Washington and Caesar

by Christian Cameron

  Washington read through the first item again, disliking it. Hamilton and Lafayette had both advised him to ignore it, but Washington knew that it was important to the southern colonies and that it was a reprisal for Great Britain’s insistence that the Tories, or Loyalists, be reimbursed for property seized or destroyed during the war by servants of the Congress. A functionary from the Congress began to read.

  “The Congress of the United States has come to understand that there are at present some thousands of blacks in New York City, who have served the king under arms or in various other capacities. These persons are the legal property of citizens of the United States, and must be returned.”

  Off to his right, Hamilton was visibly shaking his head. Lafayette had turned his face away, and a member of the Continental Congress from South Carolina was smiling broadly.

  Carleton looked stunned, but then he smiled slightly. Washington longed to wipe that cold smile right off his face. The man represented the sort of British officer he had always disliked. His arrogance seemed unbreachable.

  “If the blacks are not returned with an accounting of their former stations and owners, a like number of British and German prisoners of war will be kept until such time as this requirement is met.”

  Carleton shook his head and whispered to his secretary. His secretary laughed aloud.

  “How do you answer this requirement?”

  Carleton looked at his snowy white shirt cuffs for a moment and then spoke very quietly.

  “Any arrangement outside of those guaranteed by the Treaty of Paris lies beyond my powers. I must communicate with my Government.”

  “That could take months!” cried the member of Congress.

  “I cannot help that,” said Carleton, coldly. “I am not the one, I think, who seeks to change the treaty.”

  The rest of the issues drew even less response. Most of them were very minor, and Washington knew that most of them had been arranged as a pretext to force the British commander to come up the river to visit them and to vex him. The slaves were the main issue. He himself no longer took the same view of slavery with which he had started the war, and he saw in Lafayette’s indignation a certain reflection of his own feelings in using prisoners of war as negotiating tools for the return of slaves. Lafayette would call it a blot on the escutcheon of liberty, and half the staff would agree.

  Washington nodded to himself, and paused near the door of the house in which they had met to put on his greatcoat and take up his hat and gloves. Carleton was quite close, only a few feet away, and Washington looked at him curiously.

  Carleton had left America in 1776 with his reputation untarnished. He beat every Continental army to march into Canada, and he routed the army that Washington sent in ’76, chasing it all the way back into New York. Now he was back to oversee the turning over of British North America, less Canada, to the fledgling United States.

  Carleton had his own greatcoat on and he turned, his eyes suddenly widening a fraction as he took in Washington’s proximity.

  “I’ll endeavor to have my answers for your masters,” he said. Washington recoiled. Carleton smiled coldly.

  “If you want them, though, don’t expect me to go through this process again. You can come and see me,” Carleton went on.

  “May I remind you, sir, that you are the defeated party? And that I expect to summon you if I require your presence?” Washington didn’t believe such things, but he was stung by the taunt of “masters”.

  “General Washington, you and I recognize that you have no more than three thousand men here. I still have fifteen thousand in New York.” The cold voice sank a little further, to a hiss. “Your French friends have all gone home. If you wish to reopen the dance, I will be most happy to oblige.” He put his hat on with an air, collected his secretary, and was gone, escorted only by some of Washington’s light horse.

  “You intend to stay?” Caesar was incredulous. Jim Somerset was sitting at a table in the Moor’s Head with Sally at his side. “You are going to marry?”

  “With your permission, Sergeant,” said Jim, looking mild.

  Many comments about their relative ages and Sally’s past life came to mind, but Jim had known Sally exactly as long as he had, and there seemed little enough to say. The war had grown Jim up smartly, and he was now almost as tall as Caesar, though still skinny as a rail. And Sally probably only had five or six years on him. It might be enough to harm, or to help, and it wasn’t his place to say.

  Sally looked at him defiantly. “I have a good sum of money to start us with. We were going to buy a house.”

  “You’ll be taken as slaves!”

  Jim shook his head. “I don’ think so, Sergeant. Bludner owned Sally, an’ we know he’s dead. Ol’ Mr. Gordon owned me hisself, an’ I saw you kill him. So I reckon no slave-taker will show up with a claim on us.”

  Caesar nodded slowly. “I expect you have a point there, although you’ll always have to worry.”

  “That’s what it’s like to be African in this country, Caesar,” said Jim with a smile. “You worry. Lot of folks is stayin’, though. We won’ be the only folks of color.”

  Caesar nodded, took a sheet of paper from his map case and began to write them a certificate showing his approval of their marriage.

  “Captain Martin has to sign this,” he said.

