Washington and Caesar (66 page)

“Then I hope you will be my wife.”

“I will, Caesar.” She kissed him on the forehead and then looked into his eyes, hers huge and dark. “But my father has to tell you something first, don’t you, Father?”

“Tell me?”

Marcus White looked at her, clearly a little frightened in his turn. Caesar knew what it must be immediately, and went to shush her.

“This isn’t the place.” He looked at Sally, his distrust clear on his face. The scars made him look dangerous at such moments. “Perhaps when we’re alone.”

“This is just the place,” insisted Polly, looking up at him with steady eyes.

Marcus White looked at his daughter for a long moment.

“If I must.”

He looked around and then stood up to lock the room’s only door. Then he busied himself throwing wood on the fire.

“Caesar, you know that I have something to do with gathering intelligence for the army?”

“I do, sir. And you need say no more about it…”

“Caesar, let my father speak.” Polly put her hand on his
arm and left it there. Marcus White leaned forward over the table.

“My daughter, Polly, often acts as a courier for me.” Caesar started, and he raised his hand. “No, please let me go on. I feel that you can know this because you know all the principals, and because it is time we draw this to a close. I do not so much collect intelligence as attempt to prevent the enemy collecting from us, do you understand?”

Caesar narrowed his eyes a little, but nodded. He glanced at Sally, who was looking at her hands.

“Throughout our army, the enemy has his spies. Some of them move around very publicly, because they wear the same uniform as you do but feel that the colonies have been unfairly treated. I can do little about them, and neither can anyone else.”

Caesar nodded. Many officers had sympathies with the other camp.

“The enemy also attempts to recruit spies through bribery, coercion, indeed, any method that will result in a flow of intelligence. I fear that this is not grounds for moral outrage, as I am very sure we do the same.”

Caesar continued to watch his eyes.

“Some time ago, someone who had been coerced approached me. She wanted to repent her sin. Indeed, she had little notion that I was anything but a minister of the Lord, but all her words fell on fertile ground. I took her under my wing. My daughter became her friend and confidante, because this woman was terrified all the time. I used my daughter to carry messages between us, and to follow certain people. This work was dangerous, but not as dangerous as my agent, the convert. Do you understand?”

Caesar looked at Sally. He looked at her too long, and wondered what she had passed before she became a convert, but then he smiled.

“I understand,” he said, and Polly pressed his hand. And Sally looked up, and into his eyes.

“And I understand, what you and Marcus said. One day, you jus’ can’t be a slave no more.” She looked down. “I can be a whore. Folks like you think it low, but it ain’t like being a slave.” She looked up again. “Marcus is the best thing I ever knew, except maybe Jeremy. I couldn’t have jumped essept for Jeremy. But now I’m scared all the time.”

Marcus said, “We’ve been feeding her false information for some time, and they are beginning to get on to it.”

“So they beat you,” said Caesar, bitterly. “And I thought you had been with a man.”

“Maybe I had,” said Sally. “That don’t make so much of a mind to me as it does you.”

Caesar looked at Polly, and at Marcus.

“I feared, once, that you were both spies. I even wondered which side you spied for.”

Polly kicked her father lightly.

“I told you he was quick.”

Marcus nodded. “Why?”

“You passed the lines too easily, and Polly seemed to know the headquarters, at least according to Jeremy. And you always seemed to know powerful men. I thought perhaps you were spying.”

“Slavery does not beget confidence in one’s fellows, does it, Caesar?”

“No, sir. No, it does not.”

Polly squeezed his hand again.

“Now you know,” she said.

“All’s well that ends well,” Caesar said, one of Jeremy’s favorites. And Sally gave a little sob.

“It ain’t the end for me until Bludner’s dead,” she said. And somehow her saying it robbed much of the joy of the day.

I will plainly set before you, things as they really are; and shew you in what manner the Gods think proper to dispose of them. Know therefore, young Man!—these wise Governors of the universe have decreed, that nothing great, nothing excellent, shall be obtained without Care and Labour: They give no real Good, no true Happiness on other terms…If to be honoured and respected of the Republic be your Aim,—shew your Fellow-Citizens how effectually you can serve them: but if it is your ambition that all Greece shall esteem you,—let all Greece share the benefits arising from your labors…And if your design is to advance yourself by Arms;—if you wish the power of defending your friends, and subduing your enemies; learn the art of war under those who are well acquainted with it; and when learnt, employ it to the best advantage.

