Patrick Henry and the Frigate’s Keel: And Other Stories of a Young Nation (22 page)

“Egypt—like an old jewel in the sand. There are three of the great pyramids, and they stand all together, and if you watch the sun set behind them—” And that sort of thing, for there seemed to be no land that he had not visited, although how this should be so with a bookman, neither of us knew.

“And the war—?” Jane once said to him.

“I sometimes wonder about the war,” he answered, “but I don't know whether it is right or wrong. This new land is so big, so wild—why should anyone fight about it?”

“It is a very beautiful land, this America of ours,” Jane said.

“Yes, with beautiful women.”

I don't know whether Jane resented that or not, but she said nothing.

“Brave men and beautiful women,” the bookman went on. “Oh, don't I know—how those men in the valley are so slowly starving. As ugly as war is, it makes more than men of us.”

“Yet you do not believe enough to fight?”

“Are there not enough—shedding blood?”

“I suppose so.”

“I love books,” the bookman said. “I used to dream of a great house, when I could live out my days comfortably and slowly, with many, many books around me—and peace. I used to dream of that.”

“I know,” Jane nodded.

“Funny, how you dream, isn't it?”

When I went up to bed, Jane was still there with the bookman, talking. Jane said: “Good night, Bently,” and the bookman shook hands with me. “Don't love war too much, boy,” he said.

That night I dreamt of the things the bookman told me. He was to sleep in the barn, since there was no more room in the house, and I hoped I should see him the next morning.

The following day, there was more bustle than ever in the camp. All morning, it snowed; but the men were out, drilling in the snow, and new troops were trickling in all the time. At the house, General Wayne was in a fury of excitement, and I didn't dare go into the parlor. Once, a tall, tired-looking man rode up with a couple of aides, and he was with General Wayne for more than an hour. I heard the sentries whispering that it was General Washington; but he did not seem to be at all the great man I had heard of, only a tall, tired-looking person in a uniform patched all over.

I went to the kitchen, to examine the books the bookman had left, and while I was there, he came in. I was glad he had not gone. I hoped Jane would like him a great deal, perhaps induce him to remain a fortnight. I would have been content to listen forever to his smooth, enchanting voice.

“I want you to read this,” he said. It was Malory's book on King Arthur, and I curled up before the fire with it.

Two more days went by, while the bookman remained, and I noticed that Jane was spending more and more time with him. Nor did Captain Jones enjoy this. Once, I had seen Captain Jones in the tea-room, with Jane in his arms, and I know that whenever Jane spoke of him, there was a funny, far-off look in her eyes. Even now, with the bookman there, Jane grew more and more downhearted as the time came for the troops to depart.

“But the bookman may remain,” I once said to her.

“Yes,” Jane answered.

The troops were to depart in the morning. That day they began to break camp, and the fieldpieces were wheeled off our lawn, onto the river road. General Wayne was clearing his affairs in the parlor, and I could see he was more excited than usual.

“The old fox has something up his sleeve,” one of the sentries told me.

“It wasn't for nothing he was holdin' that palaver with General Washington,” another said.

There was nothing much for me to do, since everyone was so busy, and I went to look for the bookman. I climbed to the little room he had, over the hayloft, and I thought I would surprise him. There was a crack in the door, and I looked through it. There was the bookman, sitting on the floor, writing in a little pad he held on his knee. Then I knocked. He seemed to stiffen suddenly. The paper he was writing on, he folded, thrust into a crack in the floor, covered his writing materials with hay, and then sauntered to the door. When he saw it was only me, he appeared to be relieved.

“Yes,” he said when he had opened the door, “I should be settling things with your sister. I'm to leave soon, and I want to find out what books she'll take.”

“You're going?” I said.

“You don't want me to, do you, laddie? But we must all go on, a-wandering. Perhaps I'll come back some day—”

Walking over to the house with him, I almost forgot about the paper. Then I remembered, and excused myself. Without thinking of what I was doing, I ran back to the barn, to his room. I was all trembling with excitement now, for I had quite decided to find out who our bookman really was. I dug up the paper, and began to read:

“Your Excellency:

“I have done my best, yet discovered precious little. There are all of three thousand troops here now, with twenty-two pieces of ordnance, all told, and they will be moving north the morning you receive this, possibly to connect with General Washington.…”

I read on, but my eyes blurred. First I was crying, and good and ashamed of myself; then I realized that the bookman must not find me there. I stumbled down from the loft and out into the snow, the cold air stinging me into awareness, the paper clutched in my hand. The whole world was reeling around me.

“Why did it have to be him?” I muttered.

I guess I went over to the kitchen to look at him again, to see whether it had been my own, splendid bookman. I opened the door quietly, and there was the bookman kissing Jane.

“Go away from here,” she whispered.

“You do love me, don't you,” he said.

“I don't know—I don't know.”

“Then I'll tell you. You do love me, but you have too much pride in that glorious little head of yours. I'm a tattered wanderer, who has fascinated you with his tales, and you certainly would be a fool to throw away yourself on someone like me. But you do love me.”

“Yes.”

