Christian Cameron - Washington and Caesar

“We will march on the nineteenth of August, in four days. And with luck and the benevolence of heaven, gentlemen, we will go to Virginia and win the war.”

“The French have moved south and the whole rebel army is in New Jersey,” said Robinson, pointing at the map over the fireplace.

Martin took a draw on his pipe. “Mr. Washington can be a deep one, sir.”

Stewart favored his arm, now healing well, and reached his left hand for his wine. “Mr. Washington is marching to Virginia to take Lord Cornwallis,” he said carefully, looking into his glass. The other two officers took sharp breaths, and Robinson cursed.

“Gentlemen, there is nothing we can do to stop him. But, Beverly,” this to Colonel Robinson, “in his absence, I think it would be surprising if we didn’t snap up some of his posts.”

Robinson leaned forward. “Because his army can’t be in two places at once?”

“Even Mr. Washington can’t do that.”

“It will take some time to plan all over again,” said Robinson.

“We’ll need new intelligence. They’ve moved all their posts,” said Martin.

Stewart raised his glass to a distant corner where Sally sat sewing with Polly.

“Here’s to Mr. Washington, gentlemen. In his absence, great things may be accomplished.”

New York, September 10, 1781

In New York, the weather had turned to rain, a harsh, cold rain that kept everyone indoors. It promised to be a hard fall. Caesar stood in the bow window of the Moor’s Head watching a few laborers run through the wet, mud splashing up their thighs. He pitied the soldiers out in the lines.

Major Stewart had a pint of Madeira and a map, and he used them to make his points. “If you really want to leave the impression that the whole thing is an accident, or perhaps that it was about something very different, then I think our best hope is to hide it under Colonel Robinson’s expedition. If Robinson attacks the outposts near the Hudson, we can take Bludner in the same sweep with the same men. But we need to know just where the rebel posts are and just where Bludner’s men camp. We need the whole layout of the area. When we take Bludner’s courier he may spill all of it or he may try and lead us into a trap. I want to know the ground in advance.”

“So we take the courier the night that Colonel Robinson plans to go after the rebel posts?”

“Just so. It came to me when Robinson was telling about his plan. Caesar, do you concur?”

“I do, sir.”

“And do you know the area?”

“We were all over that ground last year.” Caesar could see it in his mind’s eye.

“And Reverend White says that Bludner’s covering party is usually by the Van Cortland house. Look here. That’s less than a mile from the ferry.”

“Stands to reason, sir. There are only so many approaches between our lines and theirs, and Bludner’s spies need the ferry.”

“Just so, Sergeant Caesar, just so. Do you see it, Reverend?”

Marcus White looked at Caesar carefully, as if judging him all over again.

“Doesn’t Mr. Van Sluyt have a wife?” White asked.

“He does, but that has never kept him from his duty…” Caesar trailed off as he saw that he had missed the mark entirely. Marcus White was looking off into the distance.

“Perhaps his wife would go. Women pass the lines very easily. She could take Polly…”

Caesar shuddered.

“I’ve done it before, Julius.” She fairly bounced with enthusiasm and his heart died within him. He wanted to say, “But you are pregnant.” Yet he understood that would be a betrayal.

“But we already know all this,” he protested.

“No, Caesar. We guess it. And if we’re going to commit hundreds of men up the river, we have to know.”

Marcus looked at Polly and they smiled at each other, a smile of private communication. Stewart shook his shoulders a little.

“I don’t like sending them in harm’s way…”

“I’d do anything to get Bludner,” said Polly.

Mount Vernon, 10 September, 1781

Truro Church brought a lump to his throat. As he pulled his horse to a stop and looked at the church’s pattern of Flemish brick for a little, the church unleashed a flood of memory, of obligations and uncompleted tasks from another life. For the first time in five years he wondered who was a warden and whether the rector’s roof had ever been repaired. He could see bricks missing from the churchyard wall.

David Humphreys, the only one of his staff to accompany him on his dash to Mount Vernon, looked ready to fall off his horse. Billy Lee looked better, tired but easy on his tall bay. Washington’s decision to go home for one night on the way to his campaign had been the product of a rare whim, and he had ridden sixty miles in a day to get here. Few men had the stamina to stay with him.

Past the churchyard, he was really home. Those were his fields on either side of the road, and the road itself, which needed repair, he was sorry to note, was also his. All the way from Baltimore the roads had been bad, but here in Frederick County they were virtually impassable, just near his home and in the path of his army that needed speed for his troops and more speed for his supplies.

“Good to be home, eh, Billy?” said Washington, turning slightly in his saddle. He was concerned that Humphreys might have a fall, and took the opportunity to give him a glance.

“Yes, sir,” said Billy.

The sun was setting as he finally turned his horse through his gates and was greeted by the moving sight of Mount Vernon glowing with the last light, and all the windows lit from inside. A white man he didn’t know ran from behind the Greenhouse, calling that there were visitors, and Washington smiled, the spell of his own house strong on him.

“Well ridden, David,” he said to his companion. The man bowed in the saddle, stiff with fatigue, and appeared unable to speak. Washington rode past the front of his house toward his stable and dismounted. None of the blacks looked familiar and he handed his horse to a stranger.

“Do you know that boy, Billy?”

“I don’t know any of these folk, sir.”

Washington nodded, a little sharply, collected his pistols from his saddle holsters and gave them and his pannier to Billy. Then he walked up the sandy drive to the house, where doors were opened and there was a great deal of movement.

She was standing just inside the door, an enigmatic smile on her face. Older, very much older, but the smile was the same and he laughed to see it.

As he stepped over his own lintel, she came forward. “I thought perhaps you had forgotten the way?” she said, and he lifted her in his arms and kissed her, a rare excess in front of the house staff, but she didn’t protest. And he held her, remembered the weight and the smell of her, and he was home.

“You are famous, I find,” she said. “Even I have a place in the pantheon.”

It was so easy to forget who she was, how the sharp steel of her went along with the flame, and yet when he looked she wasn’t wearing her closed face, and he realized she was speaking at random because she was surprised. For five years he had written to her every day and only now did he think that she might have had the harder life, trapped here by her illnesses and her own will, without him. He took one of her hands and kissed it.

She laughed.

“I have gifts for you from many admirers, my dear,” he said. “But I am still the commander of an army, if only a little one, and I must send a letter this instant before I place myself at your service. May I have your pardon?”

“You came home. I can forgive you much for that.” She gave him her precious smile of delight and turned into her parlor. “I will await you.”