Scar (9 page)

“It wasn't them, Josh. He died of illness over a year ago. I should have written. I'm sorry,” I tell him.

“No problem, old friend,” he says, steering me by the shoulders to a shady spot alongside the road. We sit on the grass. He opens up his jacket to pull out a handkerchief and slowly wipes his face. He is taking in my awful news as he looks off into the crowd. I follow his gaze.

“Who is the man in the boots talking with the rough-looking fellow?” I ask, attempting to direct our thoughts away from my father.

“You mean Dr. Tusten? He's from Goshen, New York, about twenty miles southeast of here. He's in charge of this underdressed army today.”

I look around at us all milling about in the hot sun. Every one of us looks like he's just gotten in from plowing.

“They say that he's a magician when it comes to healing people,” Josh says. “I met a boy who told me that Dr. Tusten stuck him with a needle full of pox to keep him from dying of the sickness. Doesn't make sense to me, but I'm just a hat maker.” He looks over at me. “I'm real sorry about your father, Noah.”

I can't return his gaze. “Thank you.”

Josh and my father were a lot alike. They shared that lightness of spirit I wish I had. They both moved through life with ease. Life doesn't allow me to pass so easily. Most days, it seems, I have to fight my way through it.

We're quiet. Josh's eyes stay on me. I keep mine pinned on the dusty road before us. Men are exchanging information about the raid or discussing what will come next. A few women stand near, not speaking, babies on their hips and
worried looks on their faces. Children dart about between them, not realizing the seriousness of the situation. There is one particular fellow sitting atop a fine-looking horse and causing a small commotion as he tries to dismount in the center of a group of men. He has the largest nostrils I've ever seen, larger than the nostrils of the horse he rides.

“Who is that?” I ask.

“That's Major Meeker from Sussex County in New Jersey,” Josh says. “He is commander of the Sussex troops that came in a few moments ago.” Josh rolls back onto the grass, closing his eyes. He places his arms behind his head.

“Meeker? The buyer of the hat, Meeker?” I ask.

Josh laughs out loud, keeping his eyes closed. “What a memory you have, Noah,” he says. “Yes, Meeker of the hat.” He fishes out his handkerchief again and wipes his face. The heat is already oppressive.

“Tell me about yesterday, Noah.”

I sigh and stretch out next to him. “They came in around dinner time. My mother, Mary, and I ran to the ditch I dug after the raid on Peenpack.” My face colors with shame as I repeat my sin of hiding in the ditch, and I'm glad for Josh's closed eyes. “They came from the north—at least, I think they did. I couldn't tell how many there were, or how many Indians and how many Tories, since they were all dressed as Indians with their faces covered in war paint. They burned down our house and barn, and then took off south. From what I can tell so far, they burned about four or five houses and about the same number of barns, and I heard the church
is gone, as well as two of our forts and the sawmill up the road. They wounded one man—shot him right off his horse—killed four others, and kidnapped two young boys. Mr. Tyler says they headed north, directly up the Delaware River. And with all the animals and supplies they stole from us, he thinks they can't be moving too fast. He plans on catching them by marching us up the Cushetunk path, which also leads north, but inland from the river.”

“Us?” questions Josh, opening his eyes halfway and looking at me without turning his head. “I didn't think your mum would allow that.”

Before Josh can see the pain he causes me with those words, Mr. Tyler appears above us. “Boy, I need you to come with me.”

“I'll be right back,” I say, without looking over at Josh. I'm happy to leave him in this manner.

Mr. Tyler leads me toward the doctor. As we approach, he looks up, and I hide my limp while at the same time hating myself for doing it. Never once do the doctor's eyes look down.

He reaches out and shakes my hand. “I'm right heartily glad to meet you, son. My name is Dr. Benjamin Tusten.” His hand is strong but soft; he doesn't pull a living from the soil.

“How do you do, sir?” I say. “I am Noah Daniels.” And I look to Mr. Tyler, wondering why he asked me to come meet this doctor.

