The Bridge That Arched the Flood: A Novel of the Revolution

By Robert L. Bruska

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 17, 2007
• ISBN: 9781465329578

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THE BRIDGE THAT

ARCHED THE FLOOD

A Novel of the Revolution

Robert L. Bruska

Copyright © 2007 by Robert L. Bruska.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

I   

II   

III   

IV   

V   

VI   

VII   

VIII   

IX   

X   

XI   

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

Postscript

TO JUNE

I   

Lurching from side to side as its wheels measured the depressions in the old cobblestone street, the rocking caleche failed at first to jolt the young lieutenant out of his preoccupied state of mind. But when the left rear wheel dropped off the edge of the crumbling bricks into an eroded gully, Peter knew the mishap was deliberate. Pinned beneath his own weight on one side of the cart, a moment elapsed before he could summon his profanity.

Get this damn thing over into the middle of the street and watch where you’re driving, or I’ll dismiss you without your fare.

The driver slowly turned, feigning a wounded air in reply:

It’s the poor repair of the streets, your highness. We’ve been so sorely taxed these last few years that there’s nothing left for civic improvements. He continued to leer back at the young British officer from his perch on the traces. With hardly a flick of the reins, he sought out another patch of missing cobblestones where the ruts were even deeper than before.

Straining now to keep his temper, Lt. Polt leveled his sarcasm straight into the coachmen’s lopsided grimace.

Perhaps if you did not allow the poor dumb beasts to steer and thereby compete with your own intelligence, we might discover a more level route!

The driver’s slack jaw tightened as he absorbed the verbal cut. The young lieutenant’s eyes darted to the whip in the driver’s hand that now quivered in the grip of taut muscles but still lay pointed in the direction of the team’s bony flanks. Even so, Lt. Peter Polt did not relax his vigilance. His right hand settled on the hilt of his dress rapier. The gesture did not escape the other’s notice.

Sensing the officer’s readiness, the driver slouched forward with a mumbled apology that barely passed for civility. Only then did Peter’s hand leave the grip of the rapier.

So much for this little encounter, he mused, not without some savoring of his triumph, but soon his thoughts raced off again to the whirlwind that was overtaking his life. He remembered his last excursion up this street. That occasion prompted a resolve never to enter this part of Boston on foot again. For five tormenting blocks he had marched stiffly ahead of a train of children who had taunted him with their schoolboy epithets, Lobsterback! Lobsterback! His reverie rang with their chanting. So, despite his slender means, he had felt compelled to hire this clumsy conveyance. Unexpectedly his immediate superiors had hailed this precaution. He had feared that this farmer’s cart would evoke a collective snicker. But this evening had not begun in the vacuous boredom of garrison duty. In the shadows of late afternoon, the light infantry and the grenadiers had been forming into units. Shortly after retreat, they fused with the dusk, fully armed, but silently padding across the parade ground as one rippling, stealthy mass.

Even those troops that had remained in camp were on alert. As the caleche rumbled out of the camp, he had passed the marines standing at ease but in formation with full field packs. Major Pitcairn, that model of military competence, had complimented him on his mode of departure as a fine contribution to the army’s plan of cover activities.

Good idea, Lieutenant. Best to go about as though nothing’s up. That caleche is a good mask. It makes everything seem leisurely and peaceful. If you loll about in your seat, it’ll come off even better! Then he added with a wink, I suppose it’s all in good military strategy that you’re seeing that young lady as well. Fine thing for her to be making herself available at a time like this.

Polt acknowledged his banter with some ease. He was on quite good terms with this major of the marines; they had even split a rum on the voyage over. In fact, Pitcairn was the only officer Polt had met over here, in the line of duty, with whom he had developed a feeling of comraderie, a somewhat inexplicable thing to Polt considering the difference in their respective ages, rank, and branch.

The cart left the cobblestones and turned into a tree lined lane flanked with large red brick mansions in the Palladium style of architecture that had swept across England and was now favored on this side of the Atlantic as well. Even colonists like the Virginian Tom Jefferson had fallen under its spell. But the great house that was Polt’s destination was even more renowned for a less illustrious aspect. It remained occupied all summer despite the onslaught of flies that descended upon Boston during the warmer months. Only a great residence, with an army of servants to batter the buzzing hordes and wipe away the cascading fly specks from every surface, could still entertain with gentility. Such wealth was not lost on its less fortunate neighbors. Most of the New England aristocracy had to squeeze their living arrangements into small cottages on their own property until the first freeze of autumn freed them to return to their massive residences, and then only for a few months before the severe winters forced them back again into their warm, cozy cottages.

