Christian Cameron - Washington and Caesar

“I don’ think mah legs will go any bettah,” said Sam.

“Better, Sam. Less than a mile to go.”

“You jus’ sayin’ that.”

Polly pointed into the wind and panted. “No, I ain’t. Over the crest of this hill…”

“What’s over the crest of this hill, honey?” asked a voice behind her.

She turned and saw four white men, two on horses, and more men behind them. They had guns, three of them rifles.

“Where you run from, honey?” said the voice. “Take ’em, boys. That’s cash on the hoof.”

Polly had never met Bludner but she had heard about him often enough from Sally to know the face and the manner. There would be no brazening this out. She picked up her sodden petticoats, summoned her tiny reserve of energy and ran, long white-stockinged legs flashing in the wet as she dashed up the road. She was past Sam before he had even turned.

“Slave-takers,” she said. At least it didn’t give away their real errand.

Sam didn’t hesitate either, but he didn’t run. As the horseman came up on him, Sam leaped on to the horse’s back, tugging at the rider.

Bludner lost a stirrup and got a fist in his mouth before he mastered his opponent with two brutal moves and threw Sam down in the road.

“Take him, you fools. Carter, you’re with me.” Bludner whipped his horse and it sprang forward.

Polly had no idea what Sam had done, or what the result was. She ran over the crest of the hill and started down the other side, where the road turned steeply. After the first turn there was a boulder, and she left the road and ran into the brambles beyond, tearing her stockings and her bare thighs and carrying on regardless. She heard the horses come over the crest behind her and she broke through the brambles and into some trees.

“Where’d she go?”

“She must be in them woods,” said another voice, and she heard horses’ hooves on the road. Then she ran again, spurred by pain and fear like a wounded animal, and she ran down the hill, making leaps from wet rocks that would have terrified her on any normal day. She landed badly at the bottom, turned her ankle and hobbled on, too scared to stop. But surely no man on a horse could come down a hill like that.

She smelled smoke. Not wood smoke, but smoke from a pipe, and she hoped it might be a party out for her rendezvous. The slave-takers’ horses were on the road, coming down the hill the long way, and all she could do now was hobble. She was sweating, warm for the first time in two days. She stopped behind a huge oak and looked for a place to hide.

She saw the Loyalist sentry at the same moment he saw her.

“Rebels on the road. They’re after me. They have my brother,” she panted. “Where’s the officer?”

It wasn’t Caesar. She’d asked her father not to let Caesar come out for her because he’d fret too much, but now she wanted him because he’d know how to save Sam. And then something snapped inside her and she sat down on a rock and watched the blood coming down her legs.

The patrol was from the Loyal Americans, with some Jaegers along for the fun, and they were on the road in a flash, but all their priming was wet and Bludner rode away.

Polly sat on her rock and wept.

“We lost that girl,” said Carter. “Sergeant at the ferry thought she was a spy.”

“She is. Why the British use niggers for spies beats me, but she is. We’ll have her the next time she crosses the lines, and then we’ll see some fun.”

“We got the boy, though.”

Bludner laughed and looked at Sam, who he’d already beaten so badly that Sam’s face was lumpy, as if made of clay. Bludner spat. “I don’t think he knows much.”

“You gon’ ta kill him, sir?”

“Kill him?” Bludner laughed. “Kill him? Carter, that’s why I’m a captain and you’re a corporal. I ain’t gon’ to kill him.”

Bludner looked at Sam and smiled, showing all his stained teeth, and spoke carefully, so Sam would understand.

“I’m going to sell him.”

Boston, April 28, 1780

The wharves of Boston stretched out into the distance so that the harbor seemed like a winter forest of bare trees. The British blockade was neither close nor thorough and trade was flourishing, although nearby Newburyport had as much or more because there was no British frigate to watch the entrance to the Ipswich River there. Most of the vessels in the harbor were local, although there were Dutch and Spanish ships, and a French warship just arriving, the Hermione, toward which George Lake hurried with horses and several soldiers.

George was no sailor, but he watched the great frigate come in with fascination. She had some way on her from a fuller press of sails she had worn in the outer roads, and now she ghosted along under just a headsail through a riot of small boats and other ships. It seemed a miracle that she hit nothing. As he watched, she passed the pier where he stood and turned suddenly up into the wind, so that the last of her way came off her and she stopped, the latest in a long row of merchants and privateers anchored just off the Long Pier. He saw her anchor come down with a splash.

There was quite a crowd gathering as George waited. When a boat pulled away from the Hermione, the crowd began to cheer. George cheered with them and then used his men to keep the head of the ladder clear as the Boston crowd pressed closer.

Lafayette came up the ladder with his usual energy and, despite the presence of several dignitaries from the local assembly and the sovereign commonwealth of Massachusetts, caught George in a hug and kissed both cheeks, to George’s intense pleasure and embarrassment.

It was hours before they could talk. Lafayette made several fine speeches and visited a number of homes. He gave another officer dispatches from the French Court at Versailles for the Continental Congress and he watched the landing of his new camp equipage personally. Finally, at the house of one of his many friends, he slouched down in a chair, watching a servant pull off his boots.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

George did his best-from the actions of the Congress to the successes of the British. Lafayette nodded along and drank wine. When George began to slow, Lafayette waved his hand.

“But how is he? The Generalissimo? How is he?”

George smiled. “He’s different, Marquis. Better with the men. He’s, well, more open, I think I’d say. And eager to see you, Marquis.”

“As I long to see him. I thought of him every day, my friend, while I watched the posturing of the Court. Ah, if you could see Monsieur de Maurepas, you would understand the intensity of my frustration. No ships, too few troops, no muskets unless I paid cash. Nonetheless, George, on my ship I have enough uniforms, helmets and muskets for a division. They are mine, you understand? I purchased them. And I will see to it your company is among the first to be uniformed.”

George laughed. “I can’t imagine how much money that would cost.”

Lafayette made a dismissing motion with his hand. “Nothing. Nothing that I will worry about. I wish to take these muskets and place them before the General. Has he met Rochambeau? But of course he must have done. Is all well between them?”

“I think they got along like good friends, Marquis. And I gather you have a son? May I congratulate you, sir?”

“Ah, you may. Very nicely put, George. Three years as an officer and you sound the gentleman, eh? My little Adrienne has given me a son and I have called him after the general, as George Washington, yes?” Lafayette had a light in his eye and his whole face beamed with pleasure. “And you? You are still a captain? That is because I have not been here to press your claim, my hero. And have you married? What happened to Miss Bessy of Philadelphia?”