Without saying anything to one another, the Hessians began to move in the direction of the sound, crossing the road and entering the dark, soaking woods.
Keeping Jonathan close, they moved with elaborate care. When the cow lowed again, closer yet, they halted. Jonathan wondered at the sound. That it was a cow in distress he had no doubt. He wondered if the Hessians could, or would, understand. Did they, he asked himself, have cows in the land they came from?
The tall soldier unwrapped his gun, primed it anew, then wrapped it up quickly once more. To his pack he affixed Jonathan’s gun so it was secure and out of the way.
It was almost impossible to see anything. Still, they stood there, waiting for another call from the cow. The sound of dripping water made Jonathan tense.
When the call did come, it seemed closer than it had before. Jonathan felt relieved.
The soldiers turned and began to hurry. Within minutes they came up against a rail fence and what appeared in the fog to be an open space beyond.
Again the cow called, but they could not see across the field.
The other two soldiers brought their guns around and checked the priming. Once more Jonathan thought about the Corporal and the other Americans. Perhaps they were close, even across the field. Should he send out a warning call? Who was he more afraid of, the Hessians or the Americans?
The soldiers climbed the fence. Jonathan attempted to follow, only to become entangled in the rope. The young soldier leaned over the top rail and began to untie the rope. The old one, seeing what was happening, glared at the young soldier, but then turned back across the field, distracted, when the cow bleated again. The young soldier pulled away the rope. Slowly, Jonathan climbed the fence and joined the Hessians.
As they began to cross over the spongy pasture ground, the old soldier made Jonathan walk in front.
In the open area the fog grew thinner. The Hessians kept a few paces apart, their muskets ready, their bayonets fixed as if they were advancing on an enemy.
Jonathan stared in the direction they were moving, hoping he would see whatever they were approaching first.
The fog lifted some more and Jonathan saw the cow. A rope, broken, dangled from her neck. Beyond the cow was a dark house.
5:40
The house was smaller than Jonathan’s own. Swedish style, it was made of logs, chinked with decaying clay, and clogged with clods of moss. In front of the doorway a shallow covered porch ran the full width of the house. It looked deserted, containing no sense of light or life. The cow, standing before the closed door, kept lifting her head, stretching, and lowing. Not far from the house, off to one side, was a smaller building, whose double doors were also closed.
With great care, their boots sticking in the wet ground, they continued to advance, Jonathan still in front of the Hessians. When they came close to the house, they stopped.
The cow swung her head up and around, looking at them, her tongue flicking. Again she called, deep and long. Jonathan understood that she was waiting to be milked, waiting for someone to come from the house. But no one did.
Unsure what to do, the soldiers stood still, exchanging anxious glances. The young one and the tall one kept looking to the oldest, waiting for him to make up his mind. It was he, finally, who touched Jonathan on the arm. “Los!” he said, pushing him forward. “Mach die Tür auf.”
Jonathan took a few tentative steps forward, then stopped and turned. He looked at the young soldier, but he was impassive. The old soldier waved his arm, and Jonathan understood him to mean that he should continue. Just to be certain, he took three more steps then turned yet again. The soldier nodded.
Jonathan stepped on the porch. It sagged slightly. Using a post, he pulled himself up and listened.
Nothing.
Approaching the door, he reached out a hand, withdrew it, and gazed back toward the soldiers.
“Los!” came the impatient, whispered command. The old one lifted his gun. Jonathan heard the click as he drew back his flintlock.
Nervously, Jonathan knocked timidly on the door.
“Noch einmal!” the older soldier called in a hoarse whisper.
A second knock. Still no answer. Finally, Jonathan reached for the latch, squeezed it, then pushed. The door, swinging on old hinges, opened halfway. Jonathan glanced back. The Hessians, who had advanced a few more paces, urged him on.
Carefully, Jonathan pushed the door completely open and stepped inside.