“Boy,” Mr. Tyler begins, and I can see he's in his usual serious mood, his eyes jumping from me, to the doctor, to
the crowd in the road, and then back to me again. “You're to stay with this man for the duration of the campaign. He's a Lieutenant Colonel and the commanding officer. And since you aren't part of the formal militia and you aren't a guide, where he goes, you go. That is, if you're still coming with us.” And with that said, he walks away.

“Yes,” I call after him, trying not to shout, “I'm still coming.”

Dr. Tusten stands quietly. The men, the horses, and the dust seem not to touch him. Calmly, he watches me. If I'm supposed to say something, I don't know what it is.

“I hope that your family and home are well after yesterday's attack,” he says.

“My home was burned, but my family is well,” I answer.

He nods slowly, still watching me. He is taking me in; he is taking in my foot. I can feel it. I want to tell him that I'm able. That I can join this fight. And that I'll fight for the same reason as any other man here: freedom from England.

“Noah, it's a dangerous thing that we propose to do,” he says, reading my thoughts. “This man, Joseph Brant, is not to be taken lightly. He's a serious opponent. I will stand before these other men in a few moments and tell them the same thing I'm telling you. General Washington should have the chance to hear about the raid, and we should wait for reinforcements before we go running up the river.” He gestures to the scene before us, at the dust-choked road and the farming men hanging about it. “There aren't many of
us, son, and there are even fewer of us with experience to match Mr. Brant's. You could stay behind. You're … young,” he finishes.

I wince at his last word, understanding its true meaning.

In an instant, I see this great mass of men moving upriver without me. And I see myself, trudging back to the Littles' farm and proceeding with the cutting of hay and the chasing of loose cows.

“Dr. Tusten,” I say, trying to find the steady voice that Eliza Little told me I possessed. “If I were to ask these men sweating in the hot sun right now, each of them would own a good reason to stay behind, just as you believe I do.” I wave over at Mr. Jacobson. “That man has six children to feed. And the Reverend has a portion of his flock to put to rest after yesterday. And Jon Haskell's wife is sick with fever.” There is no shortage of pain and suffering in the lives of poor farmers, and I could have gone on, but instead, I turn back to him. “And you, sir, you're standing here before me, even though I'm sure that you must have a wife and children to think about. I will follow this militia, Dr. Tusten, whether you agree with my decision or not, sir.”

And though I desperately want to turn my head away from him and calm myself, I stand as still as I can, trying to wear that look of determination my mother has worn on her face all my life.

The doctor doesn't speak right away. “Let's gather the men and talk,” he says, finally. “We need to discuss our next
move. You know what I think. Let's see what these good men here have to say.” He turns and walks off toward the front of the fort. And I follow.

Within a few moments we're all assembled around the palisade. Josh joins me, and there is no more talk between us about what my mother will or will not allow me to do.

Dr. Tusten raises his hand for silence and begins to speak.

“We have a decision to make,” he says with force, but not loudly. The men quiet. The women move off to the side of the crowd, huddling in their own little groups, and the children, sensing the change in the hush of the crowd, take their games up the road toward the blacksmith's. What is truly unbelievable is that at this very same time yesterday morning, I was busy worrying about how I would cut, gather, and dry two crops of hay this summer instead of our usual one, due to all the rain in June. And here I am today standing in the middle of a road I've walked down all my life, surrounded by a group of mostly strangers, listening to a man I just met discussing whether or not we will run upriver after the infamous Joseph Brant. It all seems unreal. Except for the sweat rolling down my back—that is real enough.

I squint through the sun at the doctor. “As you all must know,” he says, “Joseph Brant came through this settlement yesterday. We believe he is proceeding north along the Delaware River. Do we follow Brant directly, or do we wait for others to join us? I say wait.”

The groans are loud. The crowd that had been respectfully subdued is now alive. The men turn to each other in anger
and disbelief. This is not the speech they had assembled to hear—not the fiery beginning of revenge on Brant they had all ridden into the settlement expecting. The grumbling grows and I immediately feel a need to protect this doctor, to defend him. But he stands in place, allowing the men to continue their outburst, without even so much as a shift of his weight from foot to foot.

