“Gentlemen, charge your glasses!” The speaker lifted his own as conversation fell off and heads were turned in his direction. “Gentlemen, I wish to propose a new loyal toast: To the Commander in Chief of the American Armies!”
The brave words brought to their feet everyone who had not already risen in anticipation of the toast, benches and chair legs scraping across wooden floor planks and voices chorusing in hearty affirmation.
“The Commander in Chief!”
Washington’s craggy face had gone still and even a little pale as their intent became clear, and he did not move as they drank his health. Perhaps it had not fully occurred to him until that very moment how terrifying and awesome a responsibility they had thrust upon him, almost single-handedly to lead an endeavor that could well spell ruin for every man in the room. Almost certainly his fellow delegates had not realized the full potential.
But all of them realized it now, smiles dying and levity ceasing as they lowered their glasses, waiting for him to respond. Their new Commander in Chief rose slowly, even reluctantly. And such was the gravity of his demeanor that the moment was at once transformed from a purely social gathering into an occasion of solemnity.
“God help us, gentlemen, for I hope you know what you have done,” he said softly. “Nonetheless,” he went on, his voice gathering strength, “I thank you for your confidence, and I drink to your very good health—and to the health of these United Colonies. May Providence defend the right.”
Not a sound could be heard as he drained his glass, but a shout went up as he finished it and set it down on the table with a hollow thunk, punctuated by several cries of, “Hear, hear!”
But the momentum of the evening had been lost. Very shortly the company began to disperse. Andrew watched from the window after Simon had gone to join the General, chatting briefly with several of the delegates before returning to his own inn for a good night’s sleep before setting out for Boston.
Chapter Two
The General’s party finally left for Boston three days hence, on Friday, the twenty-third of June. Most of Philadelphia turned out to see him off, including all of the Massachusetts delegation and many of the delegates from the other colonies, with their carriages and servants, a large number of local townspeople, and some two thousand local militia and their officers. Andrew and Justin had already set out for Cambridge two days before, but Simon waited with Generals Lee and Schuyler and their aides, mounted on a black mare and holding the General’s gray.
Fifes and drums struck up a military air as the new Commander in Chief emerged from his quarters with his aides, Mifflin and Reed. A regiment of the First Troop of Philadelphia Light Horse presented arms with drawn sabers, dipping their colors in salute. In the week since Washington’s appointment, someone had painted over the old British union of red, blue, and white on the regiment’s distinctive yellow banner and replaced it with a canton of thirteen stripes of white and red, signifying the United Colonies.
Washington pulled up short as he noticed it, then drew himself solemnly to attention, removed his tricorn, and swept it to the side in salute before proceeding on to where his horse waited. With Mifflin holding his stirrup, he swung up without ceremony, Lee and Schuyler falling in behind him as he moved out to review the troops.
When he had finished, the Light Horse led out, some twenty strong, harnesses jingling. The local troops accompanied him as far as the outer precincts of the city, as did some of the carriages and a few gentlemen on horseback. Following behind came the General’s staff and his personal carriage—an open phaeton drawn by two white horses, with his faithful servant Will up on the driver’s box.
The General set a brisk pace, even when, after the first hour or so, he retired to the carriage and invited Generals Schuyler and Lee to ride with him by turns. Simon and the other aides rotated their positions as well, one riding alongside the carriage to either side while the rest accompanied whichever general was on horseback. The spare horses followed along, tied to the back of the rig.
Nor did the passage of this cavalcade go unremarked on the long road toward Cambridge, for word of the General’s appointment had gone before him, and everywhere citizens and militia turned out to cheer and watch him pass. Sometimes they accompanied him for a while. Occasionally, when the cavalcade passed through a town, flowers would be tossed into the carriage at the General’s feet. Whenever the party stopped for refreshment or to rest the horses, local folk were there to offer their support, also hoping to glean some news of the intentions of the Continental Congress.
But if news of Washington’s appointment had sped north, rumors of the battle at Breed’s Hill also had begun to filter southward, as Simon had known was inevitable. The first intimations reached the General’s party a day out of Philadelphia, when a travel-worn express rider clattered across a wooden bridge just ahead, obviously in a hurry.
As courtesy of the road demanded, the man slowed to pass the troop of horsemen leading the General’s party, raising a weary hand to the brim of his tricorn in automatic acknowledgment. There was no reason he could have been expected to recognize the occupants of the phaeton they escorted—General Schuyler was riding with Washington at the time—but his sudden look of bewilderment suggested at least a vague recognition of the significance of uniformed outriders; and Simon recognized the express. Signaling the General’s driver to pull up, he gigged his black mare closer to the rider.
“Is that Phineas O’Sullivan?” he called, drawing abreast. “What news from Boston, friend?”
O’Sullivan’s face lit briefly at the familiar hail, but his grave demeanor did not change. His horse was far fresher than its rider, eager to be away, and it jigged and fought the bit, rolling its eyes at Simon’s black and lacing back its ears at the big gray tied to the back of the General’s rig. Behind him the Philadelphia Light Horse had also reined in.
