Washington and Caesar

by Christian Cameron

  “It won’t last, but until someone comes and takes the company away, we’ll just add it in with the Second light infantry. Do you have tools?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure you have picks and shovels when we step off tomorrow. I don’t know the plan as well as I’d like, but I’ll opinion now that we’re to have a go at turning Mr. Washington off the heights at White Plains, and that may mean some digging.”

  “Yes, sir. But we’d rather fight.”

  Stewart nodded.

  “Need money, Sergeant?”

  Caesar looked puzzled. “I have a little, sir. What would I need it for?”

  Stewart nodded as if he had discovered something he suspected.

  “Here’s five guineas. You talk to Sergeant McDonald and Jeremy about what it’s for. Keep an account, mind. It’s my own money. But everything in this country costs, and I suspect that won’t be different for black men.”

  Caesar had never held so much money in his life as the five heavy gold coins, together worth one hundred and five shillings, or half the price of a young, fit slave in Virginia. He put the coins carefully inside his hunting pouch, as neither his waistcoat nor trousers had any pockets.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep a good account.”

  “Get some sleep, Sergeant. We’ll be at it before dawn.”

  Simcoe pulled his greatcoat tighter around him in the chill air and reached out to get Caesar’s attention.

  “Sergeant, is it true you were a slave in Virginia?”

  Caesar stiffened, but nodded.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of, Sergeant. Pirates took your namesake, Julius Caesar, and held him as a slave, you know. It was quite common in the ancient world.”

  Caesar was impressed at Simcoe’s knowledge, interested in spite of himself. His inclination was to join the party, despite the prospect of action in the morning. Talking to Simcoe worried him. But the idea that the great Julius Caesar had been a slave held his attention. Why had Sergeant Peters never told him that the mighty Caesar had been a slave, taken by pirates?

  “How’d he escape?”

  “Oh, his family paid a ransom. And then he hunted the pirates down and crucified them.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “He nailed them to crosses, just as Pontius Pilate did to Jesus.”

  Caesar was a little stunned, but then he smiled wolfishly.

  “I like that, sir.”

  Simcoe nodded seriously.

  “I thought you might. And is it true you were a slave of Mr. Washington’s?”

  Caesar nodded again. He was still thinking about Julius Caesar coming back with fire and sword on the men who had enslaved him.

  “Can you tell me anything about him? Was he cruel?”

  Caesar thought for a moment. It was difficult sometimes for him to remember his life before the swamp.

  “He sent me to the swamp for laughing at him. That’s cruel, I think. But in the main, he was fair.”

  Simcoe nodded, clearly dissatisfied.

  “Can you say anything else, Caesar?”

  Caesar smiled. “He’s the best horseman I’ve ever seen. He hates being crossed, but most people do, I’ve found. He don’t like arguments, especially from the young. I’m sorry, sir. I was a slave, an’ I kept his dogs. I don’t know him like a house slave might.”

  Simcoe nodded distantly, and Caesar sensed that he might be nearing the line of too familiar.

  “Do you hate him?”

  Caesar shook his head. “No, sir, I do not,” he said. He couldn’t see himself crucifying Mr. Washington. The men who had hunted him in the swamp, now, or the men who had made him a slave. That was worth some thought.

  Simcoe nodded.

  “I’ll give you good night, then, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Caesar watched him go. No one had ever asked him about Washington before, but Caesar sensed that Simcoe had an intensity that carried him past other men, made him capable of asking harder questions. He walked back to a large fire that his men were feeding from a rail fence. The ferry master would not be pleased.

  Virgil and Tonny were waiting for him, and he was pleased to see them sober. Paget and Romeo, once malefactors, were now pushing the new men into their blankets.

  “An’ now we really are soldiers,” said Tonny. His eyes were shining.

  Virgil bit his crown again, and smiled. “We gon’ have some fun.”

  “Tomorrow we may be fighting,” said Caesar. “Mr. Stewart says we may fight at some place called ‘White Plains’. Get the boys to ask around about the lay of the land, see if there are any black folks off that way we can meet in the morning. Start with that girl of Jim’s.”

