Ides of March (Time Patrol) (16 page)

Eagle stiffened as the facts from the download belied what he was seeing: James Caldwell was killed on 24 November, 1781. Shot by an American sentry after he refused to have a package he was carrying inspected. The sentry was hanged for murder just two months later. The suspicion was heavy that he had been bribed to kill Caldwell. By whom or for what reason, the download had a gap.

Prior to his death, the British had dubbed Caldwell the High Priest of the Rebellion. His church was burned down and he’d taken up arms, flanking his Bible with pistols on the podium whenever he preached. Up until he was killed.

But here he was.

Washington glanced over at Caldwell. “Put the fear of God in them, James?”

“It works when all else fails.”

“Money works,” Washington said. “If Congress would follow through on the promises it made my officers, we wouldn’t have this issue.”

“If Congress had followed through on half its promises,” Caldwell said, “our country would be in much better shape, General. I fear the states will spin off once a treaty is signed with Britain. We’ll have thirteen weak, bickering siblings instead of a nation. And what of the west? There are agitators already whispering about starting their own little kingdoms. That Sevier fellow in North Carolina over the mountains is acting like he wants his own country.” He shook his head. “You said you would not go to the meeting, because you didn’t want to sanction it with your presence. Who is to speak then?”

“I was thinking General Gates. His adjutant wrote the damn letter of discontent. And Gates is already at the New Building.”

“You mean the Temple?”

Washington chuckled. “You spend more time in there than anyone, I will admit that.”

Caldwell wasn’t put off so easily. “Gates? Sir, he actively went against you in ’78. Tried to get you replaced. You place too much trust in those who have proven themselves unfit. Camden was a disaster. He should have been court-martialed.”

Washington was back to watching the troops. He waved a hand without much vigor. “We’ve had enough of the past, James.”

Caldwell leaned forward. “Sir. Hamilton is playing this. Surely you know that? Leveraging the Army against Congress to advance his agenda. I fear he will destroy all in order to achieve his own goals.”

“Hamilton is a man of contradictions,” Washington said. “He is very smart. Smarter than both of us. I don’t waste time trying to unravel his machinations. I just watch for them.” He reached out, fingers grasping, found the water glass and took a deep drink, putting it back down, still focused out of the building. “Hamilton and his cronies are indeed leveraging some of the officers. They play a bigger game than funding the army. They want a stronger Federal government. Not, as you said, thirteen bickering siblings. Hamilton also wants a Federal bank. I’m sure he sees himself at the head of it.

“But you know,” Washington mused, “he might just be right about that issue. Time will tell. We need peace first. True peace before we can tackle so many of the issues confronting us. And I fear—” he glanced in Eagle’s direction for the first time, and then back at the soldiers—“that there are some that will have to be put off for a future generation. Country first.”

Eagle didn’t need the download to confirm that line of thought amongst most of the Founding Fathers. They were, mostly, very smart men, some brilliant. Most knew intellectually that slavery was a doomed institution. Many even objected to it on moral grounds. But it was a reality and to fight that battle before the country was on solid footing threatened to divide the northern colonies from the southern before they were even joined.

The issue had been put off and the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of those men would pay the price in blood during the Civil War. Eagle wanted to speak up, to warn of that storm over the horizon, of the hundreds of thousands who would die, white men. Of the millions of blacks who would live their lives as slaves before that great war would decide the issue.

Caldwell interrupted Eagle’s dark musings. “Hamilton is a dangerous man, sir. He’s a bastard and—”

“Let us not hold his birth against him,” Washington said, a slight edge to his voice. “A person’s birth is not their choice.”

Exactly!
Eagle wanted to scream.

“Hamilton served me well at critical times in the war,” Washington said. “I could send him to relay a verbal order and be assured he would deliver it correctly. That is a rare talent and essential in an aide-de-camp.”

“Jefferson and Adams despise him, sir,” Caldwell said.

Eagle had to wonder, through his anger and frustration, what agenda Caldwell was pushing. Hamilton had been, would be, instrumental in the formation of the United States. Not in the framing of the Constitution, but in the area of financing. And no country could survive without financing.