“Major Wallace,” he acknowledged in a voice gritty with fatigue. “You’ll not have heard the news from Boston, I suppose?”
Simon had, but he dared not let on, only matching his expression to O’Sullivan’s.
“I gather that this is news I would rather not hear,” he replied. “To save telling it twice, you’d best tell it to these gentlemen as well.” He gestured toward the phaeton and the riders grouped around it, at the same time leading O’Sullivan closer. “This is General Washington, our new Commander in Chief. Also Generals Schuyler and Lee. General, Mr. O’Sullivan, with news from Boston.”
The General acknowledged O’Sullivan’s raised hat with a nod, his craggy face impassive. “Yes, Mr. O’Sullivan?”
O’Sullivan drew a deep breath, his Yankee resolve undaunted even in the presence of the Commander in Chief.
“I’m sent to inform Congress, General. There’s been a terrible battle fought in Boston, now a week past. British Regulars have taken and occupied Breed’s Hill, and Charleston was burning when I left.”
“The devil you say!” Lee blurted, as Mifflin and Reed crowded closer, for Lee had served as a brigadier in the British army in times past.
“Did the Americans stand before the British fire?” Washington demanded.
“They did, sir.”
The General closed his eyes briefly and breathed a relieved sigh. “They stood. Then the liberties of our country are safe. Who led them?”
“General Prescott.”
“And how many engaged?”
“About twelve hundred, sir. And nearly twice that many British.”
“And what of our casualties?”
“Unknown when I left, sir. But I dare say it cost the British more than they’d thought to spend.” A note of satisfaction crept into his voice. “They took horrific losses through their first two assaults—and we’d’ve made them pay a third time, if we’d had more powder! They’ll not be able to afford many more such ‘victories.’ ”
The express could give them few further details, beyond the impression that the Americans had scored a moral victory, even though th
ey had lost the hill. And the British General Gage seemed content not to push beyond the ground he had won so dearly—or so it had appeared when the express had left the field, a week before.
More rumors concerning Breed’s Hill continued to reach them as they pressed on across New Jersey, new details emerging every time they stopped at an inn to take a meal or to rest the horses. They were heading for General Schuyler’s native New York, second largest of the colonies. By the following day, as they prepared to cross the Hudson just above the city, word came of the simultaneous return of the colony’s royal governor, William Tryon, whose barge even now was heading up the river.
“I like not the timing of this,” said General Lee as he scanned downriver with a spyglass. “Word of our coming may have preceded us. It wouldn’t do for the British to capture our new Commander in Chief before he can even take up his command.…”
“I won’t be taken,” Washington said confidently. “Let us carry on, gentlemen.”
Indeed, Lee’s concerns proved ill founded. The crossing was made without incident. As had happened all along the new Commander in Chief’s route of travel, cheering crowds greeted his landing, and uniformed horsemen were waiting to take over from the Light Horse and to escort him to the fine mansion of Colonel Leonard Lispenard, where he was scheduled to stay. As his phaeton swept up the long, curved drive and halted before the broad front steps, uniformed volunteers were drawn up as a guard of honor and a band played a military salute.
“Welcome to New York, Your Excellency!” their host declared as he bowed them in through the front door.
At the reception which followed, the General and his party were feted in almost royal style, enthusiastically greeted by prominent members of New York’s patriot community and a festive array of food. Besides the expected words of congratulation, the talk was mostly of the warships anchored in New York Harbor, and what the British might do in the aftermath of what had happened at Boston.
Of exactly what had happened at Boston there was little new information—until an express arrived at the mansion just after dark with a dispatch on its way from the Massachusetts Provincial Congress to Philadelphia. An aide came to fetch the generals to the front steps of the house, where a red-faced and disheveled-looking rider was guzzling a cooling tankard of ale while servants shifted his saddle onto a fresh horse in the yard below.
“Is it news of the battle in Boston?” Schuyler demanded.
As the man gulped the last swallows of his ale, he half raised his empty hand by way of affirmation and patted a dust-grimed hand against a bulge under his coat, then dragged the back of a sleeve across his mouth and his sweaty face before handing off the empty tankard to a servant.
“Aye, sir, it is,” the man replied. “I don’t know much myself, as I’ve only brought it from as far as Dobbs Ferry. But the man I took it from said I was to get it to Philadelphia as fast as I could. I only stopped here to get a fresh horse.”
“Well, you can delay long enough to let the new Commander in Chief have a look at it before you go on,” Schuyler said, holding out his hand and then snapping his fingers when the man did not immediately surrender it. “Come on, man. Don’t let’s waste time. I’m General Schuyler, as any of these gentlemen can attest, and this is General Washington, our new Commander in Chief.” He indicated the General with a proud sweep of his hand. “Since he’s on his way to take up command in Boston, it would be useful if he knew what he was heading into.”
Schuyler’s logic could not be faulted. With a weary shrug the rider handed over the dispatch. A servant was standing by with a lighted candelabrum, and Schuyler held the dispatch briefly to the light before offering it to Washington.
“Your Excellency?”
As Washington hesitated—for the address on the outside of the dispatch clearly intended it for the Congress—Simon edged a little closer and added his encouragement.
