Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(28)
Part of Alex heard the wisdom in his friend’s words, but part of him was still angry at being called out—and for doing the right thing, no less, regardless of the optics. “I can’t help but note that that boy has done rather well for himself,” Alex said now, but in a softer tone.
“Indeed, he has: by channeling his anger and energy into mature pursuits, and putting childish fancies behind him.” Laurens lowered his voice, but it only increased in intensity. “It is not just these men who need you, Colonel, nor even your country. You have a wife now. You have a future.”
Alex allowed an image of Eliza to fill his mind. Eliza in all her beauty and strength and intelligence, shaking her head at his over-exuberance, and he knew Laurens was right. He stood silently for a long moment, letting his friend’s sage words sink in. At length, Laurens stepped back and snapped a smart salute.
“Colonel Laurens, sir!” he barked in a grade-A military voice. “Reporting for duty, sir!”
Alex saluted back, yet still couldn’t help himself. He grabbed a nearby shovel and tossed it to his friend. “I believe the latrines have yet to be completed, Colonel. See to that, will you?”
A wry grin split Laurens’s face. “And to think I gave you a horse,” he said, then slung the shovel over his shoulder and marched away.
* * *
NOW, SOME THREE hours after Laurens had reined him in, Alex’s manic energy was gone, and in its place was a calmer resolve. He was still eager to engage with the enemy, but he knew he would not rush in foolishly or make any rash decisions. War required blood, yes, but cold blood, not hot. He shook his hands and joked with his men, and knew that when the signal came he would organize them into serried ranks and lead them decisively into hellfire. They would fight as soldiers, not barbarians, and if they secured victory they would do so as men, not animals.
As American citizens, he said to himself, not subjects of a distant crown.
He came at last to the end of the ranks and ducked into the small command tent that had been established there. Inside waited Laurens and Major Nicholas Fish, with whom Alex had served many times under Washington’s command, and a third man whom he never formally met, though he had seen him in the company of Lafayette.
“Major Gimat,” he said, extending his hand before the Frenchman could greet him.
“Colonel Hamilton!” Gimat barked, jumping to his feet. “Major Gimat, reporting for duty!” His English was as impeccable as his uniform, though both were tinted French.
He saluted Alex and then, seeing that Alex’s hand remained extended, shook it firmly.
“I trust there are no hard feelings about yesterday’s shake-up,” Alex said in a quieter tone, so that only the Frenchman could hear him.
Gimat allowed himself a smile. “What shake-up, sir? I didn’t hear of any shake-up.”
“Good man,” Alex said. “Now then,” he said, turning to include Laurens and Fish. “I want to make sure we’re versed on tonight’s plan of action. General Rochambeau’s sentries are observing the British position. When they see the guard being relieved, they will dispatch runners to alert us. We will have approximately five minutes to prepare the men for the charge, at which point our cannon will unleash a fusillade into the sky. The bombs are for illumination rather than attack. The sappers and miners will dig the last yards forward and then clear two breaches into the enemy pikes. The remaining soldiers will give them exactly four minutes to accomplish their task, then follow after. Once we clear the pikes, we will proceed directly to the palisade. Four ladder teams will scale the wall and lay down protective fire for two advance teams, who will cut through the palisade with axes. And then, well”—he brandished his bayonet-tipped rifle—“we fight.”
He turned to Major Fish. He was three years younger than Alex, a rangy, powerful man with a thin, sharp nose and lively eyes. He had fought for the revolutionary cause since his teenage years in the Sons of Liberty, an organization that dated back to before the Declaration of Independence, and whose daring raids helped spur a cowed populace to throw off their overseas oppressor. As pure a patriot couldn’t be found in the all the soldiers on this side of the British line.
“Major Fish,” Alex said, “it falls to your sappers to lead us onto the field. Are they ready?”
Fish nodded curtly. “Their saws are as sharp as razors and their chains coiled tighter than an angry viper. You have provided us four minutes to take down the enemy’s pikes, but I predict we will have them shredded in two. Their axes will knock the enemy’s timber walls to the ground like a nor’easter snapping the masts off a hapless whaler.”
“I have no doubt that they will. Colonel Laurens, Major Gimat, your men know this is to be a battle fought primarily with blades, not bullets. There will be no time for reloading in such close quarters.”
“Nearly all my men have been equipped with bayonets, sir,” Laurens replied in a military tone that betrayed no hint of the friends’ intimacy. “Those who haven’t are well armed with sabers.”
“My men are similarly equipped, sir,” Gimat followed. “They are aware that we outnumber the enemy and that we can swarm them into submission. I have told them to fight as fiercely as if this were French soil they were defending. If the British have any sense, they will surrender once we take the palisade down, and most of their boys will live to book journeys back to British soil, where they can return to their potato farming.”