Читать книгу Rabble in Arms: A Chronicle of Arundel and the Burgoyne Invasion - Kenneth Roberts - Страница 18

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Sullivan’s troops had moved north to redeem what Sullivan called the shameful blunders that had hitherto been made by American troops in Canada. After they left, St. John’s became a sort of outdoor madhouse. Half-clothed and leaderless soldiers, remnants of the regiments that had fled from before Quebec a month ago, appeared from nowhere and wandered from farm to farm, begging for food. Frantic supply-officers squabbled day and night over a pitiful mixture of supplies, each officer declaring that he and he alone must have the food, since the men of his regiment were most in need of it. The place was a soup of rain and mosquitoes and mud and rumours of smallpox, enough to make any man wonder whether anything worse could happen.

What it was that happened to me, however, was the last thing I would have expected.

I had gone to Hersom, on the waterfront, to pick up the day’s news along with the meagre rations I was allowed to draw for Tom and myself. News had suddenly become more important to us than ever, not only because we felt we had to learn something that might offset the horrible tales we heard of the smallpox—tales almost as sickening as the disease itself—but because all the fine new regiments we had seen arrive had been sent down the St. Lawrence by General Sullivan to capture Three Rivers, so to prevent British troops from passing that important post.

We were hoping to have word, all of us, that General Arnold would be sent to lead them in place of those who had started to do so—a General Thompson, who had appeared from God knows where, and of whom nobody seemed to know anything except that he was an Irishman; and Colonel St. Clair, who had been in the British army many years ago. We were suspicious of Thompson and St. Clair. Our troops, we knew, were not inclined to have the greatest of faith in Irishmen or Englishmen—especially in Irishmen or Englishmen of whom they had never heard. That was why we hoped that Arnold would be put in command of the new regiments. Not only would men follow him anywhere, and against any odds; but he alone, of all the high officers left with this stricken army of ours, was familiar with the country and the people. He knew how to lead, and where to lead; and we suspected he was the only one that did know.

As I stood in front of Hersom’s warehouse, I was thrown all aback to see Nathaniel come striding along the river road as if he well knew where he was going, and was in a hurry to get there. He had on a white jacket with a fringe at the edge, and brown leather breeches with brown stockings pulled over them and made fast below the knee with bands of red wool. There was even a long queue, half hair and half rope, hanging down his back; so that I doubted my own eyes for a moment. Then I saw the cap was cocked jauntily on the side of his curly brown hair; and not only did his clothes have a neat look, which was always a peculiarity of Nathaniel’s, but his skin was five shades lighter than that of any smoke-dried Canadian Frenchman, so I knew it had to be Nathaniel.

When I ran out and took him by the elbow, he clapped his arm around me, as affectionate as ever; but on the instant he seemed to lose all of his hurry and purposefulness, and sauntered towards the warehouse with me as idly as though he had nothing on earth to do.

“I was wondering whether I’d see you,” he said; and as soon as he said it, I knew he had hoped he wouldn’t.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “You were sent down the St. Lawrence, weren’t you?”

He laughed. “Always the same old Peter! You’re for ever bound to treat me as if I was still twelve and you fifteen!”

“Look here,” I said. “The last thing I heard, you were sent to get information. Did you get it?”

“Of course I got it! There’s only eight hundred British troops at Three Rivers—men from Halifax regiments.”

While this news didn’t explain Nathaniel’s presence, it was welcome; for it meant the fine new regiments sent forward by Sullivan would drive eight hundred men down river as easily as driving a flock of yellow-legs.

“Have you told Arnold?” I asked.

“Not yet. Where is he?”

“Not yet!” I exclaimed. “You haven’t told him yet? What in God’s name are you thinking about?”

“Don’t be a fool, Peter! I can’t tell him till I see him, can I? He’s here in St. John’s, isn’t he?”

“He’s in Montreal, and you know it!”

Nathaniel wagged his head at me. “Don’t get so excited! I was told he’d be here; and even if he isn’t, it’s no farther to Montreal this way than by the St. Lawrence—that is, not much.”

He might easily, I knew, be stating the case correctly; for the St. Lawrence swings to the southward just above the mouth of the Richelieu River, and runs almost parallel with the Richelieu. Thus it is little shorter to travel direct from Three Rivers to Montreal than to travel by way of the Richelieu and St. John’s. I had heard, too, that Arnold was racing over the country like a madman, striving to gather enough supplies for his wretched remnant of a garrison in Montreal; so the rumour might indeed have got abroad that he was in this God-forsaken town.

