Christian Cameron - Washington and Caesar

George waved his arms and blew his whistle, and his company broke into a run. The men at the back of the long files had to sprint to reach the new front, which George formed in the cover offered by a raised road.

“Five pace intervals!” he yelled.

Men began to space themselves out. In a few moments, his men covered almost two hundred paces of the front, and Caleb’s company were doing the same on his right.

Something reached out and plucked away his shiny leather helmet, which hit the ground well behind him. George crouched down.

“Rifles! Keep your heads down.”

Wayne’s Pennsylvanians filtered through his men and started to form behind him, temporarily safe from the fire because of the raised road’s embankment. As soon as his front was clear, he turned to his bugler.

“Sound skirmish,” he said.

The boy raised the instrument, a fine brass hunting horn bought in France with the marquis’s money, and sounded the call. File leaders leaned their heads up over the embankment, picked their targets and fired. The moment their shots rang out, they rolled on their backs and began to load while their file partners searched the ground ahead for targets. George leaned up against the damp earth and raised his head carefully, one hand over his gorget to hide the flash. He could just see some green-coated men in the field beyond the embankment, lying prone and firing carefully. They too had leather helmets with curved half moons as their insignia.

“Queen’s Rangers, lads. Always a pleasure to fight the best.”

His corporal, Ned Simmons, laughed and then fired, his French rifled carbine making a crack that contrasted with the softer bangs of the muskets.

George saw cavalry forming beyond the field at the edge of the woods. He looked behind him to see if the Pennsylvania men were rallied solidly. They were not, but behind them he saw General Lafayette and his staff galloping across the tobacco fields and he smiled.

He trotted over to Caleb, keeping his head well below the top of the embankment.

“Cavalry, Caleb,” he said by way of greeting as he dropped to the ground beside him.

“Whereabouts, then?”

George pointed to where the cavalry were trying to stay hidden.

“Colonel Simcoe hopes to keep us amused with his lights and his rifles until we are well strung out…”

“And then ride us over. Those Pennsylvania boys are done for the day, George. I’d say it’s time to get out of here.”

“Let’s hear what the marquis has to say.”

Lafayette dismounted behind them and handed his horse to an aide, who instantly fell wounded. The horse spooked and ran off in a long curve, looking for a place to gallop free. Lafayette shook his head and laughed and started to walk across the plowed ground as if unconcerned by the fire.

“Well done, George,” he called. When he was closer he condescended to crouch behind the embankment with the two light officers. “The army will thank you for getting here so quickly. General Wayne is rallying his men, and then we’ll be away.”

“So we are retreating?”

Lafayette laughed, one short bark. “You wish to attack?”

“Not in the least, sir.”

“Excellent. As soon as the Pennsylvanians begin to withdraw, you may move into those woods. You will be the rearguard. There will be dragoons to cover you…ahh, there they are.”

George nodded, trying to time the arrival of the friendly cavalry against the possibility of the enemy horse charging him.

Lafayette slapped his boot. “Come and see me when this is over. I have a job for you, as you Americans say.”

He rose and bowed, regardless of the bullets. George couldn’t help but return the bow.

Simcoe sat on his horse in the shadow of the trees with his black trumpeter, Harris, and his staff and watched the arrival of the rebel horse.

“The enemy have put their house in order, gentlemen,” he said, scanning the field under his hand. He made a clucking noise. He had been close to snatching away two of their best companies but the chance was gone.

One of his riflemen in the tree nearest to him called down. “Colonel? I have a good shot at a general who just stood up. Little fellow. Must be Lafayette!”

Simcoe made his clucking noise again. “Let him go, Dodd.” He turned his horse and motioned to his bugler, who immediately started to blow the recall.

An hour later, George and the marquis watched the end of the British column as they withdrew across the river toward Williamsburg. A shot rang out as one of their rearguard tried the range against Lafayette’s dragoons.

“They beat us and then retreat,” said George.

“General Cornwallis has limited supplies and quite a few wounded men. He is eager to secure his escape.” Lafayette mounted his horse, recaptured by the dragoons, and motioned to an aide.

“What’d you want me for, Marquis?”

“I want you to take my dispatches to General Washington as quickly as you can.”

George nodded, already worried about his company in his absence.

“It is essential that General Washington should understand the situation as quickly as possible, George. You know that the Comte de Grasse and his fleet are on their way?”

“I know they are coming this summer, yes.”

“They may come here. Perhaps they will go to New York or to Rhode Island, but they may come here. And George, if they do, you must tell the general that we will have Cornwallis like a rat in the trap.”

New Jersey, July 8, 1781

Caesar heard the shots off to his right and stopped in the trail. He had been ordering one of his men to collect all the carts from a farm, but foraging was no longer the primary mission. He turned and ran to his right, gathering men as he went. Across a field, he saw Major Stewart put his horse over a fence and wave his helmet.

Mr. Martin was standing in the farmyard, his whistle to his lips. Caesar waved his musket.

“Enemy off to the right, sir.”

“I’m with you,” said Martin, and they ran through the farmyard and up to a fence where one of the new men, Saul, lay slumped and moaning against the clean split rails. His red jacket glistened with blood from a wound high in his chest. Caesar knelt by him a moment and shrugged to Virgil, who was on the other side of him.

“Rifle,” Caesar said. He looked for Saul’s file partner, a veteran named Delancy after his former owner. Delancy was ahead of them in the fenced field, lying under a tree. His musket barked. Caesar tried to follow the line of the shot and saw several men in dirty gray shirts on a low rise to the east. Caesar looked at Martin, who nodded and blew his whistle.

“Form front on the center. Quickly, now. Odd files will cover. Even files advance on the whistle. Listen for it.”

Martin was encouraging the men, and then one of them fell and gave a scream. Far off, there was a tiny puff of smoke. Some of the newer men immediately crouched, and one fired his musket. Virgil cuffed him.

“Don’ be a fool,” he growled.

Faster, Caesar thought. We have to move faster.

He blew his whistle. Something hit the barn right next to his head and splinters pricked his face. He shook his head. Fowver was ordering the stationary files to start firing, and they did, slowly and carefully to avoid their own men. They weren’t likely to hit much with muskets against rifles at this range, but they had all learned that any enemy shoots worse when he’s worried about keeping his own head down. Caesar’s men began to trot.

He was reading the ground, looking for cover, when he saw the little fold off to the left. He angled that way and the line followed him. They were well spread out but he began to sprint, the full power of his legs carrying him ahead. There was a fence and he hurdled it, his whole body crossing in one fluid motion, and then he was over and running on the other side.