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The General Verdict

Washington vs. Napoleon

“The Anglo-American War got off to a very strong start and in truth should have been a revolution. We came so close in the summer of 1776 and even wrote the oft-touted, yet wholly unrealized Declaration of Rights. You see, even though it said we had the right to rebel, we never actually followed through. How in the name of Providence could we have managed that?!”

—Ben Franklin’s comments on the war
September 17th, 1785

The General stood on the deck of the large ship, breathing in the thick Atlantic air. The sails billowed gently in the warm summer wind, and a cacophonous gaggle of seagulls flew above, leading the large seafaring vessel out of the harbor. It was a cargo ship that had been converted into a slave ship and then converted once again into its current configuration as a troop transport. The last alteration had been structurally easy but emotionally draining. Removing the stench of human suffering had been rough going, and the bloodstained floor had needed to be completely refinished. The General had ordered it not because his men had a problem with the sight of blood but rather because he believed that the blood spilled had been senseless.

“I’m old,” he murmured to no one in particular, “and must be careful with my health.”

A young aide, standing by his side, looked up, hoping to be given an order or at least a word.

“Sir?”

General Washington looked over at the young man with fatherly kindness. He would have been, Washington saw, about the age of Washington’s grandson, if he’d had one.

“Just something mother tells me,” he said referring to his wife, “when I take in the air.” He looked back out to sea.

“But General, sir,” answered the too-anxious-to-please aide, “you’re the youngest old man I’ve ever seen. I mean, it’s not that you’re old—well, you are—but…”

The corners of Washington’s lips curled slightly upwards. He watched as the young aide attempted to back out gracefully. Hamilton wouldn’t have stumbled over his words, thought Washington. He would’ve spoken with elegance or shut up. But Alexander Hamilton was a full colonel and with his men on one of the many ships now transporting the continental reserves to the mother country.

“You can ride and shoot better than most men half your age,” continued the aide, slight desperation evident in his voice, “I…I hope I do half as well—God grant that I grow to be as old…” The boy’s face suddenly turned a new shade of red. “…er … to live as long as you, sir.”

Washington mulled the boy’s mangled compliment. Indeed, he thought to himself, it was a bit of a miracle that when most of his childhood friends were either dead or crippled with age, he could still ride, shoot a gun with some measure of accuracy, and, of course, manage to command an army. The fire in his voice was still evident, as was the determination in his eyes—both of which he depended on to inspire as well as to shame. But he also knew the truth: that he was old; that the cold bit deeper, the body reacted slower, and the weariness of his years seemed to follow him everywhere. He also knew that he had to be careful lest any minor illness, once so easily cast off in youth, kill him now. Yet his age had not deterred a lifelong conviction that he’d been born to greatness. It had, though, made him painfully aware of just how far short he’d fallen. To preserve any chance of fulfilling his destiny, he must approach it with both vigilance and care. Long past were the days in which he could count on unbridled passion and fury to sweep him, like so many others, into the annals of history. He was an old man in a young man’s game and knew that this voyage was a last chance for the yearned-for prominence that had so far eluded him. By any other measure, George Washington had arrived, had achieved that which most men could only dream of—by any other measure other than his. And so, it was how the almost great General George Washington found himself sailing with a pitiful few thousand men to the aid of a former enemy in her war against the French. He’d chosen his spot on the deck, turned his back on the New World and set his sights on the Old, wondering what possible future lay beyond a distant horizon veiled by the unending sea.

“Well, Lieutenant,” answered Washington, turning around and taking hold of the rail, “young or old, General or private, Martha would strongly disapprove if I were to not dress appropriately for our little romps on the deck.” Then, “You’re from New Jersey, are you not, lad?”

“I’m an American, General!” answered the boy, beaming.

Washington chuckled. “I’m sure you are, son. But whereabouts?”

“New Jersey,” the boy answered firmly, as if the name’s mere summoning bestowed higher rank.

“And why,” asked Washington, “are you here?”

“Why…” sputtered the boy, “you, General.” He seemed genuinely surprised. “My father served with you at Brandywine when you defeated the British…right after Saratoga. The way he talked about you, sir…well, I knew I had to join.”

Washington nodded his head solemnly, noticing the way the boy was staring at him…through him. Always that look—as if he were somehow an apparition and not the living, breathing man that he was. It used to unnerve him, but eventually he grew to accept it. If God had seen fit to bestow such an invaluable trait on him then, who was he to argue? It suited him well as the leader of an army, and that was that.

Washington narrowed his brow. “Brandywine, you say?”

The aide nodded vigorously.

“Well, boy, it wasn’t me who defeated the British at Brandywine.”

“Sir?” asked the boy, face blanketed in confusion.

The General turned around and once more faced the sea. He placed both hands firmly on the railing and inhaled the thick salt air. His answer was almost inaudible against his labored breath and the sound of water splashing against the bulkhead.

“It was Lafayette.”

Washington’s jaw grew rigid and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail ever more tightly, trying to suppress the worst type of memory—one tinged with regret. Lafayette, perhaps one of the greatest friends of the civil war and the closest confidante of a man who had few, was dead. Washington blamed himself. Hadn’t it, after all, been Washington’s attempt at liberty that had inspired Lafayette’s? His encouragement that had rallied his friend and friend’s mighty nation to throw off the yoke of monarchical oppression? Who could have foreseen that that revolution would implode so spectacularly, that those in power would turn on the very people who’d sacrificed all to give it to them?

