Washington and Caesar (21 page)

Sergeant King was looking out of the little wood down the ridge toward the militia camp.

“You’re no fool, Caesar. This is as good a watch post as I’ve seen.” Caesar thought that King had learned this new clipped way of talking from the white officer.

He told off all three of the dangerous looking men and two of the clumsy ones, and told them to observe the militia until he sent a relief. “If you ain’t heard nothin’ when the sun is at noon, you jus’ come back. If’n they attack you, jus’ come back. Otherwise, stay here and learn what you can.”

The dangerous men all nodded. Caesar went over to the largest; closer up, it was obvious he had been a sailor like King. He had tattoos all over his arms.

“There’s a trail comes up from that creek. See it?”

The man squinted, then nodded.

“They didn’t have no sentries out las’ night, neither.”

The sailor nodded at Caesar and smiled.

“Thankye.”

And then they were going back down, past the hedgerows and the fields, through the wood, past the other sentries, and farther back, through another line of guards to a field covered in gray linen canvas tents. King took them all to an officer who asked them some questions, and when they left his big white tent each of them had a shilling and a paper chit.

People stopped and looked at them because they looked so savage. Eventually this made it through their fatigue, and they began to be embarrassed. There were women in the camp, and quite a few were black, and several were bold enough to comment on Tom’s breeches, or Caesar’s.

“What’s the paper say?” asked Tom. He liked the shilling.

“It says you are a soldier in the Loyal Ethiopian Regiment,” said King, and he stopped at a firepit where a big group of black men and women were cooking. “This is your company. Listen up! These men run a long way to join, so treat ’em right. Your corporal is Mr. Peters, right here. Mr. Peters, this is Julius Caesar.” Caesar looked through his fatigue and saw a much older man, who nodded gravely.

“You lads hungry?”

They all responded.

“Well, that’s about the only good thing ‘bout being in the army.” He had a curious accent, like a very educated white man. He was only the second African Caesar had ever heard speak so well. But Caesar was beyond curiosity just then, and when a mess kitty full of salt pork and thick pea soup was placed in his hands, he didn’t stop eating until it was empty. When he raised his head, most of the men were gone, and his own three were asleep on the ground. Corporal Peters was watching him with a benign air.

“How long have you been on the run?”

“Near on six months, I think.”

“You speak well. What were you, a house slave?”

“No, sir. I was a dogs boy.”

“Those dogs must have spoke you uncommon civil, then.” The older man smiled at his own humor. “Get some sleep, lad.”

Caesar was boiling with questions, but he was safe and well fed. He let his head slide down on to a forage bag full of straw. He fell asleep there, but his right
hand was still wrapped around the wrist of his fowler, and the corporal smiled at him, shook his head, and lit his pipe.

Cambridge, Massachusetts, November 8, 1775

“It is curious that you and I share a name, is it not, William?” Charles Lee was leaning against the door jamb, his coat fashionable, his hat in hand, watching Washington’s black manservant powder his hair. William Lee had the mask over his master’s face to keep the powder off and was dusting away industriously. He never could tell whether General Lee was joking or being serious, and he didn’t like the game.

“Yes, suh. Very curious.”

“Perhaps we have a parent in common, or are cousins.”

“William does not appreciate this sort of humor, General, and neither do I.” Washington spoke from under the mask. “It scarce does you credit, abusing a man who can’t answer back.”

Lee laughed his cynical laugh, two quick barks. “I think I’m perfectly civil. Inviting the fellow to be a relative ought to be taken as a compliment, I think. I certainly meant it so, Mr. Lee.”

“Thank’a, suh.”

“Think nothing of it. General, we have dispatches from General Arnold.”

Washington’s head came up eagerly, but he restrained himself as William Lee was just starting to club his hair.

“You have the advantage of me.”

“General Arnold is in good spirits and his advance guard is past the second portage to the Dead River. He’s through the worst of the high ground and well on his way to Quebec.”

Washington’s breath escaped audibly.

“We’ll take Quebec yet.”

“Please stay still, suh.”

“Sorry, Billy.”

Billy brought a freshly pressed black silk ribbon, three full inches broad, from the side table and brought it up under Washington’s heavy club of hair. He began to tie it. Washington held his head perfectly still.