At Crupper’s Hall this, then, was the beginning of the season of envy. It’s master, General Cruppers, retired, had intended that it should be so. For wasn’t he the most envied of generals? He was retired and retired when his career was in the ascendance. He had been with Clive in India, in the early years, at Arcot and Plassey. Later, he had led his own army in the employ of the East India Company and shared in the wealth such freedom for enterprise allowed. He was even blessed with an ailment that forced his early retirement, not only from the army, but from any climate with a tropical taint. Thus he had come to inclement Boston where few generals retired and where great wealth denoted the chosen of God. Here his feats were celebrated with the pomp and glory reserved for one who was beyond the grasp of fate. An active officer still feared the future, that inscrutable vixen that Circe-like often led the most exalted from the halls of glory to the pigsty of defeat.

To be invited to his table was to risk the scrutiny of the gods; to woo his daughter was to challenge their wrath. But Peter was too much in love with Evelyn Cruppers to heed the omens. Though she was often willful, he did not protest. Instead he chose to be consumed by his passion; for though he often stole the bliss of a moment in her arms, they seemed adrift, no haven in sight.

At the dinner, Peter would be seated far down the table from the general, but opposite Evelyn. Their eyes would often meet in the intricate interplay of conversation that unfolded like a game of Boston whist: the bid to speak, the taking of tricks with clever repartee until at last the trump was played.

Peter was grimly aware, from the outset, that the hand he had been dealt could not match the others. His trump had been declared for him; he was of the military, but a mere lieutenant was the lowest card in the general’s own suit. Furthermore, even when he had an opportunity to display his wit, her radiance distracted him. Across the candlelight, her copper colored hair debased all the gilt that the room, the table service, and the piping on the uniforms possessed. When her auburn eyes flashed with amusement, and her laughter surged across his rapture, he often had to be roused from his trance by the other players, who in later days would recall his lack of wit with some disdain.

The caleche turned into the grounds that surrounded Crupper’s Hall. Peter straightened his linen and stiffened his posture to overawe the livery boys running to steady the horses while he descended from this wretched vehicle. Struggling to maintain his poise, he paid the surly driver and waved him off. Even had their association been more pleasant, he had decided not to retain this cart, so rustic it seemed an affront to the grounds. Doctor Harlowe usually offered the services of his own carriage to return Peter to his unit, and tonight he would count on Harlowe’s presumed offer.

When he drew within one pace of the main entrance, a servant opened the door, and he was admitted with a bow. Taking his cocked hat and dress rapier in a single motion, the servant led him into an anteroom where guests gathered before entering the dining room. Usually Evelyn would post herself at the end of one of the long corridors directly opposite the main entrance hall, and there, unobserved by the rest of the guests, signal him alone with an intimate flutter of her fingers encased in white lace.

This evening, however, though he peered intently down that corridor as he strode across its breath, he found it empty. In fact, the candles in that wing had not even been lit. Still expecting her to emerge from some recess in the vaulted entrance hall, he followed the servant into the gallery, all the while glancing over his shoulder.

Once there, he sought the only two guests with whom he could converse with ease, Doctor Harlowe and Captain Winthrop, the intended of Evelyn’s sister. Winthrop, however, did not appear until just before the butler summoned the guests to dine. But Doctor Harlowe caught his eye and beckoned him to join his circle. Once there the college president brought Peter into the conversation with the fluent banter of a highly intelligent man who had been forced by his career to waste his gifts in the commerce of patronage. Introducing Peter as that soldier of the King who speaks French far too well to be an English officer, Harlowe renewed his half jesting offer to enlist Peter on his college staff if the latter would but consent. Cast into the role of a mock protege, Peter’s constraint vanished, and, for a few moments at least, his own warm sense of humor glowed. His levity was short lived, however, for a summons to dinner quickly followed on the heels of Winthorp’s belated appearance.

The general always set the tone for the meal. During the pre-Christmas season when Peter had first been invited to dine at Crupper’s hall, the general had conducted the festivities with jovial grace, but events in Boston had worsened as the winter waned, and the onset of spring had merely revived the growing threat to English mercantile interests. Each succeeding fete found the general more morose, more truculent than the last; until tonight, the dinner was presided over in almost total silence. Long before it ended, Peter abandoned any hope that this was the time to broach the subject of the betrothal.