VIRTUE’S ADDRESS TO HERCULES,
FROM XENOPHON’S MEMOIRS OF SOCRATES,
AS TRANSLATED BY SARAH FIELDING, 1762

New Jersey, April, 1779

Polly felt as if she had been walking for her whole life. Her legs burned at every step and only the fact that she was late for her rendezvous and had charge of Sam kept her at it. If she had been alone, she might have looked for a friendly farm and rested.

She had crossed the lines into the rebel-held area outside New York two weeks before. Her first contact had been away, and her second had changed the meeting place twice, scaring her and requiring her to stay close to the rebel camp for too long. The information he provided made the trip worthwhile, but she had walked a hundred miles in a week and she wanted to be home with her father and Caesar. And she wanted to live to be wed.

At first she was cautious, sending Sam ahead to run and play and tell her what the roads were like, but they were both tired and she grew sloppy when she thought they were clear of the last rebel patrol. Besides, there were other people on the road, farm folk, and that made her relax.

She came on the post suddenly at a turn in the road. It was new and unexpected, and Polly wanted to turn and find another way, but her rendezvous was just the other side of the lines here. Her news was too important to delay and she was late. In any case, they had already been seen. Best to brazen it out.

She noted that the men in the post weren’t regulars. They were Connecticut militia. That could be good or bad. The militia was notoriously slack, but their men were ill disciplined. She had been groped by militia men enough times to know the difference and prefer the professionals at the Continental Army posts.

She took Sam’s hand. Sam was just fourteen, stunted from a life of poor food and small enough to pass as her son or her brother. Polly used him to collect messages and run errands, and on trips like this he had become important for cover. She was afraid she was getting too well known.

There was a wagon and several men on foot ahead of her, and one woman with a basket on her head who immediately tried to sell them eggs. Polly bought one and gave it to Sam, keeping the egg seller in conversation. She hoped to pass the post with the white girl, chatting.

The militia began searching the wagon. Some of them were drunk, and the white girl gave her a worried look.

“I mislike these. They are no true soldiers,” she said.

Polly nodded. She took an apple from her apron, hard and wrinkled from a winter in the cellar. As she reached under her petticoat to find her clasp knife she used the movement to check that the ivory-handled dagger was still there. It had been Jeremy’s, and Caesar had lent it to her for luck. She touched it. Then she took her clasp knife, cut the apple and offered a piece to the girl. Sam finished the egg and looked at her with big eyes until she gave him a piece, too. The militia were still rifling the wagon, throwing things around, laughing. The farmer on the box grew angrier.

“You’s nothin’ but cow boys!” he cried.

All the smiles vanished. The militia began to look ugly, and one of them took an earthenware jug and smashed it on the ground. Cow boys was what the farmers called the Loyalist cavalry who stole their cattle. The name was
beginning to spread to all the marauders who worked between the armies.

Polly looked at the white girl, considering. It might be time to cut and run. The militia were dangerous, drunk and angry, and she didn’t fancy getting a black eye or worse.

“They ain’t gon’ to let us cross easy, ma’am,” she said hesitantly, playing her part as a poor black from one of the farms.

The girl looked more scared. “My brothers wanted to come, but I said it would be easier for me.” She shook her head. “These eggs ain’t worth what they has in mind.” Two more soldiers came up from behind them. They looked different. One sat under the tree with his weapon to hand, watching the two girls. The other smiled at Polly. Polly felt a touch of ice against her spine.

Sam was looking at her. He was scared, and Polly was responsible for him. Sam made her trips easier but the responsibility weighed on her. In many ways, it was easier to travel on her own and she understood Caesar’s feelings for his company all the better. There wasn’t enough cover by the road to try and run. Even in petticoats, she could outrun most men, especially the lard-assed militia, but in open ground they could shoot her in a moment. And the two were watching her. They looked a little different, harder men altogether, like rangers or riflemen.

The wagon cleared the post, the farmer poorer by some silver coin that had probably robbed him of the whole value of his trip to the Continental camp.

