The woman’s singing, clear and light, floated out from the closed door.
An old man came courting me, Hey, ding derry now,
An old man came courting me, me being young!
An old man came courting me, fain would he marry me,
Maids when you’re young, never wed an old man.
They both listened until she finished, a lovely clear young voice. Sir William smiled wryly.
“I assure you she is not referring to me,” he said.
Stewart merely bowed, hiding his smile.
Sir William waved at a pile of documents on his fireside table.
“I cannot simply embody your blacks without consultation, much as I would like. I am aware that there is a body of opinion in this army that we should make ourselves the army of Zion, rescuing this lost tribe from the slavery of the rebels. I also have a clan of Tory officers who believe that blacks are savages, and their employment will bring down on us the condemnation of all Europe.”
Again, Stewart bowed. When in the presence of the great, a modest man should only marshal his arguments when asked.
There was movement outside the door. It opened, and a cornet of the Sixteenth Light Dragoons leaned in, the silver buttons gleaming richly on his dark blue facings, followed by a severe-looking man in a red coat, with a recent wound, and a pleasant-faced Loyalist in green. A little after came a self-important looking fellow in a civilian coat of pale blue.
“Captain Simcoe. Major Robinson. Mr. Loring.”
Stewart had never met John Graves Simcoe, although his reputation as a soldier was already formidable and he was known to have political connections at home. Major Beverly Robinson was an American who led Loyalist soldiers and was known, despite his Virginian antecedents, to have misgivings about slavery. Mr. Loring was someone important in the emerging British commissary. John Stewart shook hands with Simcoe and Robinson. Both complimented him on the action the day before, compliments from men who had led such actions themselves. Loring merely touched his hand absently with two fingers, a habit so contemptuous that Stewart stiffened.
“Gentlemen, I have asked you here for your views on arming and embodying black soldiers.” Sir William smiled at all of them. He had risen politely to greet them as if they were guests, but having done so he was slumped down in his chair with his feet up. Stewart had heard that he suffered from gout.
“My brother and I have to move carefully in these colonies. It is no secret in the army that crushing the rebels in the field will not settle the issue, nor will it heal any wounds. Government at home requires a negotiated settlement, and at the moment, the rebels will not negotiate. Thus the issue about black soldiers is not one of humanity or military expediency, gentlemen. It is one of politics and, oddly, of avoiding conflict with our own adversaries. Anything that prolongs this war or provides our rebels with political ammunition to continue the struggle must be examined very carefully. Am I clear?”
Mr. Loring stepped forward a little. “That is quite a relief to me, Sir William. I had understood from the tone of your note that you were leaning the other way, toward employing these savages.”
Sir William smiled at him and nodded a little, as if urging him to continue, and the small man bowed his head as if in agreement.
“Employing blacks as anything but labor will harm our cause in several ways. First, it undermines that knowledge of inferiority which is essential to the maintenance of the bonds of slavery. Many of our Loyalists here in New York and across the river in New Jersey own slaves, Sir William, and it is essential that they rest easy knowing that their property is not threatened by the very authority that has been sent by the Government to protect it.”
Sir William nodded, as if accepting his point.
“Second, blacks are savages. If released upon the rebels, they will commit atrocities that will reflect badly on the honor of His Majesty. Ignorant of the uses of civilization, and totally unable to understand the courtesies of our forms of warfare, they will reduce us to the level of Africans. We will be lampooned in the press.”
Again, Sir William nodded. One of the doors flanking the fireplace opened and a very handsome young black woman with an abundant bosom only partially concealed by her gown came in softly, carrying a tray. Stewart suspected that she had heard the whole of Mr. Loring’s infamous speech, as her face was showing a deep red under the dark skin. Loring paid her no heed. Stewart wondered if she had been the singer.
