Washington and Caesar (56 page)

“FIRE.”

He turned as he gave the order and watched as their fire smashed into the men in the front rank. The uniform was the familiar one of the Virginia Regiment they had faced so often, but their leather caps marked them as light infantry. Probably the best men of their regiment.

The volley snatched four or five men down, and another stayed standing for some reason but screamed, moving along the front of the company and throwing off their carefully trained motions of loading. Just to his right, the grenadiers of the Fortieth Regiment fired into them, and more men fell.

George Lake took a musket ball through his biceps and was knocked flat by the impact. The whole hillside was full of enemy and he had no business taking them all on, but Washington was just behind him and he couldn’t withdraw. He couldn’t lie flat on his back and think it over, either.

“Make ready,” he called, trying to use his good arm to rise. He ignored the temptation to stay down. On his feet, he could see that Weedon was forming the Third Virginia to his flank, so that he was the anchor next to the guns, using his company as a shield to get his line formed. The buff facings on the grenadiers just to his front were all too familiar, as he had faced them again and again, and the company of blacks were almost like old friends. He saw the tall man, the one with the scars over his eyes, just to his left despite the gathering murk and he was tempted to bow. Lafayette had said they did such things in battles in Europe.

“Present,” he yelled, wobbling a little on his feet. There
was blood everywhere around him on the ground, down his side, all through the right leg of his worst breeches.

“Fire!”

Not everyone was loaded, and the volley was ragged, although game.

The second volley was not aimed at them. It struck the grenadiers of the Fortieth just to their flank, and Caesar saw Captain Simcoe fall and he ran to him, forgetting his place in the line for a moment. Then he stopped himself and took a breath and looked over his shoulder for McDonald or Stewart. He saw Crawford running toward him.

“We have to get the guns!” Caesar yelled. Behind him, Fowver was giving the orders. Beyond Fowver, the Fortieth grenadiers were preparing to avenge Simcoe.

“You get them! Get the guns! We’ll cover you!” Crawford pointed at the Continentals in front of them.

Caesar thought of how brave the Guides had been, how well they had stood the fire. They were out of ammunition, tired. Caesar ran to the right of his men.

“One more time! Files from the right!” he bellowed, his ragged voice rising easily above the din of volleys and the great pounding of the big guns. “Follow me!” He saw Jeremy behind him, silhouetted against the darkening sky, and heard Stewart’s voice, reassuring in the shadow, getting the regulars up and into the line. And the Guides came.

They raced the Seventeenth Lights into the battery. All the horses were gone, and though the gunners were determined, they hadn’t the numbers to stop a determined plunge from the hill on their flank. Caesar fenced for a moment with the officer and then knocked him down with his musket. He yelled for his men to rally. They were on the flank of the company that had clawed them so cruelly just a moment before. He wanted to form, but the men were herding the prisoners from the battery or pursuing
those who ran toward the Continental brigade forming to the rear of the position. Some were just stopped in the battery, looking blank. They were done. Taking the battery used the last of their spirit.

The light was fading fast.

Washington watched the speed with which the British overran the battery and nodded. The loss of the battery sealed the day. He needed it and Weedon to turn the tide, and he had just lost one while gaining the other. He rode over to Sullivan, Greene, and Weedon, who were waiting behind the force that had become the rearguard of the army.

“In another minute we’d have had them,” said Greene.

“Or they, us,” said Washington. The muskets were falling silent all along the line and the light company of the Third Virginia withdrew from the fast-forming British line without taking another volley. Somewhere in the regiment, someone jeered at the retreat, but the cry wasn’t taken up.

George Lake was the last man to come from that deadly field, dragging himself by force of will. As soon as they saw how badly he was hit, dozens strove to help him.

The Continental army withdrew into the growing darkness without their guns. They had lost the battle, and with it their capital.

In the corps of Black Guides, Caesar gathered his men, and buried the dead at the edge of the woods. They stood in their ranks, and took their turns to open the graves in the damp autumn ground. The loss of Tonny hit hard, as the old crew from the first days of the Ethiopians grew smaller. Sam cried, on and on, a lament of sobs that played against the rain and darkness. Tonny had been good to the boy.

