Scar (10 page)

We march past Martinus Decker's burned-out fort, and turn toward the Cushetunk path. Our neighbors line the road. They watch us pass with long, tight faces. No one waves, steps from the crowd, or calls out a name. I look for Mrs. Decker, and am glad when I don't see her.

Once we are clear of the settlement, a few farms dot the landscape, but the cabins are far off and there is no sign of the inhabitants. The doctor's warnings seem to echo in the stillness … small numbers, low supplies. But then we enter the shade of the woods. The air cools, the men begin to chat, and my head clears of worry.

We don't achieve a great distance before Colonel Hathorn of Warwick, New York, joins us from the southeast with about thirty more men. He takes command over the doctor.

The cheerful colonel improves my mood even further. He is easy with the men. And as we push our bodies through the steamy summer day, he keeps up a long stream of amiable talk. I labor to continue in his company so that I may listen.

There are about a hundred and twenty of us—militia men from Sussex, New Jersey, to the south of our settlement, and Goshen and Warwick, New York, to the east. Together we march north under the dark branches of the pine and hemlock. The Cushetunk path leaves the Delaware a mile or so out of the settlement and winds itself uphill into the forest, after which it turns and heads north again, parallel to the river. The plan is to stay on this path until we are aligned with Brant, and then march on a bit farther, where we will loop around toward the river and come down on our enemy from the north, a direction he won't be prepared for.

It's a rocky climb, treacherous for the horses, who need to be walked, but also for us, as we must pay close attention so as not to turn our ankles on the loose stone. The air is still and wet with heat, and our frocks and shirts are dark with sweat. The path itself is shaded, and without the thick, green branches to protect our heads from the sun, I don't believe any of us could keep on like this. I see how much my daily walks have conditioned me as I watch the other men struggle. We march on and on without rest, but I'm determined that
nothing will bring my spirits down: not the heat, not the pace, and most especially, not my foot.

Our guides, Mr. Tyler and Mr. Cuddeback, lead our troop. Dr. Tusten follows next. He doesn't speak to anyone and no one seeks his company, except for Colonel Hathorn now and then. Following the doctor is the colonel. After listening to the colonel tell tales of his life for many miles, I fall back to find Josh walking toward the middle of our line.

Josh is where the fun is. A man named Solomon is telling stories of his enlistments. It seems he has traveled everywhere, though he can't be much older than Josh. He's lived in the city of New York, repairing gun batteries, and in New Jersey, mining iron for making steel. I envy him his many journeys. They might not seem far to some, but for me, who has never even ventured down this path leading away from home, visiting the city of New York might as well be a trip across the sea to meet King George himself. One moment, Solomon has us laughing at a poor drunk soldier who can't find his tent on a dark night, and the next, he has us wondering if anyone will survive when a fire breaks out in a gun foundry. But then the conversation turns to women.

The path gives me an education, although not one my mother would approve of. A tall, heavyset man named Daniel Myers leads this line of talk, yet many heartily join in. I can feel Josh's eyes on me. He's wondering whether he should move me along. But you're either in or you're out—and Josh lets me stay in. The farther up the path we march, the more
fantastic the stories become. But this doesn't matter. It's all in fun, and the laughter is real. And the arm that Josh throws around my shoulder is very real.

More men join as the discussion rolls on into the afternoon. They have much to add that makes my face burn hotter than the midday sun. I soon leave, and head to the front of the line, chewing on a piece of ashcake with a goal to make it last.

When I catch up to Dr. Tusten, his smile is so friendly that it feels natural to walk beside him. We huff along next to each other for a while, listening to the other breathe. I can feel him wanting to ask how I'm doing. The truth is, the day's march is adding up. With every step, the question weighs heavier on my mind:
How much farther will I be able to go?

It's like the doctor hears it, and in response he begins to talk. “I'm a farmer's son, just as you are, Noah,” he says. “Raised only thirty miles from here.”