Of course Washington had tried to help. First with letters of support for his friend to the newly emplaced revolutionary government. When that went nowhere, he’d resorted to bribery, offering to take Lafayette off French hands so as “not to make a martyr of him.” It was a thin play, and all who’d seen the offer knew it, but at the time it was all the General had left. “And besides,” responded an ambassador of the new regime, “we like our martyrs. It is the French way.”

Washington often wondered if perhaps his insistent campaign to free his friend had in fact achieved the opposite. After all, the help of a British General, however reluctantly he bore the title, did not carry well in revolutionary France. And so, under the cover of darkness and with the help of a network of sympathizers, the General had played his last card—the successful smuggling of Lafayette’s youngest son out of the country. It had been dangerous and risky, but Washington had been insistent. “It was,” he’d remanded at the time of the plan’s inception, “the least we could do for so noble and brave a man as Lafayette.” That son was now the aide to Benedict Arnold and like his father before him, he had the fire of revolution in his belly—only his called for the decimation of the country that had at once robbed him of a father while inadvertently placing him in the hands of another. The child, who Lafayette had named George in his friend’s honor, had become Washington’s son in spirit if not in name and showed the same blind devotion to him that he currently showed to the destruction of the country of his birth.

Perhaps because of his youth, or the simple fact that he hadn’t wanted to relinquish his raison d’être for having signed up, the aide ignored Washington’s turned back.

“But,” he continued, “you commanded the army, held it together through the retreat across New Jersey, chose the leaders, led the attack at Trenton…”

Washington listened as the aide de camp retold a tale that almost had the signature of mythology. Legends, he realized, that would be critical to a young almost nation in search of an identity. He put an end to it quickly.

“The past,” intoned Washington, still staring out to sea, “is all well and good, but ’tis the future that concerns me now. We are a small army of barely 10,000 sailing to duty in a country not truly our own. One storm or a few French ships of the line could end us before we ever see land.” He once again turned to face the boy. “War is never certain,” he continued, exhaling deeply. “Best to concentrate on tomorrow.”

With that, the young aide seemed to stand erect as a smile formed on his lips. “We’ll be fine, General Washington.”

“Really, lad?” The General answered with a raised eyebrow. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Why, you, sir.” Then, “Will you be needing me any further?”

Washington shook his head as the aide darted off. The old General turned once more to the sea. Not that anyone could hear it, but he sighed heavily as thoughts of lost possibilities invaded his sanctuary.

* * *

February 3rd, 1799

To his Excellency General Washington and the representatives of the 9th Continental Congress

From General Cornwallis, Commander of the Armed forces of his Britannic majesty George III

Sir,

Due to a small landing of French forces in Ireland and the subsequent uprising of the local population, the main part of the British army in Great Britain has been sent to that miserable Island. This has left the forces protecting our homes less than adequate. You are urgently requested to present yourself and your men at Plymouth, England. Rest assured your forces will not be expected to fight in Ireland. They will be stationed in England or Wales itself, allowing for the maximum number of English regiments to pacify the Irish. Still, while in the defense of England, you will be paid and ranked as members of his majesty’s army. God speed, sir. God save the King.

Your obedient servant,

Charles Cornwallis

—Considered one of
the five most pivotal letters ever written.
From A study in the importance of
correspondence on history
Emily Caulfield
New York City: Empire Press, 1967

* * *

As incredible as it seems today, it must be remembered that the only reason the American reserve, a standing army of roughly 10,000 men, was even in existence was to ensure American liberty against renewed British Parliamentary interference after the Anglo-American War of 1775–1779. It was, in fact, a wholly American army commanded by General George Washington and paid for by the Americans themselves. It was also an army that had won an independent war against Spanish-held Florida. Despite the French incursion and subsequent Irish uprising, the British were not all that eager to have 10,000 fully trained American combat veterans in their midst. For their part, the Americans, too, had little interest in defending a country thousands of miles from home. Plus, the Americans had fled their mother country for numerous reasons; all of which were still fresh in their memories despite the intervening years. It was during those years of de facto independence that the Colonial Army had become the unifying factor in all local politics. It protected against Indian incursions (while assimilating other Indian tribes), conquered Florida and, more importantly, kept the British at bay. So given that both sides had no reason to trust or help one another other, how is it that history as we know it came about? The answer is, by the abject determination of two men: General Charles Cornwallis, who would meet his demise in the defense of London, and General George Washington, who would take up his charge. The former made sure that Parliament backed the order, and the latter ensured that it would be accepted.

—From Cornwallis & Washington: Partners in Empire
Martha Hernandez
Union City Press, 1967

* * *

June 7th, 1799

Benedict Arnold’s head was slightly askance; his brow furrowed. “Cornwallis is dead?”

Of all the men at the table—Hamilton, Green, Lee, and Washington—Benedict was the only one to have served with the man in India, a fact that did not make him popular with many politicians in the colonies but that made him invaluable to George Washington.