It was a one-room house with a dirt floor, one oil-papered window, and a hearth at the far side. A table stood in the middle of the room. One low counter—Jonathan thought it a bed—was against the wall. Two old chairs. A number of boxes against the walls. On the table a few things that had been left: a cup, a tin plate, a candle in a stand. A wooden shovel stood by the door. It was a poor house, a meager house with the look of having been quickly abandoned.
Jonathan turned to the door as the tall soldier came in, his great size filling the doorframe. Within moments the other two entered.
The young soldier began to poke about. When he found a half loaf of bread, he flung it on the table, where it landed with a dull thump.
Outside the cow bleated.
“It wants milking,” said Jonathan.
“Was war das?” the young soldier said to him.
The tall soldier spoke curtly. To Jonathan they all seemed angry, frustrated.
Again the cow called.
“Milking,” Jonathan said, speaking carefully, first pointing outside, then making milking motions with his hands. “You can drink it,” he said, making a drinking motion.
The young soldier looked at him quizzically, until, with sudden comprehension, he laughed. “Melken!” he cried. “Wir können dann die Milch trinken.”
Thinking he had made himself understood, Jonathan cast about for a bucket, but couldn’t find one. The young soldier, not understanding, pushed him encouragingly toward the door.
Jonathan went. The soldier stood watching him from the doorway.
Once outside, Jonathan moved to the cow and stroked her about her ears, still searching about for a bucket. Remembering the shed he had seen off to one side, he caught the soldier’s attention and pointed toward it.
The soldier winked at him from the porch where he stood.
The wink made Jonathan grin, and filled him with a sense of camaraderie. Feeling good, almost happy, he walked across the way and pulled the shed doors open. He looked inside.
Sitting on the ground was a child.
6:00
The child was very young—Jonathan could see that. His own sister was seven years old and this boy was not close to her in size. He sat on the ground, his feet bare, his linsey-woolsey blouse veined with dirt, his dark face caked with mud. His arms and legs were filthy.
When Jonathan first looked in, the boy, as if coming from sleep, lifted sudden, startled eyes, opening his mouth as if to speak, but then said nothing.
Jonathan quickly glanced toward the house. The young soldier was standing on the porch, staring into the distance beyond the shed. He did not notice Jonathan.
Jonathan turned back to the boy.
“Don’t talk!” he whispered quickly as he put a hand to the boy’s mouth.
The boy pulled his head back and gazed dumbly at Jonathan.
Jonathan returned the look, trying to understand his own feelings, which were now in a jumble again. Should he tell the Hessians what he had found or not?
He glanced about the shed. A window, no more than a hole under the eaves, let in enough light for him to see that the shed contained only a few implements, a pile of straw, and in a corner a wooden bucket. He decided he needed time to think what to do.
He reached for the bucket, and though he wasn’t close, the little boy shied away at once.
“Where are your parents?” Jonathan asked, keeping his voice as low as possible.
The boy stared at him. His stillness frightened Jonathan. It reminded him that he was a prisoner. He
looked back at the house. The soldier was still not watching.
“Your mother and father,” said Jonathan urgently, “are they hiding? Are they near?”
The boy gave no response. Impulsively, as if to see if he was real, Jonathan reached out to touch him again. The boy shied away.
“Are they close?” Jonathan asked, more gently this time. When he received no answer, he stood up and peeked out of the shed. Now the soldier was looking in his direction.
“Los, geh!” the Hessian shouted.
“I have to milk the cow,” said Jonathan to the boy. “Just stay here. Don’t you move. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” Snatching up the bucket, he slipped out of the shed, carefully leaving the doors just slightly ajar.
Acutely aware that the young soldier was now observing him, and wondering if he suspected anything, Jonathan went to the cow. He didn’t look at the Hessian. He placed the bucket under the cow’s udder, then quickly knelt, pressing his face against the warm flanks. The cow stamped. Jonathan began to milk.
The milk came in hard streams, foaming white and frothy. Working rhythmically, Jonathan shut his eyes and felt the rough, warm hide against his face. Milking was one of his tasks at home, and the familiar pattern of sound soothed him.