  They were already practised at using local slaves for information. Local slaves had helped them all the way up the island.

  “Better catch ’em quick, then, befo’ the interruptin’ is too messy.” Virgil laughed. Caesar thought that Virgil had laughed more in the last few days than he had ever laughed in the swamp.

  “White Plains?” asked Tonny.

  Caesar nodded. “If we’re going to be Guides, better get ready to guide.”

  “May I trouble you for your glass?” asked General Lee, reaching for an aide’s telescope.

  It was the dawn of a beautiful autumn day, and the two senior generals and their staffs had ridden forth early to go over all the ground south and west of the heights in hopes of finding a position where they could make a stand. Lee was already laying out lines in his mind. He looked at the bulk of Chatterton’s Hill rising in front of them and turned to Washington.

  “Let us have a look from the height,” he said, and they rode on up the slope, the two staffs chatting amicably. The shadow of the defeats on Long Island and Manhattan were still there, but the air was different. Lee had beaten the British in the south, and Harlem Heights had given them all a ray of hope.

  Washington listened to the accents and he smiled to hear the Virginians and the New Yorkers gossiping and showing away, each eager to impress the others. They were young, and most of them were personable. He walked Nelson over by General Lee, who was looking through his aide’s glass at the works in progress behind them.

  “Do you ever consider the wonder of it, that these young men go along so easily together?” Washington said quietly. “But for the war, they would not even know each other. They would be New Yorkers, or Yankees from Massachusetts, or Marylanders.”

  Lee nodded, still looking at the ground, his face largely hidden by the heavy wooden telescope.

  “If I may, sir, it is your achievement. Most of the rest of us are yet Virginians and New Yorkers.” He snapped it closed, and gave Washington one of his rare looks of total loyalty—tenderness, almost. Then he pointed back down the slope, to the ground well to the north, beyond their camp.

  “This hill stands alone. It dominates the plain, but it is too easily flanked and too hard to hold. Yonder,” said Lee, “is the ground we ought to occupy.”

  “Then let us go and view it,” said Washington. He took in the broad sweep of the heights at a glance, and led his men back down off Chatterton’s Hill just as the sun began to clear the heights.

  They were well on their way, past the camp and riding hard, when a trooper of the Light Horse came up the road after them, his horse lathered with sweat. He rode straight up to Washington and touched the back of his hand to his iron-rimmed helmet.

  “The British are on us,” he said. Washington took in the man’s evident panic and whirled his horse. He showed no sign of fatigue.

  “Gentlemen,” he shouted, “we now have other business besides reconnoitering.”

  They flew down the road with the wind of their passage ripping at their cloaks and greatcoats and streaming them well out behind them, the iron-shod hooves of the horses striking sparks from the stones in the road. They stayed at that breakneck pace until Washington drew rein in front of his headquarters, where Adjutant General Reed was just mounting his horse. His relief a
t the presence of the army’s senior command was palpable. Washington caught a look between him and General Lee that puzzled him.

  Washington curveted his horse in a circle and addressed all the officers in the yard.

  “Gentlemen, you will repair to your respective posts and do the best you can.”

  And to Charles Lee, he added, “Put more men up Chatterton’s Hill.”

  Chatterton’s Hill was the piece of ground that dominated all the ground south of the Heights. That’s what the girl in Dobb’s Ferry said, and that’s what was reported by every farmhand they approached as the column moved through the dark. Caesar passed the information back to Captain Stewart, and he, in turn, passed it through Major Stilson and right up to Sir William Howe.

  Their knowledge of the country was sketchy nonetheless. A farm slave from just north of the ferry had been east of his farm only twice, and he was as confused in the dark as any of the Guides. Caesar felt a kind of fear he never felt on the battlefield, the fear that he would fail the trust placed in him, and twice he halted the whole column behind him while Tonny and Virgil took tried men out in little sweeps north and south of the road, probing for enemies and for a better clue to the lay of the land. It was a new art for Caesar, and it seemed almost as new to Captain Stewart, who came right up to the head of the column at the first delay and stayed by Caesar as he directed the scouts moving forward. He stayed there, but he offered no word of criticism. Caesar valued him for that.

