Read Online The American Chronicle 1 - Burr by Gore Vidal - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gore Vidal
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far bank of the river where a number of men were bathing, entirely naked. With happy cries, they showed themselves off to a number of interested Cambridge ladies.
“He’ll never make an army of this riffraff.” Wilkinson thought that the men in their anarchy would prove stronger than Washington. But Wilkinson was wrong. In a matter of minutes, the bathers were driven up-stream by sergeants with muskets. The next day one colonel and five captains were broken. The following day, at the centre of the camp, appeared “The Horse,” a notorious contraption to which culprits were tied and flogged. Washington had taken command.
The next week both small pox and the bloody flux began to go through the camp. General Washington maintained that the flux came from drinking new cider. But the cider-drinking continued, and so for that matter did the flux, which is a terrible death, the bowels emptying out one’s life in bloody spasms.
I took to my bed with a fever that lasted two weeks. Matt and Jamie looked after me as best they could: I have never been so wretched. I had, in effect, run away from home to join the army but so far had found no way of joining it.
“It’s your size.” Matt fed me cabbage soup. “You look ten years old!” This was an exaggeration but I did look younger than the other officers, including Jamie whose youthful belly gave him an undeserved dignity. Yet I was confident that I was well-suited to the military life. I was a fair shot, good with horses and, I was fairly certain, good with soldiers, too. After all, I had the natural authority of the born pedagogue. I also wanted glory—a desire that must surely add a cubit to even the smallest stature.
Unable to sleep (the heat within me and the heat without for once unbearable), I heard Matt talking to friends in the next room. “They’ll need at least a thousand volunteers.”
“Here’s one!” Another young voice. “I don’t intend to stop the rest of my life in Cambridge.” We found it mysterious that Washington seemed interested only in drilling the men and digging “necessaries” while within sight of our encampment beside the Charles, the British army at Boston each day stood formation like so many dangerous scarlet toys in the green distance.
Washington did nothing because, unknown to us, his supply of powder was limited, his artillery nonexistent, his troops unproven. Washington’s view of war was simple and invariable: do nothing until you outnumber the enemy two to one. So he waited for Congress to send him more men and to give him more supplies. Considering that the British forces were far from home and considering that there were over two million Americans in the colonies, it ought not to have been difficult for us to overwhelm them in every way. But difficult it was, always, for Washington to maintain an army. The rich tended to be pro-British while the poor were not interested in whether or not American merchants paid taxes to a far-away island. The truth is that except for a handful of ambitious lawyers, there were very few “patriots” in 1775. By the time the long deadly war came to an end, there were hardly any to be found. The best died; the rest grew weary.
But now, at least, the dull days for a few of us were over. Candle in hand, Matt sat on the edge of my sweat-soaked bed and told me that “We’re going to invade Canada.”
I was surprised. “Why not invade Boston? It’s much closer, and most of the British army is there.”
“Washington thinks the British are going to come down from Canada and cut off New England from the rest of the colonies. So he wants us to anticipate them. Volunteers are wanted for a battalion and at least three companies of riflemen.”
My fever broke that night, never to return. On September 6, I enlisted in the company of Lieutenant-Colonel Christopher Greene. On September 13, Colonel Greene’s detachment left Cambridge for Newburyport. A new and eager soldier, I went on foot. Matt
“He’ll never make an army of this riffraff.” Wilkinson thought that the men in their anarchy would prove stronger than Washington. But Wilkinson was wrong. In a matter of minutes, the bathers were driven up-stream by sergeants with muskets. The next day one colonel and five captains were broken. The following day, at the centre of the camp, appeared “The Horse,” a notorious contraption to which culprits were tied and flogged. Washington had taken command.
The next week both small pox and the bloody flux began to go through the camp. General Washington maintained that the flux came from drinking new cider. But the cider-drinking continued, and so for that matter did the flux, which is a terrible death, the bowels emptying out one’s life in bloody spasms.
I took to my bed with a fever that lasted two weeks. Matt and Jamie looked after me as best they could: I have never been so wretched. I had, in effect, run away from home to join the army but so far had found no way of joining it.
“It’s your size.” Matt fed me cabbage soup. “You look ten years old!” This was an exaggeration but I did look younger than the other officers, including Jamie whose youthful belly gave him an undeserved dignity. Yet I was confident that I was well-suited to the military life. I was a fair shot, good with horses and, I was fairly certain, good with soldiers, too. After all, I had the natural authority of the born pedagogue. I also wanted glory—a desire that must surely add a cubit to even the smallest stature.
Unable to sleep (the heat within me and the heat without for once unbearable), I heard Matt talking to friends in the next room. “They’ll need at least a thousand volunteers.”
“Here’s one!” Another young voice. “I don’t intend to stop the rest of my life in Cambridge.” We found it mysterious that Washington seemed interested only in drilling the men and digging “necessaries” while within sight of our encampment beside the Charles, the British army at Boston each day stood formation like so many dangerous scarlet toys in the green distance.
Washington did nothing because, unknown to us, his supply of powder was limited, his artillery nonexistent, his troops unproven. Washington’s view of war was simple and invariable: do nothing until you outnumber the enemy two to one. So he waited for Congress to send him more men and to give him more supplies. Considering that the British forces were far from home and considering that there were over two million Americans in the colonies, it ought not to have been difficult for us to overwhelm them in every way. But difficult it was, always, for Washington to maintain an army. The rich tended to be pro-British while the poor were not interested in whether or not American merchants paid taxes to a far-away island. The truth is that except for a handful of ambitious lawyers, there were very few “patriots” in 1775. By the time the long deadly war came to an end, there were hardly any to be found. The best died; the rest grew weary.
But now, at least, the dull days for a few of us were over. Candle in hand, Matt sat on the edge of my sweat-soaked bed and told me that “We’re going to invade Canada.”
I was surprised. “Why not invade Boston? It’s much closer, and most of the British army is there.”
“Washington thinks the British are going to come down from Canada and cut off New England from the rest of the colonies. So he wants us to anticipate them. Volunteers are wanted for a battalion and at least three companies of riflemen.”
My fever broke that night, never to return. On September 6, I enlisted in the company of Lieutenant-Colonel Christopher Greene. On September 13, Colonel Greene’s detachment left Cambridge for Newburyport. A new and eager soldier, I went on foot. Matt
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