, we can gobble them up one by one.”

Sir William Howe had resigned as commander in chief of the British army. His successor, Lieutenant General Henry Clinton, was also studying maps. He decided to abandon Philadelphia and concentrate his army at New York. Fearful of an attack by a French fleet, he chose to travel by land. For us in New Jersey, especially those who lived south of the Raritan, this meant the return of war in all its mindless fury. They came straight at us, thirteen thousand retreating redcoats and Germans in the ugliest possible frame of mind.

Washington and the main American army pursued them. Dispatch riders thundered into Liberty Tavern’s yard with orders to call out every militiaman on the rolls. We were to swarm on their front and flanks like our native mosquitoes, to slow their march and let Washington bring them to battle. When General Slocum tried to execute the order, he found himself in a very embarrassing situation. Not a militiaman who had slaved in his saltworks, nor any of their friends or relatives, would turn out. Too many others remembered what had happened when he persuaded them to attack the British on their last retreat from New Jersey.

“Where’s Washington and his regulars? Show them to me and I might turn out,” was the cry.

“Tell Slocum to put some of his salt on the lobsters’ tails,” was another frequent comment.

Others invoked the law Slocum had wangled from the legislature, barring Monmouth militia from serving outside the county. They declined to turn out until the British army was inside our borders. If the British took an alternate route, let the militiamen in other counties do the fighting and good luck to them.

Slocum rode hastily to New Brunswick, where we were ordered to collect, leaving Kemble and others, to argue with our recalcitrant stalwarts. We eventually mustered about a hundred - a. heavy percentage of them youngsters like myself, who had just turned sixteen or seventeen and were coming out for the first time. I had expected a fearful argument with my father, but he surprised me. He let me go without a word of reproof, and silenced my mother when she attempted to lecture me into inactivity. My best friend, Billy Talbot, had a much more difficult time with his family. He had to steal one of his father’s muskets and with Kemble’s help hide out in Liberty Tavern’s barn.

There were about twenty of us new militiamen from Liberty Tavern’s neighborhood. Ever since the British departed, we had drilled with guns loaned to us by Kemble from the tavern’s armory. He was our leader, awesome in his relentless devotion to the Cause, a man who had fought and almost died at Trenton and Princeton, battles that meant more to us than Thermopylae or Pharsalia. In the past few months he had taught us to despise General Slocum. We did not know it as we marched to New Brunswick, but the stage had been set for tragedy.

At New Brunswick we found nothing but heat, dirt, and confusion. The quartermasters complained that people in Middlesex County would not take their paper money. We lived for two days on food better suited for pigs. Meanwhile, rumors swept our little army of one thousand men, most from north Jersey. The British were coming our way and we would have to stop them on the banks of the Raritan. The British were not coming our way, they were marching north, toward Hackensack. They were plodding through the pines of southern Monmouth.

On the morning of the third day, it was clear that the British were not coming near us. They were heading for the coast by they shortest route, miles to the south. But General Slocum gave no order to march. We sat there in the heat, eating our rotten food, growing more and more disgusted. Kemble went to Slocum’s headquarters and demanded to know why he was doing nothing.

“Every report says the enemy are slipping past us,” he said.

“We have gotten no orders,” Slocum said.

“Since when does Washington give orders to militia? He expects us to be there when we are needed. I think you are a damn coward. You remember what the regulars did to you last year and are afraid to go near them.”

“I will go right through them, sword in hand,” roared Slocum, “if I get an order. Until I get one we will stay here.”

“You will. There are others who think differently.”

“Damn you. I will have you court-martialed and shot,” Slocum shouted.

Kemble ignored him. He strode back to our camp and made a furious speech, denouncing Slocum and asking our regiment to follow him south. Only our band of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds stepped forward, eager to march. No one else had much appetite for tangling with the British army, without a guarantee of support from Washington’s regulars. Kemble called them cowards and marched us south. Only then did he realize that the heat was ferocious, and we had no food in our knapsacks. He decided to stop overnight at Liberty Tavern, where he could get provisions, and continue our march in the cool of the early morning.