“Now, look here,” I said. “You knew Arnold’s headquarters were in Montreal, and that’s where you should have taken your information!”

Nathaniel made a little contemptuous sound. “You can’t build this mole hill into a mountain, Peter! The information I’ve got isn’t worth much. Verrieul stayed down the river to hear more news; and we decided I’d better take back what we’d learned, just to show we were working.”

“Nathaniel,” I said, “I don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself. You’re supposed to obey orders, always. What would Arnold say if he found you hadn’t come direct to him?”

Nathaniel shrugged his shoulders.

I looked at him straight. “Where were you going just now when I stopped you?”

“Where?” he repeated, and he laughed. “Why, I was hunting for Arnold.”

“Headquarters in this town,” I told him, “are in the square stone house you passed two hundred yards back. That’s where they are when there are any. What made you think you’d find Arnold down this way, provided you found him at all?”

Nathaniel made no answer.

“How did it happen you were laying your course with such assurance? If you’d asked any of our men, you’d have learned that De Woedtke’s supposed to be in command here, and you’d have learned his headquarters aren’t down this far. You haven’t come here to see Arnold at all, Nathaniel!”

Nathaniel stared at me. His eyes were hard. “I don’t know what call you’ve got to interfere with me!”

There was no question in my mind. He had learned Marie De Sabrevois was in Iberville, across from St. John’s, and he had come here to see her.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t like to see my own brother shot for disobeying orders,” I said. “Turn yourself around and set out for Montreal.”

Nathaniel laughed. “Shot for disobeying orders! If everybody in this army that disobeyed orders was shot, there wouldn’t be any army! Anyway, I’m not disobeying orders. If we’d discovered anything new, maybe you might stretch a point and say I wasn’t exactly obeying orders; but the way things are, where’s the harm if I stay in St. John’s a few hours to get some rest?”

“Where’s the harm—after what Arnold said to us about obeying orders? You heard him speak of Butterfield and Bedel, didn’t you? You heard Steven Nason give his word to Arnold that he could depend on us?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Nathaniel cried, “I’m sick of hearing about Arnold! How Arnold marched to Quebec; how he did wonders at the Cedars; how he’ll raise hell with the British—Arnold, Arnold, Arnold—you’d think that damned horse-jockey was the only officer we had!”

“What was that?” I asked. “What was it you called Arnold?”

Nathaniel’s face and voice were sullen. “ ‘Horse-jockey’ was what I said. That’s all he was before the war—a cheap horse-trader and horse-jockey. Everybody knows it. That’s why he went to war—to make money out of it!”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” I demanded. “Arnold’s a sea captain and shipowner—a man of property and position. His father before him was a sea captain and shipowner. His great-grandfather was Governor of Rhode Island—a gentleman of the highest character and distinction. Arnold himself is the same sort of person, Steven Nason says.”

“I don’t care what he says! Steven Nason’s an uneducated man, just the way Arnold is. Arnold could tell him anything, probably, and Nason’d believe him.”

“Don’t say anything you’d regret,” I told him. “Steven Nason may not have what Harvard College calls an education, but he can talk the Abenaki language, and drive a straight furrow, and keep a company of soldiers under control, and get along with his neighbours. He doesn’t believe everything he hears, like some educated dunces I’ve met; and he knows the difference between what’s good and what’s worthless, though that’s something colleges don’t seem to be able to teach. And to top it all off, he’s had a year of war. It’s hard to believe, but there’s those who’d prefer Steven Nason’s education to that of some who’ve spent four years in college and almost learned to read the Bible in Greek.” I eyed him severely, to let him know he could apply my words to himself if he so desired. Then, harshly, I asked him, “Who told you Arnold was a horse-jockey?”

Nathaniel’s smile was contemptuous. “A horse-jockey and a gymnast! That’s all he was—just a common gymnast. He used to travel around giving exhibitions. Anybody can tell you how he used to give exhibitions jumping over loaded ammunition wagons. That’s all this great general was—nothing but a circus performer!”

“My God!” I cried. “You’re mad! Wherever did you hear such tales for children! Somebody’s been stuffing you with fish-feathers! Who was it?”

“It’s common knowledge,” he said sullenly. “Everybody knows it, and you hear it everywhere.”