Until that moment, Washington had been happy to be on land, safe in Plymouth harbor with, miracle of miracles, all his ships in and almost all his command fit for service. Contrary to his fears, the people of Plymouth were very kind and gracious to their “American Cousins” and had gone out of their way to make them all welcome. Washington was given the mayor’s house to use as his headquarters, and when the General offered to pay, the offer had been declined. Finally, when Washington explained that it was American law and custom that soldiers could not be quartered in private homes without consent and pay, the incredulous mayor accepted a nominal fee of one schilling.

Once things had become reasonably settled, Washington called a meeting of his commanders. No sooner had it gotten started than it was interrupted by a young messenger bursting through the door.

“Urgent dispatch, sir!” he cried, keeling over slightly and holding on to his knees. He took a few deep breaths, righted himself, and pulled the document from inside a leather sack that had been stuffed into his shirt. An aide took the document from the young man’s hand and handed it over to General Washington. The messenger, having delivered the goods, allowed his face to crack a proud smile.

“Well done, lad,” Washington said, bowing his head slowly and accepting the trifolded paper held together by a black wax seal. The letter had been addressed to:

George Washington

General of the

Continental Reserves

It was stamped in black ink, “LONDON, July. FREE.” The young boy was quickly escorted out the door as Washington removed the wax seal and read the contents. Then he read them again. Slowly. When he’d finished, Washington handed the note to Hamilton, who first looked to his friend’s eyes. Washington pursed his lips slightly. Hamilton nodded, read it, and passed it along. The last was Benedict Arnold. He shook his head, folded the paper, and pushed it across the table's surface towards Washington.

“Gentlemen,” began Washington, now running his forefinger gently across the broken wax seal, “It would appear that in the three weeks it took us to get here, Great Britain has been invaded and is on the verge of collapse. It would also appear that a very young General by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte has attempted a very dangerous gamble. He invaded England with 40,000 men, getting them here under cover of a storm. In the past three weeks, he has fought numerous engagements and three major battles, all over southern England. He’s never in one place very long and has been raiding the countryside for all the supplies he needs.”

“And what of the invasion of Ireland?”

“A diversion, Colonel Green.”

“But Cornwallis?” muttered Light-horse Henry Lee.

“The one bright spot in this whole disaster.”

“How so?”

“Bonaparte only made an exploratory advance toward London. It was small enough that Cornwallis’ cavalry unit—which barely managed to get there in time—was able to beat off the advance.”

“With the help of the townspeople,” added Hamilton.

“Yes,” agreed Washington. “This once.” He then looked up and turned his head slowly in order to meet the eyes of every man in the room. “If Napoleon persists with this advance, gentlemen, London will fall; Bonaparte will have succeeded in taking the capitol.”

Washington’s commanders sat mute. They may have hated London, and some at the table would’ve been more than happy to have nothing to do with her ever again. But the thought of her being conquered was too much to grasp. It was, in many ways, their ancestral home. The city of Tudors, Plantagenet, Shakespeare, and Sir Isaac Newton was as much a part of the Colonies as Philadelphia, Boston, New York, and Charleston.

“But how?” asked Hamilton.

Washington looked to Arnold, who tipped his head towards his superior officer in deference. “Speed and daring, sir; speed and daring. Think of it as a cavalry raid using infantry. This Napoleon fellow is attacking the British before they can concentrate their forces. The Frenchie’s not concentrating on any major city or waiting around for an army to concentrate on him. As such, he has the British confused and uncertain.”

Lee’s upturned mouth betrayed his amusement. “Clearly, suh, they’re not the only ones.”

“Indeed,” answered Benedict. “If Bonaparte can take London—even if only for a day—the political ramifications will be incalculable.”

Lee’s face twitched briefly as he looked towards Washington. “I’ll suppose there’s a plan.”

“Of sorts,” answered Washington. “We’ve been ordered to march to London as quickly as possible.”

“And just when we were all starting to get comfortable,” Hamilton added.

Benedict laughed. “What’s her name?”

“If we dump everything,” said Lee, ignoring his peers’ friendly banter, “exceptin’ what we need to fight with, of course, why, I reckon we can be in London in two days.”

Before anyone could respond, the unmistakable sounds of fast-approaching hooves could be heard.

“Best to wait,” said Washington as the commanders turned their attention towards the door. Moments later, the second messenger of the day sauntered in As it had been with the first, this one was also filthy from the journey, but by virtue of his age—he was a good eight to ten years older—his manner was far more formal. The messenger scanned the room; spotted Washington, then strode up and saluted.

“General.” The messenger had not only surprised the war council with the squawk in his voice but had clearly surprised himself as well.

Washington indicated to his aide to bring the man a drink.

The messenger gratefully accepted, took a large swig, and exhaled. “General,” he now repeated more clearly, “I have the pleasure to request that the newly promoted Major Wellesley and a troop of cavalry be allowed to join the protection of your camp.”

Washington’s lips turned upwards. “Permission is granted, of course. What unit does the major have the honor of commanding?”

“The remnants of the 3^rd Fusiliers.”

“Remnants?”

“With many from scattered units all over southern England, sir.”

Nathaniel Green, no slouch in the military tactics department, had finally had enough. “What in God’s name is going on here? How can one man do this to an entire country—and in three weeks, no less?”

“Colonel Green, if you please,” answered Washington, purposely lowering his voice and therefore the tenor of the room, “it is exactly what we did to the British during the war; hit and run and never let the enemy concentrate.” Washington then turned to the messenger. “No offense, sir.”