“General Arnold dated this the thirteenth of October. Did I say he’s in good spirits, as are his men?”

“Does he give a return of supplies?”

“He notes near the bottom that he has provisions for twenty-five days.”

“That’s news worth hearing.”

“I took the liberty of giving the messenger a few dollars. Added to General Montgomery’s dispatches of yesterday…”

“We begin to show signs of having a winter campaign. It’s far too early to be sure, but if we can take Canada…”

“…the war is won. No Canada, no bases, no place for their navy to anchor. Yes, sir. Of course, there is Governor Dunmore in Virginia.”

“Nothing that need worry us. What do we have in the notes for today?”

“I’ll send you Captain Hamilton, sir.”

Washington’s head emerged from the mask. His hair had just one curl to each side, but was crisply clubbed at the back. The coat of silver-gray powder was exact and even and not a speck of it was on his dressing gown. William Lee helped him into his heavy blue and buff uniform. After he had his sword belt seated properly, Lee began buttoning on his heavy epaulets. Washington and Charles Lee wore virtually the same uniform, but each adorned it differently. Lee gave it an air of carefully planned unconscious elegance, while Washington lent it a spartan dignity. As Washington finished his toilette, they glanced over each other as if duelists measuring an opponent’s prowess.

“Had any thoughts on provisions?”

“Only that it’s time to make demands of the other colonies.”

“And enlistments?”

“I expect we’ll enjoy recruiting another army when this one marches away with all our equipment, but I’ll be damned if I can think of a way to avoid it.”

Washington looked pained when Charles Lee swore, but let it pass.

“I think the Connecticut regiments will stay.”

“Perhaps, sir. Are you ready for correspondence? I have to be in the saddle. The ‘line’ regiments won’t send in returns unless I bully their adjutants.”

“I would like to deal with my household, first. Ask Hamilton to wait and send me Mr. Austen.”

If Charles Lee resented acting in lieu of a butler, he stifled it, smiled a very small smile, and bowed.

“Your servant, sir.”

William Lee waited until the room was clear, then started in on his master’s neck stocks. He could trust the girls with the shirts, but stocks took a different touch.

Williamsburg, Virginia, November 8, 1775

“Make ready!”

Every man in the company held his musket barrel up by his left cheek and cocked it.

“Present!”

Every man brought his musket sharply down and aimed it across the field.

“Fire!”

Forty flints struck forty hammers and turned them over with a soft click and a shower of sparks. Most of the men immediately rotated on their heels until they were half turned to the right, and their right hands reached for their cartridge boxes. The white sergeant in the red coat walked along to one man who hesitated.

“Are ye ready to load then, lad?”

The young man instantly rotated on his heels and reached back. Other men who were slow at the drill did the same. Sergeant King stood behind the company, speaking quietly to the newest recruits in the center of the back rank, which included Tom, Caesar, and Virgil. Jim was so small he had to be in the front rank, but he was a fast study and it had been days since he had been reprimanded at drill.

“Prepare to prime and load. Handle your cartridge!” Forty hands reached in and removed a paper tube full of powder from the wooden blocks in their cartridge boxes. Less than half of them had boxes; the rest had various contraptions they had made themselves or which had been made for them by Williamsburg contractors. Then they bit off the top of the cartridge between their teeth and brought the now-open paper tube to the height of the pan on the musket’s lock.

“Prime your pan.”

Every man poured enough powder to ignite the priming into the pan and raised his fingers to the back of the cock, or frizzen.

“Shut your pan.” Every man closed the L-shaped cock over the priming pan, and…

“Cast about.”…rotated the musket smartly at a pivot formed by the swell forward of the lock, so that it was held, lock down and barrel up, in the left hand. The right still held the paper tube with the remainder of the powder.

“Charge with cartridge.” The three ranks tipped the contents of the tube and the tube itself down the barrel.

“Draw your rammers.” Every hand grasped the rammer at its iron tip and pulled as far as the arm could reach, then those same right hands moved quickly back down to the newly exposed base of the rammer and caught it there, “shortening” the rammer.

“Ram down cartridge.” The shortened rammers were drawn fully from the pipes, rotated through a half-circle
so that the iron tip was in the top of the barrel, and thrust strongly home.

