Suddenly, mutinies were happening everywhere, but with more disastrous consequences. The same spirit that encouraged heroism and emboldened the men could make a mob when allowed to ferment. An officer, trying to subdue his men, was killed by a soldier who had been pardoned for leading a similar uprising only months before.
That mutiny was not treated the same way as the first. The mutineers were surrounded and disarmed, and the ringleaders shot. After that, the rebellions slowed.
But there were always murmurings. Word had spread up and down the highlands that new recruits had been promised land and bounties double those that previous enlistees had received, and discontent among the men was high.
Perhaps it was spring fever, perhaps it was the sense that it would all shortly come to an end anyway, but General Paterson was convinced the announcement of a grand celebration on the Point, in honor of the birth of the dauphin of France, would not help.
We had spent the previous day at Robinson’s house, on the east side of the river about two miles south of the Point, where General Robert Howe had his headquarters. Dr. Thatcher and several other medical officers had established a hospital in the opposite wing, and the estate was a frequent meeting place to plot larger-scale military operations.
The house was formerly owned by a wealthy loyalist named Beverley Robinson who became a colonel in the British Army. When he’d fled to New York in ’77 after refusing to swear fealty to the colonial cause, his home and lands were confiscated by the Americans. The rumor was he and Washington had once been friends and both were deeply hurt by the schism created by their opposing loyalties. Each thought the other terribly misguided.
Robinson’s house was a sprawling home in a clearing at the base of Sugarloaf Hill. Despite being surrounded by craggy rises and inhospitable terrain, an orchard had thrived, and the estate was a village unto itself with several outbuildings that included a blacksmith and a summer kitchen and acres of land for hunting and farming set back from the rocky bluff.
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?”