Jonathan Gifford regarded our detachment with unconcealed dismay. It was obvious that Kemble had no idea what he was attacking. He did not understand that an army on the march through enemy country is like a huge serpent out of a nightmare, a beast with a thousand deadly claws, and a murderous sting in its tail.

“Let the regulars do the fighting, Kemble,” he said. “Washington is supposed to have thirteen thousand men.”

“Militia trapped Burgoyne at Saratoga,” Kemble said. “We can do the same thing to Clinton. We can end the war, end it here in New Jersey. I don’t think you can stand the thought of your beloved regulars being beaten by militia, Father.”

“From what I hear, it was Daniel Morgan and his riflemen - three-year veterans - who stopped Burgoyne,” Jonathan Gifford said. “If you must go, Kemble, for God’s sake stay away from the British army until you find Washington. He’ll have officers detached to work with militia. They’ll know what they’re doing.”

Again, inadvertent words cut deep. Kemble’s mouth grew sullen at the (to him) implied insult. “Yes, Captain,” he said ironically. “Depend on it, we will obey your orders.”

The next morning we marched south, boisterous boys on a glorious adventure. The weather was still hot but we called it tolerable for born New Jerseyans. Some of us filled our canteens with rum, courtesy of Barney McGovern. The rum passed through the ranks, and soon we were all acting more like skylarkers on a picnic than soldiers marching to battle. We blazed away at rabbits and pigeons to supplement our rations and roared out songs that mocked British presumptions.

“I’ll sing you a song, as a body may say,
‘Tis of the King’s regulars, who ne’er ran away
Oh, the old soldiers of the King
And the King’s Own regulars.”

I marched beside Billy Talbot, tall and fair-skinned with hair so blond we called him Whitey. His hair streamed down to his shoulders. Mine was almost as long. Hair was one of several ways we defied our neutralist parents. We scorned the use of a wig, or even of a little powder, knowing this galled our fathers. Kemble encouraged this hirsute defiance - and all other forms of rebellion. In recent months he had spent most of his time with boys our age. It was to us more than to anyone else that he preached his conviction that the Revolution would launch a new era. If Americans succeeded in defeating the aristocrats of England and Germany here, poor and disenfranchised Germans and English at home would rise against their masters. America would be the leader of this age of republican virtue. She alone was qualified because she was relatively untainted by old Europe’s corruption. When the war ended, we would achieve a state of social perfection unparalleled in human history. Slavery, that blot on America’s national honor, would be abolished. Demagogues like Daniel Slocum would be chastised or banished. There would be a limit to the amount of wealth a man might possess before he was forced to share it with his less fortunate brothers.

This last idea brought growls of disagreement from us as we sat in the woods eating our dinner. Kemble agreed that such an idea sounded ridiculous. But that only proved how important it was for us to free ourselves from European habits of thinking and feeling. The older generation was hopeless. Men like our fathers were trapped in the past - even when they pretended to support the Revolution. This was why it was necessary to keep our feelings toward them under the harsh rein of revolutionary necessity. “You cannot love what you don’t admire,” Kemble said. We accepted the dictum with the cold ecstasy of the mind, never for a moment considering the violence it must do to the heart. We were very young. In some ways Kemble was the youngest of us all.

Our talk turned to our military mission. Kemble gave us a lecture on courage. That was all we needed to show these mercenaries that free men were determined to protect their home soil. Nothing could be more important than this battle, Kemble repeated. Anyone who died here would be remembered as a hero for as long as America endured. We did not take this talk of dying very seriously. At sixteen we were convinced of our immortality and invulnerability.

We were not invulnerable to the heat. By four p.m. we were exhausted and Kemble let us retreat from the open road to the shade of a grove of maple trees, where we camped for the night. Sundown brought no relief. We sweltered through the hours of darkness. Not a breath of cool air stirred.

The morning was more of the same. Most of us drained the last rum from our canteens and the water drinkers - there were a few - finished their supply with our hasty breakfast.

