The Kingdom on the Waves Page 20

  Greek Zeno and Parmenides, saith Dr. Trefusis, claimed that there was no change nor motion; fire an arrow at a target, reasoned Zeno, and it can never get there, for it must travel half the way, and then half that distance, then half that distance, and again, and again; so that there shall always be an increment of space between the arrow-tip and target. So do I feel here upon this ship; that even did we open fire with our artillery upon the shore, that the grapeshot should move with infinite halving through the air, endless division, never arriving, always suspended.

  At the close of our lesson on Locke, Dr. Trefusis, who must needs catch the ferry back with the washerwomen to the Dunluce, observed with some concern, “You do not speak when Pro Bono is by.”

  I replied that Pro Bono was my elder, and I felt it unseemly to speak when my betters were conversing.

  “That is no matter,” said Dr. Trefusis. “In Boston at the Widow Platt’s, you and I gabbled away the hours. Now you seem silent again, like that frightened youth I was acquainted with at the College, before he escaped and commenced a life of hazard. Where is your spirit of some months ago?”

  I replied, “Perhaps I have not changed as you thought I had. Perhaps nothing changes, and there is no such thing as change nor motion.”

  “When Diogenes the Cynic heard, in a debate, that there was no such thing as change nor motion, he refuted the charge by walking about the stage during his opponent’s speech, waggling his legs.”

  “I was mistaken in the notion that I was become a man; I am still a child.”

  “Octavian, we none of us reach manhood,” said Trefusis. “That is the great secret of men. We aim for manhood always and always fall short. But my boy, I have seen you reach at least half way.”

  December 31st, 1775

  A bitter frost. We have head-ache from double rations of rum and half-rations of beef. We hear a few scattered shots upon the water but none know what it signifies.

  ’Tis said that, should the rebels be bold enough to muster just once more upon the wharves, we shall launch an attack upon Norfolk and level it; the slave-driving rascals have received fair warning. Our commanders have days ago informed them of this determination.

  Everyone knows this is the eve of assault: Those on watch say that they have seen great caravans of refugees fleeing from the invested town with carts piled high and wagons full of effects. The streets, say they, are full of bustle and flight. The shops close and there is an end to all commerce. Both sides, it seems, now ready themselves for the ultimatum to be touched off by new shew of rebel impertinence, and for the desolation to commence.

  As I write this, the four Coromantees in our Company are gathered in a circle, chanting their prayers or praise-songs, telling tales of valor from their kingdoms, which ritual is conducted to prepare them for battle.

  On the morrow, we all know, rebel and soldier alike, that the rebel shall muster with impudence; and we shall invade; and the battle shall be joined.

  We are ready to play our parts.

  January 4th, 1776

  At three o’clock on the afternoon of January 1st, the new year 1776 hardly commenced, the rebels infesting Norfolk saw fit to muster their sham army upon the docks of that beleaguered town in the plain sight of the floating army of their rightful Sovereign; and shortly before four of the clock, as solemnly promised, our ships opened their full battery upon the shore, cannons blasting, and the battle for Norfolk commenced.

  Below-decks, we formed as best we could in straitened space and umbrageous darkness. Though the Crepuscule was armed with but sixteen guns, the noise of their detonation was great, and as we labored to stand in the darkness, cannon blasts quaked the whole ship from strake to stringer.

  We having no chaplain to confer benedictions, Private Isaac, the pious carpenter, performed that service; he reciting, in voice hoarse with emotion:

  “‘O give thanks unto the Lord of lords:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  To him that smote Egypt in their firstborn:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  And brought out Israel from among them;

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  To him which divided the Red Sea into parts and made

  Israel to pass through the midst of it:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  But overthrew Pharoah and his host in the Red Sea:

  for his mercy endureth forever.’”

  The smell of the powder and smoke bit in the air; the battle lay across my tongue already; I could taste its iron, and I wished to chew.

  “‘To him which smote great kings:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  And slew famous kings:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  Sihon king of the Amorites:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  And Og the king of Bashan:

  for his mercy endureth forever. . . .’”

  From all about, the roar of cannons and shouts of orders reached our ears; the water itself which nestled the hull spake of the battle.

  Within me, anger: thinking on the mockery of the blackguards on the docks, the fleering of the mob, the calumnies of burgesses; thinking on the self-love of grinning old white men with their watches on quaint fobs, and the tortures of the innocent, the gleeful pursuit of profit without concern, without benevolence, the pious preaching of lies — thinking of these, I could not abide any longer our cramped hold — and wished us loosed upon our enemy, a chance to strike a blow.

  We issued forth upon the quarterdeck, and were treated to our first sight of the bombardment. The ships of the line blasted without cease and without opposition at the quays; the noise and commotion cannot be described; the air was thick and convulsive with explosion. The Dunmore, rigged and coursed with smoke like some spirit vessel, cast volleys of flame through its entanglements of cloud, and all its gray was incarnadined with fire.