“I don’t hear it everywhere,” I said. “Is it some of the information you’ve been collecting for your commanding officer?” I took him by the arm, and would have said more; but the sound of a hoarse voice, bellowing from the river road, stayed me. It was a voice that roared unmelodiously a familiar song about three beautiful ducks and a ball that rolled and rolled and rolled interminably.

A moment later a fat white horse strained into sight from behind the warehouses, dragging a cart piled high with bundles. The cart thumped and bumped on the logs with which the road was paved. On top of the bundles sat two men, one of whom, a Canadian, slumbered deeply, resting precariously against the shoulder of Cap Huff, who rolled in his singing as though balancing himself against the thrusts of a heavy sea. He sang and rolled and whacked the rump of the white horse with the ends of the reins in time to his singing, and all the while he darted sharp glances at every one in sight. Seeing us, he bawled a hearty greeting.

When he had drawn up beside us, he eased the body of his companion down among the bundles, descended from the cart, peered solicitously into the brown face of the recumbent figure: then gave it an earnest slap with an open hand. The Canadian sat up with a start, looked around him and reached wildly for the reins.

“Liquor!” Cap said to us, jerking his head toward the Canadian. “You can’t depend on ’em! They keep drinking it. They got just that much sense.” He coughed virtuously, but the virtue was expended in the sound alone of the cough; for its spurting smell made one think a vast quantity of rum had been exploded into a gas too thick to disperse quickly.

He looked from one to the other of us, and finally his gaze focused on Nathaniel. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I remember! Well, you must have seen ’em! You must have seen the king’s troops Sullivan was talking about.”

“King’s troops?” Nathaniel asked. “What king’s troops? I didn’t see any king’s troops!”

Cap Huff rubbed his eyes with forefingers like two sausages. “Then Sullivan’s a liar,” he said calmly. “I kind of figured he was a liar! He wrote Arnold last night there was king’s troops between him and Three Rivers, ready to attack, and for Arnold to send down all his spare men and be damned quick about it. Arnold figured he was a liar, too, on account of not having heard from you. He said if there’d been troops, you’d have reported ’em.”

The blood seemed to leave my heart. I looked sharply at Nathaniel; but from the look of blank surprise on his face I knew my fears were groundless.

“I just came here from Three Rivers,” Nathaniel said slowly. “There weren’t any troops on the road: not any.”

Cap stared at him, shot a quick glance at me; then went to staring at him again. “Well, that’s interesting,” he said at length. “You don’t suppose it would interest Arnold, do you? Or do you have to tell everything to your brother first?”

“Aren’t you a little free with your tongue?” I asked him. “This boy was told he’d find Arnold here. He was just starting for Montreal when you came in sight.”

Cap grunted, “By God, he’d better! I’ve had about all I can stand for one day! Here, come along and show me a place to store these bundles. Your brother can take this cart back to Montreal, and carry word to Arnold that’ll make him bite somebody.”

I led him to the shipyard, where Tom Bickford had rigged a shelter, for although the marked timbers were safely on their way to Crown Point, the yard had come to seem like home to us. On the way Cap broke into a flood of cursing so profound that his voice cracked and became shrill. “You wouldn’t believe it!” he told us in a hoarse whisper. “You wouldn’t believe any man could be so rotten as that Hazen!”

Cap jerked his thumb at the cart. “See those bundles? They’re full of what this army ought to have, but hasn’t got: powder, bullets, buckshot, shoes, shirts, blankets, cloth for breeches, nails, stockings, rum. See ’em? On each one there’s the name of the feller it was taken from, and what’s in it, and how much the feller’s to be paid, all neat and regular. Me and Doc Means and Major Scott, we been rounding ’em up. Scott took three cart-loads to Chambly day before yesterday, and Arnold sent an order by him to Hazen, telling Hazen to accept ’em and take care of ’em. Last night I set out after Scott with this load; and when I got to Chambly nice and early, there was all of Scott’s bundles dumped beside the river, no guard over ’em nor nothing, and a feller walking away from ’em, sort of innocent-looking. A couple of the packages was broke open, so I ran after the innocent-looking feller and kind of looked in his breeches pocket. He was all stuffed full of stockings!

“Yes, sir! He’d been stealing! If I’d left this with the packages, he might have got this, even!” He worried a tin box from his breeches pocket, pried off the cover and sniffed at it. It was full of a dirty brown paste, seemingly made of rotted leaves. It had a sickish, unhealthy odour.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Opium. That old catamount Doc Means said it was the only drug worth a hoot, and if I saw some, to pick it up for him. I happened to come across this, so I picked it up.”

