My Brother Sam is Dead (4 page)

“Is he really going to fight, Father?”

“I hope not,” he said. Then he frowned. “What do you think of all of this, Tim?”

“I don't know, Father,” I said. “I can't figure out exactly what it's about.”

“I suppose Sam's been preaching rebellion to you.”

I tried to think of something that wouldn't get Sam in any
more trouble. “He said we ought to be free.”

“That's just college-boy wind,” Father said. He sounded pretty scornful. “Who isn't free? Aren't we free? The whole argument is over a few taxes that hardly amount to anything for most people. What's the use of principles if you have to be dead to keep them? We're Englishmen, Timmy. Of course there are injustices, there are always injustices, that's the way of God's world. But you never get rid of injustices by fighting. Look at Europe, they've had one war after another for hundreds of years, and show me where anything ever got any better for them. Well, let's go to church. It's a time for prayer.”

I decided to forget about the whole thing; it was too worrying. We went out across the muddy road to church, and I climbed up into the balcony where the children, Indians and black people sat. Redding Ridge being a small place I knew everybody there—all the kids, and Tom Warrups and Ned, the Starr's black man. I sat down next to Jerry Sanford. Jerry was a couple of years younger than me, but he was the person closest to my age around and we did a lot of things together. And the first thing he said was, “We heard Sam ran away to fight.”

Nobody was going to let me forget about it, that was sure. Mr. Beach made it the subject of his sermon. He really got wound up on it, too. He said that our first duty was to God but that our Lord Jesus Christ had said, “Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's” and that meant we were supposed to be loyal Englishmen. He said that hot-tempered young men who listened not to the voices of their elders would bring a wrathy God down on their own heads. He said that the Bible commanded youth to honor their fathers, which made me pretty nervous for Sam, because it was a sin to shout at your father the way he had done, and maybe God would punish him for it.

I didn't think that God would strike him down with a bolt of lightning or anything like that. I knew that God
could
shoot bolts of lightning if He wanted to, but I didn't believe that He ever did. What worried me was that maybe God would punish him by getting him bayonetted by a Lobsterback. I knew that God did things like that because I saw it happen once. A farmer from the Center came down here one Sunday very drunk and rode his horse through the burying ground, and when Mr. Beach told him to get out, he told Mr. Beach to
go to hell and started to gallop his horse at Mr. Beach. But before the horse got more than two or three paces he tripped on a headstone and the farmer fell off and broke his neck and was dead a minute later. It's a true story; there were scores of witnesses.

So I knew that God could get Sam if He wanted to; and between worrying about that and being confused over which side was right I couldn't concentrate on church much. I just wanted to get out of there. But Mr. Beach always preached at least an hour and being fired up about the Lexington battle he went on longer. Fortunately, he always had to get back to Newtown to conduct service there in the afternoons, so finally he had to stop; and we finished up the service, and I breathed a sigh of relief and got up and started to file toward the stairs. I was nearly there when somebody touched me on the arm, and I turned around.

It was Tom Warrups. Tom didn't look much like an Indian. He wore the same kind of brown shirt and trousers any farmer around Redding wore, and he spoke pretty good English. “Hello, Tom,” I said.

He didn't say anything, but he clutched me by the arm and sort of held me back, while the others filed past us down the balcony steps. Then he said in a low voice, “If I tell you where Sam is, you don't tell nobody?” He looked at me hard, and squeezed my arm—not enough to hurt, but enough so I knew he could hurt me if he wanted.

“Is he up at your place, Tom?”

“You don't tell nobody, Timmy. You get Tom in trouble.”

“I won't tell, Tom.” I wouldn't either—Tom scared me.

He let go of my arm, turned and went down the stairs. I came along behind him. My parents were standing out in front of the church, talking to people. It was always the same. Church was practically the only time we ever saw some of the farmers from farther out in the parish—places like Umpawaug. They wanted to keep up with the news, and Father always spent some time with them—it was good business, Father said, to be cordial with people. I knew they wanted me to stand around and be cordial too, so I did, but mostly Jerry Sanford and I threw little stones at each other, until Father caught us and made us stop. 1 was impatient to go see Sam, but of course I had to pretend I
wasn't in any hurry to go anywhere, and the talk dragged on—all about the war and what might happen. Finally my parents got done talking, and we started to cross the street.

“Father,” I said, “Jerry Sanford wants me to help him carry up a big log from the woodlot.”

“That's breaking the Sabbath,” he said.

“Well, it won't take very long.”

He just shrugged. I guess he had too many other worries on his mind to get upset about that. So instead of going into the tavern I turned and went up the road to the Sanford's house. As soon as I got past it, so nobody could see me from the tavern, I climbed over the stone wall into Sanford's pasture and began running across the fields towards Colonel Read's house. It was a couple of miles there going around by the roads, but by cutting across the fields I could make it in fifteen minutes. Better yet it brought me in from the rise behind the house where Tom Warrups' shack was. If anyone from the Read's house saw me go up to Warrups' they'd want to know why. I jogged along quickly. I was pretty nervous—about lying to Father and about what Sam was doing—but it being such a beautiful day helped me to feel better. The sun was warm on my shoulders, birds twittered and there was that spring smell of mud and grass in the air. I just jogged along not thinking about anything very much; and fifteen minutes later I came upon Warrups' shack.

It was made in the Indian way of a circle of poles stuck in the ground with their tops bent together and tied. Covering the poles were hides and rags and in some places patches of straw thatch. There was a thin trail of smoke coming out of the top where the poles met. The door was just a hole in the side covered with a blanket flap, but the flap had been pulled aside to let light in. I ducked down and looked through the hole. Sam was sitting on the ground with Betsy Read, holding hands. They looked pretty serious.