  On the shore, shot punched holes in walls; docks staggered; and as we boarded our launches, we perceived figures retreating among the chaos and confusion of the piers.

  Our orders were thus: Under cover of a hot fire from the ships, we were to land, that we might burn and reduce to ashes the warehouses and stores closest to the water all along the wharves of the town, depriving the shirtmen of their wonted lairs, their posts for the commission of continued defiance. We were to do no more than destroy these haunts for snipers; this done, our work was complete; the docks should be secure; we were to return and await further orders. The rebels would be scourged from their roosts and out of range of the ships. We might then retake the town at our leisure. Norfolk should be ours again.

  “An we meet with resistance in the brenning,” said Craigie, “give ye na quarter — open fire. Y’art valiant men, and cam thus far; the likes of ye are not quick to submit now to the spite of the enemy and their snash. Make His Lordship proud of the Regiment that bear his name. Brave billies — brave!”

  “Here’s your moment, boys,” called Serjeant Clippinger, unwilling for his exhortation to be surpassed by his own corporal’s. “Aye, brave! Let’s serve them dogs a dinner they deserve!”

  We clambered down to the transports, and with mouths set and oars in our hands, we faced the docks and the enemy.

  We drew upon the oars. The warm mist of assault crept across the waters and involved us, piling down from ship decks and gun ports, mountainous, sharp with fume. We swayed on the launches and rowed unsmiling toward shore as shell and carcass shot flew far over our heads.

  Through the smoke we saw other launches put in from other brigs and sloops slipping toward the embattled docks. Soldiers sat with arms at ready.

  The air beat with detonations like a heart.

  “‘To him who remembered us in our low estate:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  And hath redeemed us from our enemies:

  for his mercy endureth forever.

  O give thanks unto the Lord our God:

  f
or his mercy endureth forever.’”

  On the Dunmore, I supposed, stood His Lordship, surveying the battle; he who had said he would make us proud to serve him; and indeed, I wished to prove His Lordship had made no error in freeing us; I desired us to demonstrate to all the world — the callous and the snide — that there was greater profit in sending us forth than in shackling us below. My choler was so risen, I longed for nothing more than confrontation; my fingers demanded engagement.

  Our fleet of small craft being almost come to the docks, the fire from the ships ceased. A strange stillness prevailed over the scene as the stentorian thunder of bombardment yielded to the minuscule cries and commands of distant voices. We could hear sharp as raps the lapping of waves against our gunwales. There were blasts from an invisible horn and the rattle of drums.

  Marines sat in the bow of our launch to provide covering fire while we disembarked; which precaution seemed of little utility, for the docks were now empty of all enemies. Come to the city pier, we stepped forth upon enemy soil and charged our muskets.

  In the square there by the docks, we formed, an operation carried out not without some error, we being little acclimated to the choreography of street-fighting. Having so arrayed ourselves, we made our way along the pier, where others of our Regiment and the 14th were clambering up from the river.

  We proceeded along the street, marching warily to avoid the assaults of guile unmoved by the fear of bombardment; the shops and warehouses to either side of us were evidently deserted. A dog ran before us.

  Arriving at a bend in the embankment, we entered into the first warehouse there, a storehouse for some chandlery, and began setting it to flames, touching our brands to cordage and hogsheads. The rope received the flame greedily; the transports of greed were succeeded by the profligacy of utmost generosity; and soon the whole store partook.

  In the next shop, empty of goods, there were signs of recent habitation by the shirtmen: blankets and mattresses laid upon the floor, clothing deposited in a corner, and recent ashes on the grate. Bono, Will, and I stood with our muskets at ready while the others lit the place afire with their burning torches.

  Stepping back into the street, we could survey our handiwork in the first warehouse, which now blazed well from its windows, pouring black smoke toward the sky, the heat considerable even at a distance of some forty feet.

  We passed over some smaller buildings, they lying in the lee of the burning buildings, and thus fated soon enough to catch fire; having passed them by, we entered a third warehouse, the roof of which was considerably compromised by the late passage of cannonballs — the peak blown off and the rafters visible. From without, through windows and a door ajar, we could see that the chambers of the place were in great disorder, some of the loft having collapsed to the floor.

  We entered — heard a crack — and found ourselves fired upon.

  That noise — and the true peril of our situation — it darted through my arms — I presented my gun — saw a muzzle, and fired.

  I trembled; ducked.

  He was dead, the shirtman; a man of about thirty, now bleeding from the cheek.

  Three had fired; I was one among three.

  It was then, observing the bloody face, that I took the measure of what had transpired: that we had encountered a bearded white man lying awkwardly upon a broken staircase, his leg crushed in the bombardment when the building was struck — a final stand, then, for one unable to flee; that he had fired his one shot, which went awry; that he had then known he should not have time to reload — cried out some name — which I could not recall — wife, perhaps, or child; that he had closed his eyes and averted his head as we fired back upon him, three muskets; one of which had sped.

