Read Online The American Chronicle 1 - Burr by Gore Vidal - Free Book Online
Authors: Gore Vidal
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hunting jackets and lived like wild beasts in the open. Since they did not bother to dig “necessaries,” wherever they were the stench was overwhelming.
For those who preferred a roof over their head, the range of impromptu dwellings was wide. A few officers were able to afford proper tents, even marquees like the British. Others were forced to make themselves houses of sailcloth or of boards tacked together at random, or of turf. The total effect was chaos, like something thrown up in the wake of a disaster on the order of the Lisbon earthquake, and like the survivors of a calamity a good many took delight in reverting to barbarism—to drunkenness, thieving, fighting.
I moved from company to company, learning what I could. One thing was plain. Certain officers had the knack of gaining obedience with no effort while others—the majority—were forced to shout and threaten, often to no avail.
Toward the end of July, I was watching a ragged company of New Yorkers at drill when General Washington approached, astride a black horse. It was my first glimpse of him close-to. He wore the recently designed blue and buff uniform of the army; across his chest a pale blue ribband signified that he was commanding general (lesser generals wore purple ribbands, staff officers green ribbands, and so on).
As the General passed me, I saluted. I was still in civilian clothes but then so were most of the army.
As Washington returned my salute, I looked up into his face: the yellow pock-marked skin was lightly covered with powder; the gray eyes sunk in cavernous sockets were lustreless; the expression was grave but somewhat vacant. I thought him old as God. Yet he was only forty-three!
Slowly the General rode toward a makeshift cabin of sailcloth in front of which a pair of drunkards were trying to kill one another to the delight of a number of equally drunk onlookers.
I followed the General, curious to see what he would do. Most officers would have looked the other way. Sober, the American soldier is not easily managed; drunk, he can be murderous.
“Stop!” Raised in command, the deep voice was thunderous. There was a brief murmur of dazed, rummy interest from the spectators. Then they turned back to the fight. One howling man was now trying to choke the other who seemed to have bitten off most of his adversary’s ear.
For a moment Washington resembled one of those equestrian monuments that currently decorate so many of the republic’s vistas. Horse and rider were motionless until it was plain that Washington was not going to be obeyed. Then majestically he dismounted, and as if at the head of a stately procession he walked toward the two men grunting and writhing in the dirt. For a large, rather ungainly man (he had the hips, buttocks and bosom of a woman), Washington could move with brutal swiftness. He fell upon the two men. One large hand encircled the strangler’s throat. The other seized the matted hair of the cannibal. He dragged the men to their feet; held them aloft; shook them like rats. All the while a series of sky-rending oaths emerged from the broad yellow face now brick-red beneath its powder. If he was not heard all the way to Boston, he was certainly heard by most of the encampment.
Aides hurried to support their commander. A sergeant put the two terrified men under arrest. The revellers even tried to come to attention as Washington mounted his horse, affecting a serenity that was truly marvellous except for someone next to him, as I was, who could see the trembling of the hand with which he held the reins. He must, secretly, have been terrified. After all, he had had no experience of modern warfare, while his exploits as an Indian fighter were a good deal less than glorious despite the legends that he and the Virginians used so relentlessly to circulate. But no matter what his military short-comings, at least he looked like a general.
President Hancock described to me most amusingly Washington’s first
For those who preferred a roof over their head, the range of impromptu dwellings was wide. A few officers were able to afford proper tents, even marquees like the British. Others were forced to make themselves houses of sailcloth or of boards tacked together at random, or of turf. The total effect was chaos, like something thrown up in the wake of a disaster on the order of the Lisbon earthquake, and like the survivors of a calamity a good many took delight in reverting to barbarism—to drunkenness, thieving, fighting.
I moved from company to company, learning what I could. One thing was plain. Certain officers had the knack of gaining obedience with no effort while others—the majority—were forced to shout and threaten, often to no avail.
Toward the end of July, I was watching a ragged company of New Yorkers at drill when General Washington approached, astride a black horse. It was my first glimpse of him close-to. He wore the recently designed blue and buff uniform of the army; across his chest a pale blue ribband signified that he was commanding general (lesser generals wore purple ribbands, staff officers green ribbands, and so on).
As the General passed me, I saluted. I was still in civilian clothes but then so were most of the army.
As Washington returned my salute, I looked up into his face: the yellow pock-marked skin was lightly covered with powder; the gray eyes sunk in cavernous sockets were lustreless; the expression was grave but somewhat vacant. I thought him old as God. Yet he was only forty-three!
Slowly the General rode toward a makeshift cabin of sailcloth in front of which a pair of drunkards were trying to kill one another to the delight of a number of equally drunk onlookers.
I followed the General, curious to see what he would do. Most officers would have looked the other way. Sober, the American soldier is not easily managed; drunk, he can be murderous.
“Stop!” Raised in command, the deep voice was thunderous. There was a brief murmur of dazed, rummy interest from the spectators. Then they turned back to the fight. One howling man was now trying to choke the other who seemed to have bitten off most of his adversary’s ear.
For a moment Washington resembled one of those equestrian monuments that currently decorate so many of the republic’s vistas. Horse and rider were motionless until it was plain that Washington was not going to be obeyed. Then majestically he dismounted, and as if at the head of a stately procession he walked toward the two men grunting and writhing in the dirt. For a large, rather ungainly man (he had the hips, buttocks and bosom of a woman), Washington could move with brutal swiftness. He fell upon the two men. One large hand encircled the strangler’s throat. The other seized the matted hair of the cannibal. He dragged the men to their feet; held them aloft; shook them like rats. All the while a series of sky-rending oaths emerged from the broad yellow face now brick-red beneath its powder. If he was not heard all the way to Boston, he was certainly heard by most of the encampment.
Aides hurried to support their commander. A sergeant put the two terrified men under arrest. The revellers even tried to come to attention as Washington mounted his horse, affecting a serenity that was truly marvellous except for someone next to him, as I was, who could see the trembling of the hand with which he held the reins. He must, secretly, have been terrified. After all, he had had no experience of modern warfare, while his exploits as an Indian fighter were a good deal less than glorious despite the legends that he and the Virginians used so relentlessly to circulate. But no matter what his military short-comings, at least he looked like a general.
President Hancock described to me most amusingly Washington’s first
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