“Hello Tim,” Betsy said.

“Hello,” I said, slipped inside and hunkered down by the fire. The fireplace was just a circle of stones in the middle of the floor. There was a bed made of a couple of deer hides stretched across a frame, a few pots and pans and not much else. “I can't stay very long, I
told Father I was helping Jerry Sanford move a log.”

“Oh, Father,” he said. He sounded bitter.

“I heard your fight,” I said.

“I'm too old for him to tell me what to do anymore,” Sam said.

“This morning he said you were full of college-boy wind,” I said.

“That's because I wouldn't obey him.” He picked up a stone and began jiggling it from hand to hand. “I guess he's still mad at me.”

“He cried last night after you left, Sam, maybe he knows something about wars that you don't.”

Nobody said anything for a minute. I picked up a stick and began to push it into the fire to see it burn. Then Betsy Read said, “Timmy are you on your father's side or Sam's?”

I wished she hadn't asked me that question. I didn't want to answer it; in fact, I didn't know how to answer it. “I don't understand what it's all about,” I said.

“It's simple,” Sam said. “Either we're going to be free or we're not.”

Betsy touched his arm. “It isn't that simple, Sam. There's more to it.”

“What side is your family on, Betsy?” I asked.

“Oh, we're all Patriots. After all, my grandfather is head of the militia.”

Her grandfather was Colonel Read. Her father was Colonel Read's son, Zalmon Read. They lived not far from Colonel Read. “Is your grandfather going to fight the Lobsterbacks?”

“I don't think so,” Betsy said. “He's too old. He said he would probably resign his commission to some younger man. Anyway he doesn't think we ought to fight unless we really have to. He says there ought to be some way of working it out with the King and Parliament without having to fight.”

“There isn't any way to work it out,” Sam said. “The British government is determined to keep us their slaves. We're going to fight.”

“A lot of people aren't going to fight,” I said.

“Around here they aren't. This is Tory country. Father, Mr. Beach, the Lyons, the Couches—most of them in our church are Tories. And they think it's the same everywhere, but it isn't. Down in New Haven they're ready to fight, and Windham's already marched their militia to Boston.” He was being scornful. Sam always got scornful when other people disagreed with him, because he always thought he was right, although to be honest, a lot of the time he was right, because of being so smart. But still it was hard for me to think that Father was wrong.

“Sam, Father says for most people it isn't being free, it's only a few pence in taxes.”

“That's Father for you, it's the money that counts. There are principles involved, Tim. Either you live up to your principles or you don't and maybe you have to take a chance on getting killed.”

“Who wants to get killed?”

“Nobody
wants
to get killed,” Sam said. “But you should be willing to die for your principles.”

“That's right,” Betsy said.

“But Betsy, you don't have to take a chance on getting killed,” I said.

“I'd fight if I could,” she said.

I hated arguing about it. “Well maybe the King will change his mind and get the Lobsterbacks out.”

Sam shook his head. “He won't. He thinks he's going to teach us a lesson. But we're going to teach him one. We already taught him one at Lexington.”

“That's what I mean,” I said. “Maybe he'll give up now.”

Betsy shook her head. “He won't. Not according to my father.”

Everybody was quiet for a minute. Then Sam said, “There's going to be war. Which side are you going to be on?”

I couldn't answer. Sam made it seem that he was right and Father was wrong; but I didn't see how I could go against Father. I didn't say anything.

“Tim, you could help us by keeping an ear out in the tavern. With all the Tories around Redding there'll be lots of talk about what the Lobsterbacks are up to. You could find out who the Tories are—
who's on our side and things like that.”

It made me nervous to think about it. “I won't hear anything like that.”

“You could be a big help,” Sam said. “You could be a hero.”

I stood up. “I have to go. Father'll get suspicious.”

Sam got up, too. “Well, think about it,” he said.

Betsy stood. “Tim, I'll see you around the tavern, if you hear anything.”

But I wasn't paying attention to what she said, because as she stood up the shadows shifted and the firelight fell on the wall of the hut. There was a blanket lying there as if somebody had just thrown it down. But it hadn't just been thrown down accidentally, because sticking out from one end of it was the stock of a gun.

“Sam,” I shouted, “you stole Father's Brown Bess.”

He jerked around to look at it. “Damn,” he said, “I didn't want you to see that.”

“Sam, you can't take that. It's not yours, it's Father's.”

“Sshh, don't shout so loud. I have to have it, Tim; I need it to fight with.”

“Sam, you can't take it, we need it at home. Father needs it.”

“You don't expect me to fight without a gun, do you?” He gave me a sharp look. “Are you going to tell Father I'm still here?”

“Timmy,” Betsy said, “you don't want your brother to get killed, do you?”

I stood there confused and mixed up inside. I didn't say anything.

“Are you going to tell?” Sam said again.

“Sam, please don't take it.” I knew I was about to cry. “Please, Sam.”

“I have to have it, Tim.”

“Timmy,” Betsy said. “You don't want Sam to get killed, do you?”

“Please, Sam.”

“Are you going to tell?” Sam said.

Then I couldn't hold back anymore and I began to cry. “No, I won't tell,” I whispered. “Good-bye.”

And I turned and ran out of the hut and out across the field. About halfway home I got ashamed of myself for crying and stopped; and by the time I reached the tavern I'd got my eyes back to normal and nobody noticed.