Virgil smoked, and dug, and sat with Caesar in the darkness.

“Them Doodles gettin’ better ever’ time we meet them.”
He smiled, a barely visible motion around the coal of his pipe. Caesar felt numb over his whole body, from his toes to his brain. He watched Silas Van Sluyt having his turn with the pick, taking slow measured strokes that broke the earth swiftly.

“You tired of war, Virgil?” Caesar felt light-headed.

“I was tired of war when you killed Mr. Gordon, an’ that was a long time ago.” He handed Caesar the lit pipe, wiping the stem companionably, and stood up, brushing the wet from his trousers. “We ain’t gon’a win this thing, Cese.”

Caesar was silent.

“I won’t be no slave again, Cese. Rather die quick, like Tonny. Most o’ the t’othuh boys feel the same.”

Caesar nodded. “Amen.”

Jeremy rode up on a tired horse and Caesar could feel the heat coming off the horse’s flanks. It felt good. He held the horse’s head while Jeremy dismounted.

“What’d captain say?” Virgil asked, extending the pipe to Jeremy. “Was he mad?”

“Captain Stewart said I might be a general yet. Some of his comments were more colorful. But taking the hill was right, and we did it right.” Jeremy put his hands on his hips and looked at the burial party. He seemed on edge.

“Is that Tonny?”

Jeremy handed the pipe back, his hand shaking.

“Yep.” Virgil took it. “An’ he has plenty o’ company.”

Caesar put his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy was looking at the corpses laid out in rows, and beyond them, where the corpses of the Continental soldiers lay. Other burial parties were at work, from all the regiments engaged. Those not digging were mostly silent, and out beyond the area that had been cleared, men moaned or shrieked hoarsely from wounds that had not yet finished them.

“I killed them,” Jeremy said suddenly. His voice ended on a broken note, but he still stood straight. Caesar
squeezed his shoulder. He thought of saying
yes,
because that was the truth of command. And he thought of saying
no
because that was what Jeremy needed. But in the end he simply stood with his arm around Jeremy, thinking that Washington had fired a pistol at him, and he had fired his fusil at Washington, and somehow that made them even.

Virgil smoked until the clay was done, and then went back to have another turn at digging. Jeremy stayed awhile, and then he stepped away and smiled a hard, forced smile.

“I guess we’ll take Philadelphia now,” he said.

“No way Washington can hold it.” Caesar didn’t watch Jeremy wipe away tears. He turned to look at the fires appearing in the dark, and winced. Jeremy was on him in a second, pulling at his coat.

“You’re hit,” he said.

Caesar shook his head. “Nothing. Just my bag ruined,” he said, but his hand brushed the tail of his coat and it was dripping wet. Other men were coming up, all around him, and he found it hard to breathe. He reached for Jeremy, and then the ground slipped away.

Schuykill River, Pennsylvania, September 12, 1777

The British hadn’t mounted a pursuit. Washington’s army, tired and beaten, ill-shod and cold, had managed to escape from the field with no further losses. He kept the army moving, as the loss at Chad’s Ford meant he had to get well back before the British cut him off from his supply. Philadelphia and his nation’s capital were lost.

He rode up and down the column, stopping at the wagons full of wounded to look at the men who would survive. He was hoping for news of Lafayette. The wound appeared to be slight, but until infection had passed or taken hold, any wound could be a killer.

Long after dark, past midnight and straight into the first light of morning, the exhausted army marched, until at last they crossed the ford of the Schuykill and Washington felt
them to be safe. His own light horse had already posted guides and marked the road to a new camp. He let his subordinates take command and rode off to camp.

Billy had his tent up and furnished, despite the immense labor that must have meant. He even had a small fire on a brazier and hot rum punch. Washington gave Billy his greatcoat and slumped into the biggest chair, his muddy boots still on and his spurs leaving a trail of wet leaves.

Billy put the rum in his hand and went out with the greatcoat, and didn’t reappear for some time. Washington drank and thought. He savoured being alone. All night, he had maintained his facade of stern discipline, a facade not so different from the real man, but in this instance, far from the emotions boiling within him. He wanted Billy to come back so that he could talk to someone.

