THE RATTLESNAKE COLONEL

  $6.76- The amount that was found in Jack Hodges’ pocket when taken into custody at bridewell jail NYC.

     

       There’s a tradition in New York (and within my own family) to award ourselves promotions, titles and ranks that we haven’t actually earned. After the Vietnam War I had an uncle who kept promoting himself until he was a Green Beret Colonel riding in a red convertible in the Veteran’s Day parade. He was in the Army, but never got higher than the rank of corporal, and was never in the Green Berets or Vietnam. He fooled everybody, even his family. Little did my uncle know that he was following an old and cherished tradition of fraud in the Empire State. After the War of 1812, out of staters joked that there were more self-appointed bird colonels in New York State than there were rattlesnakes. And these hills were infested with snakes. Nobody took the NY hillbillies seriously, but that didn’t keep the phony “officers” from bragging about their rank and questionable war record at the local VFW.  As the black militant and revolutionary, George Jackson once said of the ex-military, white prison guards who resided in the prison’s surrounding countryside, (they) “in general, are so stupid that they shouldn’t be allowed to run their own bath.” They are the rattlesnake colonels. I’ve met a few rattlesnake colonels in Orange and Sullivan Counties in my life, my uncle among them. It’s a little like declaring you’re the self-ordained minister of your own church.    

      It’s unclear just why C.B. Durland and his boys were selected as the posse to go after Jack Hodges in the first place. None were sworn law officers, but they were all young, well armed, and had good, strong horses. Far from being puffed up, self-aggrandizing, “rattlesnake colonels,” the sheriff’s citizen deputies were focused and well equipped for their mission. “Bring the black bastard back dead or alive.” the sheriff told them. After a short discussion of the posse’s route, Goshen Sheriff Moses Burnet wished them all well and watched as they wheeled their mounts towards the river, disappearing in a cloud of snow and gritty dust. They reached Newburgh before dark. 

    The horses had never been on a boat before, so there were some tense moments, the skittish animals bucking and pulling against their reins, as the riders carefully led them down the Beacon Ferry’s boarding plank. A man who’d been drinking at the yellow tavern on Sunday informed the posse that a “nigger,” fitting Jack’s description, was seen boarding the east ferry alone, Monday last. C.B. Durland nodded nonchalantly, packed his pipe, and watched as the Colden docks shrunk in the distance.There was no question who was in charge.

    At a tavern on the eastern stage road, another bartender informed Durland’s men that their quarry had inquired as to any boat heading down river. As far as the bartender knew the only recent outbound sloop was docked  at Cold Spring Landing, possibly bound for NY. After a short stop for beer, some oats and water for the horses, the posse was again on its way. Each man carried a brace of flintlock pistols, a short saber and rifle, with C.B. Durland leading the way, an old revolutionary war sword swinging from his belt. They all agreed that if Jack gave them any trouble, or ran they’d draw and fire. Otherwise they’d try to take him alive.The day was clear and brutally cold. Large chunks of ice groaned, grinding against each other, slowly drifting down river with the tide. 

  The posse followed the stage road past Manitou and Ossining, keeping the river to their right, straight into Manhattan. The horses were hungry and tired and the men were freezing, bundled in great coats and slouch hats, heads wrapped in wool scarves tied around their chins. Any black man they passed on foot or horseback, going in either direction, was occasion to rein the horses and slow down enough to satisfy themselves that it wasn’t Jack Hodges. Hope was fading. How were they ever to find one fleeing negro in this mass of confusion?

      Durland and his men were exhausted, yet nobody mentioned stopping to rest. According to the dock master in Cold Spring the boat they were looking for was called “The Caroline,” a single mast lumber sloop, that made her weekly runs between Albany and NY, stopping to load and unload at ports on its way. It wouldn’t be hard to spot, as long as they got to it while it was still berthed. Once the men spied sails and masts in the distance, along the west side, they slowed their horses to a canter and began methodically checking every bow and stern for the word “Caroline”. 

    They worked their way down along the river, skirting the maze of streets spilling out of the bowels of NY, reaching the Fulton St. wharf and sadly admitted that they had no chance whatsoever of spotting the sloop or Jack Hodges. They were freezing cold, hungry and discouraged. The pursuit that had started out so promisingly had turned into a wild goose chase. The posse had either missed The Caroline, or she had unloaded quickly, and returned up river. C.B. Durland feared Jack Hodges was now lost forever, safely ensconced in the masses of escaped slaves, free blacks and sailors who inhabited this frightening, chaotic place. Maybe it was time to give up.

   Then, as the discouraged posse was about to accept defeat and return home empty handed, one of them spotted a man swinging two pots, walking down a gangplank to shore. His profile and cadence looked familiar. They read the name carved in gold leaf script, just behind the figurehead- “Caroline.” Charlie Durland quickly motioned for them to slow and held his finger to his lips, their horses trotting past the ship. Jack spotted the riders but thought little of it, mumbling to himself and stopping for a moment to smell the bay. When the horses were out of sight, Durland ordered his men to dismount and follow him on foot. Jack had his back to the shore, the rising sun caressing his cheek, looking out towards the open sea, dreaming of better days ahead………… as he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against his neck, and heard four hammers click back. Jack’s escape was over.