Christian Cameron - Washington and Caesar

He shook Hamilton’s hand. He pushed through the crowd at the head of the sap and found Caleb Cooke, with whom he had exchanged last letters, just in case. He and Caleb shook hands without words because they had nothing left to say. He passed through men he had known since before Green Springs, since Monmouth or Brandywine, and often they would simply lock eyes, although some shook hands. They were all around him, all the men who had stayed true from the first fights, and those who had come later, until the dark was fuller than it could really be. He had tears in his eyes. He wiped them on his cuff.

He went back to the head of his own men and got his spontoon, a long weapon like a spear. Around him in the dark, other officers and sergeants gave speeches. He didn’t have one ready. He put a foot up on a step and looked back over six years, and spoke quietly.

“If I fall, no one stops. Just take the redoubt. That’s all that matters.”

There was a pause, and even the damn dog stopped barking. And then the first red rocket burned up into the night from the French lines and George was out in the open, running, silent as a shadow.

He could hear the others coming behind him, and he ran through the mud, jumping shell holes where the mortars had dropped their rounds short. Then he was into the ditch at the foot of the big redoubt, and now the British were awake and firing down at them. He heard a scream behind him, and another, and there was a wall of firing over his head and he ran on, his boots throwing mud high in the air, heading for the rear of the redoubt as they had practiced, where the walls were lower. And the firing seemed sporadic and his heart began to rise. He risked a look back and saw that Desmond, the New York boy, had the colors and was close behind him. They were almost at the end of the ditch when Desmond went down and George was tangled in silk. He grabbed the flagstaff and pounded up the steep slope of the rampart, his new breeches black with mud. He slipped and jammed in a heel to keep his spot and lost his spontoon. Above him on the wall, a man lunged at him with a bayonet. George parried with the flagstaff, pushed its point into the man’s face and suddenly he was gone. Finally reaching the top of the earthen wall, George raised the flag.

At the foot of the inner wall a British officer had a platoon formed and though they were about to be overrun from three sides his men were finishing their loading as calmly as on parade. George admired them even as he collected his own men at the top of the wall and led them down, silence forgotten as they bellowed a cheer, an unstoppable tide of blue coats. Then something punched him in the chest and he felt the British fire and he was down, the cold of the mud catching at his hands and his neck.

New York, October 14, 1781

Jason Knealey liked working in New York better than in Philadelphia, where the people were all suspicious. New York was full of alleys and bolt-holes, and he had no need to do his real work any more. He was an important man, and spying paid.

He walked up the black whore’s steps with a steady pace, trying to draw out the pleasure of the moments before she opened the door. His coat flapped a little behind him. He knocked at the door and heard her familiar movements, the hesitation as she came to the door, and he knocked softly in the code. It was supposed to change every visit, but such things couldn’t interest him, and he simply rapped out a little series, four, pause, two, pause, four. She was supposed to answer in code to tell him it was all clear, but he had never even taught her this nuance. She opened the door. She was smiling in a way she had never done for him and he wasn’t sure he liked it, but he pushed into the room boldly.

“I hope you have something worth my ride,” he said, and then his riding whip was taken from his hands and he was on his back looking at her pale blue ceiling.

“If ye do everything I say, just the way I say, I won’t open ye with ma’ wee knife and let a dog tear at yer guts,” said Sergeant McDonald.

Polly kissed him quickly on the lips.

“I’ll try to be braver than you were,” she said.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” he said, and then realized that she had said the same. She shook her head, and her father came forward and took his hand.

“I am not supposed to shed blood, and yet I almost envy you this. It’s open, compared to the other. Clean.”

“Tell Sally I’ll kill him.”

Marcus White turned his head away for a moment, and then back. He was struggling with himself. “I admit that is what I want. I console myself that he is an evil man.”

“Reverend, this isn’t for you. But I’ll kill him.” He was calm, now. The wonderful clarity that going into action always brought, the way it simplified. He leaned past Marcus White and took Polly in his arms.

“I’ve been scared enough for both of us,” he said. “Now I’ll be back.”

“See that you are, then,” she said, and it was time to march.

The little house on Cherry Street was already familiar to the men of Captain Stewart’s company who followed Sergeant McDonald. They’d had it pointed out for two weeks. But it was no part of the sergeant’s intention to let his captive know that his information was worthless. McDonald wanted him to betray, and betray again, until his betrayal became automatic and he gave them the thing they most desired, which was the location of the covering party commanded by Bludner. So McDonald walked along Cherry Street until the man blubbered that here was the first house, and that the man inside, Mr. Harris, was his contact. They took Harris in his nightgown, with his wife weeping by the door. He was small fry, and McDonald knew his role. He made sure to let Harris see the unhappy messenger, Jason Knealey. He had his orders, and his orders were that every man they took was to see Knealey. Anyone from the other side who examined the evidence would assume Knealey had betrayed the whole chain of agents. It was a constant danger of the spy trade, and Marcus White planned to exploit it.

Lieutenant Martin had the Guides formed at the top of Broadway, ready to pass the inner post as soon as Sergeant McDonald joined them. There was a large column ahead of them: the whole of the Loyal Americans, as well as a company of Hesse Cassel Jaegers, and some dragoons at the head. It was a small army, and Colonel Robinson was its commander. He rode up and down the column, checking their last details, calling on individual officers and sergeants to describe their targets. The main part of the column was intended to surprise the New York militia post at the ferry, and each company had a particular assignment-this house or this barn, or crossroads-that they were to secure. Many of them glanced curiously at the Guides, because they knew, as soldiers know, that the Guides had some other mission, and might join them on their own in some way. There wasn’t much talking. The columns were allowed to lie on their arms and men went to sleep on their packs.

Just after the moon set, Major Stewart appeared on horseback.

“They have the spy. He’s on his way,” Stewart said. He looked very white in the moonlight, and Caesar thought it probably still hurt him to ride.

Stewart had no need to come. He was going home to Scotland, had been mentioned in dispatches again for the action in New Jersey, and was buying his next rank in a regiment still stationed in England. Caesar knew he was there, sitting his horse in some pain, because of Jeremy, and Sally, and he nodded to himself and moved over to his little knot of corporals.

“Get them up,” he said. Stewart was already gone, up the column, and men were getting to their feet like ghosts rising in a play, or an army summoned from the ground. The Loyal Americans were in a dark green that looked black in the dark, and most of the redcoats in the column had workshirts pulled over their coats to conceal them. His own men formed quietly, each man looking for his file partner and falling in until the whole company was there. Ahead of them, the rest of the column was marching with only a few whistles sounded, leaving the Guides alone on the dark road.