“I know they do,” Washington said. “But you and I understand something that Jefferson and Adams do not. We have faced the enemy. So has Hamilton. Such men hold a special place in my heart. As you do, my friend.

“Nevertheless, we must beware.” Washington waved a hand toward a pile of correspondence, without looking at it. “There’s a letter in there from him. He tried to enlist me in the effort against Congress. To take charge of the officers’ efforts. That is why I cannot be at that meeting. It will reflect poorly on me and send the wrong message to Hamilton and to Congress.”

“He asked that directly, sir?” Caldwell was surprised. “In writing?”

“Yes. I replied to him immediately. Informed him I would not introduce the army into this matter of a central government. Down that path lies a dangerous forest. The army must be separate from politics.”

“The war is not over, sir,” Caldwell argued. “All assume peace is a given, but what if the British change their minds? We are counting on the same fools who cannot pay us to negotiate the peace in Paris. We should not be waiting. We should force British government to negotiate in faith. Take New York City and—”

Washington’s low murmur cut through Caldwell’s exhortations. “They have no spirit.”

“Sir?”

“The soldiers,” Washington said, nodding toward the parade field. “In some ways, this winter was worse than Valley Forge. There was little spirit. No common foe, other than Congress.”

Eagle came forward with a jug and began filling the glass. Washington turned his chair, wood scraping on wood. Eagle retreated back to the corner.

If he were a demon,
Eagle thought, then Caldwell was a ghost. A sign of history already changed before this bubble in time.

Washington looked at Caldwell. “I know you hate the British, James. You have every reason to. Far more than most.”

The information was there: Caldwell’s wife had been killed by the British during the Battle of Connecticut Farms the previous year, the last major attempt by the British to gain victory. A Hessian General had led an attack out of New York City toward Washington’s old encampment in Morristown, but had failed. The event of her death was also hazy in the download, as the records indicated she’d either been shot accidently; or had been targeted by the British who’d already put a price on her husband’s head.

“More the reason to allow me to speak to the officers,” Caldwell said. “I can redirect their anger from Congress to the British.”

“What good would that do?” Washington asked. “Our fighting is over. Men would die needlessly attacking New York City. It would violate the truce. If the British come back in force, they might well win back what they believe they have lost. The French have gone home. They have their own problems because of the war. They lent us quite a bit of money. Something else the Congress is unable to pay. Also,” Washington gave a low laugh, “I imagine the British government listens to their soldiers about as well as ours does. Which is to say, not much at all.”

“Then let me appeal to the officers’ faith, sir.”

Washington seemed to be considering it. “Remember, though, that you have enemies inside the ranks. We know that.” He indicated the empty sleeve.

Eagle was invisible, a nothingness. A void whose only use was to fill glasses. His status made him inconsequential, not even human.

“General,” Caldwell repeated. “We need to draw out the ringleaders.”

“We do need to stop the discontent,” Washington said.

“You cannot trust Gates, sir,” Caldwell insisted. “We have to find out who else is in his inner circle of malcontents.”

Washington nodded. “You have a point. My loyalty blinds me at times.” He drummed his fingers on the desk in contemplation.

Caldwell shifted in his chair, looked at Eagle with a frown on his forehead, as if he could sense the raging turmoil inside Eagle.

“Perhaps,” Washington began, “it
might
be for the best if you addressed the officers. Appeal to their faith yes, but we must give them more than that. We must appeal to their hope for the future. Like you, many of these men lost everything in the war. Their homes gone. Their livelihood gone. They must believe they have not lost what they were promised in order to rebuild their lives.”

“How will I do that, sir?” Caldwell asked. “We can make no promises beyond those that were already made.”

“Tell them I sympathize with their grievances. Most know that, but they should be reminded. And words are not enough on my part. They must know that I am taking action. I will go to Philadelphia. I will make a personal appeal to Congress.”

Washington never did that
, Eagle thought. Of more pressing concern:
Why was Caldwell still alive? Why was he so opposed to Hamilton? Why did he want to address the officers?