The messenger bowed politely. “None taken, General.”

“Don’t you mean we’d never let them concentrate,” repeated Benedict with a toothy grin, “until we were ready to win?”

“Good point,” admitted Nathaniel, “though I liked it better when it was we who were applying the tactic.”

“Napoleon seems to be having as much luck with it as we did,” continued Washington. “He’s not a magician; just a very good general who happens to be thinking while his opponents are not. We, too, need to start thinking, or we may as well go home.”

Washington turned to the messenger in front of him. “Sir, if the major could meet me here, we will see to getting him a bath and proper food as well as what aid we can provide for his command.” Washington paused, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “You said ‘recently promoted’?”

“A group of nobles were rounded up from their estates…” the messenger’s eyes narrowed as he steeled himself, “…and guillotined; the major’s brother and our commanding officer were among them.”

“What crimes were they accused of?” asked Benedict.

“None, sir,” answered the messenger in a voice that left no doubt as to the ignominy of the act. “Unless you count being born to nobility a crime worthy of death.” The messenger then bowed his head politely to the group. “Good day, sirs.”

“Good day,” answered the group as one.

“Gentleman,” said Washington, getting to his feet. The sound of chairs pushing against the wooden floors filled the room as all the commanders arose. “We will be leaving sooner than expected. Have the army ready to march in six hours.” Washington moved to the map wall and began to study them with the eye of the surveyor.

“Off to London, then,” suggested Hamilton.

Washington’s crooked smile never made it to his eyes. “No.”

“Then where the devil to?” demanded Light-horse.

Washington continued to stare intently at the large map, methodically tapping his forefinger to his chin.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

The meeting between the first and third future chancellors has been commented upon, reenacted, and used as the subject of countless paintings. Maybe it was the contrast of the two men—most obviously, one was old and one was young. There was Washington, about to fight his last battle, and Wellesley, beginning a glorious path to many. Their relationship was typical of the type curried by Washington. Having no sons of his own, the General seemed to attract men of incredible talent in search of a mentor and, as often as not, a father figure. Among the General’s acolytes: Hamilton, Lafayette the junior, and Bushrod Washington, later called Duke of Vernon. It should, therefore, not be surprising that this great man of history would himself be called “Father of the Empire.” Yet Wellesley was his greatest protégé, clearly influenced by the Napoleon outing and his proximity to Washington. Sadly, history did not record what was said at their very first meeting. As both men were strong-willed individuals who were known to disdain flowery public discourse, it can only be surmised that their first words were straight and to the point.

—Washington: An Intimate Portrait
Martha Brody
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987

* * *

“I should kill you where you stand,” shouted Wellesley, “you cowardly bastard!”

At least, thought Washington, the bedraggled and mud-covered English nobleman had the good grace to wait until they were alone to make himself heard. And Washington fervently prayed that they’d gone unheard. English noblemen were not the most popular figures in American circles. There were even some he knew who surely would have applauded the French for the recent killing of the nobles. Had Washington’s men heard what had just been said, Washington would’ve had a difficult time keeping this brash Englishman safe from the American army, let alone keeping him safe from the French one.

“Actually,” replied Washington, “I am the product of my father’s second union, but I can be reasonably assured that the marriage ceremony took place—unless, of course, the two hundred or so witnesses to the event conspired to keep me in the dark.” On Wellesley’s wide eyes and open mouth, Washington indicated a nearby chair. “Won’t you have a seat, Major?”

Wellesley, however, demurred. “Are you, sir, or are you not abandoning London to destruction by that villain?”

Washington once again extended his hand to the nearby chair and in a peremptory voice said, “Major…if you please.”

Wellesley, mouth sealed tight, sat in as dignified a manner as one covered in dirt and mud could.

Washington bowed slightly. “Major, you’re correct. I will not march to the aid of London.” Washington quickly held up his hand to stifle the protest that had already started, “Because I believe that London is in no immediate danger.”

“I suppose, then,” scoffed Wellesley, “that every unit of the army has dropped what it is doing and along with most of the able-bodied men in southern England is heading toward London because that city has been deemed perfectly safe?”

“No, Major, they’re heading towards London because that, I suspect, is exactly what Napoleon wants them to do.”

Wellesley opened his mouth to protest but stopped.

“Cheeky bastard,” Wellesley finally said, mouth twisted into a half smile. “The past three weeks have been about this—attacks in all the different places; us never being able to pin him down and make him fight. Then the attack on London out of the blue and a second one threatened; we’ve run right where he wants us.”

Washington nodded. “I fear, Major, that the beheadings of the nobles, your brother among them, has something to do with that.”

“Your meaning, sir?”

“This Napoleon does not strike me as a radical, and I doubt he cares one fig about who someone’s ancestors were. I have followed his career since Italy, and he’s never done anything like this—till now, that is. It is inconsistent that he should suddenly start playing the role of Robespierre.”

“You think he did it to confuse or frighten us?”

“More, Major. He did it to cloud the judgment of all the nobles in England, from the King down to every third son of an Earl. All feel threatened and all want revenge and protection. So…”

“So all,” continued Wellesley, “are heading towards London to save the King, who refuses to leave the city!”

“Exactly. But why cause that much ill will for what has been, till now, nothing more than a glorified raid?”

