I Survived the American Revolution, 1776 Page 4
The most stomach-turning odors rose up from the open latrine pits where the men — and Nate — all did their private business. Some days Nate felt sure his nose would burn right off.
Nate was taking a break from chopping wood. He took a swig from the tin canteen James had given him.
And then he heard a strange sound, like an animal was crying out in pain.
Nate looked around, thinking it was one of the cats that chased rats around the camp.
He heard the sound again, and he realized it was coming from inside one of the tents.
It was James’s tent.
Nate remembered that James had been ill yesterday. There were always gut sicknesses and fevers sweeping through the camp. Nate figured James had one of those.
Nate stood outside the tent.
“James?” he said. “It’s Nate. Are you all right?”
Silence. More moaning. Nate’s heart pounded as he stuck his head through the tent flap. And then he lurched back in horror.
There was someone on the ground — it had to be James. Except it didn’t look like James — or even a human being. Hundreds and hundreds of hideous blisters boiled all over his face. His arms and chest were covered, too.
It was smallpox, the most dreaded disease of all.
It was the disease that stole Nate’s mama all those years ago. It had almost killed Nate, too.
Nate pushed away his fear and disgust. He went inside and knelt next to James. He took James’s hand. It was burning hot.
“James,” Nate said, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Go away,” James rasped. “You’ll get sick.”
“I had it already,” Nate said, taking the young man’s hand. Having smallpox once — if it didn’t kill you — meant you couldn’t get it again. Almost half the people who got the disease died. Some came through, but were badly scarred. Eliza had scars on her cheeks. Theo had them all over his back.
Nate didn’t need a doctor to tell him that James was dying.
He said a prayer and then rushed to find help.
He returned with Paul and Martin, who were both safe from smallpox.
Nate helped them bring James to the hospital.
James died that night.
Captain Marsh led a service for him. All of the men shed tears for that kind and generous man.
The weeks ticked by. Nate became more and more restless. He worried that other men would get sick. He kept thinking of Papa. He missed Eliza and Theo. These thoughts weighed down on him, like rocks in his pockets.
The mood of the camp grew darker.
And then, on the afternoon of August 21, the sky suddenly turned black. And New York City was slammed by a thunderstorm more violent than even the storm that took Papa.
Rain poured down. The howling wind ripped apart tents, knocked over trees, and sent barrels flying through the air.
But most terrifying was the lightning. Blinding bolts stabbed down like Hessian bayonets. At a camp nearer to the river, ten soldiers were struck dead by a single bolt. Three other soldiers were hit as they were running along the street. The lightning killed the men and melted the coins in their pockets.
Nate lay awake all night as the storm raged.
He had the feeling that the furious wind was screaming out a warning.
And it was.
The next morning, word came that the British were on the move. Thousands of British troops had landed on Brooklyn, just across the East River from New York City.
The British attack was about to begin.
Three days later the Connecticut 5th was ordered to Brooklyn along with six thousand other soldiers. They were all ferried across the East River on big rowboats. Nate and the men were sent to Fort Greene, one of the six Brooklyn forts. All of the forts were spread across Brooklyn Heights. That was the part of Brooklyn that was closest to New York City.
Nate hadn’t realized how huge Brooklyn was. It had to be at least ten times the size of New York City. And much of the land was wild. Only a few hundred people lived in Brooklyn, and most had fled.
But this wild land was important in the war. If the British took Brooklyn, they would put their cannons on Brooklyn Heights. From there, they could blast New York City to bits.
“But we’re not going to let that happen,” Captain Marsh said. It was a few hours after they’d arrived at Fort Greene. Nate and the men had set up their tents inside the fort’s tall dirt walls. Now Captain Marsh was explaining the American battle plan.
He showed them a map of Brooklyn and pointed out the six American forts. Then Captain Marsh pointed to a squiggly line on the map. It looked to be about one mile from Brooklyn Heights. “That’s the Gowanus Heights,” he said. It was a long ridge of hills.
“The British are somewhere on the other side of the ridge, and they have to cross the hills of Gowanus Heights to get to our fort. But we already have three thousand men guarding those hills. When the British try to cross …”
Paul chimed in. “We’ll blast them right back to England!”
Captain March cracked a tiny smile. “Or at least back to Staten Island.”
The Redcoats and Hessians who made it to the forts would face dozens of cannons. Thousands of Americans would be shooting at them from trenches, protected by the tall dirt walls.
“It will be like Bunker Hill,” Samuel said with a hopeful smile.
“That’s right,” Captain Marsh said, the certainty gleaming in his eyes. The men cheered.
Several nights passed, and Brooklyn stayed mostly quiet.
On the night of August 26, soldiers from different companies gathered around the campfires. They roasted hunks of pork on sharpened sticks. They insulted the British and called the Hessians foul names Nate would never repeat.
To Nate, it almost seemed that the men were looking forward to a big party, not a bloody battle.
They sang songs, including one that Nate had never heard before. It had a bright and catchy tune, but words that made no sense at all.
