The Rifleman Read online

  Early Tuesday morning I sought out Pieter and Lotte for their help. Though they are indentured to my father, not to me, his youngest son, they were most agreeable to aiding my preparations.

  While I sharpened my ax and hunting knife, Pieter fired up the forge next to our stable. Then, using the cast iron crucible, ladle, molds, and sprue-cutters Father designed, we poured and finished 250 perfect .43 caliber lead bullets for my .45 caliber Henry rifle.

  I spent the balance of the daylight hours carefully wrapping each bullet, a beeswax coated patch, and a carefully measured amount of powder into waxed paper, forming cartridges for my rifle—something commonplace for a person carrying a smoothbore musket—but very rare for a Rifleman.1 I placed twenty-five each in leather cartridge boxes and wrapped them all in oilcloth to keep them dry.

  On Wednesday, while Pieter went to assist several neighbors with a barn-raising, Lotte helped me prepare clothing and equipment. She washed and dried four linsey-woolsey hunting shirts and three pairs of linen leggin’s while I searched through several large chests in our house and the hayloft over the stable. It was a reminder of how my mother never gave or threw away anything that might be useful in the future.

  Father often described our mother as “a wise and frugal Proverbs 31 wife.” My quest for clothing and equipment proved he was correct. My search yielded two pairs of good heavy shoes and three pairs of moccasins made from sheepskin with wool inside and a half dozen pairs of wool stockings.

  I also discovered the heavy hemp linen cloak my dear departed brother Joshua purchased in Boston during his first student winter at Harvard. Lotte insisted on carefully washing the garment and coating it with a beeswax compound she promised would make it waterproof. When it was dry, I wrapped it around my sextant and circumferentor in their leather cases and stuffed it all into my canvas backpack.

  On Thursday afternoon, Pieter and I rode out to Father’s tobacco, corn, and forage fields just north of Winchester. We agreed he would make a first-cut of hay in early June in hopes for a second cut in September and in between he would tend the tobacco and harvest the corn in late autumn.

  On our way back home Pieter said, “Master Nathanael, there is much talk among the farmers and merchants about the likelihood of war with Great Britain. If that happens, it’s probable the market for Virginia tobacco will be beknot—in English I think that means curtailed—or—restricted—and the price for tobacco will likely be very low. Perhaps it would be wise to consider planting more wheat, oats, corn, or even orchard grass for forage instead of tobacco. What do you think?”

  I already knew growing and harvesting tobacco is one of the most labor-intensive crops in the world. In the spring young plants had to be gently pulled from their seed-beds and set out in rows in a plowed field—a back-breaking, sunup-to-sundown task. Then, it had to be hoed, suckered, fertilized, and, if the parasites, worms, drought, or too much rain didn’t destroy the fragile plants, it would finally be ready for harvest in the autumn.

  Harvesting, like everything else with tobacco, was arduous. The leaves had to be picked by hand at just the right moment, one at a time, strung on sticks, then hung in a barn—or on a fence—to be cured and finally “graded” by some arbitrary person who would decide what our entire crop should be worth, based on how he felt that day.

  No one in London or the Colonies could honestly deny that tobacco was Virginia’s most profitable crop. Nor would anyone dare admit tobacco could not exist as a profitable commodity but for slaves and indentured servants.

  It suddenly occurred to me, Pieter and Lotte were far more astute than I realized. Guessing the future price for tobacco before new plants were even in the ground was a challenge every tobacco planter faced. But forecasting the consequence of a possible war on the value of a crop was, to me, extraordinary.

  As though he read my mind, Pieter smiled and said, “Master Nathanael, I can hear you thinking, How does this Dutchman know these things? Well, you may wonder. But I’m sure you are aware, Lotte and I were convicted by the King’s Revenue Officers because we were very good at predicting a profitable market price for smuggled Dutch East India tea from Java that would beat any price set by the not-so-honorable British East India Company?”

  I nodded and said, “Yes.”