  Twice they moved forward in the dark, only to strike another small fork in the road. By day, these forks might have been clearly marked as side tracks or farm lanes, but in the darkness it was impossible to tell without sending a man or a file down the lane for information. They crawled forward, trying to find the base of Chatterton’s Hill, and looking to link up with the main column under Sir William.

  Jeremy was everywhere, using his horse to become Caesar’s messenger and an additional voice of command as well. It was the first time he had worked so close to Caesar, as he usually stayed with his master, but some unspoken cue had passed between him and Captain Stewart. He rode hard, his horse steaming with sweat every time he returned to the little clump of men at the head of the column.

  After three hours, the sky grew paler. Caesar had begun to get the hang of feeling his way across unfamiliar terrain, although he was certain that he had much to learn.

  “I should have had a party out here last night, sir,” he said to Stewart.

  “Sir William wouldn’t have wanted that, Sergeant. A contact last night might have alerted their sentries to the surprise.”

  “It’s not going to be much of a surprise if we can’t find them before noon,” Caesar muttered, and Stewart smiled while affecting not to hear. They moved forward.

  Light changed everything. The looming bulk of Chatterton’s Hill was suddenly clear and close, blocking out the emerging morning sky in the east. They were almost at its base, their furthest party under Romeo just starting up the hill and unaware that it was their goal.

  Suddenly Romeo was running back toward them. He was sweating hard even in the chill air.

  “There’s troops cooking up the crest o’ the hill, suh,” he panted. He pointed up to where the command group could just see new smoke rising at the crest, half a mile away.

  “Is your horse sound?” Stewart asked Jeremy, who was rubbing her down. He nodded, alert, and leapt into the saddle, apparently fresh after four hours’ hard riding.

  “Go back to Major Stilson and tell him we have rebel outposts at the crest of the hill and we’re not detected yet. Then straight on to Sir William and tell him the same, unless the major gives you some other message. Off you go, then, and Godspeed, Jeremy.”

  He turned to Caesar.

  “Get your men into the shelter of those trees, quick as you can.”

  Caesar wanted to speak, but Stewart was motioning for Lieutenant Crawford and Sergeant McDonald. He waved to Tonny and Virgil.

  “Get the men into those trees and lie quiet. No smoking, no fires. Go on, now.” They nodded and moved off. Caesar turned back to Stewart, who was edging his horse into the shadow of the hill while talking to his subordinates, pushing them into the same wood edge that now held the Black Guides. McDonald gave Caesar a quick smile and ran off, and Crawford just looked up the long hill.

  Caesar held his musket correctly at the carry, just as Sergeant McDonald had, and waited for Stewart to notice him, but Stewart was looking up the hill and shaking his head.

  “I bought a Dollond glass, a really good one, just before we came over. Jeremy tried ten glasses and said this was the best. It brings things right in close, you understand. And here I am trying to see the top of this damned hill and I have the perfect tool. And where is it?”

  Caesar shook his head, not even sure that he was being addressed.

  “It’s in Jeremy’s saddlebag, of course. I’d lose my head, if it weren’t attached. You have the air of a man with something on his mind, young Caesar.”

  “I do, sir. I’d like to send men up the flank of the hill now, to get the lie of the land. Once it’s lighter we’ll be seen.”

  Stewart peered into the gloom as if he would really learn something from the darkness.

  “Don’t get caught is all I’ll ask.” His own company began to file past, no longer marching but moving quickly into the trees. Stewart motioned to Crawford. “Get a picket line out. I don’t want to get bit while we wait here.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll see to it immediately.”

  In an hour, the road to the south was thick with redcoats and any real hope of surprise had been lost. Caesar was content that his men had not lost it. They had scoured the hill, climbing almost as far as the top without being detected before coming back with their reports that there were two battalions of militia and two of Continentals in strong positions along the stone walls at the top. The group of officers at the base of the hill had swelled to uncomfortable proportions, as the mounted officers of half the army rode to the head of the column to view the ground. Caesar thought that if ever the famous Pennsylvania riflemen caught on to the hunt-like gatherings at the head of British columns, they would reap a terrible harvest of officers. But he kept his views to himself and kept his men scouring the hill. By mid-morning their legs were burning from the ceaseless climbing.