Yankee Doodle went to town, riding on a pony …
One man played along on a little twinkling flute called a fife.
Paul, Martin, and Samuel all sang along.
Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle Dandy …
“What’s a Yankee Doodle?” Nate asked, raising his voice up over the singing and knee slapping.
“It’s what the British call us,” Martin said. “They say the Americans are a bunch of Yankee Doodles, country fools who don’t know how to fight.”
“The British made up this song, to tease us in battle,” Paul added.
“So why are we singing it?” Nate asked.
This made no sense at all.
“Because at Bunker Hill, we showed them what a bunch of Yankee Doodles can do,” Samuel said. “We stole the name — and the song.”
Nate smiled. Now he got it.
The Americans took the British insult — and turned it into a battle song.
The singing went on until a blaring trumpet called the men to attention.
Three men appeared. The man in the center was very tall and wore a blue uniform. The men leaped to their feet.
It was General Washington!
The general stood quietly for a moment, as the men gathered around him. A hush came over the camp. Even the grumpiest and sleepiest of the men stood up straight. They brushed the dust from their shirts and straightened their caps. Nate stood extra tall.
“The moment has come,” General Washington began. “The enemy has landed. And now the honor and success of America depends on you.”
His voice was calm but powerful.
He told them that a great battle was coming. He reminded the men what they were fighting for — for freedom, for their new country.
“The world will soon learn what a few brave men, fighting for their own land, can do.”
His words seemed to rise up into the air. And Nate knew he’d never forget the sound of the general’s voice. Most of all, Nate would remem
ber the feeling of being almost lifted up off the ground, by nothing more than words.
General Washington didn’t speak for long. But even hours later, his voice seemed to echo through the camp.
After the general left, the men settled down in their tents. Nate quickly fell asleep.
Just after dawn, the sound of American alarm cannons boomed through the fort.
Paul poked his head into Nate’s tent. His eyes were flashing with excitement.
“The British are trying to cross the Gowanus Heights!”
The Battle of Brooklyn was about to begin.
The men of the Connecticut 5th were ordered to help guard the Gowanus Heights.
Days before, Captain Marsh had told Nate that he would stay inside the fort for as long as they were in Brooklyn.
“You’re not a soldier,” he’d said. “I don’t want you on the battlefield.”
But that morning, twenty-two men in the Connecticut 5th were too sick to march. There were not enough men to carry ammunition and other supplies to the ridge.
“Nate,” the captain said. “I need you to march with us to the camp. And then you’ll return here to the fort.”
They were taking the place of some Pennsylvania soldiers who had been on duty there for three days straight.
“You’ll march back here with the Pennsylvania men.”
“Yes, sir,” Nate said.
“Anything happens, we all get ourselves back to the fort. You hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gruesome pictures flashed through Nate’s mind as he thought of stepping out of the fort. Exploding cannonballs. Gut-smashing musket balls. Bayonets dripping with blood.
But a rush of pride swept Nate’s fears away. Captain Marsh was counting on Nate.
Paul helped Nate load up a large knapsack with extra ammunition cartridges. He was unusually quiet. He didn’t like the idea of Nate leaving the fort.
“You follow me,” Paul said as they were lining up. “And stay close.”
Nate nodded.
He took a place in line between Paul and Samuel.
And they all set out into the wilds of Brooklyn.
They marched along a narrow road, under a sunny sky. The road cut through fields and meadows. They passed a deserted farm. The house was boarded up and there was not a person or animal in sight. In the yard was a big tree, with a wooden swing hanging from a branch. Nate could imagine Theo shrieking happily as he flew up and down.
Nate felt the familiar ache of missing Theo. He also thought about the family that had built up that farm. Where had they all gone? Would they ever be able to come back?
For the first time it really hit Nate: This war wasn’t just about King George and soldiers on battlefields. Regular people would lose their homes. Others would lose far more — their family members and friends. Even if the Americans won, some people would never be able to get back what they had lost.
The road took them up a hill, and soon they were in the woods.
They had reached the Gowanus Heights. There were groups of American soldiers standing guard along the way, but not as many as Nate would have expected. They turned off the road and walked along the ridge. The thickening woods made it hard to see more than just a few yards ahead. All was very quiet.
And then …
Boom!
Boom!
Two sharp cannon blasts shook the ground.
Nate froze. Samuel whipped around.
“That’s strange,” he said, his eyes narrowed with worry. “Those cannons were shot from this side of the ridge.”
Samuel scanned the woods.
“The Americans don’t have big cannons this far from the forts. The British aren’t supposed to be anywhere near here.”
But they were. And they had the high ground!
KI-crack! KI-crack! KI-crack! KI-crack!
Musket fire blasted them from the hill just above.
Hissssssss!
A ball streaked right by Nate’s ear.
Looking up, Nate saw splashes of red between the trees up on the hill.
Redcoats!
“Take cover!” Captain Marsh shouted.
Nate threw himself down into the dirt and covered his head with his hands.
More shots exploded.
