Washington and Caesar

He rode up to Dorchester Neck at the head of his staff, the six battalions fifteen minutes behind him and strung out for a mile and a half. If the British were assaulting the Neck, he had fifteen eager gentlemen to stop them, all mounted. He was half-tempted to try, and avoid the consequences of disastrous defeat; indeed, he had thought of ordering the troops back to Cambridge rather than face the British with them. The truth of the battle at Breed’s Hill was obvious. Unless these untrained men were sent into entrenchments, they would never stand in the field, or even form; they lacked the ability to march up in column, form line under fire, and give their volleys.

But no thick red column ascending the Neck met his eyes. The Neck was empty. Away toward the British lines and their south battery, two companies of light infantry were drilling, their files extended wide. Washington was comforted to see that they did not appear overly proficient.

“Where is this column?” Washington looked over the Neck, relieved that he would not have to fight today with such a clumsy instrument. No one answered. A single understrength company of Marbleheaders stood farther down, where a rough tangle of felled trees had been thrown across the Neck to slow an enemy approach.

“Captain Poole’s company?” Washington asked, sitting his horse easily.

The man smiled and nodded.

“Where are the British?” Washington waved his crop down the Neck toward Boston.

Another man came up, smoking a pipe. “Oh, they formed up, right ‘nough. Jus’ a field day, I’d say. A walk in the pahk.”

“Where is your captain?”

“He went to find the Virginny general.”

Washington shook his head, and the smoking man wandered off. He rode back to Lee.

“Turn them around and march them home. Tell the general officers I want a complete muster and a complete return of military stores tomorrow.”

“What do you want me to tell the churchwarden, General?”

“I fail to take your meaning.”

“General Ward, then.”

“Tell him the same as the others.”

“He should have turned to with the rest. Sir.”

“That will be enough, General Lee. I mean to have absolute command, but I will not stoop to personal remarks about my officers.”

Lee, unfazed, looked back where the first four companies, hundreds of yards ahead of the rest of the column, were wandering toward them, each company a small crowd of men without formation.

“I imagine the only way to use them would be to ride up and down, showing each man his place and how to load his musket.” Lee laughed at his own sarcasm.

“On your way, sir.” Washington tried to sound cool; Lee both amused and irritated him. Lee swept him a bow from horseback and was gone.

It was a byword among farmers that often you had to make a tool before you could even start a job.

He would train the army and officers, and bring the Massachusetts men to heel. They would obey and respect, and men would not smoke pipes while talking to generals. It would all be a great deal of work, and it wouldn’t succeed if the British attacked him before any part of it was done. He headed back to Cambridge, already composing his notes on the drill of the army, but as he began to pass through the chaos of the leading battalion, a thought occurred to him and he pulled up.

“You there,” he shouted at a man in a good coarse smock and proper military equipment. The man looked something like a soldier.

“Sir?” The fellow at least had the sense to come to the recover, still the manner of a soldier.

“How many cartridges do you have, soldier?”

“Ten rolled, sir! Powder for six more.”

Sixteen rounds. Washington saluted and rode on, checking soldiers as he went. By the time he reached the end of the column, he knew his Massachusetts men a little better, and he knew they averaged only nine rounds a man.

Sometimes, before a farmer built a tool, he had to get the materials for it. Washington started a new set of notes. He was still dictating to his secretary when he climbed the stairs to his rooms and flung himself in a wingback chair.

“What can I get you, sir?” asked Billy.

“An army, Billy. Saving that, a staff of professional officers, sixty thousand rounds of ball cartridge, and ten thousand muskets.”

“I’ll just get goin’ then, sir.”

“I’ll settle for brandy and water.”

“They have ice from an ice house, sir. It’s prime.”

“Better and better. Iced brandy, then.”

Washington turned to his secretary. “I’ve led you a damned chase today, sir, and you’ve held up well. Put down the notes about sashes as badges of rank and then get yourself a glass downstairs. I won’t trouble you again today.”

The young man bowed and retired. In a moment, Billy returned, with a glass and some Naples biscuits. Washington devoured the biscuits and drank off half the glass. “They have no concept of discipline,” he said.

Billy polished a silver salver quietly.

“They do not seem to believe in subordination. Every man must have his say, no matter how half-witted.”

Billy nodded to him.

“I do not intend to discuss every notion of fortification with some Yankee captain who has read a book on the subject. Braddock may not have been the greatest general of the age, but his staff was a tool in his hand, an extension of him. He thought out the plans and gave orders. When will I reach a state where these men will obey me? I doubt that General Gage shares these troubles in Boston.”

“You want to get those boots off, sir?” asked Billy, unmoved by his master’s tirade.

“I thought that commanding this army would be like running a plantation, Billy. I would plan, dictate my orders, and the army would execute my designs. I’m not sure these men even know how to obey!”

Billy looked up from the boots and smiled. But he didn’t speak his mind, and Washington didn’t note it.

3 (#ulink_5289ec8e-cf6d-5b3d-ad32-712597f3bb3d)

Great Dismal Swamp, September 1775

Caesar peered through the fringe of magnolia at the arm of open water stretching north from their new camp.

“Where’s Virgil?”

“Don’ know.” Old Ben looked shifty when he said it, and he probably did know. Something was going on; all the men smiled when they looked at Virgil or tried to cover his absences. Caesar shook his head, and rose carefully to his feet, the fowler crooked in his arm.

“What are you all smiling at?” he said to the other men. “Come on. I’m gon’ teach you to use this gun.”

It was by no means the first attempt, and Virgil and Old Ben had at least passed the stage where the guns scared them, but Caesar was determined that they would all learn to use the fowler well, even the boy. In a corner of his mind, he had considered trying to hit the militia for more muskets; if he had one for every man, and they could shoot, he would have a force to be reckoned with in the swamp. The militia was wary, and hadn’t come as deep in after the first foray, as if by the killing of one slave they had justified themselves and could go home.