  When they were ready, though, they were quick. Suddenly the light infantry and several companies of grenadiers deployed into line across the base, and a second line of more lights formed behind them, and they started up the hill at a gentle marching pace. Some of these troops remembered Breed’s Hill at Boston, and they were not contemptuous of the militia. They left their packs behind.

  Caesar led his men well off to the left of the main line, in a loose screen covering the flank of the line, with Captain Stewart’s company formed in two ranks, but well spaced out, at the very left end of the front line. Thanks to the Guides, the British knew every fold in the ground and every gully before they started, and Caesar was stunned to see how cunningly the front line used the contours to stay hidden from the crest. He had never seen the British line except in a big field where they stood out like scarecrows, but here, on an autumn day, they moved like red ghosts in the clear air, their bayonets already fixed and shining before them with a thousand pinpricks of brilliant light.

  The Guides encountered the first opposition, a lazy morning patrol taking their ease in a gully. Tonny was on them before either side knew the other was there, but he had the quicker wits, and in a moment he had ten prisoners and an officer, dangerously belligerent with shame at his failure. Caesar sent them back under a strong guard and moved on, his company weaker without a shot having been fired.

  Stewart was right. They needed more men. He felt naked on this giant hill with so few men covering the flank of the advance. He sent Jim running to Captain Stewart to tell him of the prisoners and his concern, and then he waved his hand, and the Guides, now a little behind the line, moved on.

&nbs
p; Too fast, he thought, and there was a shot.

  Romeo went down and rolled over, clutching his guts and screaming. Paget ran to him, and Virgil, but Caesar grabbed Virgil’s jacket and waved him down. Romeo screamed again and the new men looked gray with worry.

  “Watch your front,” called Caesar, and he spotted the smoke coming from a clump of trees surrounded by stumps to his left, a little blind that flanked the advance. Romeo was flopping now, his heels drumming the soft autumn earth in convulsions. Paget looked back at the company.

  “Help him!” he cried.

  “Stay with me!” Caesar shouted, and he knelt. “Those that has bayonets, get them on. We’ll be charging that little wood there when I give the word. Go as fast as you can an’ kill what you find there, and then we’ll see if we can help Romeo.”

  Jim ran up, returning from his errand to Captain Stewart. Caesar watched the men fixing their bayonets and he sketched the situation for Jim. Romeo began to moan. His smell drifted back to them. Caesar thought that the rifleman, if he was one, had reloaded by now. He didn’t want Jim going next.

  “Don’t you head off to Captain Stewart until we charge,” he said.

  “Ready?”

  A nervous chorus. Virgil looked scared, and many of the others were shaking. Caesar was calm, although he greatly feared that the little wood was full of men. Not the moment to worry.

  “Charge!”

  They were off like racers. Caesar had time to note that every man left the cover together, and no one shirked; scared or not, they were good men.

  Crack.

  Someone grunted and there was a clatter, but it wasn’t him and he ran on, now well in front because he was the fastest. Then there was another shot, flatter, like a fowler, and then several muskets, but none of them hit him, and he paused for just a second to look back, and there was Virgil close behind, eyes mad with fear and perhaps passion, and the rest of them coming along as best they could.

  He waved them on, knowing that he was only a few paces from the nearest enemy and that if anyone had a shot in reserve he was a dead man. Then just as Virgil caught up to him, he turned back to the enemy and charged at them. A young man, perhaps a boy, appeared to his left and Caesar killed him, the whole weight of his charge plunging the bayonet into him so that the muzzle was buried in his breast. When Caesar ripped it free the bayonet bent and then came off the barrel, ruined. He pushed through the undergrowth to where two men had a shallow pit covered in branches, a good blind that they were in the process of abandoning. Virgil clubbed one of them to the ground with his musket butt and Caesar hit the other with his shovel twice, the first blow landing flat and the second almost severing his head. Suddenly there were Guides all around him, screaming with rage and the suppressed fear of that rush over open ground. Paget went by him, his face a mask of rage over scared eyes, his bayonet bloody and the blood running down the barrel and over his hands.