The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [49]
As he walked through the Green now, that extraordinary day was nowhere in evidence. British troops spread out around campfires, much of the greenery was ripped up, pits dug for latrines, trees cut, piles of logs stacked. He caught the rank smell, moved quickly past, made his way westward. He moved into a side street, narrow, thick damp air, more smells, could hear voices in the houses, a woman crying, shouts of men. The woman was in obvious distress, and he thought of stopping, knocking on the door, but the accents were unmistakably English, the crude manner of the common soldier. He was in no position to be gallant.
He kept moving, wasn’t sure where he was going, saw more side streets, narrow again, twisting. There was no sunlight here, the street thick with mud, and he heard a strange animal sound, quick motion in front of him. He could see a group of pigs bursting out of a deep wallow, scampering away from him. He shuddered at his own fright, a low nervous laugh, heard shouts in front of him. The darkness opened into sunlight ahead, and he could hear the pigs squealing, a harsh, sickening sound. He moved closer to the light, saw a group of British soldiers running, chasing the pigs, a sword, the awful game. He backed into the darkness again, moved through the thick mud, another side street. He stayed close to the sides of the houses, listened, more voices, women. He tried to hear the words, talk of food, a baby crying. He was surprised anyone with children was still there, that despite his own charade, he had believed that anyone with a family would be long gone from the city. He kept moving, the dark street ending, more sunlight. He looked down at the filth clinging to his shoes, knew he would take the smell with him. He stepped into open air again, looked across a wide street, felt a light breeze cleaning his lungs. Now there was a hand on his back, a hard push, and he stumbled into the street, his knees hitting hard on the cobblestones. He turned, saw a group of soldiers, laughing, one man pointing at him.
“Out of the way, clerk.”
The men moved past, more laughter, and he held the anger, lowered his head, said quietly, “Yes, sir. As you wish, sir.”
The soldiers were gone, and he sat on the rough stones, rubbed his knees. He did not take well to the role of the helpless weakling, had always been athletic, more fit for sports than any of his friends. But he could make no show, no protest of any kind. The last thing he needed was attention, especially from soldiers.
If there were citizens still in New York, they had to be either loyal to the king or so destitute they had no means of leaving. Both were dangerous to him, and he knew he could speak to no one, ask no specific questions. The Tories would take him straight to the provost’s office, and the street people would see a reward, would find a way to draw him into some betrayal for which they would pocket a few shillings. If he was to observe the strength of the British positions around the city, the location of specific units, he would have to do it alone. Eavesdropping at windows had given him nothing. No, it would be the officers, the men with real information, and they were safely housed in the large estates, their debauchery brought to them, unlike the common soldiers.
He had walked for most of the day, his legs aching now, the strain of slogging quietly through muddy alleys. The frustration was