Wellesley’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Raid, you say? Hardly. The monster has been burning and looting England, man!”

“But don’t you see, Major? With never enough men to hold any ground. This is nothing more than an attempt to rub your nose in the mud of war. Oh, I will grant that it is a spectacularly successful raid, but only a raid. Till now.”

“I do not clear with your meaning, General.”

“He wants to conquer England.”

Wellesley laughed out loud. “With only thirty thousand exhausted effectives?”

Washington nodded and then indicated the large map on the wall. Wellesley got up and walked towards it. All of Napoleon’s strikes and advances had been marked. Wellesley slowly traced his finger from London southwards toward the coast and eventually came to the same city, and then conclusion, that Washington had. He turned around and stared, dumbstruck, at the man he’d only moments before been cursing. “My God, he’s planning to take Portsmouth!”

“And he’s going to damn well succeed,” answered Washington. “I’ll bet you gold coins to cow pies that whatever garrisons the port cities had have now been reduced to gun crews while the rest are off to…”

“…London,” finished Wellesley in a whisper.

“London,” agreed Washington. “And your Admiral Nelson is still in the Mediterranean. Even if he’s been made aware of Napoleon’s recent forays, he’d have to make the fleet ready and beat out the storms.”

“Quite possibly the Spanish as well,” quipped Wellesley, now fully on board

“It would be the prudent move,” agreed Washington. “So, given all the known facts, I do not expect Admiral Nelson for at least another week or two—more likely three till the Channel is truly secure. Meanwhile, if Napoleon does capture a first-class port, the French fleet will have a secure point to start shipping men and supplies through on anything that can float. If he gets another 100,000 men in England, possibly as little as 70,000, you’ll probably be joining me in the Colonies—assuming any of us survive, that is.”

Wellesley continued to stare at the large map with the same focused energy Washington had a few hours prior. “But how can you be sure?” he asked. “This”—Wellesley turned around to face Washington while his hand continued to point back towards the map—“is all speculation. You’re gambling the safety of London—and possibly all of England—on a hunch, on the belief that you’ve somehow got into the mind of a man you’ve never met, much less fought. And if I’m reading you correctly, good sir, you would propose to send the most experienced, best-armed soldiers in Southern England marching away from London on this supposition.”

Washington tipped his head slowly while keeping his eye level on Wellesley.

The major’s dirt-smeared brow folded into smooth, neat lines. “What if you’re wrong?”

“Major, this is war—a war in which, I’m at pains to remind you, we are outnumbered and outgunned. You may not be familiar with such a scenario, but I can assure you we are. In a situation such as this, you must replace your missing numbers and arms.”

“With what? Lads barely able to hold a pistol?”

“No, Major—with daring, luck, and,” Washington paused as a half smile twitched his face, “speculation. Napoleon’s army is marching south towards Portsmouth. I know it, and, I suspect, so do you. The only question now is will you be a party to my ‘wild’ suppositions?”

Wellesley looked at Washington, then briefly back towards the map. When he turned around, he nodded his acquiescence. “Heaven help us.”

“Indeed,” agreed Washington, “but it’s your cavalry whose help I could really use at the moment. Can they accompany us?”

“The horses are exhausted and the men not much better. However, if we walk the horses and have the men ride in the wagons…” Wellesley paused, bringing his forefinger and thumb to chin. “Yes, General. Yes, I believe they can.”

* * *

“I were only a boy. Lord, I could not have been more than twelve. Of course I wanted to fight with all the  men who went off to London. But they all said I was too small. Then the Americans came. They marched with pride. They had a fife and drum in the front with the old colonial flag. Every country had its own flag before the Imperial Parliament approved the good old red, white, blue, and green we have now. But my, it was pretty. I can see it now, a flag of red and white stripes with a field of blue in the upper left. Thirteen stars in a circle protecting the old Union Jack. Then came the man himself—Washington. So tall, and on the horse he looked like a giant. The Duke of Wellington and Arnold were by his side. Of course, he weren’t the Duke of Wellington at that time. Then comes all those men marching on by. But the General and his staff, they pulls to the side, and Lord if they don’t beckon to me.”

—My Life in the Army
Sergeant-Major William Williams, 1798–1858

* * *

“The General wants to see you, lad.”

The young boy, no more than ten years of age, stared blankly at the young aide de camp addressing him.

“I said,” repeated the aide de camp, “the General requests your presence.”

“I clear your meaning,” answered the boy, “it’s just that, well…where are you from?”

“New Jersey,” answered the aide—clearly not for the first time—leading the boy by the elbow.

“I wasn’t aware there was a new one.”

The aide de camp smiled politely, and the boy seemed ready to ask another question when the aide suddenly stiffened up, indicating men approaching on horseback.

Together, the two made their way through rows of marching men until they were finally standing next to Washington’s horse.

“…just saying that damn, your lads can march, General,” said Wellesley. “Hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago they were on ship.”

“You forget, Major, that this is an American army and America is a very big place. One of the things our army is very good at is marching.”

“Forgive my impertinence, sir, but let us both pray they show equal skill and perseverance at fighting.”

“Let’s, indeed.”

Washington then looked down and saw the boys keeping pace with his horse. “Is this he?” Washington asked the aide.

The aide nodded.

“What’s your name, son?”

“William Williams, sir,” squeaked the boy.