Kemble assured us that we would find fresh water from farms along the road. But we got alarming news on this score from the first farm we tried. The farmer was a Quaker, a small spare man who was doing his best to keep his temper as befitted his creed. He had no water. Some horsemen arrived last night with saddlebags full of horse dung, rotten entrails of pigs and chickens and flung this garbage in his well. They were doing the same thing to wells for miles around.

“It is to prevent the British from getting water,” said the Quaker. “But thy friends do not seem to realize that thee and I and other Americans also need water.”

We marched on, our tongues thick with thirst. We were soon in pine country, miles upon miles of hot silent woods, the beginning of the great stretch of pine barrens that runs south through the heart of New Jersey almost to Cape May. The road beneath our feet was no longer the firm dusty earth of our native district, but soft shifting sand that wearied the legs with every step. The heat was intense. Local historians claim thermometers soared past a hundred that day. We had begun marching at dawn. About eight o’clock we heard hoofbeats on the road and scattered into the pines. The riders turned out to be Americans. They wore the blue and white uniforms of the Philadelphia Light Horse. As we approached them, we quickly learned they were part of the well poisoning squad. They stank of horse dung and rotten guts. We asked them where the British army was.

“Go down this road about a mile and mount the rise to the west. You will see it clear: enough,” one of them, said.

We did as they told us, cutting through the, woods to reach the long pine-crowned hill that rose against the sky to the west. From its crest the pines dwindled into scrub and a kind of sandy plain full of coarse grass and bushes opened to our view. On a road about a half mile away was the British army, creeping along like that great beast to which I have already compared it. Its size was awesome. We could see neither the head nor the tail of the beast, only the groaning creaking center, with its thousands of wagons and squads of blue-coated Hessians trudging at intervals beside them and faster-moving squads of red-coated cavalry outpacing them.

Where was the American army? We were baffled by our lack of information. Throughout the spring we had heard that Washington’s army was growing by spectacular leaps. We had envisioned a host surrounding the harried enemy with a gauntlet of fire. Nothing was troubling those British or Germans below us on the road but the heat - which was also tormenting us. We did not understand that this was only half the British army guarding their immense supply train. The other half was preparing to attack Washington.

Kemble was studying his map. “That is the road to Middletown,” he said. “They are heading for the coast - ”

A shot rang out.

“Who fired that? Who fired without orders?” Kemble cried. Lewis Simmons, one of the more brainless members of our little band, came sidling through the trees, grinning through his crooked teeth. “I just wanted to make them jump,” he said.

“A waste of ammunition,” Kemble said. “You can’t hit anything with a musket at a half mile.”

“I just wanted to make them jump,” Lewis Simmons said, pouting now.

“They are jumping all tight. Look.”

A squad of men in short green coats was moving up the hill toward us, their guns leveled.

“Jägers,” said Kemble. “Let us give them a taste of American marksmanship.”

None of us, Kemble included, knew that the Jägers, which was the German word for “huntsmen,” had become the best skirmishers in the British army. They were equipped with short-barreled rifles, much more accurate than our crude muskets.

We fired a volley at the Germans from the edge of the woods and did not hit a man. This did nothing for our self-confidence and a great deal for theirs. They raced along the face of the hill and into the trees about a hundred yards above us. They came toward us like so many ghosts in the hot dim stillness. We hastily retreated and formed an irregular line - poor tactics for fighting in the woods.

For the first time, Kemble realized he should have paid more attention to Jonathan Gifford’s military advice. As a revolutionary leader, Kemble was superb. But as a soldier, he scorned to learn even the rudiments of tactics. Enthusiasm, bravery, these were more important, he thought. He was wrong. Both were important. I don’t condemn him for it. It was a belief shared by many other Americans at the time. We paid dearly for our ignorance that day in the woods.

The Germans never made a sound as they came toward us, except for their commander, who gave orders with a series of sharp calls on a whistle. We imitated Kemble’s example and shouted defiance to them. “Come on, you German buggers. Come on and taste some American lead. Come on, you goddamn sauerkraut eaters.”

