Christian Cameron - Washington and Caesar

“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.