He thought of the little boy. Who was he? What was he doing there? Where was the rest of his family? Should he tell the Hessians, and if he did what would they do? They had seemed friendly enough—were they truly?
After filling the bucket, Jonathan moved away so the cow wouldn’t kick it over.
The young soldier, watching, mumbled his approval. Jonathan guiltily averted his eyes.
He brought the bucket into the house.
The candle had been lit. The tall soldier was sprawled on the bed, his long arms and legs dangling to the floor. The old Hessian, his jacket loosened and sash undone, sat at the table, toying with the small cup. Jonathan was reminded again how big they all were.
The bread had been cut into three large pieces and one smaller one.
Jonathan set the milk bucket on the table, now very much aware of his hunger. He stared at the bread. The old soldier, noticing, pushed the smallest piece toward him, then made motions to the cup with his hand.
Jonathan wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. The Hessian mimicked his earlier drinking movement. Thankful, Jonathan filled the cup with milk by dipping it into the bucket, then drew it out and drank it down in two quick swallows. The old soldier gave an approving grunt. Jonathan filled the cup a second time, and was about to take it for himself when he saw the Hessian’s hand extended. He handed the full cup to him. The Hessian drained it. Then the young soldier came and helped himself, only to hand the cup back to the older one, who continued drinking.
When the tall one roused himself for his portion, the young one went to the hearth and attempted to get a fire started.
Jonathan, having bolted his bread to satisfy his immediate hunger, now was impatient to leave the house and get back to the boy. He tried to think of some excuse to go, then considered whether or not he should tell the soldiers. He wanted to.
The cow began to low again. The soldiers ignored it until, when it persisted, the young one stood up and waved Jonathan toward the bucket and the door.
Jonathan moved slowly. He picked up the bucket and started for the door. There he paused to see if anyone would follow. Casually, the young soldier stood and lumbered after.
Jonathan milked the cow again. The bucket filled more slowly this time. As Jonathan worked, he kept going over what to do in his mind. More than once he glanced up at the soldier, who was hardly keeping any watch on him at all. One moment Jonathan wanted to tell him. The next moment he did not, confused anew about whether the Hessians were his friends or enemies.
When he obviously could get no more milk from the cow, Jonathan stood up.
“Fertig?” asked the Hessian.
“I have to take care of the cow,” said Jonathan, almost without thinking, and handed the bucket to the soldier. He pointed to the cow, then to the shed. Comprehending, the soldier shrugged, then turned and took the bucket inside, leaving Jonathan alone.
For a moment Jonathan just stood there, taking in deeply the realization that the young soldier was completely trusting him. Uneasy, he grabbed hold of the rope, which was dangling from the cow’s neck, and led her toward the shed.
6:30
The cow went docilely, without complaint. At the shed door Jonathan tied the rope to a post and, with a quick glance back over his shoulder, carefully opened the door. The boy was still there. He looked up at Jonathan.
Jonathan sidled in, angling the door so that if one of the soldiers came out on the porch, he would not be able to see in, yet leaving enough of an opening to allow some light. He squatted by the boy’s side.
“Where are your parents?” he whispered, repeating the question he had asked before. “I need to know.”
The boy only looked at him through the dim light.
Jonathan studied his face as if the puzzle could be untangled there. The boy’s eyes were tired, his mouth a soft, tremulous frown. His dreary sadness made Jonathan uneasy. Something had happened.
“Your parents,” Jonathan tried, urgency returning to his voice. “Your mother. Is she coming back? Mama?”
A flicker of understanding sparked the boy’s eyes. His mouth twitched slightly. His face softened. For a moment Jonathan thought the boy might cry. Then, in a tentative gesture, the boy lifted a hand and pointed.
Jonathan looked where the boy had pointed. It made no sense. Deciding that he simply could not understand, that he needed help, that he had to trust the Hessians, he put out his hand. “Come with me,” he said. The boy did nothing.
