Washington and Caesar
Page 48
The landing was difficult. According to the first reports, the enemy had not wholly fallen for the ruse of an attack in the Jerseys and was waiting with considerable troops to face the landing in their rear. The Guides were among the first troops to be sent ashore, and Caesar was directed to send two men, Jim Somerset and another of his choice, to scout to the north and east and discover the location of the enemy. Jim took Moses, three days’ rations, and moved off too quickly for goodbyes.
They moved the camp twice in the next two days, the advance guard feeling its way along small roads, just one cart track wide, that wound between rail fences over the rolling hills. The towns were small but prosperous, and the farms were larger than those in New Jersey, with solid stone houses and silent farmers. There were few blacks here and almost no slaves. The Quakers and Mennonites who made up the bulk of the countryside population didn’t hold with slavery. They didn’t hold much with the British Army, either.
The third day, Caesar’s men were well out in advance of the army. Shortly after noon, Caesar found himself in the yard of a small farm with less than half of one platoon. The rest were scattered. His company was spread along several miles of roads, providing guides for the light infantry behind them while exploring the country. They had no contact with enemy troops beyond a handful of militia whom they sighted just after first light and chased across a field of tobacco. Caesar broke off the pursuit rather than lose what little organization his company still had.
A party of dragoons came up in late afternoon and told him that Captain Stewart’s company was coming along behind them, collecting his guides as they came, and that his post would be relieved shortly. The officer of the dragoons wanted to press forward to look at the road north to Kennett’s Square, on the main road to Philadelphia.
“We chased some militia going that way,” Caesar said.
The dragoon sergeant looked at his officer. “How many were they?”
“Just half a dozen, but they came from the north, too. I wouldn’t want to go past those woods with horse. Not at dusk, when we can’t see to support you.” Caesar tried to indicate the small size of his force in the yard without appearing to shirk his duties.
The officer sneered. “I can’t imagine we’d need your support anyway,” he said. He meant it to be an insult. He was the kind of officer Caesar liked least.
“I think we should be looking for a place to camp,” said the sergeant. “We just passed an empty farm, sir. We can press on in the morning.”
The officer beat his crop impatiently against his boot. He wanted to make trouble. Caesar willed himself to remain still. The officer represented the type of man who reminded Caesar every day that he was a different color and a different kind.
“Without decent infantry, I suppose it would be an error to go forward,” he said, the insult plain. His sergeant shook his head, just one little negative nod, as if denying any responsibility for his superior. They turned their horses and left the yard without a goodbye, and Caesar breathed out slowly. It was a beautiful evening, with an autumn sun turning the tobacco red and the wheat gold, but the evening was blighted for Caesar.
Lieutenant Crawford marched his platoon of the lights into the farm an hour before dark. He found Caesar taciturn, but he took no note of it. He was more concerned with getting his men into the dry barn and the carriage house of the farm, and hearing Caesar’s report. Most of the rest of the Guides were with him. Caesar found Sergeant McDonald, and together they found billets for the other men who would straggle in later. They saw to it that fires were going and food was started, and they set pickets well out in the fields.
Just as dusk was fading into full dark, they heard one of the pickets challenge and the guard stood to arms in an instant. Before Caesar could lead his quarterguard out, though, Jim and Moses came into the farmyard, both smiling broadly and covered in dust from head to toe.
Caesar smiled in return. Their return lightened a burden he hadn’t been aware he was carrying, washed away the stain of the dragoon’s insults. Jim saluted smartly, bringing his musket up to the recover and then across his chest. “Sir. Corporal Somerset reporting from a scout.”
Crawford motioned for him to take his ease. “What do you have, Corporal?”
“Rebels all over the place on the other side of the Brandywine. Big camp, and a lot of patrols. I can show you better in the light.”
“How far off is the Brandywine?”
“Just a few miles. Maybe six. There’s a good crossing on this road, called Chad’s Ford. That’s where their outposts are. There’s a crossing every mile up the creek. The stream is too deep for artillery, but we crossed it three or four times in different spots. Gets deeper as you go south. Ain’t nothing a few miles north of Chad’s Ford.”
Caesar, Crawford, McDonald and a crowd of other NCOs listened to Somerset’s report with growing apprehension.
“They ain’t far off,” said Virgil. Most of the men felt they could speak freely around Crawford.
“That must have been one of their patrols we brushed today,” said Caesar. “I hoped they were just militia going to a muster.”
Crawford motioned to Sergeant McDonald. “Better get Corporal Somerset back to headquarters as fast as you can,” he said.
“We need to double our pickets and get these fires hidden as quick as we can,” said Caesar. As the group broke up, Caesar could see that Jim wanted to say something to him. They walked out of the firelight and around behind the barn. The wind was cold.
“Something else?” Caesar was worried about his pickets.
“I don’ know, Caesar. It’s for you to say.”
“Tell me, then.”
“I saw Marcus White on the Lancaster Road.”
Caesar tried to digest that. “What did he say?”
“I didn’t speak to him. Moses an’ me were hid in some trees, watching the road and having a bite. Lancaster Road’s north of the rebels, maybe ten miles north o’ here.”
