Washington and Caesar (40 page)

Stewart wondered if the smoke was getting to his head.

Simcoe held out a little leather case.

“Cigar? If you have to breathe smoke, you might as well enjoy it.”

Stewart took one and lit it. The draw was much easier than a pipe. He coughed a little, rolled a little more smoke around in his mouth. Jeremy came up next to him.

“This young lady requires an escort back to her father in the camp, sir. Might we provide it?”

Stewart looked at her gravely. His immediate impulse was over, but she was still bewitching.

“I suspect she is in more danger from some of us than she knows,” he said. Had he said that? He rarely assayed at gallantry. She smiled, without flirtation but with considerable calm.

Major Robinson choked on his smoke. “You Scots are like the rest of us. You simply hide it better.”

“I’m sure I would be in no danger with you, sir,” said Polly, in a modest way that acted as a reproach to Major Robinson and a compliment to Captain Stewart at the same time.

Simcoe tossed his cigar in the fireplace with a laugh.

“My best compliments to your father, Polly.” He straightened his coat and a soldier came and hung his greatcoat on him as Jeremy did the same for Stewart. “Stewart, come and dine with me. I have hopes of getting a good provincial command, and I understand you to be the master of getting cooperation from regimental agents.”

“I know the trade, yes,” said Stewart carefully. Admitting to knowledge of a trade was often the fastest way to end a relationship with the well-born.

Simcoe just nodded. “You’re the man for me, then. Have your man and mine set a day, eh? Major? If I can ever be of service?”

“Your servant, gentlemen. Miss Polly,” said Robinson with a bow.

Stewart followed him to the door as Jeremy went for the horses.

“Just so, Captain Simcoe.”

Dobb’s Ferry, October 27, 1776

Jeremy rode easily through the quiet evening, enjoying the crisp air and the feel of the horse moving well beneath him. The small force of light infantry had landed that afternoon at the ferry and easily driven off the small picket left there by the rebels, who seemed to be in retreat everywhere north of New York.

Most of the sentries knew him, by now, and he moved from one company to the next, trying to locate Caesar’s little company, which had come across last and without official sanction. Major Stilson and Captain Stewart had already come to expect that the Ethiopians would be attached to them. Light battalions were always informal composites, and the addition of local or native troops to a light battalion was not a matter of great moment.

Jeremy found Caesar lying on his pack in the yard of the ferry house, his coat off and his neckerchief hanging loose. Caesar was reading. Jeremy already knew that Caesar
could
read, but in his experience the ability to read and its direct expression could be very different things. Jeremy seldom read further afield than the
Gentleman’s Magazine
and the occasional novel.

Around the yard, black men were cleaning their muskets with tow and charcoal, or gambling. The other big man, whom Jeremy knew as Virgil, was leading a sewing circle
where new recruits sat on the ground with their legs folded. Each had a little pile of sundries. That pile represented the makings of as much uniform as the Ethiopians possessed, a brown short jacket and coarse sailors’ trousers.

It was the largest group of black soldiers that Jeremy had ever seen. He had never aspired to be a soldier, himself; to be an officer was so far above his station as to be beyond his ability to ascend, whereas to be a common soldier was in almost every way beneath him. Despite that, he was already enjoying the campaign, and he was obscurely pleased that Caesar had created a body of men that Captain Stewart so patently admired, as such an achievement was clearly respectable.

Caesar himself, reading in the cool autumn sun, seemed almost respectable. He looked his age, in repose. His youth was more obvious when he was still than in action, where he seemed ageless, a trait he shared with Stewart, except where Stewart lost years, Caesar gained them.

Jeremy was amused that his arrival on horseback was greeted from many quarters in the yard, but that Caesar didn’t so much as raise his head. Jeremy thought he might be shamming until he came up close and heard Caesar mouthing the words softly, his finger tracing along the page of a well-worn and heavy book.

Caesar, who had immediate notice from his scouts, apprehending some stratagem, because he as yet knew nothing of the Reason for their Departure, would not stir out of his trenches. But early in the morning, upon more certain intelligence of their retreat, he detached all the cavalry, under Q. Pedius and L. Arunculeius Cotta, his lieutenants, to harass and retard them in their march. T. Labienus had orders to follow with three legions. These falling upon their rear, and pursuing them many miles, made a dreadful slaughter of the flying Troops.

Caesar could easily visualize the scene, as his namesake’s men fell upon the rear of the Belgians, who looked in his mind’s eye like the unvaliant remnants of the Tenth Continental Regiment that had broken at the first shots from his little group of Ethiopians. His pack had “X Con’t” painted on it, as did most of the packs carried by the other black soldiers. He could see the Belgians flinching away, the front ranks striving to hold their ground while the rear ranks began to run. He was reliving it, seeing Washington fleeing him and smiling with the memory when he realized that a horse was taking grass at his back and there were polished riding boots at the edge of his vision.