All this while we blasted away at them - or better, at their shadows. One of their first return shots came within an inch of my head. Then Lewis Simmons, at the end of our ragged line, fell, screaming, “Oh, Jesus, my guts, my guts.” Tom Nelson, the man - or boy - nearest Simmons, ran to help him and another Jäger rifle crashed. Nelson gave a brief animal cry and fell on top of Simmons, blood gushing from his head. More rifles crashed and Joe Carter at the opposite end of our line dropped his gun and stumbled away, clutching a shattered shoulder. Calvin Morse howled with fear and pain as a bullet ripped into his thigh. “They’re behind us,” he cried.

The Jägers were using a standard tactic, working around our flanks. In a panic, the rest of us loaded and fired with ever more frantic haste, guaranteeing our inaccuracy.

I heard a groan from :my right. I turned and saw Billy Talbot, lying on his side clutching his leg. Blood seeped through his homespun trousers. As he knelt to fire, a ball had smashed his knee.

Another series of sharp whistles from the German commander. The Jägers slipped away through the trees. Three or four of us leaped up to pursue them, shouting victory slogans. The leader, George Stout, did not get ten feet before he went down with a bullet in his chest. Kemble called the others back before they met the same fate.

We counted our losses. Nelson was dead. Stout and Simmons were too badly wounded to walk. The other wounded could limp or stagger.

“We must get these men to a hospital,” Kemble said.

We rigged litters from our blanket rolls to carry Stout and Simmons. They were both heavy lads and by now it was well over a hundred degrees in those pine-scented woods. My friend Billy Talbot hobbled along with me, clinging to my shoulder. Much chastened, we resumed our march. Within ten minutes we were almost frantic with thirst. The wounded were the worst sufferers. Perhaps nature is attempting to replace some of the precious fluid that has oozed out through the wound, perhaps it is simply a wish for some small physical consolation. But their pleas made us painfully aware of our own thirst.

Around ten o’clock we heard the boom of cannon and the crash of musketry some distance from us. Only later did we discover that these were the opening guns of the battle of Monmouth Court House. We were approaching the place from the rear of the British army - a fact which explained why we had thus far seen only a few rambling Americans. It was rugged country, the woods broken by deep ravines and sandy washes. Not by accident was it often called “the desert” by New Jerseyans. Water was as scarce as human beings in this part of the state.

We were by no means the only, group of wandering militia that day. There seems to have been no attempt by anyone - neither a high-ranking officer of the state militia nor a staff officer from the Continental army - to coordinate our amateur efforts. The British were well aware that militiamen were roaming on their flanks and rear. They had two. regiments of dragoons - some six hundred horsemen - to guard them from harassment while they assaulted the main American army. Ignorant of all this, we emerged from our tongue of woods to find ourselves on a kind of bluff above a swampy ravine. A rivulet trickled in its center. The sight of water sent us all berserk. Down the bank we tumbled to plunge our faces in the little stream. Alas, it was brackish, like so much water in that sandy country. But we drank it anyway and gave it to our wounded.

We were just finishing this liquid repast when an ominous sound reached our ears: the jingling of numerous bridles. We leaped to our feet. A company of British dragoons was at the head of the ravine.

“Up the bank into the woods,” Kemble said, pointing to the other side of the ravine, which was steep enough but not a sandy precipice like the one we had just descended. We ran for it.

That is, some of us ran. I had Billy Talbot clinging to my shoulder. Eight others were carrying the two litters with the badly wounded Stout and Simmons.

“Charge,” cried the officer at the head of the dragoons in a high piping voice. He was a boy not much older than we were.

The British were at least a quarter of a mile away when they began. But running in the sand was slow work and our wounded charges suddenly became mortal burdens. On came the dragoons, roaring with battle fury, raising those fearsome sabers.

“For God’s sake, run,” I gasped to Billy Talbot.

“I can’t – ” He was sobbing with fear and pain.

