Pirates and Prisoners Chapter 6 Existence

[Jeff Thomas]

Benjamin and Marcus slogged through the muddy streets of Boston, walking in the rain toward the Allen residence. “I hope your family is home; it’s wet out here.”

“Be glad it isn’t snowing. But don’t worry. If Mother is home, she will feed us. I do not know where she might have gone when Father went to sea. He said he was worried about her health when he sent me out on my first voyage. He never explained why he left her to go to sea.” Benjamin watched as his friend started to say something, then changed his mind. “Yes, be careful what you say. I’m not in the mood for jokes today.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Down this street, we’re almost there.”

They turned down a side street. Suddenly a woman’s shout cut through the street noise.

“Benjamin,” the woman yelled, “Benjamin Bradford Allen.” Then, a door banged open, and a woman ran out.

“Mother!” Benjamin shouted and ran to embrace her. For two full minutes mother and son cried together. When they had regained their composure they went into the house.

“Your father insisted on finding you; there was no point in trying to stop him from going out. But oh, my Lord, how I’ve missed you.”

“Mother.” Benjamin took a deep breath, “Mother, I must talk about Father for a moment.” His tone clearly carried his anguish. Marcus stepped back into a corner, giving them a semblance of privacy. Benjamin’s sister, Abigail, peeked through the door to catch a glimpse of her brother. Marcus waved her in; at least he wouldn’t be standing in the corner alone.

“I know. The Royals have him. I have received letters from him. They have moved him many times; I don’t know if he’s on a prison ship or held ashore.”

Benjamin struggled with his emotions, glad that his father was alive, crushed that he did not even know where he was. The tears started again as Mrs. Allen lost control of her emotions. “I’m glad you are home,” she said still struggling to control her emotions. “It has been tough, we can barely make ends meet, and I must set aside something to try to find your father. I’m trying to get food to him.”

“The British aren’t feeding him? I was afraid of that.” Benjamin smiled sadly. “I think I can help.” He nodded at Marcus, who pulled a leather purse out from under his coat. He set it on the table. It made a metallic rattle as it hit the table. Mrs. Allen protested the gift;
Abigail peeked into the purse and gasped.

“How much of this is ours?”

Benjamin grinned. “All of it.”

The two women opened the purse and looked at the array of gold and silver coins. Neither could talk. Finally, Mrs. Allen found her voice. She fixed Benjamin in a steady gaze. “Benjamin, where did you get this? Did you steal it?”

“No, Mother, we are not thieves. On the contrary, I have a letter of Marque from the Massachusetts Provincial Congress authorizing me to seize British ships and sell them and their cargo.”

“Well then. Yes, this will help. A lot.” Mrs. Allen looked at the two men. “Will you stay for dinner.? I have beef stew.”
Benjamin poked Marcus in the ribs. “My mother’s stew is a legend in Boston.”

“Well then, we must stay.”

For ten minutes, as they ate, Benjamin and Mrs. Allen could pretend Moses was away on business, not imprisoned as a pirate. They talked about Gus’s adventures in the army to the extent they could. “He promised to write,” Mrs. Allen lamented, “but I only have a few letters.”

“You know,” Marcus said with a grin toward Abigail, who was hanging on to every word out of the man’s mouth, “we helped Gus bring in the supplies General Washington needed to fight the Hessians at Trenton and Princeton. So, you might say we won the battle.”

“Gus told us you helped provide supplies,” Abigail said solemnly, “but nothing like that.”
Benjamin took a spoonful of stew and said, “Marcus, I’d like to say that to the General.”

“Modesty would prevent me from taking such credit from the General Commanding.”

Abigail giggled; Benjamin poked his spoon around his bowl. This “beef stew” seemed very short on beef. Shortly after eating,
Benjamin and Marcus took their leave and returned to the ship. They walked in silence at first, Marcus leaving Benjamin with his thoughts. Marcus assumed he was upset with the lack of knowledge about Moses.

“Marcus.”

“Yes, Cap’n?”

“Just a word of caution.”

“Sir?”

“Making eyes at your commander’s sister is poor form unless you intend to marry her.”

“I was making sure she enjoyed her dinner. But I will keep that in mind.”

“See that you do.”

Marcus started to say something, then decided to keep quiet. The street was dark; he couldn’t see Benjamin’s face. Was the man joking or genuinely mad at him? He had no way of knowing. But he did know that he liked Benjamin and respected his seamanship and good treatment of the crew. But, on the other hand, he needed to be careful; with Moses in prison, Benjamin was the family’s head. It didn’t help that Abigail was a lovely young woman and pleasant company.

*

Gus trudged down the muddy trail and tried not to think about what was happening to his feet. Every few steps, something, a rock, a root, or some other obstacle, poked through the sole of his boot. At least he had shoes, more than many soldiers could say. He had yet to learn where the Army was going. He suspected that even General Washington wasn’t sure. The army needed to prepare a winter encampment, but they didn't even have a location.

General Washington and his senior officers wanted to place it where they could protect Pennsylvania and harass the British Army around Philadelphia. Some politicians supported that idea. Others, influenced by the thought of having thousands of new customers, pushed for other locations where they did business.

Meanwhile, Gus and twelve thousand other men marched around the Pennsylvania countryside.

“Oww, my foot.” Gus suddenly yelped. He clawed at his boot; a sharp rock had found its way through a hole. “Damn, that smarts.” He hopped on one foot while trying to dislodge the stone. Michael Carney, his friend through many battles, laughed at him. “I’m glad you find this funny.”

“Considering the condition of my shoes, you will no doubt have a chance to laugh at me soon.”

“Watch out!” Gus yelled, pointing and jumping off the road. Several men on horses galloped by, forcing men off the road. As officers, they deserved mounts, but Gus didn’t think that gave them a right to run down regular soldiers.