“Sure it was him, Jim?”
“Sure as death, sir.”
“Keep that to yourself.”
“Somebody sold us to them rebels in New Jersey. We all knows it.”
“Jim, just keep it to yourself.” Caesar felt like he had been hit in the head. He sent Jim off to get a hot meal while he tried to digest this bit of news. He couldn’t see a way it could be good. When last he had seen Marcus White, the man had been in a church in New York. He had no business, at least no honest business, so close to the rebel lines. But the pickets had to be set, and the army was clearly going to fight in the morning. It would have to wait.
In an hour, Somerset was off to the rear with a pass and Sergeant Shaw of the lights to keep him safe from their own patrols. Caesar made the rounds with Lieutenant Crawford, who was taking more direct interest in the running of the company, and Sergeant McDonald, who was still teaching Caesar the details of a really well-run company. They looked into mess kettles and inspected the fires of every section. Most sections were gorging themselves on three days’ rations in a single day. Improvident as this might seem, it gave the advance troops less to carry when they actually made contact with the enemy.
Virgil was taking his ease and smoking while his mess group cooked their second meal. They all showed signs of the consumption of a half-pound each of peas and about the same in salt pork, and none of their overshirts would have borne even the most cursory inspection for cleanliness. They were grumbling happily in the cool evening air despite the lack of tents. The army’s baggage was far away, near Head of Elk, and the light troops in the vanguard had to build hasty shelters from fences and brush. In fact, there was no longer a decent split rail fence within a mile of the British lines. Everyone used them to construct shelters, and veterans saw them as a ready-made source of dry firewood, as well. Fires were springing up across the fields to the south, as the army came up behind them. Before the darkness was very old, the wheat and tobacco were trampled for a mile around them.
He sat for
a moment on a stump, making entries in his daybook by the light of a lantern. Constant attendance on his reading, first with Sergeant Peters and later with Marcus White, had ensured that he could read quickly and accurately. His writing still lagged a bit behind, and sums were nearly alien.
McDonald came up behind him and read his report over his shoulder.
“Very pretty, Julius,” he said, kneeling next to Caesar.
“Writing’s getting better, anyway.” Caesar didn’t look up, trying to reckon the value of Private Paget’s lost neck stock and trying to remember what last name he had assigned the man. Edgerton? That sounded likely. Naming was a dangerous thing, and sometimes men resented the names he gave them. Sometimes it was better coming from Reverend White, or even from Mr. Crawford or Captain Stewart. Yes, he had it in the book. Paget was Paget Edgerton. It seemed like a good, loyal name.
McDonald took out his daily report and began to run down it, looking at Caesar’s as he went.
“Does anyone actually read these?” asked Caesar, trying to work out the “off reckoning” due his soldiers for “lying without fodder” a second night in a row.
“For certain sure, young Caesar. And it should comfort you to know that when your namesake was a pup, centurions were scratching away with their pencils to try and list every item missing and get every man his pay.”
“Can I borrow that little book?”
McDonald looked at him with mock indignation.
“I presume you mean my little bible on pay and provision?” He took a slim volume from his pocket, worn and stained, entitled Treatise on Military Finance, and Caesar skipped directly to the tables at the back of the book and began to reckon the pay due each private. Sometimes he excused men lost gear just to save the trouble of the additional math of deducting lost items from their pay.
“That’s a shilling, Julius, not a penny.” Jeremy was standing at his shoulder as he added.
“You don’t all have to watch me.” A little flare of temper, because he thought that they were waiting for him to fail.
Crawford, who had been listening to a tale told by a fire, wandered up and looked over Caesar’s shoulder.
“Heavens, Sergeant! Time for that after we fight.”
“No, sir,” said Caesar with a hint of sullenness. “If we lose men dead, then it’ll be harder to get their pay for their relatives if I don’t do this tonight.” He looked at McDonald. McDonald nodded and turned to Crawford.
“Always get the pay straight before an action, that was my first sergeant major’s advice, sir, an’ I have taught Julius Caesar the same way.”
Crawford looked around at them and shrugged. McDonald and Caesar exchanged a glance. He’d learn.
Most of the men went to sleep as soon as their bellies were filled, but, as they all expected a major action the next day, more than a few found themselves unable to sleep and began to talk. Every fire in the army had its share of men, nervous or quiet or shrill, telling tales of battles past. There were veterans in that army who could remember great days in the field, and disasters, at famous places like Minden and Quebec, or smaller actions across Europe, along the shores of the Mediterranean or on the soil of America. Older men, sergeants and officers, could remember battles as far back as the frigid dawn at Culloden, and some camps featured men who had served on both sides of that battle. Wherever men abandoned sleep for talk, the fires coaxed out the stories until the camp was awash in remembered blood and terror and glory.
When his accounts were cast and sealed ready for inspection, Caesar lay down at the fire his own squad had, with Virgil and Paget and their section. The old veterans from Virginia were spread thin, now. With Jim’s promotion to corporal, all the survivors of the swamp were in positions of leadership.
