“I do not want you to pledge me your life or fight at my side,” he ground out. “I want you to stay alive. I want you to do as I say so that I am not constantly worried about your well-being. And if that means sending Agrippa to King’s Ferry or wherever else I see fit, instead of you”—he pointed a finger at my face—“you will not mind.” He sat back in his chair and closed his ledger with a shove. His jaw was tight and his eyes were hot, and I bowed my head, contrite.
“All right, General.”
“You will do as I say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you will not question or interfere with my orders?”
“I will not question or interfere with your orders,” I promised.
He exhaled with a gust. “God help us both.”
I had every intention of keeping my word, but some promises are impossible to keep.
20
LIGHT AND TRANSIENT CAUSES
The month I arrived at West Point after my enlistment, sixteen soldiers charged with desertion and crimes against the local citizenry were brought out onto the open field where gallows and whipping posts were erected not far from the garrison jail.
One by one, twelve of the men were stripped to their waists, tied to a post, and, with drums playing, subjected to their punishment. Most bore it well, hardly flinching as the whip opened bloody stripes on their naked backs, their mates cheering them on.
Two men, convicted of plotting a mutiny, were marched up on the gallows to be hung, but at the last moment, Agrippa Hull had stepped forward and presented a pardon from General Paterson. The onlookers cheered, and the two men were brought back down, hardly able to stand, tears streaming down their cheeks at the mercy they’d been granted.
Two more men took their place, ropes hung around their necks, their sins read for all to hear. One man had killed a local farmer with a pitchfork, raped his wife, and set his house on fire. The other man had stood by while he did, eating the farmer’s food and walking away in the farmer’s boots. They were not pardoned. The thump of the platform being dropped beneath their feet brought a gasp of delight and a moan of thrilled terror from the onlookers. To remain safe and alive while others died was its own, albeit brief, transcendence.
I had watched it all in horror, not because I thought it unjust—I had no reason to believe the men were not guilty as charged—but because it had happened at all. Because such things were even necessary. My eyes were opened, yet again, to my own vulnerabilities. To be lashed would result in the discovery of my sex. But that was only a small part of my awakening. I had been steeped in revolution, indoctrinated with the language of liberty, and baptized in clear purpose. I knew, down to the soles of my feet and the depth of my spirit, that the fight was just and the cause was great. I was not without my own motivations, my own personal reasons, for engaging in the conflict, but I was a believer.
Not all the soldiers were.
Some of them were animals.
Maybe war made them that way, but I suspected that war just revealed their hooves and snouts.
A barely contained chaos bubbled beneath the order of the garrison. The barracks and the officer class housed all types, though some were better at masking it than others. Murderers, thieves, liars, and cheats were mixed in with the brave, the upright, the faithful and true. All had been tossed into the boiling pot that made up the Continental army, and the result was a simmering, seething stew.
At Yorktown, I’d watched British soldiers surrender and be led into prison ships, and I had resolved then that I would take my own life before I was taken by the enemy. Better for me to die than be captured.
The crimes of DeLancey’s Brigade had only reinforced my conviction. But the British and DeLancey were one thing. To fear your fellow soldiers, the men with whom you served, was another. The experience with the talk of desertion in my scouting party had shaken me for several reasons. First, I had no wish to leave. Second, I had no desire to create conflict among my mates, and third, and most importantly, any punishment would likely result in my exposure, and I would rather die.
General Paterson had avoided a mutiny on the Point with a heavy hand but a merciful heart. His efforts to provide and advocate for the troops had not gone unnoticed, but the successful uprisings were still cited by the discontented.
In the winter of ’80–81, some of the troops had marched out of their camps in an orderly and organized fashion and descended on Philadelphia with a clear list of terms. They were not spies or turncoats, and they did not consider themselves deserters. They simply wanted to be heard. Most of them were enlistees who signed up after the Battle of Saratoga, and they had committed to “three years or the war,” but the war seemed no closer to an end, and they wanted to be released, stating three years was more than enough. Their terms were quietly met and most of the men were discharged and dispersed. It was only after the negotiations that the enlistment rolls were checked and the vast majority of the men granted release had not even served their three years.