I glance over at him—taking in his pleated coat, his leather boots, his neck stock—and although I mean no disrespect, he quickly understands that I don't believe him, and laughs.

“It's true, son. I grew up on a farm along the banks of the Otter Kill.” He takes in a long, slow breath through his nose. “And I can still smell the mud of the swamps in August and taste the roasted corn … the boiled corn … the corn pudding … the corn porridge … the corn and beans.”

Now we both laugh. He
is
a farmer's son.

He describes his family's farm outside of Goshen, bordered by the shady Otter Kill, with its rolling hills and
mossy banks. “But my body was small and I was often sick as a child, so my father had me concentrate on my studies. And when I was twelve, he sent me away to apprentice a doctor.”

I'm too tired to hold back my bold question. “Are you unhappy with your father's choice?”

He's quiet for a moment, and I begin to stammer an apology, but he interrupts.

“No,” he says, slowly. “I'm not unhappy with it, Noah, and I'm sure that I do more good this way. But,” he sighs, “there are times when I wish I could belong in both worlds, farming and medicine.”

His honesty brings out my own. “Farming is all I know,” I tell him. “But for longer than I could handle a plow I've wanted to belong here … in this war.”

I quickly find out that the doctor enjoys speaking about the war much more than he does about corn pudding or doctoring. We hike past a forest of pines while he explains the failed British strategy to divide the middle colonies away from New England—it seems the British believed those of us in the middle colonies would be easy to defeat, since we're swarming with Tories—and then, with us out of the way, they'd be able to conquer our Patriot brothers in New England and the war would be over. But we were stronger than they thought, which the doctor's long tale of the battle of Saratoga proves. Most of his story I'd heard before, but today, marching alongside these men, panting alongside them, every word sounds new. The doctor may have been
apprehensive about chasing after Joseph Brant, but he is certain in his patriotism.

“The British fight with their pride, Noah,” the doctor says. “We fight with our hearts. And pride tires much faster than the heart. The heart is a miraculous muscle. It receives its power from an unknown source, and the more action you send its way, the stronger and harder it beats. King George will have to send over more than his pride to stamp out the heart of this war.”

Dr. Tusten glows with sweat from his passionate speech and our endless marching. I give him a moment to catch his breath and then ask, “So what happens next?”

He shocks me with a loud burst of laughter. “You are what happens next, Noah,” he laughs.

I grin. I'm happy to be walking with him … happy to listen to his talk … happy to be marching and fighting. I can almost hear my father joking with the men behind me. I fight the urge to turn … to look for his face. Because I know he isn't there.

Dr. Tusten grows quiet with his own thoughts, perhaps about his family or maybe about what is to come ahead on the path. I want him to keep talking but I can see he's done for now, so I leave him there to be alone, dropping back by easy measures to join Josh.

My head feels like I've drunk too much mulled cider and I can barely feel my legs. I let the other men overtake me by twos and threes. Someone I don't know claps me on the back as he passes. Another man, in the middle of a sentence,
turns to nod at me as he moves by. I catch tiny pieces of conversations … fall planting … musket care. The long snake of men keeps me moving forward as it winds its way past me. The darkness is deepening, yet I feel light and awake. I'm fighting for what my father wanted. I'm fighting for what I believe in. I'm fighting with my heart.

But our enemy crawls into my head and I can't get him out. What is Joseph Brant fighting with? Maybe he fights because he's bound by the Covenant Chain, the treaty between the six nations of the Iroquois and English that unites them like brothers. Maybe he fights because he considers himself English. I've heard he's actually sailed to England and met the king and queen.

I stumble along behind a man whose form I can barely make out in the dusk and think about Joseph Brant … about all the Indians. They once populated this land we're marching through, but not anymore. It has become my father's land. And Mr. Little's, who traveled all the way from Connecticut to claim it. Even mine, with my dreams of what I will do with my own farm one day. Maybe the king promised Brant that he'll stop the Colonists from snatching up the land … that if England wins the war, he'll fence us into New Jersey, Massachusetts, or Connecticut. I wonder if Joseph Brant believed him.

