George Washington Zombie Slayer (17 page)

“Give me a few days
,” Washington said at last, “to contemplate the proposal to let slaves join the Continental Army and fight for their freedom.”

Reebok spun about and left in a huff, still
angry over the exclusion of his race. Washington went back to work reading his collected mail.
 

Chapter
40

George Washington Contemplates the Proposal

to Let Slaves Join the Continental Army

In
the Year of Our Lord 1775, the slave population of the American Colonies was over half a million. At the time, that was a really big number. While some northern colonies still had the isolated pockets of slaves here and there, the largest concentrated percentage of slaves lived within the southern colonies.

White slave
owners were always concerned about slaves rising up and violently fighting for their freedom. So the idea of arming slaves to fight as soldiers in the Revolutionary War was not one which was lovingly embraced by southerners in general.

It was really a matter of
population distribution. In the Virginia Colony, it is likely that there were slightly more slave blacks than free whites. This was so in many places. In South Carolina, slaves surely outnumbered free whites by nearly two to one. Thus, South Carolina whites were, in actuality, the minority populace.

The myth of the “happy plantation slave” who loved his master
and found joy in his daily toil was, in point of fact, absolute bullshit. This being the case, powerful, wealthy, white slaveholders who made a good living from the sweat of the black brow were reluctant to arm their slaves with projectile weaponry which, in the very near future, they might find stuck up their own asses during rebellious slave uprisings.

White fear of armed blacks in 1775 was both
prudent and sensible and slave owners, like George Washington, were just looking after their own best interests.

These were some of the thoughts going through George Washington’s mind as he sat this day in a Philadelphia parlor, reading his mail.  But his view on the matter was about to change after reading a letter from
friend Henry Lee which mentioned British Lord Dunmore.

Lord Dunmore, also called the Fourth Earl of Dunmore, was formerly a Scottish Representative in the British House of Lords and now served
officially as the “Governor of New York, Virginia, the Bahamas, and the seedier regions of New Jersey.”  Dunmore was a true and loyal British aristocrat, meaning that he was a selfish hypocrite and cocksucker. But one thing he was not was racist against blacks.

Remember t
hat your typical British aristocrat in 1775 thought himself better than everyone else in the entire world. In consequence, they looked down upon all other races and cultures with equal disdain.  The black was no better or worse than an Irishman or an Asian or a white Colonial American.  All were regarded as inferior.

Lord
Dunmore was a visionary and quickly formed a unique plan at the start of hostilities during the Revolutionary War. He decided to arm blacks and enlist them as soldiers and Redcoats in the British Army. Even slaves were welcome to join, being given the added incentive of guaranteed freedom at the end of the conflict.

Before long,
Dunmore would have hundreds of blacks serving as Redcoats. They were quickly armed and trained and seemed to make exceptional soldiers. As a group, they were eventually given the formal title of Lord Dunmore’s Ethiopian Regiment.

Washington’s friend Henry Lee got wind of Dunmore’s plan, and fired off a short, urgent letter advising of this.

“My Dear General Washington-

Our
gravest fears have been realized. That cocksucker British Governor Dunmore has indeed authorized and approved the use of negro volunteers to serve as redcoat soldieres. They are given a promise of freedom and a gun and an opportunity to kill white people.  Very bad for us. This will almost certainly swell the ranks of British soldieres who fight against us, unless we do the same and recruit black soldiers into our own ranks. Please advise.

             
                                                        Your friend, Hank             

“”Oh, fuck me!” Washington said after reading the letter. He fired off an urgent and immediate reply to Lee.

“My Dearest Hank-

Oh,
Shit! Well, go ahead and start arming our blacks as well, but enlist only the respectable ones. And for God’s sake, please leave out the thugs and gang bangers. I fear that the winning side in the present conflict will be the side that arms its own blacks the fastest!

             
                                          Sincerely, Gen. Geo. Wash-“

Thus, history was made and slave blacks were encouraged by both sides to become fighting troops in the Revolutionary War on the American continent.

Washington summoned his slave Reebock and had him admitted to the parlor. Washington stood and approached his slave and looked him directly in the eye.

“Your argument has swayed me,” Washington said. “I have decided to allow blacks to join the ranks of the Continental Army.”

“You won’t be sorry,” Reebock replied with a huge smile.  “We will be good soldiers.”

“We?” Washington asked.

“Well,” Reebock continued, “I hope
this don’t piss you off too much…but I’d like to join the army!”

Washington frowned harshly to feign displeasure and Reebock lost his smile and cast his eyes downward in disappointment.

“Aww, Im just fuckin’ with ya!” Washington said, causing Reebock to regain his smile. Washington reached back onto his desk and grabbed a large, wrapped brown package, which he handed to his slave. “This is for you,” Washington said.

“A gift?”
Reebock asked.

“More of a
…responsibility,” Washington replied.

Reebock quickly tore open the wrapping paper and saw in the package a beautiful, pressed, red-white and blue uniform in his own size.

“Oh, MON!” Reebock said as he admired the uniform with reverence.

“I am appointing you my aide-de-camp,”
Washington said. “You will serve as my aide and secretary and assistant and messenger throughout the upcoming war.”