  I was not sensible then of the rebukes of remorse; nor am I now. I thought only of the muzzle trained upon me, and my response, which was requisite.

  But I felt a soft hand upon my shoulder as I stood guard while the room was searched. “Your first kill,” said Bono to me gently, with an air of kindness and a cadence of mollification. “One generous habit of a volley: You never know if it was your bullet or some other body’s did the deed.”

  I regarded him with impassivity, I believe; for he wished me to be sorrowful, to wince at some degradation; but I was aware of no sentiment of horror. I felt, I suppose, a rage tall and consuming as the fires we set.

  He continued, without need, “Don’t regret it, Prince O. It was him or us.”

  “My only regret,” I replied, “is that he left behind a musket rather than a rifle, which would have been a greater prize.” I took a pleasure in Bono’s startlement, his wariness.

  We did not tarry, but Charles, who is ever practical in his considerations, swept in to secure the man’s musket and powder horn. As he pulled the gun from the man’s hands, Better Joe berated him in their own tongue, over some protocol or gesture necessary for quieting a murdered enemy.

  Charles gave him a look of disdain and turned back to robbing the dead. Then Charles and Pomp lit the staircase on fire, and we left the man to burn upon this bier.

  Thus my first kill.

  We emerged from the warehouse to find our previous two conflagrations active.

  Now in the outer air, a thought passed fleeting through my skull: that I was so tender-hearted I could not bear to see Slant Croak upset at Christmas tales — but that I had now perhaps killed a man — and yet there was no disagreement of temperaments. I did not feel disordered nor divided in the least.

  Farther along the street, a detachment fired upon a house. The air was thick with smoke.

  We proceeded back toward the dock. Two cats ran along the street, fleeing from the general destruction. Along the avenue, our drummer beat out commands, but we could not hear them sufficiently amidst the chaos. We heard the screams of a horse.

  It was first down a side-alley that we saw more flame.

  This spectacle arrested us with its strangeness; for the landing parties had been ordered to fire merely the docks and buildings by the water, not the town itself.

  But we had no opportunity to deliberate upon it. We continued in our commanded destruction: We halted again to set fire to a shop, this time touching our brands to the exterior.

  A detachment ran past us, shouting without reason.

  Our work complete, the row of buildings all along the riverfront given over to flame, we returned to our landing and stood in formation, awaiting the order to embark. We could see that other portions of the town were indeed afire, some well inland. Corporal Craigie ordered us back into the launch.

  When our other detachment appeared, they took their places; we pushed off from the shore and rowed toward the Crepuscule.

  Now removed from the theater of action, we could survey the whole prospect of our assault; and it was then that we fully recognized the oddity of those flames commenced in the heart of the town.

  I feared at first that the wind had shifted, and that our conflagration had, despite our precautions, spread inward; but it was the matter of a glance to see that these flames which now arose well away from the river bore no connection to those of our setting.

  “Someone fired the houses,” I said. “The roofs are burning.”

  “Some fool,” said Bono, “don’t understand orders. We want to take the town, not burn it down.”

  So we thought. But no sooner had we gained the Crepuscule than we heard word from one of the topmen of the true case — unutterable — astounding to believe.

  “I seen it,” said the sailor. “From the royal yardarm. It’s the rebel.” The man squinted at shore. “The rebel’s firing the town.”

  It was beyond comprehension; but this was indeed the truth: The rebels themselves were taking up our work and destroying Norfolk.

  We stood bewildered on deck after deck of that irregular fleet — brigs and schooners, sloops and barges, frigates, grand yachts and lowly ketches — soldiers and sailors, families fled from the town, husbands with their arms around their wives watc
hing their homes burn — we all observed the spread of flame.

  “Fools,” said Bono in wonder. “There are some utter fools. I say, let them burn up the town. Let them burn it all up into atoms. When word of this is spread wide — they sack a whole city for no reason on God’s earth — then some eyes, they are going to open. People got to realize that His Lordship has a few good words to say about lawlessness and treason and how we has to restore order. And maybe people, they will finally see what species of criminal is parading through the streets, calling theyselves friends of liberty.”

  We were ordered below. For an hour, we remained there. At that time, we received word that we were to return to land that we might bring off such stores and victuals as remained, and attempt to halt the destruction by the rebels; which we knew was, at that advanced hour, mere futility.

  Being called to stand to arms again, we rose, stooping, and took up our muskets. Danger passed, we had accustomed ourselves to retirement for the night at least; and now that hazard was renewed, our spirits struggled with sensations of dread and doubt at what we should find in that uncertain scene of destruction.

  Still, we embarked again and rowed toward the flame.

  Thus we landed, and entered the inferno.

  The structures along the river were now nought but torrents of fire, liquid and rushing; whatever features as remained — lintels, doorframes, and roof-trees — were sketched with dark charcoal smudges in the midst of red activity. The city pier and square, however, afforded a place still for landing parties, and ’twas there we disembarked, formed, and began our mystified sortie. We progressed up past the Market House.