“Finally, Sir William, despite the arguments these men might urge on you, please remember that England requires the slave trade for her commerce. It is our cloth, our mills, our gunsmiths and our ships that drive the trade, and without it, what would we have? Any step you take here will be questioned in Parliament, where they will wonder what notions you have learned in America that you seek to smash the trade.”
This last was so clearly above the level of converse that was acceptable to Sir William that he turned and stared at Mr. Loring, but Loring had now noticed the girl and seemed immune to his patron’s anger.
Sir William waved at the girl. “Polly, pour for the gentlemen. Captain Simcoe, I know you disagree, sir. Please state your views.”
Simcoe was a wealthy man from an old naval family. Although vastly junior to Sir William in rank, every man in the room knew that the Simcoes grew up to be the Sir Williams. Stewart would never be a general, and Robinson and Loring were Americans. But John Graves Simcoe would rise far, everyone said. He had the connections and the looks, the charisma.
“Sir William, it would be foolish of me to hide from you that I support the universal abolition of slavery. It will happen. The ownership of one man by another is pernicious not just to our morals but to our trade, which is why such ownership is already illegal in England.”
Sir William didn’t move his head.
“Sir William, I know that you have to concern yourself with the whole of the theater of war and all the politics, so I will refute Mr. Loring’s points in reverse, on that basis. First, as to Parliament, Mr. Loring knows nothing of your support there, as he is himself a Tory, and we are Whigs. The Whig interest is inclined to the end of slavery, Sir William. More important than that, though, is in the refutation of the very liberal principles on which our adversaries base their pamphlets and their struggle. Every Yankee Doodle wears a cap with the word Liberty embroidered by his sweetheart, and he wears that cap while he beats his slave. When we protect the blacks, we refute the most fundamental of their assertions; that their cause represents that of liberty. It is our army that fights for liberty.”
His face was flushed. The serving maid clapped her hands and beamed at him for a moment before she saw what she had done and put her head down again to pour more tea.
Loring didn’t even glance at him. “A pretty speech.”
“Pray, Mr. Loring, be silent. I was silent for you,” said Simcoe. He didn’t turn his head, and his tone suggested the absent reprimand of a man to his servant.
Loring flushed and ran a finger around the inside of his neckcloth as if it was too tight.
“Second, blacks are not savages, however much Mr. Loring’s inflamed imagination may carry him to such thoughts. Here in our lines we already have a black congregation of Anglicans with its own ordained minister, as well as a black man of law. And your brother has, I believe, a black officer on board HMS Rose, does he not? Blacks are men, like us, both good and bad. And they will be soldiers like us, if we train them.”
Sir William looked at him absently, now searching the table in front of him for something. “Captain Simcoe, you offered to raise a company of blacks in Boston, did you not?” The serving maid reached up above the mantle, rising on her toes so gracefully that Stewart had to look away. She came back to Sir William with a long-stemmed pipe, which he seized eagerly.
“I did, Sir William.”
He nodded.
“Finally, Sir William, Mr. Loring says that to provide freedom for the slaves would undermine our role as the authority of
government in protecting property. Much as I should like to argue with Mr. Loring that a man should never be considered property, I will rest my case more exactly on the reality of the situation here. That is to say, we control a very small part of the slave-owning population and our enemies control the greater. Any effort on our side to provide safe haven for escaped slaves will harm the economy of those provinces most loyal to Congress far more than such a move would harm our own Loyalists, who might even be indemnified, as Governor Dunmore did in Virginia.”
Sir William had his pipe packed, and the serving maid, as if completing some household ballet, now leant over the fire, her back perfectly straight and her legs bent as if in a curtsy, her elbows well out and her head leaned to one side like one of Monsieur Boucher’s paintings of a nymph. She lit the taper and turned back to Sir William, offering it to him for his pipe. Stewart, whose thoughts on women were almost entirely confined to his sweetheart in Edinburgh, was moved in a way he had seldom experienced. He smiled at himself, as he was often quick to advise others that the Scots did not feel the effects of Cupid.