  Smiling, he continued, “Well, we came by this skill from birth, our Dutch grandparents did the same with delft porcelain and coffee. You have some of both in your house. So, it seems to us—if there is to be a war—grains, corn, and forage are likely to be in greater need than tobacco, sell at a higher price, and require less labor to plant and harvest.”

  I could only nod in agreement and reply, “That sounds like very good advice. I will write to Father and recommend it to him.”

  We arrived home just at dusk. As Pieter and I were watering our horses and putting away the saddles and tack, a Trusted Courier, mounted on a lathered stallion, arrived at our gate and shouted, “Halloo!”

  Pieter grabbed one of the two lit lanterns and hastened to the portal. I heard the rider inquire, “Is this the residence of James Newman, the architect?”

  “Ya,” Pieter replied, “why do you ask?”

  “I have a message for his son, Nathanael. Is he here?”

  I tethered my horse over the water trough so she could ­continue to drink and rushed to the gate. “I am Nathanael Newman, sir.”

  The rider reached into the pouch slung over his shoulder, drew out an envelope, and handed it to me. “A relay rider from Richmond brought this to our station on the north side of the Rappahannock in Falmouth this morning. He said it was from Williamsburg and it was for urgent delivery to you.”

  It occurred to me how strange it was to be sending and receiving correspondence by such means. When he was a Crown Postmaster, Mr. Benjamin Franklin visited Winchester and promised to build a post office. Unfortunately, it was not yet constructed when the authorities in London dismissed Mr. Franklin for seditious activities.

  I took the letter. By the lantern’s dim light, I could see it was my father’s hand on the envelope and a red wax seal with the imprint of his wedding ring; an ichthys.

  Our mother had an identical ring and they told us their rings were a reminder to one another they were both Christians. She told us a bedtime story about how the symbol was used as a secret signal by ancient followers of Jesus to mark safe meeting places and discern friend from foe when Christians were being hunted and killed by Roman soldiers.

  More than once, Father showed us how a Christian, encountering a stranger on the road, would draw the top arc in the dust with a stick. If the stranger drew the bottom arc, intersecting at the mouth and crossing at the tail, in the shape of a fish, they both could be certain they were in safe company.

  Before rushing into the house to read it, I said, “Thank you, kind sir. Will you come in? It is nearly dark. Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet but thank you. I have one more message to deliver before I rest tonight. May I water my horse?”

  “Of course,” I replied as Pieter opened the gate.

  The dispatch rider dismounted and as I handed him a ladle of cold well water, Pieter led the horse to the trough. After man and beast drank their fill, I held the reins while Pieter gave the rider a leg-up to remount.

  It was only then I noticed he had a British .54 caliber Sea Service pistol shoved into his belt. As we walked to the gate, he noticed my stare, patted it, and said, “Don’t worry, lad. I’m not a Tory. I came by this honestly.”

  “Sir?”

  “I stole it from Lord Dunmore’s armory in Williamsburg. Since he stole our powder and shot, it seemed like a fair trade.”

  Pieter closed the gate behind him and as the courier rode off, said, “A fair trade indeed. The only question is which was stolen first, the powder or the pistol?”

  I took one of the lanterns, went into the house, sat down at the table, and used my hunting
knife to open the envelope and preserve the seal.

  With the Hanover County Militia

  Near Williamsburg, VA

  April 26th, 1775

  My Dear Son, Nathanael,

  Please know how pleased I am Captain Morgan has invited you to serve as his Adjutant.

  If it be your want, you have my blessing to accept the appointment. You are bright, brave, and fit. You know responsibility and accountability and possess all the skills, acumen, and tenacity necessary to the task.

  These are challenging times. Some of our countrymen are just now trying to decide what to do. I am grateful that my sons are Patriots who have answered the call to duty. The three of you will be forever revered by all who love Liberty.

  Be assured Paul and I shall keep you in our prayers and are grateful for being in yours.

