Рита Браун: Tail Gait

Tucker noticed light paw prints all over the place but not a cat in sight.

“Those devils!” He knelt down to pick up a box of consecrated wafers.

Harry, now on her hands and knees, handed box after box up to him. “Some are torn open. Others just have teeth marks.”

“I will swat them. I will smite them. Damn those cats!” He swore, then caught himself. “Sorry.”

She laughed. “I’d have said worse.”

“Elo, Cazzie, Lucy, where are you?” he shouted.

“Mrs. Murphy, Pewter,” Harry called out.

“They aren’t that stupid,” Tucker opined.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” the Reverend Jones’s deep voice sang out.

Silence.

Harry, standing now, looked at the Reverend. “They had their first Communion.”

“Won’t do them a bit of good. They weren’t confirmed, so they’re still going to Hell,” he shot back, and then they both laughed until they ached.

“So let’s hope they really do have nine lives,” added Harry.

December 21, 1781

Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown on October 19, 1781. The victory brought with it many decisions, one of those being what to do with the large number of prisoners of war.

Word of Washington’s victory reached The Barracks three days after the British laid down their arms, some of the infantry so furious they broke their muskets, then threw them on the pile. The Continentals, wisely, let it pass as they stood in rows, watching their defeated enemy, a fine army defeated by people called barbarians, rabble, and traitors, and even worse, cowards. The soldiers and sailors of the New World had proved their worth.

A cheer went up at The Barracks from the Americans. The British, the Hessians, and the Italians, all of whom had fought for the king, remained silent. Many were dumbfounded. Others, such as Captain Graves, expected something, perhaps not the surrender of an entire army, but something to finally bring this conflict to an end. The night of the announcement, Graves slipped away.

Over the summer, many prisoners remained at the farms where they had been loaned out. Others left, using papers forged for them by Charles. No one guarding them appeared upset. A few broadsheets were printed describing the missing. That was the extent of the search. Fewer mouths to feed, plus many of the guards had grown fond of their captives. They didn’t want to hunt them down. If nothing else, they could rely on the Irish for a rollicking good laugh.

When word arrived that a portion of Burgoyne’s army was to march to York, Pennsylvania, to a new camp, again not many were surprised. The Barracks was filled to overflowing and there was little choice but to send some soldiers away.

The march through beautiful country in high fall proved too taxing for those already weakened by captivity and not enough food. The constant fevers that would often rage through the camp also claimed victims.

Along the march, other prisoners silently slipped away, their first thought being to find decent clothing, to get rid of what was left—often very little—of their uniforms.

Lieutenant West, young and strong, kept moving, keeping Corporal Ix and Samuel MacLeish together with the remnants of Captain Graves’s Royal Irish Artillery, but many of those men left shortly after the captain escaped from the camp. If their captain was going, so were they. The more phony discharge papers Charles created, the better he became at it. He could now mimic any signature.

Watching men literally fall by the wayside deeply affected him. He was told to keep moving, that wagons would come to pick up the weak and sick. Piglet marched along, too, no longer resembling a piglet but still healthy, ready for whatever life threw at him.

Once Charles reached Camp Security in Springettsbury Township just west of York, the frosts and cold had taken their toll. Trees denuded made the trek even more mournful.

Camp Security differed from The Barracks. A stockade of chestnut logs encircled the perimeter and the camp itself was divided into different sections. The captured officers had been billeted all throughout Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. Charles and a few others marched with the men, refusing the officer-class courtesies.

A giant rectangle, Camp Security looked foreboding. Its well-constructed cabins helped house the men, but Charles and the others knew life would be different from life in Charlottesville. Given the overcrowding, they expected some of them would be sent out to farms.

For the first time since he was actually captured, Charles felt downcast, worried. Eight hundred prisoners from Cowpens, South Carolina, had arrived shortly before the prisoners from The Barracks.

“It will be dark soon,” Corporal Ix noted. “So little light now.”

Walking along the symmetrical pathways, Charles agreed. “The winter solstice. As a child I looked forward to it. Christmas, you know, and I would be home from school.”

“I’ll be going tonight, Sir.” Corporal Ix nodded toward the guards. “They’ll all be bunked up.”

Although Joseph Reed, president of Pennsylvania, had objected to the Continental Congress about the large number of prisoners housed in his colony, congress adamantly refused to offer other locations.

The job of building a new, large camp fell on Lieutenant William Scott of the York County Militia. Colonel Wood, in charge of the camp, did all he could to see to further construction, proper food and water. As it was, even though the pay for guards was decent, three and a half shillings a day, there weren’t enough guards. The war siphoned off men. Often those left behind were injured, formerly wounded, or aged. Then, too, the overburdened colonel had to face the fact that Continental money was worthless. Congress blithely ignored this unpleasant reality, shifting the financial burden onto the people of Pennsylvania, much of it borne by those in York County.

Sharp in gathering information, Charles surmised this. He’d also heard that Cornwallis had burned all the tobacco warehouses in Petersburg during his campaign. He wondered if Ewing Garth’s tobacco had been stored in those enormous warehouses.

“Corporal, I don’t see how the war can continue, do you?” Charles asked Ix.

Piglet barked, for a rat shot in front of him, which he dutifully chased.

“No,” said Ix. “The Crown has to reach some agreement, and I fear that will take as long as the war.”

Ruefully smiling, Charles nodded. “You and I are all that remain of the marksmen.”

“Perhaps we should have escaped when Samuel and Thomas did, or Captain Graves.” Ix rubbed together his hands, wrapped in rags. “Tonight is a good night. I have my papers. Better than the real ones, Sir. Your hand is better.” He smiled.

“All right.”

At midnight, it was below freezing. The sentry at the front gate was dozing in his box. The camp was quiet, tendrils of smoke curling from the chimneys.

Charles and Corporal Ix left their cabin. Not unduly worried about awakening other prisoners, they still moved cautiously, fearing a stray guard. Piglet kept extra-alert.

Moving to the back of the camp, Charles said, “Up and over, Corporal.”

“What about you, Sir? How can you scale the wall? It’s too high to jump up and grab the top.”

“I can’t leave Piglet, Corporal. He’s been by my side since I came to this land. I’ll get on all fours. Step up on my back and over you go.”

The corporal looked intently at Charles. “I hate to leave you, Sir.”

“Go, make your way. I will escape in good time with Piglet and we will meet again.” He held out his hand, which Corporal Ix took in both of his.