Jane shook her head, and I remember that even then I thought that Jane was truly splendid.

“No,” she said, “I'm not sorry. Why should I be sorry? I love you—that's all there is to it.”

“Then you know. In the few days I've been here, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

I could see the bookman's face from the side, and I don't think I ever saw a sadder face than that. And beautiful, too, what with all his yellow hair falling to his shoulders. I don't know how, knowing what I knew, I could have stood there, watching all this.

“If you knew all—but thank God you don't. Listen, Jane. I kissed you once. I shan't kiss you again—unless some day I come back. Would you wait?”

“I love you,” Jane said. “I know I'll never love anyone else the way I love you.”

I couldn't stand any more of that. I went up to my room and cried. Then I remembered that a Continental doesn't cry; I think I remembered my commission.

General Wayne was in the parlor when I came in, and I could see that he was annoyed, being so busy. But he nodded to me.

“And what is your business, sir?” he inquired.

“Could I ask you something?”

The general pushed his papers aside. Now his eyes were twinkling, and I knew he would take some time with me. He had always liked me.

“Suppose a soldier runs away?” I said.

“There are times when the best do—have to,” the general smiled.

“But suppose he knows his duty is to advance?”

“Then he's a coward—and a traitor,” the general said slowly, staring at me very curiously.

“He's a coward, sir?”

“Yes.”

I gave him the crumpled piece of paper. But I didn't cry then; I looked straight at him.

“What's this?” He read it through, puckered up his lips, and read it through again. “My God,” he whispered, “where did you get this, child!”

I told him. I told him where he could find the bookman, and then I said:

“Will you excuse me now, sir?” I knew that something would happen inside of me, if I didn't get away very quickly.

They shot the bookman that evening. Captain Jones tried to keep Jane in the house. “You mustn't see it,” he pleaded with her. “Jane, why on God's earth should you want to see it?”

“Why?” She looked at him wonderingly, and then she put both her hands up against his face. “You love me, don't you, Jack?”

“You know it by now.”

“And you know what funny things love does to you. Well, that is why I must see it—must.”

But he didn't understand; neither did I just then.

General Wayne came by while they were talking, and he stopped, staring at the group of us. Then he said, brusquely: “Let them see it, Captain, if they want to. I don't think it will hurt Bently. This spy is a brave man.”

They stood the bookman up against the side of the barn, up against the stone foundation. He smiled when they offered to blindfold him, and he asked not to have his hands bound.

“Could I talk to him?” I asked.

“Very well, but not for long.”

The bookman had a tired look on his face. Until I was close to him, he had been watching Jane. Then he glanced down at me.

“Hello, laddie,” he said.

My eyes were full of tears, so I couldn't see him very well now.

“A good soldier doesn't cry,” he smiled.

“Yes, I know.”

“You want to tell me that you saw me hide the paper, don't you, laddie?”

“Yes.”

“And you're sorry now?”

“I had to do it.”

“I understand. Give me your hand, laddie.”

I went back to Jane then, and she put her arm around me, holding me so tight that it hurt. I was still watching the bookman.

“Sir,” the bookman called out, “you will see that my superiors are informed. My name is Anthony Engel. My rank Brevet Lieutenant Colonel.”

General Wayne nodded. Then the rifles blazed out, and then the bookman was dead.…

11

The Price of Liberty

 

THE PRICE OF LIBERTY

T
HE
Jew's name was Johnny Ordronaux, and he was a Frenchman before he became an American, which he did because, as he put it: “Only a fool does not go where men fight for freedom.” And believe me, his fight is something to sing about, as you will see when I tell you the whole story, the Gospel truth; and you will find it if you go into the matter, even if it is not in the histories.

Ask them, down in the Chesapeake Bay, about Johnny's boat, the
Prince de Neufchâtel;
they remember there, because in all the years of sailing, there was never such a boat as the
Prince
, nor will the great yachtsmen of today deny that. Never such a boat before, nor could one be built again. She sailed like a witch, and men fell in love with her as they would with a woman; so frail, so delicate, so light was she that, as the story goes, she was compounded of tissue paper and the courage of brave men.

Johnny built her himself. Until he put up his bills in Philadelphia, his story is vague; although they do say that he came into the old synagogue one night, when the men were at prayer, and told them:

“There is a time for doing and a time for praying!”

“Wind not wisdom comes from a wide-open mouth,” the beadle said. “And who are you, ignorant one, son of a fool?”

“A fool indeed,” Johnny Ordronaux answered, and by this time, you may be sure, even the holy prayers were interrupted and necks were being craned to see the source of the disturbance. “A fool, indeed—” His English was very bad, but he told them in Hebrew, “I speak the
tongue
, and my father's father was a rabbi, and on my mother's side, three rabbis in three generations. And all Cohanum,” making reference to the old priestly family of Israel; although, as some who were there observed, it was doubtful whether anyone so ugly could boast such a lineage. Small and ugly and pock-marked was Johnny Ordronaux, although his knotted shoulders were wide enough for two and he had the fiery red hair that most Cohanum boast.