Washington and Caesar (76 page)

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 officer 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.

Washington walked down the rear rank, taking short steps to avoid over-running the much shorter captain. He looked at their faces and gazed into their eyes, this company of blacks who had all, most likely, started the war as slaves.

He was all but finished when he saw that, in the British way, the sergeants stood in a line a few paces behind the men on parade. He looked back at the sergeant on the right and came to a stop, one foot poised for another step.

He knew the face so well, and he had thought of it several times since that dinner in New Jersey. He smiled to see the scars over the young man’s eyes. It was a hard smile, in that he didn’t show his teeth, but he stepped closer to the man. He felt a lump in his throat.

The soldiers
were
the message, of course. He nodded, sharply, not to anyone in particular, but to Guy Carleton, who was somewhere else. General Carleton was telling him that the blacks would not be sent back to the Congress, and Washington admired the manner of his reply. He found himself standing in front of the man.
Caesar.
He looked him in the eye. They were of a height, although Washington remembered him as smaller. Caesar carried himself well, and wore a fine uniform and a good sword, and suddenly Washington beamed, one of his rare happy smiles. Hamilton was stunned, and stopped behind him.

“You are the senior sergeant, Caesar?” Washington asked.

“Yes, sir,” Caesar answered. He found it difficult to talk, and his voice was subsumed in a whirl of conflicting emotions. He found it difficult not to answer that unexpected smile.

“Very creditable, Sergeant. Very creditable indeed.” Washington turned to Captain Martin. “As fine a company as I have seen, Captain.” Martin flushed. Sergeant Caesar was smiling fit to split his face.

Washington walked back to his horse and mounted. He bowed from the saddle to Martin.

“A very great pleasure,” he said, and Martin bowed. When Martin completed his bow, he called “Shoulder your
firelocks
!”

It was well done.

“No need,” said Washington, and he turned his horse back to the docks. Martin gazed after him in surprise, and Lake and Caesar locked eyes again, and then Lake smiled, and turned away. One of the British officers hastened after Washington, and Martin took George’s sleeve.

“You must be Major Lake,” he said.

Lake bowed. “You have the better of me, sir.”

Martin bowed in return. “My wife has the pleasure of the acquaintance of Miss Lovell.”

George flushed and smiled broadly as he wrung Martin’s hand.

“We’re to be wed as soon as I have a pass for the city,” he said. “I hope you’ll attend?”

“Alas, I will be going to Canada, Major.” Martin gave an ironic smile. “But you have my best wishes, all the same.”

The British officer had caught up with General Washington.

“General Washington,” he called. “General, I hope you did not fancy some slight, sir. None was intended, I assure
you.” The officer, a major from the staff, was all but pleading for understanding.

“And I took none,” said Washington. “But I have received General Carleton’s response, and I fully understand it. Please tell him from me that I enjoyed inspecting his troops, and that I accept his response in the name of the Congress.”

Washington returned to the boat, and he and his staff rowed north. The British staff officers were gone in a moment, and Captain Martin was left looking at the little cloud of dust.

“Who will believe that, do you think?” he said to Caesar as the company reformed at closed ranks.

“What does it mean?” asked Virgil. He was searching in his haversack for his pipe.

“It means we’re free,” said Caesar. He threw his arms around Virgil and hugged him. “It means we’re free.”