Chapter 10: No Guts...
Fort Montgomery, near West Point, New York
23rd May, 1775
"Gentlemen? Colonel Exeter."
Jasen Exeter was probably in his early forties, with long gray hair that curled at the collarbone, almost as if he were wearing a wig. He was a tall man, thin with a hawk's nose and cold, intelligent eyes. He was dressed in his best uniform: the blue and white of the United States Army, with his tricorner hat was tucked under one arm. In his other hand he held a riding switch, as if the rag-tag pack in front of him had seen fit to interrupt his hunt.
He stared up and down the line, looking for some flaw in their attempt at order. Frankly, it wasn't difficult. Farmers' boys, laborers looking to escape the cities, people on the run or down on their luck looking for a new chance, and the occasional bravo looking for adventure combined to form something not very far from a mob. Two months just wasn't enough to bring anyone up to speed on the rudiments of modern warfare, and in truth the trainers didn't really try. They would simply learn like almost every other army since the beginning of time had: trial and error. Use makes master.
"Gentlemen, I am very happy to see you," Exeter began in such a sincere tone that none harbored any doubt about his anticipated hunt. "You are about to join a proud tradition. An honorable tradition. You will all, God willing, leave your mark on the United States Army for generations to come. Just four days south of here General Washington routed an English invasion, and it was near here that Washington fought them to a standstill though the entire army of Canada bore down on him. It was here that God graced us, and it was here the English were put to task for their arrogance. It is in this fertile ground you have learned your tasks."
His assistant, a grizzled master sergeant, blew his bugle. It's triumphant notes reverbeated as he shouted: "Prepare for inspection!"
Inspection in this case consisted of Exeter, the master sergeant and various aides silently marching up and down each rank in turn. The colonel never said a word, simply stared each man in the eye and continued on. It seemed no words were necessary, for the master sergeant pushed, pulled and yanked those in need into order and something resembling a line.
John Preston sweat under his wool uniform. It was too hot! Summer had begun early in New York, and on Fahrenheit's scale it had to be nearly 90. (1) Absently he loosened his collar and tried to think cool thoughts. He'd arrived later than everyone else, and as far as his commanders were concerned that simply meant he was that far behind to start. He believed he'd managed to succeed, however, and he had high hopes of being in the cavalry sooner than la…
His eyes bulged as Colonel Exeter coldly stared at him. He didn't care for young men who appeared to be daydreaming, sniffed, and walked on.
Not so the master sergeant, who saw fit to fix the young man's collar, glaring at him all the while. John started to pull away to fix it himself, but the sergeant's grip tightened into something not far from a chokehold. After pulling him, literally, to attention the sergeant walked on.
The next two men to pass were aide de camps who smiled kindly at him. The last was a Prussian officer in dark blue with white breeches and a swirling black cloak wearing a somewhat smug expression.
I know you, his eyes said pleasantly.
You are republican rabble. Anyone can kill indians, but when you face a real opponent you will wet your pants, drop your gun, cry for mercy and run for mother. Mind your betters and perhaps you will learn something.
"I'll show you," he hissed once the German had passed. His messmate glanced over and frowned, for Colonel Exeter was from the camp that believed one man's failure reflected on his entire unit, and so the entire unit should be punished until they make things right.
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"C'mon Preston, what the devil is your problem?" shouted Sergeant Waymouth several days later. "It's not that hard. One, two, one, two, keep pace with your fellows eh?"
"Sorry, sir." John flushed, he hated being singled out as much as the next person. "I'm just.." Admitting he was tired from marching was a good way to be invited to run the next few miles. "…slow today."
"Aye, no doubt there." Colonel Exeter's army - five thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry - patiently worked its way down the Main Post Road which started in Montreal and worked its way down New York, through Philadelphia and Baltimore, before following the coastline all the way to Saint Augustine. Every line had to be exact, every gun and buckle polished to an unearthly hue. They were on display as much as anything, passing through silent and often astonished towns as they trailed the Hudson River.
