Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(21)

Some of the men tried to ease their load, doffing their caps or removing their coats and tying them to their packs, but Alex ordered them to don them again. As a self-made man, he knew the importance of appearances. He kept the brass buttons of his coat secured from waist to neck and his hat firmly screwed in place. If you looked the part, most people would assume you were the part, and he wanted any news of advancing Continental troops to be tinged with awe rather than derision. Whether the stories reached the ear of either General Washington or General Cornwallis was immaterial, the accounts had to be glowing. He wasn’t just marching to battle, after all. He was marching into history, into glory.

I am so proud of you, Eliza had written in her latest missive, when she heard the news of his command. His brave Betsey, whose only resentment was that he had kept his ambition from her instead of allowing her to share in his dreams for glory. I will come back to you, my love. I promise, he had written in return.

Alex was mounted on his brilliant new chestnut stallion, christened Mepkin in homage to the friend who had gifted it. While as an officer he didn’t have to carry a pack, ten hours in the saddle, even with breaks for water or food, can leave the legs feeling like jelly, and he was developing tender spots in parts of his body that he didn’t like to think about. But when the army made camp each evening, he eschewed whatever cabin or house had been requisitioned for the night, giving his place to one of the many soldiers who had developed fever or some other ailment during the day’s march. Instead, he slept under the open sky like the enlisted men.

In the morning, he washed himself with a bucket of frigid well water, shaved with a dry razor, and donned his uniform, smoothing the wrinkles as much as possible. He made the rounds of his men as they ate their breakfast, inquiring after their blisters and sunburns and passing along whatever news he might have received overnight about the soldier’s hometown. He himself ate only a few pieces of jerked beef or venison with hardtack, and only on horseback, after the march was underway.

No one had told him to do this, and certainly it was not the kind of thing he had ever seen General Washington do. Washington inspired by his regality, his air of unapproachable greatness. He was well over six feet tall and nearly fifty years of age, and a wealthy country squire to boot: He could get away with such a performance. Alex was just in his twenties, and a nameless orphan from the West Indies. If he was going to win his men’s respect and loyalty, he was going to have to do it by caring about them as individuals as well as soldiers. That he would not give any order that might put them in harm’s way without first considering the very real lives that would be affected by his decision.

Seventeen days into the march, one of his men, a Private Baxter, caught his foot in a wagon rut and turned his ankle quite severely. It was impossible to tell if it was broken or simply badly sprained, but in either case Baxter was unable to walk. After more than two weeks on the road, it would have been onerous for Alex to demand his exhausted men carry Baxter in a stretcher. It was not yet noon, and there were still six hours of hard marching ahead. Without hesitating, Alex ordered that Baxter be put on Mepkin, and he marched the rest of the day on foot with his enlisted men.

Alex remained at the head of the column, and though he replied jocularly to the occasional familiar comment from one of his soldiers, he also maintained military jargon, reminding them that he was still their commander. It was exactly the right balance. If his men had been guardedly respectful in their regard to him before, open affection was in their eyes when he made his usual rounds. When they addressed him as “Sir” or “Colonel,” it wasn’t begrudgingly, but with genuine respect.

Two days later, exhausted but feeling more prepared for the coming battle than he had at the start, Alex and his men reached Williamsburg, where Washington and Rochambeau would make the final preparations for the siege at Yorktown. Alex saw his soldiers to their temporary barracks, then cleaned himself up and reported to headquarters.

It was early in the afternoon, and he’d only marched two hours that day, so he felt comparatively fresh. Still, he was extremely grateful to accept his first cup of coffee in three weeks, as well as several thick slices of bread that didn’t taste of ash or mold. He had just finished a second slice when he was summoned into Washington’s office.

General Washington sat at his desk with two other men. Alex recognized the first as the Count de Rochambeau, a distinguished man in his middle fifties in the dark wool jacket of the French army. The third man was similarly attired, but it wasn’t until he turned his head toward the door that Alex realized it was his old friend, the Marquis de Lafayette.

“My dear Colonel Hamilton,” Lafayette said genially but respectfully. Though the two had spent many an evening making their way through a bottle or three of fine French wine, Lafayette was greeting him in the presence of Washington and Rochambeau with the deference due his rank. Still, his handshake was warm, and the look in his eye promised a more rousing welcome at some more convenient moment. Alex greeted General Rochambeau next, and then General Washington, who once again bid him to take a seat. Only then did he notice a large map spread out on a low table placed between the chairs.

I could get used to this, Alex thought. But I probably shouldn’t.

There was some brief talk about Alex’s march and Washington’s opinions on Admiral Grasses’s Ville de Paris, a 120-gun French warship. Then without preamble, Washington said, “We have been discussing final plans for the assault of Yorktown.”