“Yes, SIR,” Reebock replied while giving Washington a rather sloppy, palm-front, British- style salute.

“We’ll have to work on that salute,” Washington noted. “But we have no time now. We must be off.”

“
Where are we heading?” Reebock asked.

“We’re heading to Boston,” Washington replied. “
To a place called Bunker Hill.”

Chapter 41

Washington at Bunker Hill

Most historians would say that George Washington was not present at the Battle of Bunker Hill. But it would be more properly said that most historians are not
aware
that Washington was present at the Battle of Bunker Hill.  Though he did not actively participate or take part in the battle directly, his presence there gave Washington his first observation of British tactics during the Revolutionary War.

Washington had good intelligence reports from
the Boston area and had been informed that the British had set up a small “zombie making” camp on a hill they had named Breed’s Hill, so called because it was used for the breeding and creation of zombies. Washington sent orders ahead that Colonial troops were to seize, fortify and hold Breed’s Hill. He also ordered the taking of the nearby Bunker Hill, named after the first pioneers who settled there, the Reverend Archibald Bunker and his wife Edith.

Washington had only sent one standing order to Boston, advising the officers to:

“
Have our troops aim high, at the head of the enemy, and don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.”

Before Washington arrived, Colonial troops e
asily took these elevated and lightly defended hills, imprisoned the British “advisers” who were there to make more zombies, and burned the scaffolds and barracks used to create and house the zombie soldiers. The Colonial troops then fortified the elevated, hilltop positions while catching the attention of the British troops and officers who occupied the town of Boston down below.

British troops were immediately mobilized to dislodge the Colonial troops who occupied the high ground on Breed’s Hill.  Although the Britis
h had an ample supply of zombie soldiers, it was thought that they were not needed. Surely, a thousand regular, trained Redcoats would be able to dislodge this untrained, Colonial rabble.

At about 3pm on June 17, 1775, Brit
ish General Howe ordered over a thousand of his troops forward in an advance on the fortified Colonial positions on Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill. What would later be known as the Battle of Bunker Hill had begun.

George Washington was just this day secretly brought
by boat into Boston with his slave Reebock and his son John-Poopy, who also served as Washington’s aide-de-camp. But they soon found themselves somewhat helpless, hiding and trapped in the British occupied city. With the hustle and bustle of mobilized British regiments on the march towards Bunker Hill, Washington was powerless to join up with Colonial forces. He could only watch as the battle took place.

Wishing a better vantage point, Washington and his slave
and son went to the Old North Church, climbed to the highest interior level, and then ascended the steeple as high as they were able. From this point, a clear view of the Battle of Bunker Hill could be afforded.

“Look there,” Washington said to Reebock. “They’re marching regular Redcoats straight on against Colonial entrenchments!”

Sure enough, from three sides of Breed’s Hill, Redcoat soldiers began the march up the hillside towards the fortified Colonial breastworks. But when the British approached the entrenched positions, the Colonial defenders let loose with a murderous fire of musketry at close range, cutting down scores of British soldiers and officers, and repulsing the attack.

“Fuck
tards!” Washington said as he watched the slaughter. “The British just keep coming straight ahead.”

For wave after wave of attack
, Washington watched as the British kept coming up Breed’s Hill, and again and again were repulsed by the Colonial defenders. For over an hour they ascended, in perfect line of battle, only to be repulsed. Soon hundreds of British lay dead or wounded upon the bloody hillside.

Just then, a small party of British officers, Cornwallis and some
lieutenants arrived at the Old North Church with the same intent as Washington, to secure a clear position from which to watch the battle. 

Washington’s son
Johnny, often called Poopy, already affrighted by the great height of the steeple on which they stood, was now newly frightened by the approach of the British officers and crapped himself immensely, a habit which he still maintained even into young adulthood.

The Cornwallis party stepped into the church with telescopic spyglasses in hand and began to ascend the stairs with a
burly young officer in the lead.

“Stand clear you lot up there and descend,” the burly officer shouted up to the unrecognized Washington.  “Make way for your betters.”

“I’m sorry,” Washington shouted down, recognizing Cornwallis and his entourage while hiding his own face from view.  “The belfry cleaner has taken ill and shat himself rather severely up here. You may wish to come back later.”

As they continued to climb the stairs, Cornwallis and his aides now sniffed the pungent and overpowering aroma of
Poopy’s vile, stinking shit wafting down from above.

“Lord Jesus fucking Christ,” Cornwallis shouted from below
while breathing the foul stench. “Did that fucking idiot eat a basket full of spoiled burritos before he crapped himself?”

“As I said,” Washington repeated. “You may wish to come back later after he’s cleaned himself up a bit.”

“Well I should think so,” Cornwallis said as he turned around to leave the Old North Church. “The Colonials are such stinking rabble! We’ll find another place from which to watch.”

And so it was that Cornwallis and his officers rode off, saving George Washington from arrest and possible execution,
all because of Poopy Washington’s irritable bowel syndrome.

“You have made me proud, my son,” Washington said while patting John upon the back. For once, your uncontrolled crapping has saved us. Now please, for fuck sake, go downstairs and clean up.”