  They both nodded. Sally smiled slowly, and looked at him under her lashes.

  “I thought you might get him to sign,” she said.

  “Corporal Somerset, why don’t you fetch us some wine?” Jim sprang up to go to the little bar where spirits were served, and Caesar glared at Sally.

  “What are you at?”

  “I want to stay. They goin’ to build a whole new country here. An’ I want to stay with folks I don’ know so well, and start over. You and the Guides might go to Jamaica, or England, or Canada, but I don’t want to be with the Guides. They think they know me.”

  “And Virgil?”

  “Virgil is a good man, an’ he’ll find himself a woman that suits him. I don’t, an’ I ain’t.” She tossed her head.

  Caesar just nodded. He had heard Virgil plan for Sally on many an evening. “He thinks he just has to get it right, you know. Just say the right thing, or know you better.”

  “He thinks he knows me, but I’ll tell you, Jim knows me better than any of you.” She was more wistful than defiant.

  “And you won’t go whoring on Jim?”

  “You think whorin’ comes natural, Caesar? It don’t.” She glared at him. “I haven’t since the major left, now have I?”

  They both sat in thought for a moment, remembering Major Stewart, now serving in Gibraltar and married to Miss McLean. He had left Sally a wealthy woman. She had benefited from the change, but Caesar was still suspicious of her. And on another level, he knew he’d miss her and Jim. It was all of a piece; the world he had known since he left the swamp was falling apart. Jim came back with wine, and he looked away, his eyes suddenly filling with tears.

  “I’ll get Captain Martin to sign.”

  Jim sat and shook his head. “They say at the bar that the Congress is demanding that all the blacks in New York be returned.” He shook his head in disgust. “Them rebels really think they won. How come they never won when I was around?”

  Caesar spread his hands on the table and shook his head.

  “They took General Burgoyne, and they took Cornwallis at Yorktown, and the Government lost the will to fight. But they won’t give us all back.”

  “They traded the Indians away fast enough.”

  “Stow that talk, Corporal.” Caesar glared at Jim. But a finger of ice touched his spine, and he sat up.

  “And what can General Carleton do?” asked Jim. “He’s got orders from London not to make trouble.”

  “Government has no money,” said Caesar, quietly.

  “Neither does the rebel Congress, but they jus’ print it.” Jim propped his chin on a long bony hand. “I read them pamphlets, S
ergeant. I do understand.”

  Caesar changed the subject.

  “Polly will miss ya, Sally,” said Caesar.

  “Oh, we can write. An’ I’ll miss her, an’ your little one. But I want a life, Caesar. An’ not as Sally at Mother Abbott’s. Sally Somerset has a nice free ring to it.”

  “You’ll tell her?”

  “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.

  He dismounted, tossed the reins to one of the British officers, and walked to the white offic
er at the head of the company, who saluted smartly.

  “Present arms!” the officer called. The stamp and clash of arms was nearly perfect.

  “Your servant, General Washington. I am Captain Martin,” he said, his hat off and his sword at the salute.

  “And yours, Captain.” Washington looked back at Hamilton, who returned the captain’s salute.

  “These must be the famous Black Guides,” said Hamilton. Lake was staring at a sergeant at the right rear of the parade. He knew the face, and the scars. The tall black man seemed to know him, too. Unconsciously, both of them touched their sword hilts, and then Caesar snapped his eyes back to the front. Lake turned to follow Washington.

  Washington had decided to continue the charade and inspect them. He went to the right of the company. He looked at the first man, a thin corporal, who stood rigidly at attention and looked to his front, and Washington nodded and kept moving. About halfway down the front rank he came to a man and for no particular reason he stopped.

  “What’s your name, then?” he said.

  “Silas Van Sluyt, sir!” the man said, his voice quavering slightly with nerves.

  They were clean and neat, the very image of professional soldiers, and he admired the way their blankets were rolled into the folds of their packs, every one the same. He stopped at the left end of the first rank and turned to the captain.

  “May I see how those blankets are rolled?” he asked, and the captain stepped past him.

  “Corporal Edgerton? Pack off, if you please.” Sergeant Fowver, standing three paces behind Edgerton, gazed off into space and hoped, hoped that Paget Edgerton had done his blanket up and not put a piece of cloth in as a fake. Washington watched as the pack came off, obscurely pleased that he had come up with something to look at. In time, the pack was off and open, and he saw the blanket, rolled thin and then folded over along the inside top of the pack. The whole pack was different from those most of his own soldiers used, but it was a useful detail, and the skill with which the man opened and closed his pack spoke more about his life as a soldier than any amount of drill.