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Green.”

“At your service, Sergeant Caesar.”

Caesar scrambled to his feet and brushed wood chips out of his trousers.

“What are you reading, Sergeant?”

“The
Gallic Wars
of Julius Caesar,” he said, holding up the thick volume. It reminded him of Sergeant Peters, and how easily he had adapted to being the sergeant.

Jeremy smiled. “I doubt there’s another sergeant in this army who would willingly carry that volume in the field, Julius.”

“I think you do them wrong, sir. Caesar’s commentaries have lessons that apply to every aspect of our war here, from entrenching a camp to setting a picket. Indeed,” he opened the book and began to flip pages, “see here in the plate, where it shows how to fortify a bridge.”

Jeremy shook his head. “A sad state we’d be in, if the works of a general dead these two thousand years were better than our modern manuals. My master has in his tent all the latest works, whether the siege books of
Monseer
Vauban or the very latest from Mr. Muller. Indeed, I bought the most of them for him myself.”

Caesar looked at him with round eyes, and Jeremy was
struck again with his youth, and the difference between the man in action and the man at rest. Like those round young eyes and the scars above them.

“You mean to say there are modern manuals…but of course there are.” He looked at Jeremy with a certain wonder.

“I don’t suppose…”

“I’m almost certain the captain would lend them, or let you read one near the tent, if you had a mind. Indeed, I’ve been sent to find you with the purpose of inviting you, if you were at liberty, to join the captain.”

“I’ll come directly.”

“Julius Caesar, it really is time someone polished you. Your language is better than the common run, but ‘I’ll come directly’ is too plain. You should send me with your
best compliments
and say that you will
attend
Captain Stewart directly. That’s the pretty way to say it.
Attend
is genteel.”

Caesar looked at Jeremy for a moment, and Jeremy thought that he could see the other, dangerous Caesar for a flash of an eye, but then it was gone and the eyes were serene.

“Mr. Green, pray send the captain my
best compliments,
and tell him that I will
attend
him directly.”

“Splendid. I recommend a clean shirt, if you have one.”

“In fact, the rebels have provided us with all the shirts we could wish, many beautifully sewn, left on the ground for the first comer. We thought it
uncommon generous.
We attempted to
attend
them directly, to pay them our
best compliments
for the shirts, but they all had prior engagements.”

His last was greeted with little grunts of laughter from the men in the ferry yard. Jeremy just smiled back.

“We shall expect you, then.” He turned back. “Do you fence, by any chance?”

“Fence? I don’t understand you.”

“I see you wear a sword. Do you know how to use it?”

“Not any better than I could use it to cut cane, but so far I haven’t needed it. Why?”

“I have some skill in the art. Perhaps we’ll find a time, young Caesar.”

“I would be delighted to attend you.”

Jeremy just laughed.

Captain Stewart’s marquee was rather grand, but when the army was moving, he had only one packhorse and lived with Jeremy in a simple private’s tent. Of course, when the army was moving, the privates left their tents behind altogether.

Jeremy and the company quartermaster had between them arranged for the captain to take over the barn, yard, and shop of a blacksmith. The smith and his family were attempting to continue with their lives while soldiers were living all around their home. Neither Caesar nor Jeremy had any idea if the smith had children, which suggested to both of them that what he had was
daughters.

The tent was set up in the barn, but used as a screen to make a private room on the threshing floor. It was cold but spacious. Caesar could see from the sentry post that Captain Stewart was sitting with another man dressed in an old hunting coat over very fine smallclothes.

Caesar stopped to return the sentry’s salute at the entrance to the barn. Stewart saw him and waved him on. The sentry saluted smartly, jerked his head toward the two officers, and gave a quick, almost invisible smile.

“Good news for yor’n, Sergeant,” he whispered.

Caesar walked back and saluted the two officers.

The stranger rose in his seat and returned the salute gravely, while Stewart simply fluttered his hand and told him to “carry on, carry on”. Jeremy appeared with a light chair, probably obtained from one of the nearby houses. He took Caesar’s musket and carried it off beyond the screen of canvas.

“Have a seat, Sergeant. This is Captain Simcoe of the Second grenadier Battalion. He commands the grenadiers of the Fortieth Foot.”

“An honor, sir,” said Caesar, sitting and then standing again, embarrassed at having accepted the invitation to sit before he had been introduced. He hovered uncertainly by his chair. Simcoe smiled warmly.