“We already know the news from Boston will not be good, General,” Simon said. “But whatever it is, you need to know about it. If anyone besides the Congress is entitled to open it, you are.”
Drawing a deep breath, the General took the dispatch and broke the seal, unfolding the paper with brisk efficiency once his decision had been made.
“It’s from Warren,” he announced, his eyes flicking briefly to the bottom of the page and then back to the top to read down the neatly penned lines. “Yes, some of this we know already. British Regulars had to make three assaults to take Breed’s Hill.… We did, indeed, hold them through two charges.… General Ward estimates that British losses may be as high as thirty to forty percent, out of more than two thousand men.…
“But here’s more that’s new. The British are contained, for the present, but Charleston has burned … perilous shortages of powder and supplies. If a Commander in Chief has been appointed, his immediate presence is urgently requested.…”
A murmur of agreement rippled among his listeners at those words, but Washington merely continued reading.
“American officer casualties, thus far known: Major Andrew McClary, Major Willard Moore of Paxton, Colonel Thomas Gardner of Cambridge, Major General Joseph Warr—but this cannot be correct!” Incredulity lent animation to the normally measured cadence of Washington’s speech. “This cannot be correct!” he repeated. “Warren signed—”
He broke off as his glance darted again to the bottom of the page and then back to the fatal words.
“Dear God, this is ill news, indeed,” he murmured. “Joseph Warren has fallen. ’Tis James Warren who now is President of the Provincial Congress.”
To a flurry of muttered consternation around him, Washington slowly reread the dispatch from the top again, no one daring to intrude on the stunned silence that spread gradually from the front porch. Though the pockmarked face quickly regained its customary composure, Simon could see the tension in the set of the jaw and the slight tremor in the fingers that held the paper just a little too tightly.
Finally the Commander in Chief blindly handed the dispatch off to Schuyler and excused himself, heading back through the hall and the drawing room and through a door that led onto a piazza overlooking the rear gardens. Simon followed after a few seconds, shaking his head at several others who would have accompanied him. He found the General standing in the shadow of one of the square pillars of the piazza, leaning against the cool stone with his arms folded across his chest, gazing sightlessly into the shadowed depths of an ornamental fishpond.
“Pardon the intrusion, General,” Simon said quietly, “but may we send the express on to Philadelphia?”
Washington looked up with a start. “What’s that?”
“The express—may we send him on to Philadelphia?”
“Oh, it’s you.” The General sighed heavily and returned his attention to a pair of goldfish brooding almost motionless in the somewhat murky water. “Yes, go ahead and send him, Major. I—should like to be alone for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
Simon slipped back into the house and relayed the order, then posted a guard to be certain the General’s wish for privacy was respected. After a quarter hour or so, he himself ventured onto the piazza again, circling around to approach from the garden side, so that Washington would have plenty of time to see him coming. The General had moved to a stone bench just at the edge of the torchlight, facing out over the river vista; but at the sound of Simon’s approach, he turned his head and, with a sparse gesture, invited the younger man to sit.
“I fear that I was not fully prepared to read familiar names among the dead,” he said quietly as Simon sank down on his left. “All at once I felt the full weight of command settling upon my shoulders.”
Simon said nothing, sensing that no response was necessary save to listen. After a long moment the General spoke again, very softly.
“Do you believe in dreams, Major?”
Simon felt himself start to stiffen, only with difficulty deflecting his sharp glance to the river instea
d of to the man sitting beside him. In this context the question almost suggested that the General might have shared Andrew’s vision of the slain Joseph Warren. But that was impossible, or the news of Warren’s death should not have been so devastating. Still, for the stolid and usually private Washington, even to mention something as ephemeral as a dream betokened something extraordinary indeed.
“Do you mean—prophetic dreams, sir?” Simon murmured, trying to keep any edge from his voice as he glanced casually over his shoulder to confirm that the guard was still deflecting would-be intruders.
A grimace twitched at the General’s lips as he dropped his gaze to his big hands, abstractedly intertwining the fingers between his knees.
“I—want to believe that at least part of it was prophetic,” he whispered. “It—seemed to presage my appointment to the supreme command. And there was a victor’s laurel wreath.…”
Simon said nothing, only willing the man not to stop there. After a long, taut silence the General shivered a little, despite the heat of the summer evening, and lifted his gaze slightly to stare into the darkness far across the river. His voice, as he began to speak, was shaky, a little flat, reflecting his tight-reined emotions; but it also sounded relieved.
“It was—three or four months ago,” he said. “I recall it as a dream, but it might have been delirium, because I’d taken a hard fall and had the wind knocked out of me. My horse stumbled, and we both went down. I may even have been unconscious for a few seconds. Dr. Ramsay thought I was. He was with me that day—which is probably why he was in the dream.”
He glanced suddenly at Simon, staring at him intently for several seconds while Simon dared not even breathe, then shook himself loose of whatever it was he thought he saw and looked back at the river.
“Now, that is odd,” he murmured. “I cannot imagine why, but somehow I think you were in it, too.”
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