On the other hand, the assembly, abashed by the general’s black mood, did allow Peter the leisure to study the perfection of Evelyn’s face and form. No need to be clever; even the most glib were cowed into stilted conversations. That wasn’t the only anomaly. Though Evelyn had countless opportunities, she never once raised her eyes to his. But such was his turmoil, that though he feared each tremor in their relationship, he suspected nothing.

At length the end of the dinner rites found most of the guests sighing with relief. With the others, Peter followed the general into the library. Pipes were produced and orders for wine taken. As soon as the last female was out of earshot, the general pounded his fist on the mantel, almost upsetting the Wedgwood vases resting upon it.

I’ve said it before and I say it now! It’s this damned Boston! Ten years of their outrages! I say it’s too much! Damn them to hell, everyone of them!

The outburst froze everyone into silence. They were like a mob who had finally provoked a discharge of muskets. For a fleeting moment, Peter lost his sense of self in the cynosure of the general’s contorted features. All were dumbfounded, all except Doctor Harlowe. He alone possessed the immunity to succor the wounded.

HMMmmmmm . . . ten years you say? He sucked on the long stemmed pipe. Well, I suppose it has been about ten years, come to think of it.

You’re damned well right it’s been ten years! The general swept the company with a glare clearly intended to forestall a counter attack. Why, even as far back as ’61, we should have strung them up, Otis and the rest, with their ‘Writ of Assistance! But the crown let them use the forum of the colony’s highest court, and that opened the door. And to what did that lead? The riots of ’65, . . . when they . . . , he sputtered and wiped his lips, . . . when they burned down the house of the Lieutenant Governor of this colony! He stared wildly at the younger men. Instead of public hangings, we listened to their ‘Declaration of Rights and Liberties.’ My God! What supine ministers we have in Whitehall. A belch in Boston, and we repeal the Stamp Act of ’66. Then they threw excrement at us with the ‘Non Importation Agreement of ’67.’ In ’68 this town of pismires petitions the king—but that’s what happens when you listen to them—the more you listen, the more they defecate.

Harlowe raised his hand to protest the language, but this only prompted another eruption.

Damn it I said ‘defecate’ and I meant ‘defecate.’ Some of the younger men nodded soberly. And didn’t they riot again in ’68? Why we shouldn’t have just seized Hancock’s sloop! We should have disembowelled that fop. That butterfly who still flits about today! Lord, the bayonet’s the only thing for these sneering, sniveling pharisees. But no, what do we do? British soldiers are mobbed by a drunken horde, and we let them try the crown’s troops—Britannia’s guardians—in a foreign court! Yes, that’s right, a foreign court! And then we’re supposed to kiss the arse of John Adams because they were acquitted. And what is he today? Another conspirator! At this they all nodded in assent, even Doctor Harlowe. But we continued to treat this nest of traitors as though they were loyal Englishmen! That gave them the idea that they could dump the East India Company’s tea into the sea. Now where in heaven’s name has any Englishman ever been permitted to destroy private property? Nay, not just private property, but the property of a company licensed by the Crown, and a damn good loyal servant to boot! But go ahead Doctor; speak your piece! Tell us what you savants have proposed to rectify the accumulation of these blunders. And if it’s not the razing of this town to its foundations, I’ll have none of it!

Well, I do agree that we have done a poor job of presenting our case to the rest of the colonies, most of whom are very suspicious of Boston anyway.

That’s it. Now you’re on to it. You’re thinking with the clarity of a military man now, Doctor. You’re absolutely right. We’re letting this Boston rabble lead the rest of the colonies by default. You saw what happened as soon as they left Boston. At the . . . what did they call that cabal in Philadelphia last fall? Oh yes, the ‘continental congress.’ You saw what happened there. Sam Adams was branded the radical that he is. The Pennsylvanians wanted none of his rebel rhetoric. But do our ministers in Whitehall understand the situation? Not a bit! Look how they’re handling the Virginians. Instead of mining the good will of the Tories there, they stripped Virginia of their claims to any land beyond the Alleghenies. Now if that wasn’t stupidity! But I still say: mobilize British sentiment in the Old Dominion—and in Pennsylvania. Honor the claims of loyal Englishmen. Split the colonies! Give Virginia and Pennsylvania the whole damn West! Why, hell, we shouldn’t have to garrison a single soldier here. The Virginians will be glad to maintain order here for us.