“Your servant, Sergeant. I had the pleasure to observe your pursuit of Mr. Washington’s staff during the affair at Kip’s Bay.”

Caesar beamed at the praise.

“I tried to bring my company up into action, but mine cannot run quite so fast or far as either your blacks or Captain Stewart’s Scots, and so we had to be content to watch the closing acts.”

Caesar stood silent. He knew that the grenadiers were saved for the really difficult fighting in major engagements, and he had never before considered how frustrating it might be to watch the lights fight every day in the war of outposts and never participate themselves. For himself, he had seen so much fighting in the last month that he felt rattled, but this didn’t seem the time to say so.

“Nonetheless, Sergeant, we haven’t brought you here to listen to our war stories. You must know that Captain Stewart has petitioned Sir William Howe to have your company placed on the provincial establishment as a body of regular Loyalist soldiers.”

Caesar leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

Stewart interjected. “Julius Caesar, sit
down.
Jeremy, pour him a glass of rum. Carry on, Captain Simcoe.”

Caesar sat stiffly, his pack catching the rungs of the chair back. The rules of this conversation made him uncomfortable, the two white officers apparently pretending that he was their peer. But he was not, and his experience of white gentry suggested that they would be quick to anger if he put a foot wrong. He saw himself laughing at Washington
on the hunt, so long ago. He’d been sent to the swamp for that.

Jeremy came and stood beside him. Jeremy’s presence was reassuring. He could ask Jeremy what to do, if they had a moment alone. Jeremy handed him a small horn cup, and the sweet scent of the rum made his empty stomach flip over.

Simcoe waited until Caesar had sipped his rum, and then produced a heavy folded parchment from the saddlebag under his chair.

“This document is what is known as a ‘beating order’. It entitles Captain Stewart to raise a company of soldiers to be known as the Black Guides to serve for the duration of the conflict. We would like the Black Guides to be based on your men, Sergeant. Can you read?”

Jeremy leaned forward.

“He’s reading Caesar’s
Gallic Wars.
He has it in his backpack, sir. Ask him.”

Simcoe looked interested.

“Are you, by God. Do you have it with you? May I see it?”

Caesar stripped off his pack with Jeremy’s help and produced it. Simcoe leafed through it, paused at some illustrations, and smiled.

“I read it in Latin for school, and again at Merton College. It seems so modern in English, as if the war were happening now.”

Caesar was trying to read the beating order, whose language was almost as arcane as Latin.

“I do not wish to offer anything to you gentlemen but praise,” he said carefully. “But can we not continue to be the Loyal Ethiopian Regiment?”

Both white men shook their heads. Simcoe took the lead.

“The governor had the authority to raise that regiment only within his own province, Caesar. How far are you in
Gallic Wars?”

“I’m well along in book three, sir.”

“So you understand how his authority worked? How he could command legions only in Gaul, and not throughout the empire?”

“I do, sir.”

“And so it is with us, Caesar. Governor Dunmore’s right to raise troops doesn’t extend outside of Virginia. Commissions he has written have the force of his intent, of course, but they won’t get very far. And all the officers of the Ethiopians have moved to other commands.”

Or died,
thought Caesar, remembering Mr. Robinson. He wondered idly if Major Robinson was a relation. They were of a type.

“So we should join Captain Stewart’s corps of Black Guides.” Caesar spoke slowly again, because, much as he wanted to like the new officer, and much as he respected Captain Stewart, he felt that somehow
something
was being taken from him.

Stewart stood up and walked back and forth a moment.

“I told you he would take it this way, Simcoe. Look here, Caesar. It’s me who’s joining you, not the other way around. I’ll be your officer for a while, and then another will be appointed, perhaps a whole slate of three. We’ll recruit you up to a double company, which is what Sir William has authorized. Perhaps eighty men. A powerful force that can operate on its own or provide guides for the light infantry. We should have foreseen that you’d have a pride in your corps. We do, and Sergeant McDonald wouldn’t lightly tear off his buttons and join the Fortieth.”

Simcoe said carefully, “Did you think you’d be the officer, Caesar?”

Caesar laughed. It wasn’t an easy laugh, because since Kip’s Bay, he’d met British officers who didn’t deserve their rank, and he’d even been ordered about by a few. He knew he could run a company, but the world was as it was, something Jeremy often said.

“No, sir. I’m just not easy about leaving the Ethiopians.”

“If I said that the Ethiopians would
become
the Black Guides?” Stewart looked at Simcoe for assistance. “Would that help?”

Jeremy pressed his back.

“Do it, Caesar.
Trust me,” Jeremy whispered hoarsely, not really covered by the noise of the soldiers in the barn.