A Spell for the Revolution (14 page)

A second ghost, built like a New York blacksmith, came along with a slave chain in his hands. He clamped one shackle around Washington’s ankle and the other to the ghost already there. Then he clapped the chain to his own ankle and joined them.

The third ghost to arrive was gut-shot. Its hat and jacket reminded Proctor of the militiamen he knew from Connecticut and Massachusetts. The ghost writhed and twisted, stuffing its intestines back into the cavity of its torso, only to have his head fly back as if shot and all the organs spill out again. The blacksmith grinned as it clapped a chain around his ankle.

Washington’s eyes flickered as if he felt a slight pain, but he revealed no more than that. “Is something wrong,
ma’am?” he asked. “I mean, beyond the obvious circumstances. You seem dismayed.”

“It’s no, no problem,” Deborah stammered.

“The New York ferry is presently engaged for our use, along with numerous other craft, as you may see. With your permission, I will offer you a seat—”

“General, General,” another officer cried as his horse galloped in, kicking up mud with his hooves and digging in for footing while it slid to a stop. The ghost on his back was a young man who had died in fear, and it shared that fear with its new host.

Washington lifted his head, clearly unhappy to be interrupted, though it was no more than a hardening of the lines around his mouth, the disappearance of what was no more than a hint of a smile.

“General, you must embark at once,” the officer insisted.

Washington put his hat back on and turned his horse toward the new officer. The stiffening of his body, the way he rested his hand on his saber—all of it made clear that one did not tell Washington what he
must
do.

But the new officer, as frightened as Washington was calm, was not to be deterred. “Sir, the rain has lifted. The British could break camp at any time.”

Washington still had not spoken. When he did, it was slowly and calmly, as if there were no need at all for worry. “You keep an eye on our British friends and let me know when they start to move. I think they may be settled in for the night. Tallmadge and his men can hold them if they need to. Until then, we’ll keep moving the men in the order that we’ve planned.”

“But,
sir
. With the storm lifted, the British fleet could come up the East River at any moment. All the boats in the water will be cut off, and we’ll be stranded here.”

“I’ll have Colonel Glover and his men keep an eye out for the British on that front.”

The officer opened his mouth, thought better of what he was going to say, then closed it again. He scanned the lines of men waiting to board the boats. The lines of men, in turn, watched the exchange between Washington and his young officer intently. At that moment an empty boat returned from the New York side, driving up on the shore with a muted
thump
.

Washington sat on his horse, making no gesture to move toward the empty vessel. An instant later the next men in line began to quietly board.

The young officer overcame the fear caused by his ghost for a moment. He sat up crisply in his saddle and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Washington returned the salute. When the officer departed back to his duties, he went at a slower, more deliberate pace.

“With your permission, I will offer you a seat in my boat when I cross,” Washington promised Deborah. “But there may be a wait until that happens.”

“I understand,” she said. “As civilians, we’re not in the same danger from the British as your men.”

The ghosts tugged at Washington’s back, trying to divert his attention, but he was unmoved by them. “I’m glad to see that you are a woman of discernment. What’s your name, young man?”

“Proctor Brown.”

Recognition flashed in Washington’s eyes. “Proctor Brown, of Concord, lately of Salem?”

Proctor’s heart caught in his throat as if he’d been named by the minister during Sunday worship. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Paul Revere spoke very highly of you,” Washington said. He studied Proctor closely, sizing him up. To the soldier who waited on them, he said, “Provide them every comfort we have to offer.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier said.

Washington looked back at Proctor and Deborah. “And the two of you are …”

“Brother and sister,” Deborah said quickly.

“I see,” Washington said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Brown. The next time I see you, I hope it will be in the uniform of a Continental soldier.”

Proctor stood at attention just as if he were at militia drill. He said, “I can’t promise that. But I am willing to do my part for the patriotic cause.”

“Honestly spoken,” Washington said. A slight smile played at the corner of his lips. He tipped his hat to Deborah, “Ma’am.”

They watched him head away toward the rear guard that protected their retreat. Proctor knew that the situation was quite grim. Still, Washington’s manner was infectious—he made you want to be as calm as he was calm, as confident as he seemed to be.

“Is there anything you need?” their soldier-guide asked. He looked at Proctor differently now.

“Clean water,” Proctor said. “And a bite to eat.”

He knew it was a lot to ask for under these conditions, but the guide promised to see to it immediately and ran off. A short while later he returned with half a canteen of fresh water and two dry oatcakes.

“I’m sorry we can’t spare more,” he said. “If that covers it, then I best go back where I’m needed.”

“Thank you,” Deborah told him.

“Yes,” Proctor said, downing a sip of water. “Thank you.”

“The honor is mine,” the soldier said. He saluted Proctor, and then, without waiting for a response, turned back to the ramparts. He used the butt of his musket to steady himself as he climbed the slippery hillside. The ghost riding his shoulder turned its head and watched Deborah and Proctor as he left.

“What is that about?” Deborah said.

“I’m not sure,” Proctor admitted.

“Do you think Revere told him about The Farm?”

Proctor shrugged. “Maybe he just told him about what I did at Lexington and Concord, and at Bunker Hill.” The truth was, he was proud of his service with the militia. He knew that what they did now was important too, maybe more important. But it galled him sometimes not to be able to serve with the other soldiers.

They went and sat against one of the abandoned cannons, tearing off pieces of the cake and chewing slowly. They passed the canteen back and forth to wash down the dry mouthfuls. If he did not exactly feel his strength returning, Proctor no longer felt so weak. Another group of boats departed, but there were thousands of soldiers still waiting their turn, including Washington and his officers and all the rear guard.