Perhaps . . . perhaps, Doctor Harlowe drew thoughtfully on his clay pipe. Like everyone else there, Peter understood that Harlowe was free to comment on the general’s fulminations. All the rest, however, by some unstated rule of protocol—the origins of which were as nebulous as English Common Law—must first swallow their own rebuttal, and then regurgitate it up as some imbecile expression to sew up the general’s unravelled logic. Harlowe saved them from that chore. But I’m not so sure that Virginia could rule this vast land. I’m not sure anyone can. That’s really part of the problem. They don’t want to be governed from afar by ministers they never see; on the other hand, they don’t want a strong government over here either. I suppose it’s because they all regard themselves as fugitives from strong efficient governments across the Atlantic.

How enlightening! Thank you Doctor for that ‘spur’ to action. Our proper stance, therefore, is to throw up our hands in despair and let them kick the whole British army into the sea. I’m sure the French whom we kicked off this continent will applaud your viewpoint. My God! Doesn’t anyone speak for the English anymore?

With his arm outstretched, his whole body slowly pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees, beginning with the bemused Doctor Harlowe and ending at the general’s left, his index finger inches from Peter’s nose. Although the general was only a shade taller than Peter, his arrogant blue eyes framed by an immaculate white wig annihilated the distance between them. Even the deliberately exercised muscles of his mouth contributed to the foreshortened perspective. Then the teeth flashed, and his voice thundered too loudly for Peter to hear it all distinctly.

And what does the army say? What will the army do?

Perhaps it was the shock of the double volley that tore to shreds the proclamations of his own opinions that Peter had been mentally rehearsing while the general fulminated his. In any case, Peter was left with only the tatters of his own half spun argument. Still, he strove gamely to answer the inquisition.

Well, of course, as one of the junior infantry officers, I can’t speak for General Gage. As usual, most of the room was not amused. You see, my experience here has been pretty much confined to anticipating and obviating the onset of riots. I’m really not in much of a position to judge . . . . His voice trailed off into a lower key. I know they don’t want us here . . . He let it hang there lamely.

The fire in the general’s eyes flickered out. Then with the concision of a couplet by Dryden or Pope, he simply dismissed the topic as he would dismiss a bumbling servant.

Yes, yes, of course. You’re of the infantry; we must look elsewhere. It’s clearly a job for the CAVALRY! No doubt about it!

Through clamped teeth, his words whistled to the farthest corners of the room. Performing a quick quarter turn on his heel, he stepped off briskly in the direction of the main entrance hall. It was the signal that the tour of his hospitality had terminated, and they were free to leave whenever their desire moved them.

Peter waited for the room to empty. He no longer entertained a desire to speak to the general privately as a suiter for his daughter’s hand. All that needed to be said between them had been spoken a moment ago. The general had made it all clear on that point without the issue having ever been raised. He hesitated for a moment, half hoping she might yet enter the room now that the others had left. But she did not appear. Too mortified to be annoyed, he walked with deliberate stride out of that wing of the building and into the entrance hall. A servant handed him his cocked hat and dress rapier. He took it with rising displeasure, certain that the servants were aware of his embarrassment. Once outside he sought out Harlowe’s carriage. Captain Winthrop had just seated himself when Peter arrived. With his mind in a turmoil, Peter brusquely stated his request. They assured him that he was welcome to share their carriage. That was understood. Still they glanced at each other as Peter lunged awkwardly into the carriage, barely offering his gratitude. Before the carriage had cleared the grounds, however, amiability was restored, partly because of their mutual friendship and partly because the other two had witnessed his humiliation. Harlowe dipped into his store of levity, expertly mimicking the general’s nasal intonation.

And what, Captain Winthrop, do you think the Ahmy will do?

I think we’ll mind our own bloody business, sirrrr. Winthrop rejoined in the same spirit. Their tone had the desired effect. Peter settled back in his seat, exhaling his pent-up anger. With that, Winthrop abruptly dropped the impersonation. When he resumed, his voice betrayed a trace of anxiety. Seriously, Harlowe, what’s your opinion of the general’s southern strategy?

"Well, he’s right about the Quebec Acts. It brought a number of their prominent landowners down on the other side. Some of them have had military experience in the war against the French. We may very well rue that decision. But he’s dead wrong about Virginia now. I was in Williamsburg last winter. It’s treason right now down there. He’d be more correct to substitute the Carolinas for Virginia. That’s Tory country and will probably stay that way. The thing that bothers me though is the back country of New York, Pennsylvania, and beyond. We can’t pursue them there. Why, they could disband a whole army in danger of defeat and let them disperse into the wilderness. They could raid us from there for decades. I tell you one does not venture into a place that has no roads at all.