“You fired your pistol,” said Billy from the door. Washington could smell the distinctive odour of black powder being cleaned with hot water. Sulfur and rotten eggs.

“A man fired at me.” Washington chose not to say that the man had been black. “He hit the marquis.”

“I hope you hit him back, then. The marquis will be all right, sir. It’s just a wound in the flesh of the arm, and the surgeon says it’s clean.”

Washington breathed deeply. “And we lost again.
I
lost again. Damn it, we were this close.”

Billy had a wad of tow wound on the end of a double spiral of iron and affixed to a wooden stick: a cleaning rod. He was using this to swab the inside of the pistol. He didn’t raise his head.

“The army fought well, though, sir?”

“They did, Billy.”

“They think they did, too. They don’t sound beat.”

Washington stretched his legs. “I’m not going to win the war by losing all the battles.”

“You told the marquis different.”

“What’s that, Billy?”

Billy looked up from cleaning the gun. “You tol’ the marquis that all we needed to do was keep an army in the field and we’d win the war.”

“So I did, Billy.” He looked at the black man fondly. “You’ll make a general yet.”

“No, sir.” Billy went back to polishing, but he had a smile on his face. And Washington went to sleep.

Caesar lay on the creaking, jolting cart and watched the cloudy sky. He didn’t have the strength to move his head. He wondered how long he had to live. He was alone in the cart. Every time it hit a hole in the road, his hip hurt like fire. The voices around him were strange, not men from any company he knew.

He dreamed of the swamp, where the pain and heat went on for hours and there was nothing a body could do. He woke to find the sun bright above him, his mouth parched and his throat painful. He fought vertigo and pain to raise his head. The man next to the cart had a high brass helmet with something worked on to the front. It was too bright to look at. Hessians.

“Water,” Caesar croaked. His lips hurt. Everything hurt.

“Wasser?”
asked the man. He reached behind him and suddenly was gone. Caesar had to lower his head as the effort became too much, but in a moment the man was on the wagon and was pouring water from an enormous canteen into a cup. Caesar drank it, and another. Then another. He knew he was drinking the poor man’s ration, a sorry return on the man’s good nature. He drank again. Then he lay back. The man had mustaches, but he smiled through them.

“Sehr gut,”
he said, and hopped off the cart.

Caesar went back to the swamp, except now he was swimming, and even asleep he realized he had the fever again. Later, he thought that the cart stopped for a while,
and the Hessian, or another like him, gave him more water. Somebody sang a hymn, except all the words were foreign. And then he was back in the swamp. The flies were terrible, and Virgil was trying to get him to move.

And then it was Virgil, and Polly was with him, and they were both smiling and crying. And Caesar was awake.

Pennsylvania, October 18, 1777

Washington was writing in his study at the back of the stone farmhouse his staff had appropriated for the campaign. The late afternoon light was fading and Billy was lighting candles and keeping the fire going. Writing to his family and considering the business of his plantations was Washington’s greatest relaxation, and Billy defended it zealously. Washington had just finished a letter to his brother John and was considering an addition to a letter to Martha when the house echoed with the clatter of booted feet. Something was happening at the front of the house. Washington reached for his greatcoat, fearing the worst: that in the aftermath of the loss at Germantown, Howe was on him in a surprise attack like the one at Paoli.

He was rising from his chair when Billy came in.

“Messenger from General Clinton, sir.”

Washington reached for the dispatch. He threw his greatcoat back on to its peg before Billy opened the door. No need for his staff to see his apprehensions. There they were, though, crowded in the doorway, Lafayette with his arm in a sling, and Hamilton and the others, their faces troubled. They knew the rumors: that General Burgoyne had beaten Gates north of Albany, and that Putnam was losing the Hudson Forts one and two at a time. General Clinton would have the latest.

Washington opened the dispatch and spread it on the table, but he was smiling before the paper hit the desk.

Gates had forced Burgoyne to surrender.
As well he should,
Washington thought. Gates had some of his best
regiments and the whole support of the northern colonies. He had outnumbered Burgoyne five to one. Still. He stood up and faced the staff.