“William Williams,” repeated Washington as his mouth drew up into a half smile. “Do you know the land around this village?”

“Oh, yes, sir! I know every road, path, nook, and knoll, sir.”

Washington took the boy’s measure. “I need a guide for the next ten miles.” He then leaned down from the horse so that his face was a little closer to that of the child. “Are you up to the job?”

“Yes, General!”

“Good lad.” Washington righted himself once more and then looked towards his aide de camp. “Mr. Bergen.”

“Yes, General.”

“This boy is to ride on your horse.”

“Of course, General.”

“Have the lad take us by the quickest route to Portsmouth. If Wellesley’s cavalry spot any of Napoleon’s troops, we are to use another way. We must avoid detection as long as possible.”

“Yes, General.” Mr. Bergen led the boy by the arm, only this time towards his horse.

Wellesley watched the two youths walk away and then turned towards Washington. “Is it really wise to trust the fate of our entire army, possibly even our country, to those boys barely fit to be drummers?”

Washington watched as the young Williams was hoisted up and onto his saddle. “During the war,” Washington finally answered, “we had the advantage in that most of the time we knew the land, while the damned redcoa…”

Wellesley’s eyes narrowed.

Washington cleared his throat. “While the regular army did not. Most times, the ones who knew the land best were the boys. I’m hoping that children are the same on both sides of the pond.”

The major nodded and smiled. “Risk and luck, eh, General?”

“Risk and luck, Major.”

* * *

I have been writing about Napoleon’s outing for most of my adult life and in fact wrote my doctoral thesis on this very subject. I am considered by many to be the foremost expert in the Empire on the subject. I know every unit, every officer, and even most of the men in the Colonial detachments as well as Wellesley’s cavalry. I have walked the route that their glorious army took and have helped countless documentarians recreate the Battle of Portsmouth. Therefore, please allow me to state unequivocally that there is no evidence to support the existence of the supposed “Napoleon letter.” It does not now, nor, the evidence bears out, has it ever existed.

—Interview with Prof. Michael Thofton.
London Daily Post
April 17, 1989
Arts & Letters Section

* * *

“Letter for you, sir.”

Benedict Arnold waited for the tent flap to be drawn down. It was a warm June night and most of the soldiers were asleep outside, and nothing short of Napoleon’s army charging the camp itself would’ve disturbed them.

After two days of marching and coming within twenty miles of Portsmouth, the Americans had found Napoleon; or, to be more precise, Napoleon had found them. The English scouts had reported on an already entrenched twenty thousand–man French army near the city. To the English and Americans’ great vexation, there were even more French troops pouring in. Washington wisely called a halt to all movement while there were still a few hours of sunlight. Both the American/English and French armies seemed content to wait for morning rather than risk a night engagement. And though most of Washington’s army was now blissfully in Morpheus’s embrace, as per usual, they’d kept their shoes on and guns at the ready.

“Ah, Colonel Arnold,” said Washington, looking up from a stack of maps. “The men have the campfires going?”

“Yes, General,” answered Benedict, pulling up a stool in front of Washington’s table.

“Enjoying your new rank, Colonel?” asked Washington with a slight twinkle in his eye.

Benedict, who’d been a general in the American army since 1775, had been forced to accept a demotion when the colonial troops had been incorporated into the British army—but only for the duration of the current campaign. Still, it rankled, which was why Washington couldn’t help himself.

“Typical British insolence, General. Though there does seem to be a little less of that now.”

Washington nodded. “You mentioned a letter.”

Benedict reached into his coat pocket and slowly withdrew it. When Washington saw the seal, he gave pause. Benedict extended the letter across the pile of maps. Washington took it, made quick work of the seal, and began to read.

To my friend and brother in liberty, the great George Washington,

From his most humble servant, Napoleon Bonaparte of France:

Greetings and good health. I offer my congratulations. You are clearly cleverer than these shopkeepers who fancy themselves generals. I knew that it had to be you when my scouts told me a column was marching straight for the city—a city I myself had determined to take many weeks ago. Part of me would be honored to do battle with a warrior of great renown. History would record our battle for all time. But, my friend, it would hardly be an equal contest. You are outnumbered three to one by the finest soldiers in Europe. I am sure that your troops are more than adequate for the needs of fighting Indians and Spaniards. But even if the numbers were with you, I must point out that I have talent for winning in difficult situations that surpasses even your well-deserved reputation. I mean no disrespect; I only wish to clarify the situation honestly so you will consider my offer without false perceptions.

My dear General Washington, why are you here? You should be in your country, the United Colonies of America, which should of right be the United States of America. If ever a country earned freedom, it is yours. Soon it will come to you as a divine gift. God meant for America to be free, and it will be as soon as England is conquered. Make no mistake; I will conquer this accursed island, and then America will break away as naturally as a lion cub fending for itself upon the death of its mother. When that happens, your new country will need you and your army to help guide it to its proper place in the world: the second of many new republics to do away with the old monarchies of the past. What good will it do your people to fight a battle you cannot win for a decrepit nation that attempted to subvert your liberties by force and only by your force was ultimately stopped?