Aren’t you letting your fears run away with your logic, Doctor? Winthrop laughed airily. Most of their army will be made up of farmers. They’ll want to get back to the land for spring plowing.

Harlowe ignored his tone. I’m speaking of the frontiersmen. They’re a restive, destitute, and, I might add, desperate lot. One could recruit an army out there for practically any enterprise if one had enough sterling. How do you pacify thousands of square miles that are not intersected by roads?

I think you’ve answered your own question, Doctor. It’s not a military problem, but a monetary one. Just control the large commercial centers and win the riff-raff over with pound sterling. The Romans did it for centuries. Tell me what revolution ever succeeded led by the lower classes, the impoverished? No, no, punish the merchants that oppose us; reward with profits those that support us. That’s warfare in this century!

Harlowe sighed. I fervently hope you’re right. Eh Peter? Is that what you think too?

You heard what I think back there, he grunted. Instantly he regretted his sulkiness. Recovering quickly, he blurted out his deepest feelings; ones he could never expose to the general. I’ll tell you what I really think. I dread each tomorrow I shall spend here. Do you know that feeling? They didn’t answer. Perhaps you don’t. Well to me all these pamphlets and speeches, drilling and . . . and arming by their militia is like . . . . a rising of the rivers in the spring. You know they’ll overflow, but you can’t see what structures will hold fast when the flood sucks at their underpinnings. You see, I don’t know what institutions will be left when it’s all over, when the waters recede. And ourselves? I try not to think about that. A soldier’s not supposed to. If this . . . if this were India, I think I’d welcome hostilities. It would be a clear thing: you gamble your life for a fortune. If one survived, victory would mean a comfortable berth for the rest of one’s life, like the general’s,—well, not so opulent perhaps. I’m not bloated with ambition. The other two chuckled at his venom. Then Peter added, You see what I mean, don’t you? They both nodded and looked away, but in different directions. For the rest of the ride, they all remained silent, lost in the divided world of their hopes and fears.

Winthrop was staying in town for the next several days, and since Peter had a two day pass, he invited the latter to share his company at a public inn. Accordingly, Doctor Harlowe left them at the Red Lion Inn, one of the cleaner hostelries but within a soldier’s budget.

Peter was impatient to sound the other on what Winthrop’s fiancee knew and had divulged to him of her sister’s state of heart. Still, Peter felt constrained to observe the fiction that he was in command of the relationship. It was not until after they had supped that Peter was able to allude to the subject with a forced nonchalance.

Well, there have been other officers at the ‘hall’ of late. Winthrop avoided Peter’s eyes. It might be nothing, of course. After all, who sees the general but other military men?"

I might as well tell you that I couldn’t get a word with her alone today. Peter drew in his breath to suppress his emotions. You needn’t hold anything back. I think it is all over with us. I was foolish to suppose it wouldn’t be, someday.

Winthrop nodded in response, obviously relieved of the burden to pretend ignorance. She has been more social minded of late. Irene hinted as much the other night. I didn’t mean to pry, so that’s all I know. Don’t take it too hard. She’s the apple of the old buzzard’s eye. You’ll be a lot better off that it didn’t come to anything. Whoever marries her will live under his constant scrutiny.

What about yourself? Aren’t you intimidated by the reputation of your future father-in-law?

"Nawwwh. With us, it’s different. Irene ain’t such a beauty, thank the good Lord. The general is blind to her sweet nature and generous soul. He’s merely going through the gestures with us. Actually, he’s glad I spoke up for her, humble as my family’s station is. But he’ll be glad when we’re sewed up tight and out of his house. And by God, I mean to take her away from the old coot into a house of our own just as soon as we can gracefully effect the union."

Peter nodded glumly.

Winthrop noted the other’s disconsolate mood and turned the conversation in a new direction. I’m not staying in the army, you know.

"Going into your father’s business back home?’ Peter asked perfunctorily.

Not on your life! I’m going into business here. Listen. I’ve met scores of these colonists since I was first assigned here. Quartermaster requires many dealings with them. They like business; I like business. I think we’ll hit if off splendidly.

Peter eyed the other narrowly. And if there’s trouble? His own question seemed to be what he needed to rouse