Tail Gait

February 20, 1781

“One, two, three, heave!” Charles commanded three other men, who helped him pick up one end of a huge log.

The four men on the other end labored to raise it as Charles and his side did. They eased this heavy burden onto a horizontal pile of three logs, staked perpendicular with other narrowed logs. They had no iron nails, and pegs didn’t work to secure the sides of a new barracks. Given the lack of tools, chains, or nails, Corporal Ix figured the only possible solution was to drop logs between two stakes. The difficulty was in driving narrow logs that had their ends cut to a point into solid ground. Still, they did it. Hard work helped ward off the cold when lifting or chopping, but once a man stood still, the winds cut to the bone. Better to keep at it.

Each new barracks being built had an outside fire to warm men between tasks. The prisoners would run up, hold their hands to the fire, even lift up their freezing feet.

Every few hours one man from each of the work parties would return to his barracks to feed the fire. When the day’s work was finished, at least they would be able to walk into a somewhat warm room.

And the new barracks would ease the overcrowding.

Dark gray clouds bore down on them from the north, having rolled over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Charles was learning to read the weather. Winter in these climes, harsh as it may be, he could bear. It was the New World summers that tested man and beast.

The log settled on top of the others.

“Sir,” Corporal Ix called from the other end of the new side, “we need the pulley and the rope is frayed.”

“Damn,” Charles muttered under his breath as he walked over to the rudimentary pulley that the Hessian had created.

“It won’t last,” the engineer predicted.

“Can we finish this side?”

“Lieutenant, maybe one more log, two.” He held up two fingers in his torn gloves. “When it breaks, well?” He shrugged.

“All right. Take charge, Corporal. I’ll seek out Captain Schuyler. He’s here somewhere. Maybe we can find more rope.”

He walked toward the main house serving as headquarters as well as the commandant’s residence, a point of dissatisfaction on the commandant’s side. The soles of his boots gapped in sections, the cold seeping through, and when it snowed his feet were always wet and ice cold. It hurt to walk.

A little wind devil twirled in front of him, debris swirling, and a bit of sleet as the clouds finally reached him.

Squinting, he saw Captain Schuyler striding toward the house, coming from the direction of the stables.

“Captain,” Charles called to him, trotting in the tall man’s direction, then slowing, as trotting hurt worse than walking.

“Lieutenant.” John Schuyler smiled. “Filthy weather.”

“I fear frostbite as much as I feared battle.”

“Did you fear battle?” Schuyler’s eyebrows rose up.

“Yes, until the guns opened. Then I was fine,” the blood Englishman honestly replied.

“H-m-m. I miss it.” Looking at the shivering lieutenant, Schuyler kindly offered, “Come back to the stables. It’s warmer there. The heat from the horses’ bodies does help and we’d be out of the wind.” He glanced up at the house. “I am not needed there. Just going for news.”

“And what have you heard?”

The wind, perhaps fifteen miles an hour, smacked them in the face as they walked to the barn.

“The old-timers say this is the worst winter they remember.”

Charles smiled. “What do you say, Captain?”

“Nothing. I can’t do anything about it.”

Smiling, they ducked into the sturdy barn, privates and corporals tending to the animals, each of whom had a blanket or a rug as well as good hay.

“Ah.” Charles breathed relief, stamped his feet lightly.

“What I have heard is everyone is in winter quarters. And the Crown refuses to budge on accepting the prisoner-of-war terms fashioned at Saratoga. Your long march presages a long stay.”

Charles nodded. “Hard on some of the men. They truly thought they would be going home so long as they took an oath not to return and fight here. For me, I would have tried to get sent to the Caribbean. Somewhere I could serve but not break my oath here.”

“I lay this at Burgoyne’s door. He refused to list and describe all officers under his command who had been captured.”

Charles considered this. “Yes, we heard that.” When Schuyler’s black eyebrows rose up, Charles smiled. “Prisoners have big ears.”

They both laughed.

“I wouldn’t want to be in Gentleman Johnny’s shoes.” Schuyler called the British general by his nickname. “The loss of Saratoga will weigh on him the rest of his life.”

“Yes, it will, and given his position, his flamboyance, he will never rest.” Charles felt some sympathy for the general. “I was looking for you. Could you spare my men heavy rope? Corporal Ix has rigged up a pulley so we can build barracks faster, and the rope is about to go.”