Virgil was whistling softly, sharpening a knife that didn’t need any more sharpening. He had already patched shirts for every man in the squad and resewn several other items. He never slept before an action. Caesar knew that Virgil hated actions as much as he himself enjoyed them, and he wondered why. Virgil was no coward, but there was something to the thought of action he dreaded, dreaded so much that he never told war stories or relived their battles, although he had survived every one since they killed the overseer together. Caesar rubbed the scars over his eyes, remembering. He smiled a little, and went to sleep. Virgil looked at him as he started to snore, kicked him lightly, and went back to his knife.
“Keep us safe, Caesar,” Virgil said softly.
Chad’s Ford, Pennsylvania, September 11, 1777
For George Lake, it was a frustrating day. The Third Virginia stood in neat ranks, or lay in the shade, depending on the emotional state of General Greene’s staff. Riders crossed in front of them again and again on their way to General Greene or General Washington. Rumor after rumor came down the ranks to the light company—they were to fight at Chad’s Ford; the enemy was marching to flank them up the river; the enemy was concentrating in front of them; they were to attack; they were to patrol across the stream. The last had proven true, and George had followed Captain Heller across the stream, where they immediately encountered strong enemy patrols supporting the big guns that were exchanging rounds with the Continental artillery posted on the opposite bank. They made it across in relative safety, and moved up a small creek only to find that green-coated Loyalists covered the approach. A skirmish developed that George felt they couldn’t win; the enemy fire became brisker as more and more of the green-coated men came up, and their fire slackened as their men sought cover. It was vicious, with men hunting each other from tree to tree and bush to bush all along the little creek, with no quarter asked or given. George had lost sight of his captain in the first moments and now took several chances that would have given his mother great unease as he sought the man along the creek bed, moving from one knot of his men to another. He wanted them to withdraw but lacked the authority to say it.
He lost his helmet to an enemy shot that took it clean off his head and landed it in the middle of the creek. He left it there. While he would expose himself for the cause, he wouldn’t do it just to retrieve the damn helmet.
Sergeant Creese was at the outlet of the stream with a party of wounded he was shuttling back to the regiment. He hadn’t seen the captain either but concurred that they were outnumbered and in a bad case.
“Shall I go ask Colonel Weedon, sir?” he said, clearly eager to get free of the creek.
“If we wait for you to go to the colonel and get back, we’ll all be dead, Sergeant.” George raised his head and looked up the creek bed. It was hot, and his coat was soaked with sweat. He was glad his hat was gone, although the deer flies were dogging him. He wished he didn’t have to make this decision. He liked being junior and invisible, and he could see that every man around Creese was now depending on him to do the right thing, to save them all, or whatever they pleased. He wished he knew just what the captain’s orders had been. He felt overcome with worry, and then he saw some bluecoats a hundred paces or more away, hauling a four-pounder.
“Sergeant Lilly!” he called, as loud as he could. He heard an answering shout.
“Withdraw! Bring your platoon back through Sergeant Creese’s! Second Platoon, stand fast and cover them!”
Lord, his voice was hoarse. When had he done all the shouting? He watched the enemy bullets skip along the water of the creek and thought how nice it might be to just lie down in the cold clear water. There might be trout in such a cold stream. He’d eaten trout on Long Island and liked them. He thought about Betsy Lovell, and her secret glances at dinner, and he smiled despite his current situation. He had developed the habit of thinking of Betsy when things were low.
He shook his head clear of such notions and splashed some water on his face and then grabbed one of Creese’s corporals.
“Get over the Brandywine, find that battery commander right there and get him to fire grape! Right away. Tell him where we are and that we’re hard pressed by these greencoats. He’ll understand.”
The presentiment of disaster had been greater than the reality. Lilly’s platoon was pretty healthy as it fell back, and the whole company was still game, although there were men missing in several files. He held them at the edge of the west bank, willing the corporal to get the message across, and his dreams were answered by two loud bangs almost over his head. He heard one of the Tories yelling at his men to lie down, and he waved his men back to the Continental bank of the ford. As soon as they were across, he got them up the bank and fell them in again behind the first good cover so he could count heads. They had lost five men, including the captain and the trumpeter. No one seemed to know where they had gone.
Lake took his men back to the regiment, and then left them under Sergeant Lilly while he went to make his report. It was two o’clock.
After a day of slow marches and an age while they waited for other units to cross the Brandywine, and after mistakes of their own as guides that raised tempers all along the column, they were now marching back to the sound of the firing. They had made the long march and they were around the enemy’s flank, but the question remained as to whether they would arrive in time to do any good. However, they had begun to move faster and faster, and now Caesar had to keep his men from trotting.
They could hear the guns all day, but they were off to the south and Caesar wasn’t sure how they could be part of the same battle. He knew the general plan of movement, because he had been privileged to hear it explained by Colonel Musgrave in the pre-dawn chill by the embers of their last fire. He knew their column was intended to pass the northern posts of the rebel army and swing well into their rear before coming down on them, a crushing blow, as described.