Jonathan stood up, his hand again reaching out. “Come with me,” he repeated, speaking more gently.
Cautiously, the boy put out his hand. Jonathan took it and led him out of the shed.
Approaching the house, holding the boy firmly by the hand, Jonathan crossed over to the porch, to the door. There he paused briefly before going inside.
6:35
It was the old soldier who saw them first. “Mein Gott!” he cried.
The tone of his voice brought the other two around, one from his resting place on the bed, the other from the hearth. They all looked down at the boy. Never had the soldiers seemed more enormous to Jonathan than they did then.
“Woher kommt denn der?” asked the young soldier.
“He was in the shed,” Jonathan replied, not knowing if he was answering the question. “He was just sitting there. I asked him where his parents were. He won’t answer.”
The Hessians exchanged glances. Then the young one shrugged and laughed and returned to his bed, while the tall one, frowning, went back to the hearth. The old one took up his seat at the table and kept rubbing a hand along his mustache.
The boy had not moved, clearly preferring to stay with Jonathan.
“Can you tell me where your mother is?” Jonathan asked the boy. Then, remembering that he had responded to the word “Mama,” he used it.
Again there was a reaction. The boy looked around as if trying to gain a sense of direction. At last he pointed.
The young soldier had propped himself up on one elbow. “Was sagt er?” he asked.
“Your mama,” Jonathan repeated directly into the boy’s face and speaking very slowly. “Where? Mama?”
For a moment the boy gazed at Jonathan, and then began to tug at him. Jonathan allowed himself to be led toward the door. There he stopped and, with a look, appealed to the Hessians. The two turned to the older one who, scowling, stood up. As Jonathan, led by the boy, went out, the soldiers followed.
6:45
Jonathan found the boy’s parents out beyond a small field, not far from the rear loop of the fence. It was an area where the woods had started to reclaim the land.
A man—Jonathan assumed it was the boy’s father—lay on his back, his arms wide to either side, his eyes closed, dead.
The woman, also dead, lay face downward. Their clothing was wet, torn, pink with blood. The woman’s hair, long and gray, draped over her neck like a fringed shawl.
For a moment the boy simply stood next to the bodies. Then he sat down and began to play with his mother’s hair, attempting with awkward fingers to braid it. His face was blank.
Jonathan was deeply shaken, unwilling to accept what was before his eyes. How could this happen? Who could have done it?
The three Hessians approached, carrying their guns. Their uniforms were in disarray.
Seeing the bodies, they stopped short. Jonathan scrutinized the soldiers’ faces. Mostly, they seemed to show annoyance. He felt a sudden spasm of anger: Why didn’t they react more?
“Are these your parents?” Jonathan asked the boy. His voice seemed too loud. The boy lifted his face. “What happened?” Jonathan asked.
The boy, either not comprehending or unable to say, gave no reply.
“Can’t you speak?” Jonathan pleaded.
The boy did not.
Jonathan glanced behind at the soldiers. They had kept their distance. Jonathan looked about the area in which they were standing, the encroaching trees, the field beyond. The darkness had thickened. The sky had almost disappeared. For what he could see of the rest of the world, they might have been on an island. Behind him the three soldiers, clearly impatient, shifted uneasily. A gentle breeze stirred the trees.
With a look, Jonathan tried to appeal to the young soldier. But he only shook his head, muttered something under his breath, then turned and went back to the house. The tall one followed.
With growing dismay, Jonathan gazed at the bodies, at the boy, at the remaining soldier, the old one.
Reaching out, the Hessian clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, gave him a shake, and nodded toward the house. Then he walked off a few paces.
The boy’s fingers were woven into his mother’s wet hair.
Jonathan looked at the Hessian, who stood waiting. “Nun komm!” he called, his face glowering with impatience. As though taking a leap, Jonathan suddenly found an answer to his questions.
He turned back to the boy. “Did they kill them?” he whispered breathlessly.