I slide in next to Josh. We walk, silent, except for the slapping of mosquitos from our necks. I force myself to match his stride while I push thoughts of Joseph Brant and Indians and land and everything else out of my head, and fix my
attention on the sound of feet crunching forest floor. It seems we've been marching since God created Adam.

I hear Major Meeker behind us. He's lingered near the back of the group all day. His loud wheezing seems to fall into rhythm with our footsteps. He's a big man and the heat and rapid pace must surely have affected him greatly. He urges the men: “Come on boys, we'll catch 'em yet, put yer heart in it.”

I smile. I like the pompous major with his gigantic nostrils and his expensive hat.

“Yes, boys, put your heart in it,” I say quietly as we march on into the night.

       
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

     
NOTHING

       
FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1779

I hear something. A rustling? A movement? I cough … causing white spots of pain to light up behind my closed eyes. My temples throb as my ears suck in every sound around me. But all I hear is my own raspy breath.

“It's only a dream,” I mumble, licking at my dry lips. Where is the water?

But wait … I hear it again …

The last leaf hangs low on the stalk. Is it ready?

“Father?”

I open my eyes.

“Scar?”

He doesn't answer.

I turn my head toward him and end up with a bunch of his thick, black hair in my mouth.

Again I hear it. A whisper.

I breathe in … and out … in … and out … trying to quiet the thudding of my heart.

The sky is brightening. I can no longer see the stars.

It's nothing. I close my eyes.

But then my eyes fly open. I have not heard a sound, but deep inside, I feel it.

He's coming.

       
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

     
A SHOT CRACKS THE SILENCE

       
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779

We marched all day and long into the night, camping finally after the moon had a good view of us. The miles added up to more than twenty, and my good mood disappeared into the sticky July night. My body is a tangle of aches this morning as I hobble into a clearing.

More pine, more rocks, more laurel … from the view around me, I could easily be within shouting distance of home. But the white faces of the tired men who file into the clearing after me transform it into an alien place. They sag against trees, collapse in patches of ferns, and drain their canteens, but no one makes a sound.

The day has dawned bright, not a cloud in the sky. But the heat hammers away at us, morning or night; there is no relief from it. My clothes itch and I would do just about anything to dive into the cool river right now. I wipe the sweat from my face with my sleeve. We're getting closer. There is no more laughter, no more claps on the back. Joseph Brant. His men. They're not far from where we're standing. Abram and Daniel, the two stolen boys, come into my mind. I attempt to
imagine their feelings this morning but then stop. There is no sense to thoughts like this.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doctor and the colonel gather with Major Meeker and a Mr. Wisner, who is a Lieutenant Colonel. I make my way over to the doctor's side, as I was given an order to stay close to him. The four men speak in low voices.

“Do we continue?” Dr. Tusten asks. He doesn't look at Colonel Hathorn, but squints out into the hemlock. It's as though he's trying to hide his thoughts so they don't interfere with the colonel's decision.

“Of course we do,” spits Major Meeker. The major has no trouble letting his wishes be known, and he elbows poor Lieutenant Colonel Wisner in the ribs to bring the fellow round. The lieutenant colonel rubs his ribs and agrees with the major.

Colonel Hathorn studies the ground at his feet.

Major Meeker begins to speak again, but the doctor puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “Let him think,” Dr. Tusten says.

I can see the major struggle to keep silent. Still, Colonel Hathorn does not look up or respond.

Maybe we won't catch up to Brant. Maybe it will all end in this clearing. How would I feel if this were true, and if our little army were to turn for home right now? I look behind me at the way we came, through the trees, south, toward my mother and Mary … toward Eliza Little.

Colonel Hathorn interrupts my thoughts.

“We have come for a fight and we shall show Joseph Brant and these Tories a fight,” he says quietly, still not meeting the company's eyes.