Washington and Caesar (34 page)

“Those men is slave-takers, boys!” he shouted. A low, dangerous noise came from the black men.

“Are ye slaves, now? Or
Ethiopians
!” Caesar’s voice carried over the field. Even the blacks who were really only day labor lifted their voices and roared.

Murray was too stunned by the events to consider giving orders. This black man, the tall one, was giving the orders. Murray was used to letting the infantry do the killing while he built the forts and the machines, and he let nature take its course. He knew he was seeing something, though. He drew his sword, a short saber of no particular quality.

Caesar slammed the bayonet on to the end of the musket. It was empty, and the enemy was close. He didn’t think it would suit the men with him to wait in the trench, now that their blood was up, and he stood up, tall among the others huddled under the upcast for cover, and bellowed.

“At them, Ethiopians!”

They swarmed up the short pile of earth and right into the enemy line. There was no time for thought, or flinching.

The black faces appeared out of the earth at his feet and Lake swung his musket hard, punching one of them straight off his feet. Next to him, Isaac took another down and then shot him on the ground and George remembered that his own musket was loaded. He saw the flash of red and white
among the workers and he aimed at it and fired, hitting the officer. Isaac was clubbed from his feet and another man from the rear rank stepped into his place.

“Stand your ground!” he cried, and he felt men rally to him, press alongside him in the chaos. This was not how he had imagined it, but
they were going to hold.

Caesar leapt into the midst of the enemy, his musket and bayonet low in his right hand and a shovel in his left. He blocked a feeble blow with the shovel and pounded the bayonet home in the man’s chest as he had been taught since childhood, ripped it clear and stepped on his victim to close with the next, who was paper white in the sun. Caesar killed him, too. He was bellowing, his heart was charging within him and yet the world came to him with perfect clarity, and he realized that if he broke through the rear of the enemy line the rifles would shoot at him from the wood. He whirled on another man, pushing him off his feet with the shovel and then pinning him to the earth with the bayonet. The man squirmed, and the smell of his guts filled Caesar’s nostrils, but he stepped on the man’s chest and pulled his bayonet clear just as something sliced along his ribs and he stumbled back.

A big man, as big as he, thrust at him again with a bayonet. Caesar swung the shovel up to block and lunged with his own musket and bayonet, but the man rotated on his front foot and brought the butt of his musket up into Caesar’s shoulder and he dropped the shovel as the wave of pain hit. Desperate, he jumped back, his bayonet licking out to cover his retreat and going deep into his adversary’s right arm.

Caesar caught the other man’s eye for a moment as he drew back the musket for another stab, but a body cannoned into him from behind and almost knocked him down. The other man took a pistol from his belt and snapped it at him, but the priming was gone and the frizzen
open, and it wouldn’t fire. His adversary threw the pistol at his head and he ducked, and the big man slipped away into the maelstrom behind him. Caesar glanced around, and just avoided being spitted by the man who had struck him in the side. He twisted and parried with his own musket. His new opponent was young, gritted his teeth like a fighter and struck rapid blows in an attempt to overwhelm Caesar’s defense.

George Lake had thrown himself into the big black to buy Bludner a moment to finish him, but Bludner was gone, and even one-handed the man seemed to shrug off his best effort. He parried once, then again, and realized that the tide had shifted and he was now the prey. He backed, stumbled, and went down, tangled with another man. Even as he began to lose his balance, he tried to keep his musket up, but he was too slow, and he watched the man slide the bayonet down his gun barrel and smash his hand. He was suddenly looking into the other man’s eyes, curled on his side and unarmed, and the other man towered over him. Then he seemed to nod; at least, that’s how Lake told the story later. He nodded, smiled a little, and backed away, leaving Lake hurt but alive.

Caesar was content to let the young one live. He had eyes full of courage, even when his last defense was taken from him, and he was injured—he would not fight again today. Caesar backed up three steps, free of the fighting for the first time in what seemed like hours.

There were men coming up from behind them, more men in rebel coats.

“Sergeant McDonald!”

“Sir!”

“Take the two left files off to the flank and try to locate the source of that firing.”

