Howard actually looked somewhat absurd, holding his cupped hands over a candle set atop the wall of the barn stall, rubbing them over the tiny flame, trying to get the chill out.
Jonathan fumbled under his blanket in what was left of the once smart-looking hunting frock; underneath he still had something of an actual linen shirt, not washed, though, in months, and, if washed, would most likely crumble into rags. He found his Bible, tucked down near his belt, and pulled it out. By the pale light of the candle he could have made out some of the words, the book easily opening to the Ninety-first Psalm. He didn’t actually need to read it; he knew it by heart, could even say a few lines of it in Greek. Howard, watching him, moved his hands so as not to block the flickering candlelight.
Folded over and tucked into the Bible were a few sheets of paper, stitched together, that he was actually looking for, and he pulled them out. He held them close to his face, the words hard to see by the faint light and harder to read when a bout of shivering struck him, the pamphlet trembling like a leaf on a wind-swept tree.
Outside, the wind was howling, rattling some loose boards, the candle flame nearly going out. Howard cupped his hands around it again to protect it until the gust had passed. As the wind died away, Jonathan could hear the hard pelting of sleet and freezing rain against the side of the barn.
“What you got there?” Howard asked.
“Thomas Paine, he just wrote it.”
At the mention of the name Thomas Paine, those around him looked in his direction.
“You got that new pamphlet by Paine?” someone asked. He looked up. It was one of the Marylanders.
“Yup. They passed out a few of them with my battalion yesterday.”
“Major Bartlett got a copy, he read a bit of it to us earlier,” the Marylander announced. “And that’s the same thing?”
Jonathan nodded.
The Marylander turned.
“You men, let’s have some quiet here.”
“What the hell for?” came a reply.
“That boy from Jersey, he’s got the new pamphlet by Tom Paine.”
“Give it over here, Jersey.”
It was the Maryland lieutenant.
Jonathan rose to his feet and shook his head.
“No, sir, it’s mine.”
The lieutenant gazed at him as if judging what to do with the defiance of this militiaman, from New Jersey no less, and then turned back.
“Barry, fetch that lantern over here.”
A moment later the lieutenant was by Jonathan’s side, holding the lantern high, its bright light illuminating the tattered and water-stained pamphlet.
“Go ahead, Jersey. Read it.”
“These are . . .” Another coughing spasm hit. Embarrassed, he leaned over, gasping, coughing up more phlegm.
“Can you read it?” the lieutenant asked, as Jonathan stood up. There was no insult in his voice. It was a simple question.
“I was camped beside him up in Newark the night he started to write this,” Jonathan announced, his voice filled with emotion. “I can read it.”
The lieutenant fell silent. All around him were silent. The only thing that could keep him from being heard was the howling of the gale outside, sweeping across the ice-choked Delaware, carrying with it the distant sound of men laboring to load a cannon on one of the boats, other men struggling with the lead of a horse that hadslipped off the dock into the freezing water and was now crying out pitifully.
He held the pamphlet tight, but strangely, he no longer even needed to read it. It was in his heart and soul.
“
The Crisis,
by Thomas Paine,” he began, trying to hold back his emotions. “Number one.”
“These are the times that try men’s souls . . .”
CHAPTER FOUR
Newark, New Jersey
November 24, 1776
Rain. Blinding sheets of rain lashed down from an angry heaven.
A chilled river of it was coursing through the thin, worn fabric of his tent, trickling down his neck, and, even worse, splashing on the page of foolscap he was trying to write on, smearing
Jonathan fumbled under his blanket in what was left of the once smart-looking hunting frock; underneath he still had something of an actual linen shirt, not washed, though, in months, and, if washed, would most likely crumble into rags. He found his Bible, tucked down near his belt, and pulled it out. By the pale light of the candle he could have made out some of the words, the book easily opening to the Ninety-first Psalm. He didn’t actually need to read it; he knew it by heart, could even say a few lines of it in Greek. Howard, watching him, moved his hands so as not to block the flickering candlelight.
Folded over and tucked into the Bible were a few sheets of paper, stitched together, that he was actually looking for, and he pulled them out. He held them close to his face, the words hard to see by the faint light and harder to read when a bout of shivering struck him, the pamphlet trembling like a leaf on a wind-swept tree.
Outside, the wind was howling, rattling some loose boards, the candle flame nearly going out. Howard cupped his hands around it again to protect it until the gust had passed. As the wind died away, Jonathan could hear the hard pelting of sleet and freezing rain against the side of the barn.
“What you got there?” Howard asked.
“Thomas Paine, he just wrote it.”
At the mention of the name Thomas Paine, those around him looked in his direction.
“You got that new pamphlet by Paine?” someone asked. He looked up. It was one of the Marylanders.
“Yup. They passed out a few of them with my battalion yesterday.”
“Major Bartlett got a copy, he read a bit of it to us earlier,” the Marylander announced. “And that’s the same thing?”
Jonathan nodded.
The Marylander turned.
“You men, let’s have some quiet here.”
“What the hell for?” came a reply.
“That boy from Jersey, he’s got the new pamphlet by Tom Paine.”
“Give it over here, Jersey.”
It was the Maryland lieutenant.
Jonathan rose to his feet and shook his head.
“No, sir, it’s mine.”
The lieutenant gazed at him as if judging what to do with the defiance of this militiaman, from New Jersey no less, and then turned back.
“Barry, fetch that lantern over here.”
A moment later the lieutenant was by Jonathan’s side, holding the lantern high, its bright light illuminating the tattered and water-stained pamphlet.
“Go ahead, Jersey. Read it.”
“These are . . .” Another coughing spasm hit. Embarrassed, he leaned over, gasping, coughing up more phlegm.
“Can you read it?” the lieutenant asked, as Jonathan stood up. There was no insult in his voice. It was a simple question.
“I was camped beside him up in Newark the night he started to write this,” Jonathan announced, his voice filled with emotion. “I can read it.”
The lieutenant fell silent. All around him were silent. The only thing that could keep him from being heard was the howling of the gale outside, sweeping across the ice-choked Delaware, carrying with it the distant sound of men laboring to load a cannon on one of the boats, other men struggling with the lead of a horse that hadslipped off the dock into the freezing water and was now crying out pitifully.
He held the pamphlet tight, but strangely, he no longer even needed to read it. It was in his heart and soul.
“
The Crisis,
by Thomas Paine,” he began, trying to hold back his emotions. “Number one.”
“These are the times that try men’s souls . . .”
CHAPTER FOUR
Newark, New Jersey
November 24, 1776
Rain. Blinding sheets of rain lashed down from an angry heaven.
A chilled river of it was coursing through the thin, worn fabric of his tent, trickling down his neck, and, even worse, splashing on the page of foolscap he was trying to write on, smearing
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