a debate or a match of fisticuffs, but later that night share the last of their rum with him if they thought he was, nevertheless, a man of courage. Yet when it came to sentiment, to open expressions of patriotism, especially now, there was a hard edge. He sensed that somehow they saw he was the man who could write down the words burning in their hearts that their own scribblings could not capture. It was not the high-flown, educated language of mensuch as Washington or Rush or Jefferson. It was the new language of common men who stood defiant for the rights of other common men.
That is what they want of me, Thomas Paine realized. That is why I am here on this rainy night, and, by God, that is why I must figure out what to write for and about them.
At this moment, though, he felt himself an utter failure. For how could he ever find words to write about this.
“America, you say?”
It was James.
He looked back across the river. The rain had all but stopped, the cold wind now sweeping in, blowing clear some of the smoke and mist . . . and now the first flakes of snow were dancing down.
They could see the fires on the far shore, hundreds of them.
“They’re warm over there tonight,” James said. “They have tents, food. Tomorrow the people of this town will hang out their flags for England and cheer. Even for the Hessians they’ll cheer.
“You talk of America? What in hell are you talking about? If we are America, then I say we are nothing but damn fools, and you, Tom Paine, are one of the bastards who talked us into this madness. When the end comes, Congress will run or cower and crawl back to save their own skins. And since so many of them are gentlemen, they will shake hands like gentlemen with Howe, while any of us dumb enough to still believe will be shoved into the prison ships or hanged.
“What will you do, Paine, when the end comes? For God’s sake, man, can’t you see that this is the end of it?”
“I’ll die,” Tom said quietly. “If it is the end, I’ll die, but I don’t believe it is over yet, not with men like you here around this fire.”
He paused.
“Or men even like me or men like Greene or General Washington.”
James snorted derisively and spat into the fire.
“God damn all gentlemen like them! Especially that Washington, who led us into this mess.”
And now Jonathan did spring, stepping around the fire, slamming into his brother, knocking him over.
Seconds later all had piled in, several trading punches, Bartholomew, Tom, and Peter struggling to separate them.
Tom got his arms around Jonathan and pulled him away from James, who tried to lunge for him, but the sergeant blocked him, shoving him back.
“You’re nothing but a damned Tory,” Jonathan screamed, his voice breaking.
“I should never have listened to you,” James roared. “Our parents were right. We’re fools. Our brother and parents are safe at home. No matter who wins, they’ll be warm and prosper. We’re all fools!”
“Then if that’s how you feel,” Bartholomew snapped. “Go, damn you! I’ve listened to your bellyaching for the last month. Just go. Get the hell out of here and go home to Trenton.”
Bartholomew let go of James, shoving him away.
James glared at him.
“I’ll go then, you fools. You’re all madmen, and you, damn you”——he pointed, and Tom wasn’t sure that it was straight at him or at Jonathan, whom he was still holding on to——“you’re the worst of the lot.”
James went over to where their packs were stacked, fished his out of the pile, and slung it over his shoulder.
He glanced at the others.
“Anyone else here with me?” He paused and grimaced sarcastically at Tom. “Anyone with some common sense?”
“I’m with you.”
It was Elijah Hunt, who picked up his pack and stepped over to James’s side.
“They could shoot you for desertion,” Peter cried. “Elijah, not you, too.”
“Why bother?” Bartholomew said coldly. “Let them go. Desert.
That is what they want of me, Thomas Paine realized. That is why I am here on this rainy night, and, by God, that is why I must figure out what to write for and about them.
At this moment, though, he felt himself an utter failure. For how could he ever find words to write about this.
“America, you say?”
It was James.
He looked back across the river. The rain had all but stopped, the cold wind now sweeping in, blowing clear some of the smoke and mist . . . and now the first flakes of snow were dancing down.
They could see the fires on the far shore, hundreds of them.
“They’re warm over there tonight,” James said. “They have tents, food. Tomorrow the people of this town will hang out their flags for England and cheer. Even for the Hessians they’ll cheer.
“You talk of America? What in hell are you talking about? If we are America, then I say we are nothing but damn fools, and you, Tom Paine, are one of the bastards who talked us into this madness. When the end comes, Congress will run or cower and crawl back to save their own skins. And since so many of them are gentlemen, they will shake hands like gentlemen with Howe, while any of us dumb enough to still believe will be shoved into the prison ships or hanged.
“What will you do, Paine, when the end comes? For God’s sake, man, can’t you see that this is the end of it?”
“I’ll die,” Tom said quietly. “If it is the end, I’ll die, but I don’t believe it is over yet, not with men like you here around this fire.”
He paused.
“Or men even like me or men like Greene or General Washington.”
James snorted derisively and spat into the fire.
“God damn all gentlemen like them! Especially that Washington, who led us into this mess.”
And now Jonathan did spring, stepping around the fire, slamming into his brother, knocking him over.
Seconds later all had piled in, several trading punches, Bartholomew, Tom, and Peter struggling to separate them.
Tom got his arms around Jonathan and pulled him away from James, who tried to lunge for him, but the sergeant blocked him, shoving him back.
“You’re nothing but a damned Tory,” Jonathan screamed, his voice breaking.
“I should never have listened to you,” James roared. “Our parents were right. We’re fools. Our brother and parents are safe at home. No matter who wins, they’ll be warm and prosper. We’re all fools!”
“Then if that’s how you feel,” Bartholomew snapped. “Go, damn you! I’ve listened to your bellyaching for the last month. Just go. Get the hell out of here and go home to Trenton.”
Bartholomew let go of James, shoving him away.
James glared at him.
“I’ll go then, you fools. You’re all madmen, and you, damn you”——he pointed, and Tom wasn’t sure that it was straight at him or at Jonathan, whom he was still holding on to——“you’re the worst of the lot.”
James went over to where their packs were stacked, fished his out of the pile, and slung it over his shoulder.
He glanced at the others.
“Anyone else here with me?” He paused and grimaced sarcastically at Tom. “Anyone with some common sense?”
“I’m with you.”
It was Elijah Hunt, who picked up his pack and stepped over to James’s side.
“They could shoot you for desertion,” Peter cried. “Elijah, not you, too.”
“Why bother?” Bartholomew said coldly. “Let them go. Desert.
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