He stuffed it back in his pocket and stared at me indignantly. “When I saw that feller stealing stockings, I spoke to him pretty sharp, because if there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a feller that’s dishonest. Well, sir: he wouldn’t pay no attention: said the packages didn’t belong to nobody.

“ ‘Not belong to nobody!’ says I. ‘They belong to the Continental Army: that’s who they belong to.’

“ ‘No,’ the feller says, ‘they don’t belong to nobody, because Colonel Hazen wouldn’t receive ’em when Scott brought ’em in. He made him dump ’em beside the river, and then he ordered Scott off to Sorel to help dig trenches. That’s how I know they don’t belong to nobody.’

“ ‘What’s your name?’ says I to the feller.

“ ‘You better ask Colonel Hazen,’ the feller says.

“With that I seen a light. Yes, sir! I seen it was high time I got away from Chambly before Hazen, the cold stink, made me dump my goods beside the river and ordered me off to Sorel, too. So I set off for St. John’s, and here I am!” He rubbed his face with his huge hands and began to toss the packages from the cart to the ground.

“How could Hazen do it?” I asked. “Is he half-witted, or is he a traitor?”

“Brother,” Cap said, “he’s a pig-nut! Look around at the officers in this army and you’ll see the greatest lot of pig-nuts there ever was! Some are good ones; but most of ’em ain’t nothing but pig-nuts!”

“Pig-nuts?” I asked.

“Pig-nuts,” Cap repeated. “It takes a sledge-hammer to crack a pig-nut, and when you get inside it, there ain’t nothing you care to use. Besides being like pig-nuts, most of the officers are like women in not being able to stand getting told they done something kind of wrong. You ever tried criticising a woman much? Arnold, he knows how to do things; and when he sees a pig-nut doing things wrong, he tells him. Tells him loud, so everybody hears it. The trouble is, you can tell a man with brains he’s wrong and he’ll try to fix things up; but you take and tell a pig-nut he’s wrong, and he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to have something heavy fall on you when you ain’t looking.”

“You mean Arnold’s spoken to Hazen?” I asked.

“Spoken to him!” Cap exclaimed hoarsely. “He damned hell out of him for not being willing to attack the English and Indians when they was on the run after the Cedars; and he damned two hells out of him for pushing Jerry Duggan out of the army. Duggan was the only American officer the Canadians would follow, but he was a barber. Canadians never shave nor fix up their hair. They never see no barbers, so they think they’re nice, and they took to Duggan. Hazen, he said he wouldn’t be in the same army with a barber. Made so much trouble for Duggan, he did, that Duggan had to resign. Duggan’s worth ten Hazens! Hazen’s the king pig-nut, and he hates Arnold because Arnold tells him to his face what he is, and because Arnold’s the only good general that’s been seen around here since Wolfe stopped a bullet.”

Absent-mindedly Cap lifted a board from one of the boxes and drew out a dusty bottle. It had been opened before; for he drew the cork with his teeth and helped himself freely to the contents. Then he coughed again, though I would have been glad if he hadn’t; and after that he passed the bottle to us.

While I was drinking, Nathaniel said to Cap: “If he feels that way about barbers, maybe he doesn’t like gymnasts, either.”

The cart was empty, except for the Canadian driver; and with no gentle hand I helped Nathaniel up into it.

Cap eyed him dubiously. “What was that? What is it he maybe doesn’t like, either?”

“Gymnasts,” I said dryly. “He means acrobats. Nathaniel heard that Arnold used to be a gymnast, but of course there’s nothing in it.”

“Oh, ain’t there!” Cap cried. “Well I hope to die if there ain’t! This feller Arnold can skate better than any Canadian that ever lived. Even with a hole shot through one leg he’s stronger’n quicker’n any other three men in the world! He’s the only feller ever I see that could jump all the way over an ammunition wagon without touching a hand to it.”

He moved closer to the cart and stared up into Nathaniel’s face out of bloodshot eyes. “If you don’t believe there ain’t nothing in it,” he added, “just take your time going back to Montreal! If you don’t get there quicker’n scat, that gymnast’ll jump all over you, and maybe you won’t like gymnasts any more than Hazen does!”

He hiccupped portentously: then slapped the white mare on the rump, a stinging, echoing slap; and the last I saw of Nathaniel, he was sprawled with the pig-tailed Canadian in the bottom of the cart, and the cart itself was bouncing around the turn in the river road on its way to Montreal.