Tail Gait

August 1, 1781

“It’s so bloody hot even the mosquitoes aren’t biting,” Edward Thimble cursed.

The men had their shirts off. Sweat rolled down their chests and backs as they carefully fit thick planks onto the last bridge over the ravine.

The bridges toward the barracks, traversing the gullies and the ravine, had been constructed with a mild arch to bear more weight. The task took longer than Corporal Ix anticipated. Delays, while not uncommon in any form of building, rarely bring out the best in people. The men cursed the heat, cursed the long grinding war, and finally cursed one another.

While laying the planks took care—no large gaps should occur—it was still easier than sinking the support beams and positioning the cross beams between them. Three men had broken bones. No one had died, but the incidence of heatstroke, abrasions, and exhausted muscles took its toll.

Charles worked alongside the men. Piglet slept under a large walnut tree, where he had been told to stay. Charles wistfully looked at his dog, wishing he were sleeping there, too.

The men, American and British, knew the French had arrived at Newport, Rhode Island, good news for the rebels. Charleston, South Carolina, had been captured by the British and the Continentals were crushed at Waxhaw Creek, South Carolina.

Despite Mad Anthony Wayne’s being beaten back at Green Springs Farm, east of Charlottesville, the rebels grew more confident. The sheer landmass of the colonies, as well as the territories inland, meant the British would need to commit thousands and thousands of men for victory. And after they won, they would need thousands and thousands of men to keep the peace.

Charles, receiving scant letters from home, more from his elder brother than his father, knew that Lord North’s sufferings continued, intensifying unpopularity. His brother, much shrewder about politics than their father, wrote that sooner or later North’s government would fall. The British people were weary of a war that was to have been swift. They didn’t much like the increased tax burdens. If the colonists wanted to go, let them. The British still held New York, Savannah, and Charleston, but they no longer controlled Philadelphia, the largest city in the New World. The victories they won had little effect upon the rebels, who kept on fighting, wearing down the invaders. Reputations were ruined; a few were made, but very few. Those men who hoped to rise from this war, receiving larger commands and financial reward from a grateful king, had long since realized little gratitude was forthcoming.

Captain Graves called to him. “Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Tell your men to take a rest. Wash in the creek. The waters are somewhat cool.”

“Yes, Sir.” Charles obeyed the senior officer from the Royal Irish Artillery.

He called to his men, and the call went down the line of workers.

Men happily left their tasks, stripped naked, and waded into the swift creek.

“Shall we join them, Sir?” Charles smiled at the older officer, a scar alongside his neck from an old saber wound.

“An excellent idea.”

The two peeled off their clothes, which stuck to them thanks to the sweat, and waded in. Piglet ran from the tree, launching himself into the water, where he paddled furiously.

“Come here, fellow.” Charles put his arms under the low-built dog, holding him in the water while he sank up to his chin.

How good it felt.

They cooled off for fifteen minutes, then emerged, shaking water off like Piglet himself. Another ten minutes and the men were dry enough to wiggle back into their breeches and torn pants, some shredded tatters at the bottom.

Weymouth, the butler’s son, walked along with a bucket and ladle.

Captain Graves ordered them back to work, but held back Charles by his forearm. “A moment, please,” he said.

Charles and Piglet followed the short, lean man to the tree where Piglet had been sleeping.

Reaching into his pants pocket, torn at the side, the sandy-haired man pulled out a folded piece of paper. Carefully, Captain Graves unfolded it, handing it to Charles.

“Have you ever seen discharge papers?”

“I have not.”

“I took them off one of my men who fell at Saratoga. Cruel. He’d been discharged but could find no way back to Ireland, so he thought one more battle and he’d make his way home. He was killed in the first volley. I thought to save his papers, things.”

Charles nodded. “Yes, I did the same if I had time. Thought I’d send them back.”

Graves nodded, too. “Bits of paper, a few coins, all to show for a life.”

“This war has to end sometime,” Charles sensibly replied.

Graves folded his arms across his chest, sighing. “You are well born, Lieutenant. I am less so. To what do we return, regardless of station?” He leaned toward the younger man. “If we go home as part of a losing army, there will be no fetes for us, no rewards. We’ll be lucky to collect what pay is due to us. The Valley Road on the other side of these mountains reaches north into Pennsylvania, south down into North Carolina. It’s safer across the mountain.”

“Perhaps best not to head south, given events.”

Captain Graves smiled, revealing a crooked incisor, but he had all his teeth, a blessing. “Wise. I intend to escape, which should be obvious. I need discharge papers and I have heard from the men you have beautiful penmanship as well as your drawing capabilities.”

“I am flattered.”

“You can copy this and insert my name. I have equivalent paper.”

Hesitating, Charles replied, “What of the seal?”

“I have wax in my quarters and I paid the blacksmith to make me a seal. Just copy this word for word with my name, Captain Bartholomew Graves, Royal Irish Artillery.”

“Captain, what if you are apprehended and taken for a spy?”

He leveled his gray eyes at Charles. “I’ll face that if I must.”

“You’ve no provisions, no weapons.”

“I can fend for myself. You’re a young man and an intelligent one. These rebels will win. Listen to me, Lieutenant, this isn’t India, where the people are accustomed to submission, to a potentate. Oh, the people here are alive to wealth and power. They aren’t fools, but have you not noticed each man believes he can stand up to any other man? I tell you, Sir, they won’t give in.”

Thinking hard about this, Charles heard himself utter, “I don’t think they will either.”

“Then look out for yourself, Sir. I am a man of middle years, but I think I can thrive here. You are young. This is a place for young men.” A flash of passion crossed the older man’s face, and that caught Charles off guard.

“I will give your thoughts consideration.”

“King and country, is it?” Captain Graves half smiled.

“Yes,” Charles simply said.

“If you leave, if you slide into the forests, become a new man, or if you remain Lieutenant West but you do not take up arms against the king, I don’t feel you or I have violated our oath.” He unfolded his arms. “And why should I stay strapped by my birth, my position, pleasant though it can be? I will never rise above a captain, and should I return I would be a man of some property in Ireland, but there you have it. I was raised in Ireland. It is different for me.”

“Yes.” Charles struggled. It sounded almost like treason but not quite. What was it?

“Again, Lieutenant, will you draw me these papers? I will pay you fifteen pounds.”

“I—”

“Twenty!”

“I will. May I have a few days? I’d like to practice my hand on rough paper.”

Captain Graves clapped him on the back. “Yes. And I hope you see reason over time. For yourself.”

As they walked back to oversee the men, Catherine and Rachel, with food baskets and cold tea, rode down to them in a wagon, accompanied by Captain John Schuyler. As though overnight, Rachel had matured.

Captain Graves stopped for a moment, then smiled at the sight of pretty girls. “Oh, to be young again.”