  I remain your loving father, James Newman

  Sic Semper Tyrannis

  On Friday morning I arrived at the Major Charles Smith’s Crossroads Tavern in Battletown before dawn. The sun was just a golden glow atop the Blue Ridge when Rev. Thruston appeared out of the mist aboard one of Captain Morgan’s heavy transport wagons, accompanied by Josiah, one of Captain Morgan’s slaves.

  After dismounting, he greeted me with a handshake and a smile and said, “Nathanael, you have to see this.”

  While Josiah watered the two draft horses, the reverend walked around to the rear of the wagon and threw back the canvas cover.

  The contents were far greater than Captain Morgan described on Monday. I counted seven half-barrels stenciled “poudre à canon,” ten stacks of thin lead sheets for casting bullets, four casks labeled “nitre,”2 three marked “sulfur,” five full barrels labeled “salt-pork,” six large cooking kettles, stacks of tin dinner plates, and ten sacks of cornmeal. Bolted to the bed of the wagon was a small anvil. Beside it, open wooden boxes held a small leather bellows, casting ladles for melting lead, and the assorted tongs, hammers, and tools used by blacksmiths.

  I was stunned by the quantity of supplies and how well it was packed. “Where did all this come from?”

  “Captain Morgan has had it hidden in a shed on his farm,” Rev. Thruston replied. “You may recall, before he became a ­soldier-farmer he was a ‘wagoneer.’ He carried hundreds of cargoes east, over the Blue Ridge to the ports in Alexandria, Falmouth, and Richmond. He once told me he never returned with an empty wagon.”

  “But the gunpowder—those are French military markings. How did he get that?”

  “Ahh,” the reverend began, dropping his voice nearly to a whisper. “Last year, after the British banned importing firearms and gunpowder into the thirteen colonies, Captain Morgan asked me to write three letters for him.

  “The letters were addressed to Dutch, Spanish, and French merchant captains with whom Daniel did business over his years as a wagoneer. I delivered the letters to them when their ships called at Falmouth.

  “All three captains agreed to take the risk of being caught breaking the royal embargo and each have now delivered shipments of powder hidden in their cargo holds. There are eighteen more kegs just like these still hidden on Captain Morgan’s farm. These powder kegs were delivered three weeks ago in Alexandria. Josiah and I picked them up.”

  I wondered aloud, “You trusted a slave?”

  Rev. Thruston smiled and said quietly, “Yes, Nathanael, with my life—certainly more so than some of our neighbors who support the Crown. Josiah is a good Christian man. He and his family are loyal to Captain and Mrs. Morgan and their daughters. And God-willing, someday he will be a freeman.”

  At this he pointed to two rectangular packages, carefully wrapped in waxed linen, and said, “The rest of this cargo is for use by all the members of the Rifle Company, but these two are for you. Open them.”

  I did as ordered and unpacked two small, sturdy, teak campaign chests with brass handles, hinges, and drawer-pulls. Taking two small keys from his waistcoat pocket, the rector unlocked the largest and unfolded it, revealing a well-crafted field desk containing several leather-bound books. He opened one to the first page where an inventory of the equipment on the wagon was already listed.

  “All the pages are lined parchment,” he began. “This one is for equipment. There is one labeled, ‘Muster Roll,’ another for ‘Accounts,’ a third for ‘Orders’ and a fourth labeled ‘Log’ in which you will keep a journal of the unit’s activities at the end of each day.”

  He opened the second chest and pointed to an ample supply of quills, ink, candles, four collapsible lanterns with mica-isinglass “windows,” and tins of lamp oil. There were even wax tapers, flint, and steel strikers for lighting the candles and lamps.

  Awed by the contents, I said, “This wagon looks as though someone has thought of everything needed for an expedition. Who paid for it all?”

  Rev. Thruston chuckled, “Well, payment was made in Spanish dollars from Isaac Zane, a Quaker; Major Angus McDonald, a Scot; a donation from my flock of fellow believers, and a loan from a British peer, Thomas, Lord Fairfax, at Greenway Court. He provided most of the funds to purchase unspecified militia supplies to defend the county. He said he would petition our once-beloved Royal Governor Dunmore to honor the debt. I doubt he will ever be repaid.”