KI-crack!
Hissssss!
Samuel cried out. Nate peeked up just in time to see him crumple to his knees. Samuel’s hands flew up to his chest. Blood gushed from between his fingers.
Nate saw it all so clearly. But he couldn’t believe it was happening. All he could think was no.
No, no, no, no.
The life drained from Samuel’s face. His body seemed to melt to the ground.
Nate sprang up and rushed for Samuel. But the Redcoats were shooting again.
KI-crack!
Hissssss!
Nate dove back behind the tree.
Captain Marsh’s voice shouted out orders.
“Prepare!”
The Connecticut 5th men aimed their muskets.
KI-crack! KI-crack! KI-crack! KI-crack!
Then they dropped to their knees and reloaded, exactly as they had practiced in their drills.
But this was not a drill.
Nate shook himself out of his shock.
Samuel’s musket was lying on the ground. He’d spent hours teaching Nate how to use it. And now Nate knew what Samuel would expect him to do.
Nate grabbed the musket.
The wooden handle was still warm from Samuel’s hands.
Nate took off his big knapsack and grabbed some ammunition cartridges. He stuffed them into his pockets. Then he crawled back to his tree.
He held his weapon like Samuel had showed him, and aimed up the hill. He could see the soldiers in their bloodred coats hiding in the trees. It looked like only about twenty men. Probably soldiers sent ahead as scouts.
He waited for Captain Marsh’s orders.
“Pre-sent!” Captain Marsh shouted.
Nate clicked back the flintlock, holding his aim.
“Fire!”
Nate pulled the trigger.
KI-crack!
The gunpowder exploded inside the gun. The musket ball streaked out of the barrel like a comet, trailing flames and smoke. The other men shot at the same time. And Nate’s musket ball joined theirs in the blizzard of metal sweeping up the hill.
The Redcoats scattered.
Nate and the men all reloaded. He aimed again, ready to shoot. But the Redcoats didn’t come back.
They all waited for them to return. Minutes ticked by. Finally Captain Marsh gave the order for them to line up again.
“We need to get to our camp, men!” he shouted.
Nate stood up.
“Captain!” he called. “It’s Samuel, sir.”
A moment later all of the men were gathered around Samuel’s body.
Martin knelt down and put his hand on Samuel’s blood-soaked chest.
He looked up at Captain Marsh. “He’s gone, sir.”
Captain Marsh’s stony face seemed to crumble for a moment, and then he regained his steely determination.
The men all said a prayer. And then they stood silently.
But then a chilling song shattered the moment.
RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat.
RAT, tat, tat, tat, tat.
Battle drums, like from Nate’s nightmare.
Except these were real.
The sound got louder.
Rat, tat, tat, tat, tat.
Rat, tat, tat, tat, tat.
Rat, tat, tat, tat, tat.
“What will we do, captain?” Paul asked.
Paul had an unusual look in his eyes, one that Nate had seen only once before: during the storm that took Papa.
It was fear.
“We need to get back to the fort,” Captain Marsh said.
But it was too late. Before they could take a step, the ground started to shake. It sounded like a stampede of giants was heading right for them.
And in a way, that was exactly what was happening. Suddenly hundreds of soldiers were charging over the top of the ridge.
They were not Redcoats.
They were not American.
They wore dark green-and-red uniforms and tall, pointed silver hats.
They carried muskets topped with long glinting bayonets.
Hessians!
The hillside exploded into a wall of flames and gunpowder smoke.
Balls hissed by, smacking into the trees and cutting holes in the ground.
And this time there was no way for the men of the Connecticut 5th to shoot back.
The Hessians were pouring over the hills, like a churning wave of green and red and silver.
“Retreat!” Captain Marsh bellowed.
The men scattered in different directions.
Paul grabbed Nate by the arm and they tore through the woods.
Cannon blasts rang out.
Boom!
Boom!
That evil sizzling sound of approaching cannonballs filled the air.
Crash!
A cannonball shattered a tree right in front of them. Shards of wood flew like daggers.
A sharp piece hit Nate on the cheek, an inch from his eye. Paul lost his grip on Nate.
The smoke was so thick now. Nate could hardly see. He lost Paul and ran almost blindly, stumbling over rocks and weaving around trees.
Musket balls whizzed by.
Nate heard footsteps behind him.
Paul!
But when he looked over his shoulder he didn’t see his friend. Instead he saw a man in a silver hat — a Hessian. He was chasing after Nate with his bayonet held straight out in front of him, shouting angrily in a language Nate had never heard. But Nate did not need to understand the words. Even through the smoke, Nate could see the hatred and fury in the man’s eyes.
Nate wanted to scream, “I’m not a soldier!
But it didn’t matter that Nate was just an eleven-year-old boy. That Hessian meant to kill him.
Nate’s legs were giving out. He was slowing down. He braced for the vicious stab, for the agonizing pain, for the end.
But then a cannonball sizzled overhead.
And it wasn’t a regular cannonball. It was an exploding shell.