“Deborah?”

“Yes?”

Her voice was distracted. Now that they no longer had to concentrate to keep themselves going, would she collapse again? Would he? “Can we do something?”

She looked up at him, as if this was exactly the question she had feared. “I don’t know what we can do.”

“It has to be clear what the strategy is.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Covenant places this curse on the army at night. The men are filled with fear, demoralized. At daybreak, the British mean to charge over the ramparts and defeat them.”

She nodded her head to the shore, where the men stood in patient, orderly lines. “They don’t look filled with fear or demoralized to me.”

“You know that’s only temporary. They’re so exhausted by the rain and the battle, they can’t sink any lower. And Washington hasn’t rested a moment. He’s everywhere, making sure the men see him, setting an example that they want
to follow. The moment he’s out of their sight, the ghosts will do their work.”

She looked away from him, so he stood and walked in front of her.

“You see how long those lines are, how slow they’re moving. Morning will come and British ships will sail up the river, and British troops will march over those walls, and Washington and all his best men will be caught and killed. Can’t we make it rain again? Bring down another storm, just long enough to cover the rest of the retreat? One or two hours is all they need.”

She turned her body away from Proctor. “I’ve got nothing left in me.”

“Tell me how to do it.”

“I … I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” He looked at the men waiting in line, the men who were fighting when he didn’t. “I’ll take the risk, whatever it is.”

She shook her head and moved away. When he advanced again, she put up her in hands, prepared to push him away. Some of the soldiers around them were watching closely.

“What are they going to think?” she said to Proctor, indicating the soldiers. “You don’t want to draw attention to us. You
don’t
want to do that.”

“I want to do
something.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing we can do.”

Proctor paced up and down the beach, the mud sucking at his feet. Boat by boat, the soldiers were slowly ferried to safety, but the night was passing rapidly and dawn would come early in the clear skies. The east was starting to brighten. Across the ramparts, from the British lines, came the distant sounds of morning drums. He went back to Deborah. “It’s not enough—they’re not all going to make it.”

She held her hands open, helplessly. “I’ve tried everything
I know how to try. I have nothing left inside me right now.”

A low voice whistled behind them. “Hallelujah.”

The speaker was instantly ordered to silence, but his sentiment was shared by others.

A mist was rising. Out on the water, over the boats, settling in around the men waiting their turn. It grew thicker as he watched, until the shore disappeared from Proctor’s view.

A splash sounded as someone missed a step getting into his boat. It was followed by quieter splashes as the boat moved away from shore.

The soldier who had spoken to them before came by. “We’re leaving the wall now, last troops to go,” he whispered, his voice hushed even more by the fog. “It’s a miracle. There wasn’t enough night, but this will keep Black Dick’s ships at anchor and give us a chance to get away.”

Boats ran ashore unexpectedly, several of them at the same time, and voices sorted out positions and began boarding. Proctor and Deborah drifted toward them.

“This is not a natural fog,” Proctor said softly. It was clammy on his skin and made his heart race.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed.

“Did you do this? By accident, perhaps?”

“No,” she said. “The Covenant did it.”

When she said it, he saw what she meant. The rowboats full of soldiers took a cargo of ghosts with them every time they crossed. The cold from all those spectral bodies drew up fog from the water. The magic itself was drawing up the mist.

“We are saved,” he whispered to Deborah. “And at the same time we are cursed.”

“We can’t cross,” she said.

“Why? Because of the mist?”

“No, because of the curse. We have to stay, we have to find the orphan, and we have to break this curse. This is
evil, Proctor. This is evil twice, because it does wrong to the souls of the dead as well as the spirits of the living.”

“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll find the orphan and break the spell.”

Down on the shore, Washington climbed aboard one of the last ferries to leave Brooklyn. He beckoned Deborah to him.

“Here is the seat I promised you,” he said.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Deborah said. “But my brother and I have decided to stay behind. We have a relation here. Seeing all this death, it only firms us in our conviction to remove our relative from harm. We are sorry if we troubled you tonight.”

She had her arms wrapped tight around her chest. Despite wearing Proctor’s jacket, she shivered so much her teeth chattered.

“Are you sure you wish to remain behind?” Washington asked.

“We are,” Deborah said.

“Then keep an eye out for the British,” Washington said. He regarded Proctor deliberately. “If you’re the patriot I think you are, I’ll expect you to find me and report after you rescue your relation.”

Proctor fought the urge to snap to attention, salute, and say
yes, sir
. “I’ll do what I can.”

Washington gave him a nod that felt like a salute. With unhurried grace, he turned to the boat and spoke with similar deliberation to each man there. A slave in a red turban, a short dark-skinned man built like a cannonball, rode his horse toward the ferry, leading Washington’s sorrel behind. He dismounted on the run, rolling into a smooth walking motion, and led both horses aboard without breaking stride.

It was an amazing feat of horsemanship, Proctor thought. Washington laughed to see it, and the slave returned his laughter with a grin.

The Massachusetts sailors pushed off from shore and began their silent journey across the river.

Deborah stepped close to Proctor, still shivering. “Let’s move away from the water,” she said. “It’s too chilly here for an August morning.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“To break this curse?” she said. “I think we start in Gravesend.”

Gravesend was a collection of houses on a long, low slope overlooking the ocean on the southern shore of the island. When they reached town that day, Proctor and Deborah split up to search for the orphan.