My dear General Washington, I beseech thee: go home. There will be no battle tonight, and if you leave in the morning, I will do nothing to hinder you. Your ships await you at Plymouth. The British forces are waiting in London for an attack that I’m sure you’re well aware I never planned to make. What is left of the British fleet is in the English Channel. All you now need do to secure your nation’s freedom is refuse to fight another nation’s battle. It is just like the British to use American lives in a hopeless cause. Don’t be fooled, General. Go home, my friend, to the just country only you can make.

Your most obedient servant,

N.

Washington put down the letter and heaved a large sigh. He lifted his head, and his probing eyes were met by Benedict’s look of concern.

“Where did you get this, Benedict?”

“As my desire is American independence, General, I have made contact with certain gentlemen who would desire the same.”

“I see,” was all Washington said to Arnold as he picked up the letter once more. “Call the others.” This time, Washington did not look his friend in the eyes.

* * *

The five men huddled around the trestle table in the tent. The space was very cramped, but no one seemed to mind being ears to elbow with his neighbor. They all slowly read the letter and then passed it on from one to another in stunned silence. By the time the letter had gone through all the men—Lee, Hamilton, Green, Arnold, and then back to Washington—the disquiet in the command tent was total. Hamilton cleared his throat to speak but then lapsed back into an uncharacteristic silence.

“It’s what we always wanted, isn’t it?” asked Nathaniel Green.

“Then, suh,” added Lee, “why do I feel like I need a bath?”

“American Liberty is at stake here, gentlemen,” added Benedict. “Something we have gotten into the mud for in the past. For the first time, we can be free of the British. Think of it: no more parliamentary commissions or King’s agents or a British navy as wont to seize our ships as to protect them. No more waiting for the King to approve our choice of governors—that we elected as free men!” Benedict paused for a moment, slowly turning his head in order to meet everyone’s eyes. He tried to stand, but due to the confines of the tent was only able to hover over the table. “Finally, good sirs, our own flag, our own laws, and by God, our own nation! We can be free! This is an historic opportunity,” he finished, sitting down. “I strongly suggest we act on it.”

“But at what price?” asked Hamilton in a voice that was as quiet as Benedict’s was loud. No one in the room mistook Hamilton’s lack of resonance for lack of resolve.

“We’ll be called cowards,” warned Green, “but they’ve been calling us that since Lexington and Concord…”

“…when we blew them to bits from behind the beautiful stone fences of New England,” added Lee, slapping his palm down on the table. A spate of laughter worked through the room with the exception of Washington, though even he managed to twitch a brief smile. The men quieted down as the looks of surprise from only a moment before were soon replaced by something altogether different—a politician’s calculating gaze. A decision of such magnitude could not be commanded, Washington knew, but rather would need to be put to a vote. Benedict, with the slight bow of his head, seemed ready to do just that when a small voice wormed its way in from the outside.

“General Washington, sir?”

All heads turned towards the squeak emanating from the entrance.

“Come in, young Williams,” said Washington, eyes radiating a grandfatherly warmth. The boy poked his head in first, then slipped in. He tried to salute and take off his cap at the same time but only managed to knock his cap off in the process. He finally did succeed in the salute—after a fashion.

“Permission to report, General,” said the boy.

“Permission granted, Mr. Williams.”

“Sir, I’ve got seven boys here and one girl, but she knows the way to Portsmouth as good as the rest, I reckon, even if she is a girl—and you did say to get the best.”

Washington smiled at the lad’s apology, nodding for him to continue.

“Also,” Williams said, “she knows how to ride ’n has a horse all her own, so I thought she should go with the Major, sir.”

Washington nodded once more. “You’ve done well, Mr. Williams. So well, in fact, that I’m putting you in charge of the scouts.”

William’s eyes lit up, and he now stood more stiffly, soldier-like.

“My aide,” continued Washington, “will see to it that you have whatever supplies you need. Make sure your scouts are well fed and that you have blankets.”

The boy nodded vigorously.

“They should also rest now, if they can.” The General indicated over to his aide. “Lieutenant Bergen will get you what you need for your men,”—Washington allowed a half smile—“and girl.”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed the boy, prancing out of the tent like a child who’d just won an entire barrel of rock candy. The men all heard him running off, excitedly shouting orders towards his new “command.”

Once more the mood shifted as an awkward silence made its awful presence felt. The letter, which had earlier commanded so much attention, now stood untouched—unlooked-at, even—accusing. Benedict surrendered the vote to the moment. Like Washington, he’d need full and unstinting support, which now seemed to fade away, tethered to the distant echo of William’s footsteps.

“Alexander,” asked Washington.

Hamilton brought his troubled eyes up towards his commanding officer.

Washington eyed him coolly. “You asked a question before.”

Hamilton nodded.

“Will you please repeat it?”

Hamilton looked nervously from one face to another, to the men who were his friends, his compatriots, his family. He was met with a round of blank stares.

“What is the price of our freedom?” repeated Hamilton. This time, though, the words were lifeless. Even Hamilton’s studied passion had succumbed to the pervading silence.

Washington nodded with his entire torso. “Indeed, Alexander, everyone. What would it really cost us?”

The rhetorical nature of the question kept all mouths firmly shut.

“It would cost us nothing, gentlemen.”

The gathered warriors’ eyes darted back and forth, speaking with a sort of nervous energy that their mouths dared not utter—was Washington really going to take Napoleon up on his offer to abandon the mother country, to put aside his heretofore stentorian code of honor, to abandon the boy officer he’d only just recently promoted?