When not marching through the heart of a town they were allowed to speak, and John's new friend, Wesley was talkative. Wesley was also sixteen, the son of a Newport merchant, and fat. There was no nice way of putting it. Father thought the army would be able to get his child into some semblance of shape - or at least away from the meals he loved - and turn him into a man. Wesley thought he'd die of a heart attack before this wondrous goal was reached and had no trouble sharing his prophecy.
Today, though, he talked of home. "Your pa should be in Philadelphia by the time we get there, right?"
"He's not my father," John grumbled.
"Well... sounds like he's treated you alright to me. Are you going to visit him? I'm sure Sergeant will okay it for a few hours after we stop."
"I wasn't planning on it." He didn't hate Tom Heyward, he just didn't want to see him. This was his chance to be his own man, and maybe avenge himself on the English - if anyone in his regiment was game. This he doubted sincerely.
"C'mon Preston, tighten up that formation. What's the matter with you? You can rest when you're in the ground."
The Prussian chose that moment to ride by on a great black stallion. He looked down at Johnny and favored him with an amused smile before riding on.
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Thomas Heyward stood near the front of the cheering crowds as the soldiers marched through Philadelphia heading north. He was greeted by various shades of blue - from the crisp naval colors of the colonel and his aides to something not terribly far from a cloudless afternoon on the threadbare uniforms of the recruits. This was the price of reducing the military budget. Something had to give, and it certainly wasn't going to be powder or shot.
The recruits were hot and tired. They'd marched ten to twelve hours per day in all weather since leaving Fort Montgomery, and still had a very long way to go through less certain roadways. He didn't envy them - Tom knew with his chancy lungs, even though they almost never bothered him anymore, he'd never make it. For their part they marched more like a disorderly mass than a military regiment. He nodded to the Prussian as he rode by, hoping that soon enough this would change.
"Isn't your boy in here somewhere?" asked Dr. Hall, after literally wedging himself between his friend and a fat, gasping man who smelt of vanilla.
"Johnny? He should be here somewhere."
Drums from the regiment's musicians overwhelmed the cheering crowd, beating to their own rhythm. Then the musicians took over.
"Yankee Doodle?" Hall asked incredulously.
Heyward shrugged. "That's what the English called them…us. I suppose it's their idea of revenge."
He stood there for another hour as the soldiers filtered through the city. He didn't see John.
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"Special training's good, right?" whispered Wesley. John shrugged and stared straight ahead as Sergeant Waymouth continued.
"Colonel Exeter is convinced that if
you can learn these new methods, than anyone can! Succeed, and I think I can promise all of you a commission within ten years as they'll use you to train others. Fail, and you'll be digging trenches until your back breaks or you fall over."
Train? John's heart fell. "Sergeant?"
"God rot your eyes, Preston! Don't interrupt!"
"I'm sorry. It's just…I came here to fight, not train others."
"Boy, you do what we tell you, you go where we tell you, you eat, piss, sleep and live when and where we tell you, and you die when and if I tell you it's alright. What makes you think I give a rat's *** what you want?"
There really was no response to make, and the sergeant hmfed. "At any rate, I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for fighting. Now, gentlemen. Attention!" He did his best to ignore the fact that this group's idea of ten lines of ten men each resembled a rectangular block more than anything. "Ready for inspection, sir!"
Several long moments passed as John Preston wondered just who the sergeant was talking to. Then there was a disturbance in another part of the line, and the Prussian soldier walked out in full dress uniform, followed by his own attache. The Prussian turned and regarded the hundred soldiers critically, his gaze now unreadable. He barked something in German, and the attache stepped forward.
"This is Baron Friedrich von Steuben, provisionally your colonel. From now on, you belong to him."
Friedrich Wilhelm, Rittermeister von Steuben
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(1) 32 degrees Celsius
Comment: Baron von Steuben, like several other people and events so far, is a victim of time crunching - moving up the dates a bit to account for the early and extremely short war of independence. As it happens, he was in Paris in 1775 looking for work, so it's entirely plausible he met Benjamin Franklin there three years early. Works for me anyway