“What do you suppose that was all about?” Michael asked.

“I don’t imagine anybody will think we need to know.”

That evening a new rumor swept the camp as men cooked meager meals over outdoor fires. Gus, like most soldiers, used his musket ramrod as a skewer to hold a small piece of venison. Although his rank entitled him to a few amenities, such as a nonexistent horse, more meat wasn’t one of them. Then, in the evening twilight, he spotted another officer he knew walking through the camp.

“Tom,” he waved, “what do you know?”

“Damn, Army is crazy.”

“I meant something new.”

“The Army is still crazy.”

“Care to explain.”

Tom thought before answering. “I have no way of knowing if this is true. Those messengers that came in this afternoon say that some British mercenaries roughly handled Colonel Hamilton and Lighthorse Harry Lee about two weeks ago. The British drove them from a town outside Philadelphia. A place called Valley Forge. It was not their fault, but the Brits captured badly needed supplies and burned the rest.”

“Meaning I’m going to have to make this bite of venison last,” Gus said as he picked the last bit of meat off his ramrod.

“Yeah.” Tom continued. “It was on General Washington’s list of places to set up winter quarters. “I don’t know what we’ll do now.”

“That’s easy,” Michael said, “we’ll go hungry.”

“Cold, too,” Tom added. “There’s no huts or anything for us.”

Silence engulfed the little circle of soldiers around the campfire as the men thought about a bad winter ahead for the army. For his part, Gus thought of Benjamin and hoped his brother would do something for the Continental cause. Then, his thoughts turned to their father. Gus knew only that British authorities had imprisoned Moses. If a low-ranking officer lacked food or clothing, how much worse would it be for a prisoner? He promised himself to make a sincere effort to stop complaining. He didn’t have it so bad.

*

Moses Allen opened his eyes and took in his surroundings without moving any other body part. The space between the two decks was dimly lit, as always. Bodies packed the gun deck, which formed the floor of his existence. He kept hoping to wake up elsewhere, but it had not happened so far. He’d lost track of time, at least in detail. He thought he’d been in this hell for a few months. But if correct, it was the fall of 1777.

As always, the stench gagged him. He believed the hulk was an old seventy-four-gun ship of the line, now slowly rotting away in New York harbor. At a guess, a thousand men, twice its usual complement, now lived in it. They rotted away, too, creating a foul smell.

He lay on a thin blanket, a poor substitute for a hammock or mattress. His muscles protested as he slowly started moving. Finally, he forced himself to roll over. Then he managed to stand upright and started taking small steps. Walking in a tight circle was all he could manage. So far, he had stayed on the upper gun deck, where he had access to fresh air and more food on a good day. Conditions were worse on the lower deck and horrible in the hold. The old ship had its social strata. The most muscular inmates pushed the weaker ones to the lower levels, where they waited to die.

He heard footsteps above his head; soldiers pulled aside the grate covering the hatch to the weather deck. “Pass up your dead,” a guard called out. For the next few minutes, prisoners on the two gun decks lifted bodies through hatches. The guards counted the bodies and subtracted them from the number of prisoners, then descended with barrels holding the correct amount of food for the number of prisoners. Moses didn’t see the point of it all; a man couldn’t live on what the British Army considered the right amount of food for a prisoner. He didn’t think the rations that would have fed the now dead would break the Royal treasury. But regulations said otherwise. The prisoners lined up in neat rows to draw their rations.

Moses could hear men grumbling about the food given out. However, he saw no point in complaining. Apart from increasing the chances of receiving the lash, he knew the Royals would claim they had no more food. So, when he reached the head of the line, a marine put a ladle of thin gruel in Moses’ bowl.

“This is it?”

“Shut your hole. It's all we have.”

Moses shuffled away, looking for space on the deck to sit down and eat. From the stern of the hulk, a voice began screaming. For the third day in a row, the man had given in to the madness taking over his mind. On previous days, he had calmed down after a few minutes. But, this time, he kept screaming. Moses heard a wet slap as someone close hit the screamer. This produced more screaming and a deeper voice yelling in rage. The sounds of fighting intensified. Moses could not see what was happening in the dim light.

As the yelling continued, two marines began striking prisoners with their muskets. Some prisoners, Moses included, backed away from the growing fight. Moses gulped his gruel down. He usually ate slowly, trying to make it seem like he had more food than he did.
But he did not want to lose even one swallow. Seconds later, two men collided, knocking a bowl to the deck, and spilling the contents. Its owner, seemingly lacking the strength to fight, began to sob.

“This is inhumane,” a voice shouted, “we are men, not animals. At least give us food.”

Moses suddenly realized the voice was his. “I’m losing my mind,” he thought, “if I do get out of here, I will be lucky to have even a shred of humanity left.”

Four more marines descended from the hatch to the deck and joined the fray. Using their muskets as clubs, they tried to push the fighters toward the stern. Then, a brilliant flash of light split the darkness like a lightning bolt, followed by the boom of a gunshot. Moses thought the ball went into the overhead, but could not be sure. Seconds later, unable to quell the riot, the marines fired into the crowd of men.

“Stop,” another voice tried to cut through the sound of the riot without success. “For the love of God, stop.”
Moses saw a marine bayonet a prisoner. Several prisoners made a feeble attempt to fight him, but they were so weak from hunger and disease that they didn’t hurt him at all. It took the marines half an hour to stop the fighting. The riot left nearly a dozen prisoners dead and a score wounded. But, except for scrapes and bruises, the marines went unhurt. Moses huddled in a deserted corner of the gun deck. His life aboard the hulk was miserable, but he was not ready to release his hold on life.


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[jemhouston]

Nasty business