“Major Robinson?” asked Sir William, as he puffed the pipe to life.
“Sir William, I can scarce add to the eloquence of my friend except to agree on all his points and bring my own small experience to bear. The loss of their slaves would cripple the southern landowners like Mr. Washington, at least until they understood that hired labor is always more willing than slaves. I might also say, with a certain reservation, that the use of blacks will create a horror among those who own them, and a fear that might well work to our advantage. I do not mean to imply that they will behave badly, but only that those who own them fear their rising to such a degree that it might paralyze their councils.”
Sir William turned back to Stewart, who was now looking openly at Polly. She curtsied slightly to him, which confused him for a moment. Sir William caught the direction of his glance and laughed aloud, one short bark like a dog.
“Polly, get you gone. You’ll have the whole of my army sniffing after you in a moment.”
She inclined her head and moved away, stopping in the doorway to curtsy to all of them before retreating through it, all the motions of a lady, not a serving girl. A suspicion flared in Stewart’s mind that this was stage-managed, that Sir William was trying to send a message. That young black woman didn’t work in this house. If she did, he’d have heard from his friends on the staff.
“Sir William, the body of soldiers who have placed themselves under my protection were raised in Virginia by the royal governor there. They desire to serve as soldiers and not be reduced to the status of laborers, and they have already served you and His Majesty well. I cannot add to the eloquence of the arguments here. I am only a plain soldier. But I can say that these men are fine soldiers, fast and able, and that I would be honored to continue to command them.”
“If I place them on the rolls of the provincial corps, they will eventually require an officer of their own. Indeed, I have so many Loyalists clamoring for commands every day that I doubt I could hide them for long. But having heard you, gentlemen,” and he glanced briefly at the closed door through which Polly had passed, “I think I will allow this body of men into the service. Perhaps there will be others, and perhaps not. In the meantime, though, I will permit any runaway to pass our lines.”
Mr. Loring shrugged. Stewart had expected him to remonstrate, and was surprised at his easy acceptance of defeat.
The rest was mere formality. Sir William signed several documents that gave the Ethiopians status as a provincial corps called the “Company of Black Guides,” as that was how Stewart intended to use them. Ethiopians was thought to be too colorful a term. Having signed, Sir William proceeded to compliment Stewart again on his action.
“And what do you plan after the war, Captain Stewart?”
“I’ll continue in the army, Sir William.”
“I shall keep my eye on you, then, Captain.”
“I thank you, Sir William, and I’ll take my leave with my grateful thanks for the compliments and for your services.”
“That’s fine, Captain.”
And with that, Stewart was out in the main room of the house, with men like himself, free of the presence of the great and near-great. Simcoe was waiting for him by the smaller fireplace, smoking a small cigar of the type the Havana traders carried. Major Robinson, the Loyalist officer, was lighting his pipe.
“Better than I had expected,” he said as he came up. Jeremy was somewhere about, because his cloak was hanging on a peg, neatly, not the way he had left it. The whole room was smoky. The front door was always open as men came in and out, and it ruined the draw of the fireplace. There was Jeremy, away through the smoke, at the entrance to a corridor. He was talking to the girl, Polly, who had on a charming mantle and a very proper black silk bonnet. She was clearly going out.
“I knew he was with us the moment I saw the girl,” said Simcoe, turning an appreciative eye over Polly.
Robinson laughed.”She can never work here.”
“No, it would be chaos. I know her. Her father is the black Anglican minister I mentioned. He brought her to show us which way the tide was running, and to give Loring and the Tories a place to hang their hats.”
Stewart looked at him blankly.
“Sorry, Stewart, but you are such a Scot. Loring will assume that Polly is Sir William’s latest fascination, shall we say? And so, rather than labeling him a hopeless liberal to the other Tories, they’ll just assume he’s been led by his cock.”
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.”
3
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 Cap
tain 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.
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