The Proud and the Free by Howard Fast Page A

sound than the drumming of hoofs as the officers rode down upon us and drew up their horses a few yards away. I counted them; there were seventeen of them, many of them regimental officers, with Anthony Wayne, brigadier general of the Line, among them and voice for them. He, with Colonel Butler, stepped his horse forward and demanded:
    What in hell’s name is the meaning of all this?
    As if he didn’t know – and that was to be the way it was, at first, as if none of them knew. Billy Bowzar glanced sidewise at us, and his look said, Keep your mouths shut. Let me talk. If more than one talks, we’ll be talking against one another. … So Billy crossed his arms and looked at the general a lot more coolly than I felt; but I stepped back and waved at Angus, and when he ran over I told him to dress up ten lads of the Citizen-soldier Guard directly behind and alongside of me, and for them to prime their muskets. While this went on, Butler reared his horse, a trick our gentry knew better than the leading of men, and roared out at the top of his lungs at the Line:
    Undress! Stand at your ease!
    I think of all the moments we faced, that was the hardest, for it was in us and in the marrow of our spine and our bones to obey a command hurled at us that way; so that while my mind said, Keep cool and stand still, Jamie Stuart, the muscles in my legs twitched of their own volition. I looked at the Line, and a good half of them had dropped their muskets to butt the ground and were falling out of parade position. But their sergeants and corporals were snapping, Dress it, dress it, ye dirty white scuts! And once again the Line pulled itself into tension.
    Who gave these men the order to parade? Wayne demanded.
    The Committee, answered Billy Bowzar quietly, yet loud enough for much of the Line to hear. He was square and small and rocklike, and to this day I recall the pride I felt as I watched him that night. There was a solemn, unruffled truth about him that few of us matched. He had been a ropewalker before the war, in the Philadelphia cordage house, and, as with the ropewalkers in Boston, he and the men who worked with him had formed a Committee of Public Safety and armed themselves, and when the question of independence hung in doubt, the whole shop laid down tools and paraded a show of strength before Carpenters’ Hall.
    What Committee? Wayne wanted to know, his tone high and disdainful. Many of the other officers, I could see, were afraid, but there was no fear about Wayne, only a wild anger he could hardly keep from dominating him. The man had courage and little else; and courage was not enough to make us love him; for along with the courage went a cold streak of contempt and disdain and unmitigated cruelty that had earned the undying hatred of all too many in our ranks. A general they loved or a general they didn’t know might have won over many of them right there, for what we had done was yet unresolved, and the light of fear had begun to burn in us – and we had no certainty, even now, that an army could remain an army without officers; but we did not love Anthony Wayne, and we knew him all too well, and what we had done for him in the past, to give him such glory, we did because his gut was the gut of a reaver. His gut won no respect for him here.
    The Committee of Sergeants, answered Billy Bowzar, still in the same tone.
    The Committee of Sergeants, said Wayne. The Committee of Sergeants!
    And he raised his voice, hurling it into the cold and rising night wind:
    Disband, I tell you!
    But it was too late, and we stood on our ranks, and we stood silent except for the wail of a little child that lifted over and above the men and mingled with the winter winds.
    Butler said: I know you, Billy Bowzar, and I know you, Jack Maloney, and I know that dirty Jew Levy and that black Nayger Holt, and you too, Jamie Stuart, and well indeed do I know that slaister Connell who was swept up with the dung from the