The less burdened were already scrambling up the bank toward the sheltering trees. Kemble turned back to urge us. “Run,” he shouted, “run!”

Then came that terrible moment when we saw we could not do it. The dragoons loomed larger and larger above the wild-eyed heads of their huge horses. Their sabers seemed to be touching the blazing blue sky. My mind dissolved. With a whine of terror I abandoned Billy Talbot and scrambled for the woods. The litter bearers did the same thing.

“Shoot, shoot,” I heard Kemble shouting to those in the woods. He was on his knee aiming his musket. As I reached the pines I turned my head and saw Billy, his arm upraised, hobbling on his musket, at the very moment when the officer in the lead brought his saber down on his head. Bright red blood drenched Billy’s white hair. He fell without a sound.

Others were screaming. I had had a lead on the litter bearers. They were trapped by the rest of the dragoons. Some of them ducked the first saber strokes and begged for mercy. But there was no mercy in those British hearts that morning. Their friends were fighting and dying in the murderous heat only a mile away. They regarded us as skulking cowards out to stab them in their backs. The dragoons even trampled and hacked the writhing bodies of the wounded on their litters.

I was too paralyzed to fire my gun. Part was horror at the carnage, but more, oh, much more, was horror at myself for having abandoned my friend. How many midnight hours over the years have I paid in sweat and tears for that moment of cowardice.

Hitting a target ten or twenty feet below you with a musket is almost impossible. Most of our bullets whistled over the dragoons’ heads. But the sound alarmed them to their danger and their bugler quickly sounded retreat. They galloped out of range, leaving behind them a nightmare scene.

Eleven bodies lay in the sand oozing blood. Behind me I could hear some of our survivors vomiting. Tears were streaming down Kemble’s face. Ignoring the danger of the dragoons returning, he threw aside his gun and stumbled down the bank toward the victims. One by one he turned them over. They were all dead, their throats slashed, their skulls smashed by those terrible sabers.

Mastering my fear at last, I followed him down the hill and knelt beside my friend. “I’m sorry, Billy, I’m sorry,” I sobbed.

His sightless eyes said nothing, neither words of forgiveness nor accusation.

Kemble was speaking to me. “Now you’ll have something to fight for.” He turned and shouted to the survivors, who were emerging from the pines to stare down at the bodies of their friends. “We all have something to fight for. We will revenge these men, I swear it.”

There was no response. We had had enough war for one day. Some had, had enough for the rest of their lives. Kemble saw the sullen accusation in their downcast eyes and drooping mouths. He had led them. The blood of these boys was on his head and hands. I saw the truth shiver his soul like a saber stroke.

“But we can - we can do no more today,” he said. “We have suffered enough. I will stay here - with them.”

No one argued with him. There were no heroes left in our warrior band. Kemble told me to find Black Sam and guide him back with a wagon for the bodies. In the distance, the thunder of Monmouth’s guns continued. We turned our backs on the sound and trudged homeward through the heat. Not even darkness seemed to cool the burning air. It was eleven o’clock when we reached Liberty Tavern. Jonathan Gifford had out his military maps and was in the midst of discussing the possibility of trapping the British army. Everyone leaped up at the sight of us, hoping we brought news from the battlefield. The story we blurted out changed their anticipation to anguish and dismay. “Twelve dead?” was the cry. Almost every man in the room was related to one of the boys. Saddest of all was Patrick Simmons, the father of Lewis. He groaned in agony as we mumbled his son’s name among our little list of the dead.

“And Kemble?” Jonathan Gifford asked, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion.

“He is with them,” I said. “He hoped you would send Sam with a wagon.”

“I will go myself,” Jonathan Gifford said.

“If I may say so, Captain, ‘twould be better to wait till mornin’,” said Barney McGovern. “There’s a good chance of getting killed wandcrin’ across a battlefield in the night.”

“I will take the chance,” Jonathan Gifford said.

He knew, with a father’s instinct, what none of the rest of us understood at the time - what was happening to Kemble, what he would have to face when he came home. He could have stayed safely inside his tavern and talked distantly of his murderous blundering stepson. But for Jonathan Gifford love meant standing together, sharing pain, bearing blows when necessary.