“You pretty things have passes?” The sergeant had lank hair and his bad breath washed over Polly. The two rangers rose carefully and walked toward the sergeant, although both men were suddenly watching the distant woods on the British side of the lines.

“You got a picket out?” asked one, teeth gripping an unlit pipe.

“Jus’ my brother up the hill.”

“He awake?”

“What business is it o’ yourn? This be my post!”

“Not if them Tory horse ride you down. See ’em?” The ranger pointed with his pipe. His motion was very small, careful. “Don’t act alarmed or they’ll come at us. Maybe they’re just lookin’.” The ranger looked at the militia with contempt. “What are you boys doin’ this far from our lines? Besides stealin’ from farmers?’

The other ranger was smiling at the white girl. Finally he came over. Polly tried to listen to both while keeping her eyes down. Demure. Uninvolved. Her heart leapt at the notion that there were Loyalist cavalrymen just a few hundred yards away. They were probably hussars of the Queen’s Rangers, all friends of Caesar. They must be her rendezvous.

“I’d fancy one of them eggs, miss,” said the second ranger. The white girl smiled nervously and gave him an egg, for which he paid a hard penny. That was a high degree of honor for a sentry post, from Polly’s experience.

“Don’t you worry, miss. These milishee won’t harm you.”

The first ranger was still trying to stare down the sergeant. “Well?”

“Captain Bludner ordered us here. We’re lookin’ for Tory spies.”

Polly froze. Just the name Bludner was enough to panic her, but she looked at Sam and thought,
If I lose my head, they’ll take Sammy, too.

The ranger looked at the militia sergeant, hard. “Bludner don’t run posts. An’ he ain’t much better ‘an a cow boy. Nor a cap’n, I reckon.” He looked at the whole group of men. “What the hell are Connecticut milishee doin’ in New Jersey?”

“None o’ your business.” The lank-haired sergeant spat.

“Bludner has his place up north o’ the river. Who sent you here?”

“I’m lookin’ for spies.”

Polly thought
Bludner has a post, north of the river.
That was news. She worked to master her fear. The sergeant was focused on the rangers. She thought she might play a part. After a moment, she snapped, “Then go fin’ some, an’ let po’ hones’ folk go work!”

The sergeant turned and glared at her, but the rangers smiled. The second ranger, the tall one with a fancy hunting shirt and a beautiful knife, was telling the egg girl how to find his camp. Polly was scared but she had gotten the line out with real anger and she was waiting for the verdict.

The first ranger looked up the road.

“Come on, Elijah. These folk is gon’ to get ridden down in a minute, an’ I don’ wan’ to be here.”

Elijah held up his hand and bent down to whisper something to the egg girl. He was
good,
thought Polly. The poor girl didn’t know what had hit her, she was so taken. She’d probably never been off her farm before.

The rest of the militia were looking all around them, on the edge of panic, but the sergeant wasn’t giving in.

“We can hold this post against some Tory horse, I guess. You walk off if you have a mind. I have orders.”

Elijah actually kissed the egg girl’s hand. Something about it broke Polly’s fear, the thought that here on the edge of violence a man was courting, or something like it, and she laughed. She decided to play the saucy maid to the hilt, since she’d started.

“You gon’ to defend us, Captain? Or jus’ flirt with the lady?”

Elijah laughed. “Always time for flirtin’,” he said. His friend had walked a distance off, along the ridge to their right, and now he was suddenly lying flat and readying his rifle.

“They’s a-comin’!” he called.

Elijah picked up the butt of his rifle and turned away in one motion, headed for the ridge and his partner. “You’d best clear the road,” he called as he ran.

Polly didn’t wait for more orders. She grabbed Sam’s hand and ran the other way into the field beside the road. The ground was still hard and the footing was good, and she ran easily. The further she ran, the more scared she was, waiting for a ball in the back.

There were shots behind them. She didn’t turn, and so she missed the flurry of fighting as the hussars swept down the road. She dragged Sammy into the cover of a shallow depression. There was still snow here, and it was cold. Her petticoats began to take water from the damp ground. She was breathing like a horse after a run, and all thought seemed to have left her. She rolled on to her stomach and tried to look over the crest of her cover, and the cold April wind took her straw hat, blinding her for a moment. And then she saw the huddle of men on the road and green coats all around them.