“Private.”

A young man, fifteen, perhaps, stood up straight. “Yes, Sir.”

“If there is heavy rope in here or up in the loft, bring it to me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Let’s get out of the aisle. A thrown bale of hay is as bad as a cannonball, especially the way these lads toss them around.” Schuyler turned and ducked, for the door was low, into a tidy room at the southern end of the barn.

Rows of saddles hung on the wall; the odor of leather was comforting. The bits on the bridles gleamed. Harnesses took up one entire wall.

Noticing all this, Charles said, “The leather work is good.”

“Every town has at least one tannery. Competition between the people. The English want to be the best with bridles, tanned leather. The Germans think they are, and in those areas where there are Italians, I must say their work is good—light, though. Better for boots, I think.”

A light rap on the door. “Captain.”

“Come in.”

The slight young man carried a heavy rope that probably weighed as much as he did. “Where shall I put this, Sir?”

“Oh, right here and”—he didn’t know the fellow’s name—“come to me if you need anything.”

Captain John Schuyler really was learning. He would help the young fellow, but the unspoken command was “Keep your mouth shut.”

“Thank you, Sir.” The boy shut the door, made of planks in a Z shape to hold the wood together.

Charles eagerly picked up the rope.

“It has been some time since we’ve been at Ewing Garth’s. The road, still rough, is an improvement, but there’s much to do. I hope we will get there before spring but—” A troubled expression crossed his features. “There’s much uncertainty. I asked to return to my old regiment and was refused. I was told that I’m here in Virginia and I will be sent to a Virginia unit in time. Meanwhile, I guard you.” He smiled.

“You do, Sir. You do.” Charles smiled back.

“I did hear that Colonel Harvey is up at the congress. He’s offering us more land to house prisoners. The additional acres are between where we now stand and Peter Ashcombe’s land.”

Charles threw the heavy rope over his shoulder. “How is it I haven’t heard that name before? Ashcombe?”

“Loyalist.”

“Did you burn him out?”

Surprised, John answered, “When this broke out I was home in western Massachusetts, but I don’t think Virginians burnt him out. The Loyalists seemed to have gotten away. Peter Ashcombe fled to Philadelphia, pledged himself to General Howe as a civilian quartermaster.”

“Confusing. When we win he will be richly rewarded. And should we not, will he hang?” asked Charles.

“Ah, Lieutenant,” John replied, a broad smile on his face. “That is the first time you have admitted the Crown may lose. Will lose.” Then he added, “The Ashcombe tract is an original land grant. It goes back over one hundred years, and Ewing Garth’s father bought part of it. It’s good land.”

“Even if we win, I wonder, will Ashcombe return? He will find himself in difficulty.” Charles imagined the fellow’s reception despite his wealth.

“And if we win”—John’s voice rose a bit—“I say the land is privately owned. It will not revert to the Crown. So Ashcombe can wait until passions cool. He has retainers working the land now. Men who favor us.”

“The lawyers will be busy for decades.”

“Lieutenant, I suspect you are right.”

As they left the tack room, Captain Schuyler paused. “One moment.”

He returned to the tack room, came out to hand Charles a heavy cloth. “For your boots.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“I have read and reread every one of Aesop’s Fables. As we won’t be going to the Garth farm for some time, I would like to thank Miss Ewing and tell her which ones I enjoyed.”

“No.”

This surprised the tall, dark man. “Why?”

“A gentleman would not write to a lady, especially a lady of marriageable age, without her father’s permission. Of course, love being what it is, it happens more frequently than not. But if you are to show you are a gentleman, you must write her father.”

“Blast! What can I say to him?”

“Simple, and I will write it in good hand. You tell him that you and Corporal Ix have been considering his bridge and you’d like to suggest more improvements. Tell him the road will be truly finished come spring but there may be ways to improve the bridge and the traffic thereon. Remember, Captain, he’s a man who believes in profit. Then you mention, as a courtesy, that you will be heartened to see him again, and you hope that he and his daughters get through this bitter winter without incident.”

A large sigh escaped, then John nodded slightly. “You are very clever.”

“I was raised as a gentleman. I don’t know how clever I am.” A pause, then Charles took the rag and said, “But I rather like thinking of myself as clever.” He almost reached out to touch Schuyler on the shoulder but thought better of it. “Thank you for the rope.”