“Come on, Jemmy,” be said to me. “You can sleep in the wagon.”

He filled the wagon with hay while Sam hitched the horses. Barney McGovern strode out of the darkness and said he would feel better if he came along. He had two pistols at his waist and a musket in his hand.

Jonathan Gifford shook his head. “It will be safer if just the two of us go - without a. gun.”

Barney thought this was madness and said so.

“One or two guns won’t do us any good if we run into dragoons in an ugly mood. It’s better not to give them an excuse to butcher

He mounted the wagon and told me to lie down in the hay. On the road, he gave me a long swig of rum from his canteen. It was all I needed. I Was numb with exhaustion and shock. But my sleep was troubled. I lived again and again and again that moment in the ravine when I abandoned Billy Talbot. I saw his wide-eyed pleading face.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry. Please, Billy, I’m sorry.” Jonathan Gifford’s big hand shook me awake. It was almost dawn. We were in the pines.

“You will have to show me the rest of the way, Jemmy,” he said. “But tell me what happened first.”

I poured out my disgrace to this strong, serious man. I literally wept with shame on his shoulder - I who had never shown an iota of emotion with my own father.

“Jemmy,” he said, “every soldier runs away at least once.”

“And leaves his friend behind?” I sobbed.

“It wasn’t you that left him behind. Your heart was still with him. It was your legs that wouldn’t stay. It’s not easy to control your body in a battle. Do you know what I did at the Monongahela?”

I shook my head.

“That was my first battle. When those Indians came at us from all sides, I wet my pants. I was only nineteen. If I’d been a private, I wouldn’t have stopped running till I reached Philadelphia. An officer had to be an example to his men. But the fear had to come out some way.”

He placed his big hand on my shoulder. “I never told that to a living soul.”

We both knew it was a secret I would never reveal while either of us lived. I tell it here only because I know it will not be read until I am long gone to dust. .

“You won’t run the next time, Jemmy,” Jonathan Gifford said. “Now let’s find Kemble.”

We reached the ravine about nine o’clock. The sun was already scorching the sandy earth, bounding off the walls and the pine trees at their crests, creating, an inferno. Kemble hunched there, eyes bloodshot, two, days’ stubble of beard on his lean haunted face. For almost twenty-four hours he had maintained this vigil like some primitive saint of slaughter.

When be saw Jonathan Gifford at the reins of the wagon, he sprang up, trembling from head to foot. I told you to bring Sam,” he shouted at me.

“I thought it was better if I came,” Jonathan Gifford said.

“Why? To examine the battlefield? See what I did wrong? Give me more of your goddamned advice?”

“No,” Jonathan Gifford said. “I thought - I thought it was my place - to come. The last thing I thought - was to criticize - Jemmy here told me what happened.. It was - one of those accidents.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Kemble. “Don’t lie to yourself or to me. You told me not to come. You predicted - this,”

What could Jonathan Gifford say? Kemble was about to hear far worse things. He had come to support him in his hour of anguish, to shield him if possible. Now he saw it was not possible.

“I thought it was better if I came. I thought I could deal with British patrols better than Sam. He might wind up on a slave ship to the West Indies. Where are they?”

Kemble pointed up the bank into the pine trees. “I was afraid some Germans might - strip them. I brought Nelson down from the other piece of woods . . .”

His voice trailed away and torment regained its grip on his face. “It was a long night. I kept remembering what Mother used to say about me, Born on Whitsunday. Born to kill or be killed.”

“That’s damn nonsense, Kemble,” Jonathan Gifford said.

“Is it? I used to think so.” He gazed at the darkness beneath the pine trees for a moment. “You’ll have to get them, I - I can’t.”