“See them, Sam?”

“Yes’m.”

“Queen’s Rangers.”

“Ones on foot be Loyal Americans.”

“Let’s go an’ let them round us up, then.”

Philadelphia, June 11, 1779

Riding was still a new adventure for George Lake, and he regarded the journey from the Continental army camp near Newburgh, New York, to the capital at Philadelphia with some apprehension. He had been sent carrying dispatches, at his own request, as he had his own agenda to follow in Philadelphia. But the journey was a labor.

He had a good horse, thanks to the marquis, who was now absent in France but had left George many of his belongings. He was well turned out, in a new coat and a proper greatcoat, and wore good boots and clean linen. Indeed, thoughout his journey, he was accorded a level of respect from innkeepers and fellow travelers that he had not experienced outside his own circle in the army. It
pleased him, although he tried not to let it go to his head. At the ferry over the Delaware, the boatman’s daughter flirted to the edge of lewdness, which caused him to wriggle. She was pretty enough, but he was too close to Betsy to feel any temptation.

What he noticed most, besides the ache in his thighs and knees, was the change in attitude his uniform provoked. In the Jerseys and Pennsylvania, he was now treated as a figure of authority and respect, whereas just a year or two earlier he wouldn’t have been welcome under many roofs. The world was changing. People were finally choosing sides.

He saw other signs that were uglier. Everywhere he rode there were burned-out houses, and fields left fallow. Twice he met families on the road, refugees driven out by their neighbors for taking a stand opposed to the majority in their region. The war was hardening attitudes, causing longstanding disagreements to burst forth as violence.

Philadelphia looked prosperous. Even on the outskirts, there were new houses and a new tavern being built, and the river was full of ships. Even a Royal Navy blockade couldn’t keep the French out of the Chesapeake or the most ambitious Massachusetts men from trading. The shops were full of goods and the people in the streets were the best dressed in America, but they seemed surly. Perhaps they saw too many uniforms. His treatment was different here and people all but crossed the street to avoid him.

George took a room at an inn near the Congress and went to deliver his dispatches immediately. He knew the contents intimately: reports on the progress of General Sullivan’s expedition against the Iroquois, which George had viewed as a gimcrack strategy; reports on the movement of British ships and men in and out of New York; and a report on the state of the army near New York. Washington was not quite laying siege to the British forces there, but he had them under close observation while he
sent many of his troops to face the British attacks on Charleston and other ports in the south.

The entry of France into the war had changed it profoundly and had other effects than just the return of the marquis to his homeland. With France in the war and the loss of Burgoyne’s army at Saratoga, the British were forced to place their main effort in the Caribbean to prevent the loss of their valuable spice islands to the French Navy. Both sides were now concentrating military efforts in the Carolinas, where a fleet avoiding the hurricane season could relax within easy covering distance of the rich islands farther south. And the British had discovered, perhaps too late, the wealth of Loyalist sentiment that existed in the southern back-country.

While armies and fleets skirmished for the possession of anchorages and bases in the south, the war in the north burned on as a series of raids and counter-raids. Loyalists and Indians attacked the Mohawk Valley to cut Washington off from his grain supply, and Washington sent Sullivan to drive the Iroquois from their villages in retaliation. Around New York City, spies and partisans fought a skulking war every day. The dispatches covered these new realities in detail and the logistics that supported them.

He handed his dispatches to a member of the Continental Congress who immediately encouraged him to comment on the papers he bore. George refrained. The army had already survived two periods of intense internal politics and General Washington had made it clear that he didn’t intend to put up with a third. George had little interest in such talk. He requested a signed receipt for the dispatches and found himself in the street, a short walk from his real destination. He was clean and neat, well dressed, and at the end of his duty, and yet he paused, going into a coffee house.

He hadn’t been to the Lovells’ since the day of the looters and despite many letters he feared to put to the test his resolve to ask Mr. Lovell for his daughter’s hand. He
might no longer be welcome. Sitting alone in the coffee house, nursing a cup of bitter coffee, he wondered why the idea of being forbidden a house he had entered only once as a guest made so much difference. He thought it might be that he had spent so long imagining the house and its occupants that he felt a more frequent visitor.