Christian Cameron: Washington and Caesar

“Course I will. Not till we know what Carleton’s doin’, though. If’n you all stay here, I may want to move, or marry someone else.” She looked over at Jim, who looked down a little and smiled, then chucked her with his elbow.

Caesar looked for Captain Martin at his house. He rarely stirred these days, except to stand his guard and parade the company. Captain Martin was a family man, and his two daughters and his wife took his time, the more so as he had cleared his house and sold most of his belongings. He was about to become a refugee, and he knew it. That didn’t make it any easier.

It was a fine house, with plasterwork and fireplaces and delicate tints on the walls, and he wondered when he’d be able to afford the like again. He had thought of staying, and then thought again. No matter how tolerant the new government was, he had commanded the notorious Black Guides, and his wife was a Hammond. He would have to go. There were rumors of land grants in Canada, and that intrigued him. He couldn’t farm, but he could survey. He thought that if the Canadian adventure became a reality, he’d probably accept, although many of his fellows were bound for England. He had a map of upper Canada open on the table. He liked the look of the ground around the Bay of Quinte.

He met Caesar in the foyer, answering his own door, because he’d let all the servants go weeks before. Money mattered now. Caesar entered with a lack of self-consciousness that still surprised Captain Martin, coming in the front door as if it was his right-which, of course, it was.

“How can I help you, Sergeant?”

“Need you to sign a wedding certificate, sir.”

“With pleasure.” Martin sat at his one remaining table and then searched a little lap desk for powdered ink. Caesar was looking at Martin’s uniform coat and gorget slung over a chair when Mrs. Martin, the former Miss Hammond, came in carrying a teacup.

“Why, Sergeant Caesar, as I live and breathe!” She put her teacup down and he bowed to her.

“How is Polly? The baby? Splendid. And Virgil? We never see the fellows any more.”

Caesar looked again at the uniform coat, and Martin shook his head ruefully.

“I doubt I’ll get to wear it again now. They only want to send the regulars into the lines, and it is all I can do to keep our lot from being used to sweep the streets.”

Martin was reading the certificate, which Caesar had hoped to avoid, but he signed it without a quibble. Mrs. Martin read over his shoulder and shook her head.

“That Sally…” she said, but went no further. A preemptive knock at the door interrupted her.

“I’ll see to it,” said Martin, and he walked into the front, his footsteps echoing in the empty house.

“He’s taking defeat very hard,” said Mrs. Martin.

“I think we all are, ma’am,” said Caesar.

Martin came back carrying an envelope with a military seal.

“Speak of the devil, and there he is,” said Martin. “We have orders, Sergeant. Best uniforms, full dress, polished and ready, at the top of Broadway tomorrow at the break of day.”

Caesar felt his heart rising with excitement.

“I’ll see to the men. Where bound?”

“The messenger couldn’t say, or wouldn’t.”

“They wouldn’t send you to fight in the Indies, now would they?” She sounded concerned. It was the last active theater of war, and indeed, they had seen no action around New York in eight months. The Guides had been in the very last fight, a stiff action fought in boats where Martin and Caesar had both been wounded. Martin shook his head. “Not with these notes about polished brass and whited belts. I think we are going somewhere to stand guard, but by God I’ll enjoy it if it’s to be our last parade.” He eyed his uniform coat.

Caesar smiled his big grin, the one that hid the scars over his eyes.

The gondola carrying General Washington and select members of his staff was crewed by sailors of the Continental Navy. There weren’t many of them left, as the end of the fighting and of active privateering launched a race to restore the trade between Great Britain and the Americas, and every sailor wanted a berth when the merchants’ bounties were being paid. But there were still enough men to make a creditable crew for a single vessel, and they pulled Washington down the Hudson in style.

At the dock there were two British officers visible from well up the river, holding several horses. Washington expected to be slighted. He knew he had mortified Carleton, and that Carleton would take the opportunity to strike back, but he was prepared to bear any reasonable affront with equanimity. The war was over. Whatever Carleton decided, Congress had given Washington the power to agree to. There would be no more attempts to increase the demands on the defeated. Washington had not hesitated to pass Carleton’s threat, empty as he thought it to be, and it had worked wonders in bringing Congress to heel.

The dock was closer now, and Washington could see that the British had fortified the old ferry house and dug a small rampart beyond it. In fact, he was pleased to see how well the fortifications of New York stood, as they justified his conduct at the end of the war. New York, as held by Carleton, was impregnable.

“Oars up!” called the coxswain, and every oar was pulled in and set upright. It was as well done as the Royal Navy would do. Washington liked to see his men able to match the British for display.

“That’ll show them,” he said to Major Lake, standing with Colonel Hamilton at the rail. Colonel Hamilton smiled broadly at him. Today, they would reach the end. The real end, the bitter end, the final act that would close out the war. Washington ached to get back to Mount Vernon and his farming. The accomplishment of a life’s ambition, to become a great captain and to play a great part on the stage of the world, left him empty. He wanted to go home and farm. He thought that growing things from the ground might heal him.

Hamilton watched the officers on the dock as they drew closer. “Will we all be friends again in my lifetime?” he asked. Lake touched the hilt of his sword, as if for luck.

“Already, the merchants are restoring trade. In ten years, the ties of language…” He was thinking it curious that there were no soldiers waiting for them. He had been requested to come without an escort. Once he would have bridled and made demands, but the time for that sort of thing was past, and he had won. He didn’t need another parade to show it.

The gondola brushed down the dock, and a sailor tossed a rope to a man in a gray jacket, who caught it and made it fast. Another sailor stepped nimbly over the rail to the dock and made the stern fast, and a handsome British officer was bowing.

“If you would come this way, General Washington?” said the officer, after he had saluted. “Perhaps you’d care to review your escort?”

That was an unexpected courtesy.

“I would be pleased,” Washington replied, and he mounted the horse that was waiting for him. Hamilton came along, as did George Lake and his secretary. The British were not limiting his staff as he had limited Carleton’s, and he felt a pinch of remorse.

They rode around the corner and into the little redoubt that had been built to cover the dock, and there was a company drawn up in open ranks, with the sun gleaming on polished muskets and shining brass. They wore red coats.

And every man of them was black. General Washington’s horse sensed his hesitation and flicked an ear, hung a moment, and then moved forward smoothly as it felt the power of its rider. He was a well-bred man, and he wouldn’t give the British the pleasure of seeing him react if this was intended as an insult. He couldn’t decipher for a moment whether it was an insult.