  By then, the sun was fully over the eastern ridgeline. I watched as Major McDonald and a crew of boys marked out a shooting range on the broad open field south of the tavern. My father taught my brothers and me to shoot accurately on a similar but much smaller range set out on the largest pasture of our farm.

  We used a bow saw to cut nine one-inch thick discs from the trunk of a five-inch diameter pine sapling Father felled with an ax. We used small hand-made iron nails to fasten each wooden disc to hand-cut wooden stakes—two, three, and four feet long—and painted the discs with granulated lead white mixed with linseed oil. After the white paint dried, we tacked a thin, round, one-inch diameter lead “bull’s-eye” to the center of each target.

  We then took the targets, three apiece, down range and drove the stakes into the ground at 200, 250, and 300-yard intervals from the firing line. Each boy was allowed three shots at each of our targets.

  The winner was the brother who had the smallest cumulative total inches from the center of the target after firing nine shots. By the time I was fifteen, I won nearly every time.

  The major difference today is the number of shooters. The rosters Captain Morgan ordered me to prepare has 160 names, alphabetically listed. That meant someone had to prepare at least 480 targets.

  And sure enough, a wagon, filled to overflowing with hundreds of targets, pulled up in front of the tavern next to the supply wagon as a crowd of competitors began flooding into the area in front of the tavern. I wondered who did all the work to prepare for this day.

  At 7:30 a.m. Captain Morgan climbed atop his supply wagon and bellowed, “All those who want to compete for the privilege of joining my Rifle Company, gather here and listen carefully!

  “We are going to start in thirty minutes. Today’s evaluation consists of two events: how fast you can run a mile and then shoot three rounds at 200, 250, and 300 yards. Accuracy with your rifle counts the highest. But how long it takes you to run a mile and then shoot three rounds at each of your targets also matters. We are going to do this alphabetically in groups of ten.

  “When I finish with these instructions, every competitor will draw three targets and line up, ten across, in sixteen ranks behind the firing line. On my order, the ten contestants in the front rank will go down-range, place a target on the 200, 250, and 300-yard lines, and return to their place on the firing line.

  “I will then give the command, ‘Right face’ and the ten contestants in the front rank will turn right, go twenty yards to the right, and line up between those two flags. That is the start and finish line for a one-mile course, marked in lime, on the field around the tavern.

  “B
ehind each one of you at the starting line, there will be an evaluator with a pocket watch. The evaluator will write down your name on a sheet of paper and be responsible for keeping your elapsed time. When I fire my pistol, everyone on the starting line will start the one-mile course.

  “Once you finish the run, don’t dawdle. Proceed immediately to your position on the firing line and start engaging your three targets down-range.

  “The evaluator will record how long it took you to complete the run and fire your nine shots. When everyone in your rank has fired nine shots, you will proceed down-range to pick up your three targets and report here to Major Angus McDonald. He will tabulate your final score. As each rank moves off the firing line, the next rank will move up and repeat the process.

  “This is not complicated. If each of you pays attention to what’s happening in front of you, and everyone moves with alacrity, it should take about a half hour for each rank to complete the one-mile run and fire nine shots. That means we can all be headed home by four o’clock this afternoon.”

  That estimate proved to be wildly optimistic.

  Captain Morgan’s orders were clear enough, but no one anticipated the inevitable delays. Though every shooter brought with him his rifle, powder, shot, tomahawk, and hunting knife, no one anticipated the crowd of family, friends, and supporters who brought with them victuals and ample supplies of wine, cider, and prodigious quantities of rum.

  The first seven ranks went off without a hitch, but as the day wore on, the crowd of “observers” became increasingly boisterous.

  As the eighth rank took off on their run, a cousin of one of the contestants decided to aid his relative by tripping the lead runner. This outrage prompted a melee involving close to 500 of the contestants and observers. It took nearly an hour for Major McDonald, Rev. Thruston, and Captain Morgan to restore order and get on with the competition.