Eventually, he puts up his hand to quiet us. “Hear me out, and then I shall hear you out.”

We settle down, but there are a few angry voices scattered here and there among us that take their time, and the doctor waits patiently for them to stop. “None of us possess much in the way of supplies or ammunition. Look around at one another, and think of what you yourself carry.”

Not a single head in the crowd moves, but all of our eyes check out our nearest neighbors.

“Second, we know that our enemy is Joseph Brant, a formidable foe against any number of men, and we have reason to believe he is in command of a large number. We are not more than one hundred, my fellows. So I put it before you: Do we follow at this time, or do we wait for reinforcements?” He folds his hands in front of him as if he's just finished telling us something pleasant. And like that moment between hot wax striking your skin and the pain flaring, we stand without reaction.

But not Mr. Meeker—Major Meeker. He is up on his horse. “We came to fight, not to wait about for those who may or may not arrive.” His nostrils flare, and spit or sweat—
I cannot tell which—flies in all directions. “This settlement has been ravaged, burned, beaten, and robbed. Be it Joseph Brant or the Devil himself, let us go after him,” he shouts, as his angry eyes search the crowd for others who would kill the Devil. And those others exist, because they begin to howl and pound their firelocks at the blue summer sky.

Again, the doctor raises his hand and calls gently for silence. “Think, my friends. Waiting for ammunition, supplies, more help—it might not take as long as you believe, and it could mean a world of difference if we do engage the enemy.”

But the crowd is done listening to this small man standing on a patch of dried grass in front of a stake wall. He cannot compete with the wild-looking Meeker yelling from atop an excited horse.

“
If
we engage the enemy?” cries Major Meeker. “We
shall
engage him, my good doctor, and we shall
run him down
. He will not need to wait for our revenge; we will bring it straightaway,” he vows, shaking his fist toward the north. “Let the brave men follow me. The cowards may stay behind.”

And with those words, the roar of the men assaults my ears. This is what they have been waiting for. This was the spark needed to light the vast kindling assembled in their collective hearts. But why is it that when our hearts fill with emotion, our heads empty of good thought? I watch Dr. Tusten through the sweaty and excited crowd. He doesn't move. He seems not even to blink. But I see thoughts cross in front of his eyes, and I feel apprehension rise in my throat.

What does this modest doctor know that I don't? But maybe I know it, too.

I take a long look around at us all. Our numbers are few. And most carry a single sack that must include all the food, water, and ammunition in our possession. We wear coarsely made waistcoats over grass-stained shirts, with worn-out moccasins on our feet … or none at all. We resemble a gathering of farmers, not military men, which is exactly what we are. And more than a few of us are way beyond the appropriate age for a soldier.

I try to think back to the voices of the men I heard burning down my home. How many were there? And what kind of men follow a man like Joseph Brant?

       
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

     
DON'T LET GO

       
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779

My fingers ache from clutching the rough fabric of Scar's shirt, but I don't let go.

The beautiful
shhhhh
of the wind blows through the wheat
.

No. There is no wind.

Everything is still. Scar is still. Too still.

Shhhhh. Yes. Be still
.

I can't clear my senses. But I don't want to. I close my eyes and slide back into a dream. There is the rocky path. The dark hemlocks. The marching men. And Josh. Not the cold, crumpled Josh I tripped over in the smoky heat of battle—but the chatting, laughing Josh who walked upriver alongside me yesterday.

Was it just yesterday?

       
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

     
THE MARCH NORTH

       
WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 1779

The militia moves north.

After Mr. Meeker's triumphant speech in front of the fort, no one had ears for anything else Dr. Tusten had to say. I might have been the only one who heard his last supplication to the crowd—“I shall go as far as you will, but I shall not compel one of our men to go.” And now I feel as though I'm carrying those words on my back along with two of his knapsacks. He attempted to hand me his lightest. I chose his heaviest.