“Withdraw your rammers!”

“Return your rammers!”

Now every man stood with a loaded musket held tight into his left shoulder. No ball, of course. The King was sparing of his lead.

“Make ready!” Sergeant King was pushing the new recruits at the rear.

“Lock up. Lock up there, Tom.”

The white sergeant paced to the center of the line.

“Every man in the second rank should have stepped over. Every man in the first rank should be kneeling with his leg well back. Every man in the third rank should have stepped a little forward to lock up. You should be one machine, capable of delivering one fire. In battle, if the king should ever be so unlucky as to send you there, we will not be loading a step at a time. We’ll only tell you to ‘prime and load’. But this, the ‘make ready’, is the most important step if this long fellow here is not to shoot off the ear of this little fellow in the front rank. Are they ready, King?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Remember what I told you. Every musket comes down together. You all seem to have muscles. Use them. PRESENT!”

Thirty or so muskets came down together. Most of the back rank was too slow.

“Not good enough. Back to the make ready!…PRESENT!”

This time, the motion was, if anything, weaker than the last. The sergeant seized a musket from one of the front-rank men.

“Look, you cretins. First, I’m at the make ready. Yes? Present! One swift motion. The left arm is actually pulling the musket down. If you execute the make ready motion
correctly, you will not hit your mates in front. Right. And again. Back to the make ready…PRESENT!”

It was a passable effort and would not have disgraced most companies of volunteers in England. The sergeant let it go with a head motion that showed his gentle contempt for their best effort.

“FIRE!”

The volley, fired with blank squibs, was quite crisp. He did not praise it.

“Prime and load! Quickly! Faster, you idiot! You, the long one, step over, damn you. Cover your file leader! Faster. Six, five, four, three, two…Make ready!”

Most of them got it right. The white sergeant noticed that all the new recruits in the back were on the right foot, had their bodies in the right position. Perhaps King was coaching them, but what of it?

“Present! Do you want to shoot your mate in the back, Coneyhead? Yes, you, you great gowk! Lock up! FIRE!”

He walked back to King, who was standing behind Caesar in the rear rank.

“Pretty sorry, King. But given a few years, we’ll make soldiers of the survivors.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That very tall fellow needs some, shall we say, strong measures? He’s going to be an embarrassment in the field. He’s afraid of his musket.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well then, King. Bring them along. We’re parading with the battalion in a few minutes.”

King paced out to the head of the company.

“Company will form column by wheeling to the right by subdivisions!”

A murmur in the ranks as the men who knew what this meant communicated it to the ignorant. King was wise enough to wait it out.

“By the right wheel! MARCH!”

With surprising precision, the company split in two, and each small block wheeled through a quarter-circle to stand in a column. They shuffled uncertainly to a halt. King shook his head, chagrined. He should have told them to continue marching once the wheels were performed, but he couldn’t admit it in front of the sergeant from the Fourteenth Regiment.

“At the quickstep! March!” The little column started forward.

In the rear rank of the second subdivision, Private Julius Caesar of the Loyal Ethiopian Regiment set his face and marched. His body was beginning to respond correctly to the commands, and he felt the first gleams of hope since the endless drill had started. Days of clumsy fumbling had reduced him to a deep frustration and anger, the more so as the white sergeant seemed to have no method of teaching but impatient repetition. He never called them
niggers,
but his contempt for them was not very well buried. He seemed to resent even having to drill them. Caesar felt it, and he knew that King and many of the others felt it, too. The drill was difficult enough without the added sting of the contempt that made every evolution seem like a test.

But as he began to master the drill, he began to understand better why it mattered. He could see how the big volleys of fire would replace the inability of most of the men to aim well, and he could feel how terrifying the volleys would be even aside from the execution they would reap. He began to enjoy drill. He also savored the changes in himself, wrought by daily exercise that included rest, good sleep, and regular food. The mattock wound in his leg was finally just a memory, and he thought he might get his speed back in time. His arms were filling out. He stood straighter than he had since the swamp. Girls looked at him when he strode by. And he wasn’t alone. Virgil seemed stronger, and Jim had gained
an inch and was filling out like an animal being fattened for market. Most of them had hats, now, and their clothes were better.