“Sir.”

“If you please, sir, I’d be most happy to go myself.” Jeremy was a little surprised at himself. He usually remained silent during any military activity, as it was not his business and he feared that he would be excluded if he spoke out of turn. But he had a good set of eyes and the fastest horse.

Captain Stewart listened as the sound of another single distant shot echoed back to them. He considered Jeremy, his quality as a rider, the speed and wind of his mount, his steadiness. Stewart rode up close.

“Give me a picture. Who’s shooting, what the target is. Quick as you can, and Godspeed.”

Jeremy gave a sketchy wave with his riding whip, as close to a salute as he dared, and his horse sprang away. Behind him, Stewart turned the head of his company to the left and ordered them to extend into line.

Jeremy cantered easily over the wet leaves under the trees. So far, all America looked like woods and farms, with nothing as extensive as an English market town anywhere, with the possible exception of the town of New York, still just a smudge of wood smoke on the horizon ahead. He came over a little ridge and saw the enemy works on the opposite height, and then the sound of a shot drew his eye closer, to the little redoubt where a single red waistcoat showed in the trench among a small band of black laborers. One of them was lying out over the parapet and firing a musket at a full company of rebel infantry advancing resolutely from the woods at the base of the ridge. He saw it at a glance, even recognized Mr. Murray of the engineers kneeling, coatless, in the trench of the redoubt. He whirled his horse just in time to see a section of rebel infantry break from the taller trees to his back and start toward him.

Jeremy’s horse was already in motion and he smiled, a feral grin of elation and fear together. He fumbled with
drawing his smallsword, as the scabbard hung from chains and wasn’t intended for a clean draw on horseback. It took time, and his horse’s hooves took him closer to the rebels with every second. One of them was bringing his musket to his shoulder, but the others were either looking open-mouthed or smiling.

“Get the darkie on the horse,” Weymes called to the lead file. “Get the horse! An’ don’ hurt him none, or I’ll have your hide!”

Gorton had his musket up to fire and he brought it down even as he caught the gleam of a sword being drawn.

“Nigger’s going to ride us down!” he yelled, and leaned forward, musket to his shoulder, and fired.

The shot went somewhere. Jeremy was past caring. He had his sword out, his seat was solid, and he took a pistol from the holster on his saddle, leaned forward as he had been taught since infancy, and shot the first man he passed in the chest. Another man grabbed for his reins and he ran the man through, his sword point catching in bone for a moment and almost pulling out of his hand. He felt the horse gather itself for a jump and he dropped his heels, sat square and gave the animal his weight where she would want it, and they were up and over some obstruction he never glimpsed and in among the trees.

Jeremy cantered under the branches until he saw the welcome line of red moving toward him. He arrived in front of Stewart in a spray of leaves, his sword still clutched in his hand. It was red halfway down its length, with a curious blue-red shimmer that looked like an armorer’s finish. The tip was broken clean off, about two inches up the blade.

“Trouble, Jeremy?”

“Company of infantry going for our post. Mr. Murray in command of a group of laborers. They seem to be
resisting. Shots are one of the laborers firing. I ran into a spot of trouble, a section going for the rear of the post.” Jeremy’s words came in bursts, and he was trying to find all the breath he had possessed only a few minutes ago. His chest was tight, his throat nearly closed, and his voice was coming out in short, high pulses.

“How far, then?”

“A quarter mile. Less. Two minutes at a canter.”

“Right, then. McDonald! Forward. Have the men trail their firelocks and move at the double. Enemy will be front, in…in what, Jeremy?”

“Blue coats, Sergeant.”

“Blue coats and at the double it is, sir.” McDonald began to bellow orders.

Caesar saw the bluecoats coming from behind them with something akin to rage, because he thought they might have driven the first party off but sensed that the addition of this further handful from behind would finish them. He wiped his head with his arm and his shirt came away covered in blood, and everywhere he looked there were men down, men he knew. He flung himself at a man fighting Mr. Murray, determined to die well. He might have been encouraged by the sound of the bugle to his right, but he didn’t know that only the British light infantry used the instrument. If he thought about the sound at all, he thought it was more rebels.