He walked away from us down the ravine. Jonathan Gifford gestured to me. We labored up the bank and found them just inside the woods on a carpet of dead pine needles. They were not a pretty sight. Without Jonathan Gifford, I would have vomited or run away. The heat had swollen the bodies and turned the faces black. Kemble had arranged them in a row. Now I can picture the awful task he performed to protect them from further insult, dragging them up the bank, laying them there in the scented woods, struggling for a mile through the other woods from the place’ where we skirmished with the Jägers, Nelson’s body on his back. I was too overwhelmed by sight and smell to think about Kemble then. Jonathan Gifford saw me start to tremble. He seized my arm in a grip that almost made me cry out

“They are not your friends, Jemmy, not any more,” he said. “Death is a thief. A thorough thief.”

Billy Talbot was the first body. With the help of those words, I was able to pick him up by the legs while Jonathan Gifford lifted him beneath his shoulders. One by one we carried them down the bank, laid them in the straw in the back of the wagon, and covered them with canvas.

On the road home we encountered a dozen other Jersey wagons returning from Monmouth with loads as melancholy as our own. In a few the wounded lay with the dead, groaning in agony. We had not been the only militia to collide with British cavalry or light infantry patrols.

No one spoke until we were within a mile or two of Liberty Tavern. Then Jonathan Gifford placed his hand on Kemble’s shoulder. “The parents will take it hard, Kemble. You must be ready for some cruel words.”

“I know,” said Kemble.

But he did not know. None of us could have known the compound of fury and grief we encountered in the yard of Liberty Tavern. Mothers as well as fathers were waiting. They wept and groaned and shrieked as we lifted the bodies out of the wagon and laid them on the stone porch. Mothers kissed and fondled those black putrefying faces. Then one woman - I think it was Lewis Simmons’ mother, turned to point at Kemble and screamed, “There he stands. There’s the murderer of our babes.”

“Aye, aye,” cried another woman.

“I wish we had a rope to hang the bugger,” roared George Stout’s father, who looked his name.

Kemble said nothing. He faced them, a suffering rejected savior.

“That’s not true,” Jonathan Gifford said in his strongest deepest voice. “I went down to see for myself what happened. It was bad luck and nothing else. The cavalry trapped them in a ravine. It could have happened to me or any man here.”

“Oh yes, you’ll stand by him, won’t you, Jonathan Gifford,” cried Mrs. Simmons, her narrow face twisted with grief. “Your creature. You sent him on this evil journey like as not, and you’re gloating now in your damn British heart, as he may well be for all his talk of independence. It’s a deep game you’re playing, deep in blood.”

Without Jonathan Gifford’s impassive, rock-like presence, I hate to think what kind of violence might have been sparked by this pathetic woman’s hysterical slander. He simply stood there beside Kemble, letting her rant, making no attempt to answer the vicious things she was saying against him. In the same calm, sympathetic voice, he reiterated his defense of his son.

“You are not the only ones who’ve suffered,” he added. “We saw a dozen other wagons with dead and wounded on the road coming back.”

“Aye,” said Barney McGovern, who had been standing beside Captain Gifford as a silent supporter. “And the Continentals have at least a hundred men dead and three times that many wounded. Jasper Clark’s two lads are among the dead. We just got word from their colonel.”

How odd it is, that people can bear a calamity better if they know its victims are numerous. The wrath of the mourners subsided and they began gathering up their dead to depart. Jonathan Gifford urged Kemble to go down to the house. He shook his head. He was determined to drink the cup to its dregs.

Richard Talbot and his oldest son arrived in a wagon to take Billy home. Mr. Talbot burst into tears when he saw Billy. Jonathan Gifford and Kemble had to endure a tongue-lashing from his neutralist point of view. “Now you see where all this brave talk about independence and war leads - Will independence give me back my son? I say damn you and your Congress and your committees. We were a peaceful people until you started your yapping.”

Tenderly the Talbots placed Billy’s body in their wagon and they too departed. They were the last. Kemble and his father stood alone in the tavern yard. “Come in and have a drink, Kemble,” Jonathan Gifford said.

He started to put his, arm around his shoulders. Kemble twisted away from him. “Haven’t I told you,” he said, “haven’t I told you I don’t want your goddamn consolation?”