A Girl Called Samson (79)

I had twice accompanied General Paterson to meetings at Robinson’s house, but never in such illustrious company. Forty officers, including General Washington and the Prussian Baron von Steuben, Washington’s chief of staff, who had ridden the fifteen miles from New Windsor that morning, had convened in the huge central dining area that made up the entrance to the home.

Washington and Paterson were both tall and rangy, with wide shoulders, long limbs, and unyielding military posture. They also had the same comportment and presence, though my general—I caught myself—though Paterson was younger and more handsome. General Washington always wore a powdered wig. I asked Agrippa if he had any hair beneath—Grippy always seemed to know such things—and he said he had long white hair that his valet brushed and braided every day, but it was thinning on top and the wig helped cover that fact. Bewigged or not, he was resplendent in his gold-and-blue uniform. I did my utmost not to gape or giggle like the woman I was, and was gratified to simply stand against the wall and observe, along with the other aides, as the meeting commenced.

“We owe the French military everything,” General Washington said, each word deliberate and firm. Grippy also claimed that Washington’s teeth bothered him, and he spoke thus to keep the false ones in place. Bad teeth might also explain why he was reluctant to grin, but I thought it more likely gravitas than vanity.

“We were not able to properly thank or honor them after Yorktown,” he continued, “but without them, we would not be here.”

No one could argue with that, and every head nodded with a chorus of ayes.

“This army needs to be honored as well. The anniversary of our Declaration of Independence is fast approaching, and for the first time since we embarked on this effort, I have no doubt that this new nation will survive and, indeed, thrive. That is worth celebrating. This is our opportunity to honor our friends and commemorate new life. Our country’s and that of the French monarch.”

General Paterson had looked aghast and immediately voiced his reservations—namely the state of food stores and the unpaid troops—but Washington was not swayed nor were his spirits dampened. “I am putting you in command, Paterson, for exactly the reasons you cite. You are in charge, and we will all support you. But we will have this celebration, and it will be in two weeks’ time.”

“A party?” General Paterson had murmured as I’d shaved his face the morning after. “The men have not been paid, the stores are dangerously low—morale is even lower—and I am to throw a party for King Louis’s infant son?”

It was so unlike the general to complain—especially about the commander in chief—that I simply listened, sympathetic, as I scraped away at his beard.

“Kosciuszko has been plotting an open pavilion on the plain for a while. Major Villefranche, the French engineer, will be arriving sometime tomorrow morning to assist. I hope they don’t kill each other. They must finish it in ten days. We are taking all the timber and bows from the surrounding area, which will cut down on costs, but it will take a thousand men working nonstop to accomplish it.” He sighed wearily. “But at least the men will be occupied. They are less likely to revolt if they are busy.”

“I will help you,” I reassured him.

He smirked at that. “I know you will. You are my secret weapon. Who better than a woman who has worn a disguise for more than a year to turn a garrison into a great hall?”

Spring had flowered the highlands and chased off the gray of a dreary winter, but the garrison had never hosted such a party, and the work to get everything ready would be enormous. We made lists and divvied up assignments among the regiments, and the general and I, often just the two of us because no one else could be spared, traveled up and down the highlands, from New Windsor to Peekskill Hollow, trading, twisting arms, and gathering resources.

The feast would be limited to the officers, both French and American, and their wives, but that didn’t mean the support staff wouldn’t need to eat. Casks of wine and rum that we’d recovered from our raid on the depot had already been depleted, and food fit for a banquet was nigh on impossible to acquire, but the general set about making it happen.

Long tables were constructed, lanterns strung, and crates of French and American flags acquired from a sailmaker in Philadelphia. He’d begun producing the tricolor banners in great quantities after the dazzling French parade down their streets before Yorktown, and was glad to sell them in bulk.

A popular portrait artist who had painted likenesses of everyone from Washington to Thomas Paine had added Lafayette and Admiral de Grasse to his collection as well. He’d agreed to set up an exhibit near the pavilion, provided the weather held, in exchange for future commissions. A military band was scrabbled together from the officers and the ranks, and daily practices began, with surprising results.

Preparations continued from sunup to sundown, the erection of the pavilion progressing at full speed. The entire thing was being constructed of timber from the wooded hills and vales surrounding the Point. The walls on the longer sides were formed up with tree trunks spaced like columns with the shorter sides left open. The ceiling was made entirely of bows, woven together in a tight canopy. When it was completed, it would be six hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, and Major Villefranche and Colonel Kosciuszko had not yet resorted to blows, which boded well for the completion of the project.

It was only a few days before the day of the celebration when Captain Webb appeared at the Red House, asking for an audience with the general, saying it could not wait.