Jim was down right at his feet, his head and shoulder all blood from a musket butt. Virgil and Tonny were back to back with shovels, and the results of their determination were laid about them. Some of the laborers had already run, and several had been taken. Mr. Murray fought on, his cheap saber well handled. The rebels seemed to have lost the stomach for the fight and had mostly drawn off a few yards, or run up to the top of the new earth wall. Caesar ran Murray’s opponent through,
and the man groaned and fell like a puppet with its strings cut.

The big rebel who had wounded Caesar raised a pistol and shot one of the laborers.

“Down yer weapons, you Nigras, or by God we’ll shoot you like dogs.” He seemed to see Virgil for the first time and he raised his empty pistol.

Virgil was clearly hurt, but he began to hobble toward the big man. Caesar knew they had to charge the rebels now, before they were shot down, helpless to resist. He never thought of dropping his weapon, but others did, more than a few.

The new group he had seen coming were yelling from fifty yards away, but Caesar was beyond caring. He gripped his musket close in his right hand and flung himself at the big man.

The big man saw him and took a musket from one of his men, who was standing open-mouthed as the two black men staggered toward them.

The red skirmish line moved through the woods swiftly, like a disciplined herd of deer. Jeremy could hear the Scots and English voices calling to each other to
Keep up, Jock,
or
Get that line straight.
Discipline was different when battle was imminent.

He was alive, and had fought, and now he was going to do it again.

“There’s the open ground,” he said to Captain Stewart at his elbow.

“And there are the rebels.
Sound skirmish!”
the last to his bugler, running at his heels like a good dog. As the notes sounded, the whole line stopped and muskets came down to aim, the file leader in every file pair picking a target and firing in their own time. The range was long, there was brush, and only two of the bluecoats fell, but it was enough to disperse the party that had tried to take Jeremy.

“At them!”
cried Stewart, the first order he had given directly, and he was off through the trees. Jeremy crouched down, clutched his broken sword and followed him, spurring his horse to catch up.

Weymes didn’t see the redcoats until two of his men fell. Their red coats were the same color as the autumn leaves, and his whole focus had been on the resistance of the blacks. Before he could say a word, the rest of his party took to their heels, running back to the cover of the woods nearly a quarter of a mile away. He paused a moment and fired his musket at a horseman, but he was alone, and he ran.

Bludner heard the shooting and instantly guessed the cause. It had all gone on too long and the redcoats were on them. He pointed the musket at the man who had shot Weymes back in Virginny and pulled the trigger, but the pan was full of water and there wasn’t even a spark. He threw it at the black man shuffling toward him.

“Form your front! Fall in and
rally,”
he yelled. He wished he had a drummer. One boy was down, probably dead, and the other was too scared to beat, his sticks clenched uselessly in his fists, his eyes glazed.

Rebels ran right past them to get back to the safety of their own ranks, and most just kept going. Caesar and Virgil were so spent that they weren’t able to pursue, although there was one more sharp fight as a small band of rebels tried to take them. Caesar felt a jolt as someone bumped him from behind and he saw a patch of muddy scarlet in his peripheral vision. Murray was behind him.

Jeremy saw the group of rebels run for the woods off in the valley and determined that he would cut them off. He rode the last one down and saw it was the little man who had shouted orders. The man turned, but too late, and Jeremy hammered the broken tip of his sword into the man’s back and through the lung, and he fell, his weight
dragging straight off the point. Little puffs of smoke came from the distant woods and something hit his horse a hammer blow, and she stumbled and reared. A bubbling red spot had appeared on her withers. She was difficult to control for a moment and then she settled, and he pulled her around and spurred her back up the hill.

At the base of the half-constructed redoubt, he saw a big black man fighting. He was head and shoulders taller than his adversaries and the other two men fighting beside him, and every blow seemed to fell an enemy, and it struck Jeremy that he was watching something from the Iliad. Even as he watched, the man felled his last opponent with a vicious upthrust of a bayoneted musket held short, like a spear, and he turned his head, catching Jeremy’s eyes across the field.