Washington pulled a pocket watch out of his uniform vest. “The meeting will convene in under an hour. I will prepare to leave. Even though it is nearly dark, I will ride out, past the New Building, and they will all be able to see me depart, knowing that what you tell them is not only true, but being acted upon immediately. I will stop at the first inn on the way to Philadelphia and continue on in the morning.” Washington looked to the door. “Hercules!” he shouted.

The door swung open. “Sir?” Hercules glanced over at Eagle, then back at Washington.

“Prepare my valise. We depart for Philadelphia within the half hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eagle knew this was not how it needed to play out. Caldwell was a wild card, perhaps an agent of the Shadow? Perhaps merely saved by the Shadow, the musket ball that should have killed him, instead just taking an arm? What would happen if Washington were out of the Cantonment and Caldwell had free rein to say whatever he wished to a cauldron of unhappy officers? The wheels of history were sliding off the tracks.

Washington stood. “Keep things in check until I return, James.”

Caldwell got up. “Yes, sir.”

Washington strode around the desk and out of the room. Caldwell stood up and gave a slight bow as the General passed him. Eagle was trying to determine his best course of action; but Caldwell didn’t leave. He stopped at the door, then swung it shut and turned back to the room.

Eagle was gathering the various glasses, while trying to figure out how to get to Washington and change the course of action. He was surprised when Caldwell pushed by him to Washington’s desk and began rifling through the stack of correspondence.

“Sir!”

Caldwell was surprised. He glared at Eagle. “What is it?”

“That’s the Generals’ private—”

“Shut up,” Caldwell said. With only one hand, he had to shove the papers along the top of the desk, scanning the parchments.

Given that Caldwell shouldn’t even be here, Eagle wasn’t about to walk away. He could hear Nada’s advice when in an uncertain situation: look for the wild card. The one that doesn’t belong.

Eagle looked down as Caldwell paused at a certain document. A letter. Signed by Alexander Hamilton.

Eagle reached out. “Sir-“

Caldwell drew a flintlock pistol from inside his frock coat, pulling back the hammer and aiming it at Eagle. “How dare you talk to me like that.”

Caldwell stepped back from the desk, keeping the pistol trained on Eagle who was also backing up, around the desk, getting some space between them.

“Open the door,” Caldwell ordered. “You say nothing, nigra, you get to live.”

The muzzle of the flintlock was huge, fitting a round bigger than .50 caliber: a huge round ball of lead. Mass times velocity. At this range, Caldwell couldn’t miss. Eagle moved sideways, reaching out, grasping the latch and swinging the door open.

“Hercules. Get in here!” Caldwell yelled.

The chef appeared in less than 10 seconds, taking in tableau. “Sir. No need for that. Samuel, here, he got hurt in the head. He’s never been right since.”

“He questioned me,” Caldwell said.

“He was going through—” Eagle began, but then he saw Caldwell’s finger twitch.

It happened in slow motion, as events like that happened when a surge of adrenaline exploded into a person’s system. The finger twitching, pulling back. The click of the release. The hammer rotating forward toward the priming pan.

Eagle was moving, throwing himself to the side, toward Hercules.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash as the flint on the hammer hit the steel of the frizzen, then the spark struck the powder in the pan.

The roar of the pistol reverberated in the office.

The heavy lead ball hit Eagle, slamming him against the log wall.

Ravenna, Capitol of the Remains of the Western Roman Empire, 493 A.D.

ROLAND HAD THE LARGE MUG TILTED
, the foul concoction inside passing for ale or beer or whatever, but he was peering around the edge at Eric. Who had his own mug to his lips, watching Roland.

Eric gulped, and continued gulping. So Roland did the same. About halfway through, Roland realized this was a classic laying the schlong on the table, mine is bigger than yours, manly man sort of thing. At least that was how Neeley would describe it and dismiss it.

But manly man things were important between men. So Roland matched Eric swallow for swallow.

They went on until both mugs were empty. Eric slammed his down on the table, and Roland followed a second later.