“We could pick up and leave right now,” continued Washington, “and really, who would blame us? Certainly not the British; they’re well versed in such skullduggery.”

Tepid laughter momentarily filled the tent—sweet release from the rising tension.

“Oh, they may hate us for such treachery, but even they would understand. So who, dare I ask, is going to go out there and tell young Mr. Williams that we are leaving?” Washington looked pointedly at the gathered war council, but of them, only Benedict held his gaze. You would at that, Mr. Arnold, thought Washington.

“You see, gentlemen,” continued Washington, “when we had to take our freedom, that we could do. To wrest it away from Britain on the field of battle—again, that we could do. But we had our chance, gentlemen,”—Washington’s eyes suddenly narrowed—“had it and did not take it. It pains me to this very day, this very hour, that that was the course of action we chose to take. I wish that we’d declared our independence along with our rights, that we’d sundered the rotting umbilical cord that once sustained us. But we did not! We remained a part of the British Empire, however tenuous and fragile that connection may be. And now,”—Washington’s eyes regarded the letter—“this. A chance to truly be free. But not a freedom won in battle, paid for in blood. Rather, a freedom purchased in shame, a bribe to look away as England is invaded. Our freedom bought with their subjugation.”

Washington reached across the table and drew the letter in towards himself. “I think we would find that too high a price to pay, even for so precious a gift.”

“But America!” implored Arnold.

Washington’s lips pushed up against his mouth. “Like this, Benedict? For this price?”

“Yes and yes, General. It is a precious gift, and need I remind you, has been purchased for far worse a price than what is being asked of us.”

The general had heard enough. He looked over to Hamilton.

“Mr. Hamilton, what say ye?”

“Nay.”

“Mr. Green?”

“Nay, General Washington.”

“Mr. Lee?”

“Suh, I fight—and have always fought—with honor. I could not abide by the offer in that letter any more than I could leave that boy or the others like him to be conquered.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘Nay,’ then, Henry?”

Henry’s lips formed into a playful grin. “I ’spec so, General.”

At last, Washington turned to the lone detractor. “Benedict, what say you?”

“I have no love of the British nor hatred of the French, but as we must be united in our endeavors, I, too, vote nay.”

Washington smiled and then spoke in reassuring tones to his friend. “We will find another way, Benedict—one that will allow us to sleep better at night, one that will not wrap an anchor of shame around the collective neck of future generations.”

Benedict bowed his head slightly.

“Mr. Hamilton,” continued Washington, sliding the letter back across the table, “you are to take this letter and burn it. Make sure no one—and I mean no one—ever sees it again.”

Hamilton nodded, picked up the letter, and slid it into his waistcoat.

“Gentleman,” continued Washington, “I must impress upon you the absolute secrecy of this evening’s events. This letter was never here. We never talked of it. We never heard of it.”

“And what if Napoleon chooses an opposite tact?” asked Nathaniel. “What if he chooses to publicize it for his own ends?”

“I’m really not sure what good could come of it from his perspective—after all, we turned down his invitation to dance. However, your point is well received, Nathaniel. If the little general chooses to disclose the letter and its contents, then our united response shall be that we never received it.”

The warriors nodded their ascent.

“Then without further ado,” said Washington, pushing his chair out from the table, “there is a battle to prepare for.”

Everyone stood, bowed respectfully, and made their exit into the unusually quiet night.

Washington stood at the tent’s entrance, watching as his council fanned out, drawing larger assemblages of subordinates around them as they did, all fast-moving comets with ever-expanding tails. It was the frenzy before battle. He knew he shouldn’t like it, knew that the taste of death which now so energized the camp would, on the morrow, do its wretched best to dispirit it.

Washington took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled the moist night air. A half smile etched the corner of his mouth as he spoke into the darkness. “Come in, Major Wellesley.”

The major stepped from out of the shadows, a look of consternation plastered across his face. “How did you know?”

“I thought I heard someone and was praying it was you,” answered Washington, inviting the officer into his tent. “What did you gather?”

“Everything,” he answered tersely. Washington nodded. “Then I must ask of you the same thing I asked of my men.”

Wellesley’s left eyebrow cinched upwards.

“I presume,” continued Washington, “you understand the gravity of the situation—and how critical it is we keep this little conversation to ourselves.”

“Yes, General, I do—more than your men, I think. The question is, will they keep it quiet?”

“Quiet enough, I pray.”

Wellesley’s rigid posture slackened, and his head sunk slightly between his two broad shoulders. “Thank you,” he barely managed, “for what you did. The British people will never know how much they owe you, General Washington, but rest assured: for what’s it’s worth, you have earned my unbending loyalty.”

“Do not lay thanks at my door, Major. If you must, lay them at the humble dwelling of Mr. Williams.”

On Wellesley’s look of confusion, Washington added, “Till the lad entered, I was inclined to accept Mr. Bonaparte’s offer.”

* * *

The Battle of Plymouth was typical of those fought during that period, even if waged in two wholly different styles. The Americans, as usual, were peripatetic—always on the move, always deceptive. The French relied on the tried and true: attacking en masse with the column. It should also be noted that both generals were masters of their game, and as such, the Battle of Plymouth turned out to be a set piece for the entire era, one that would be replayed countless times and argued over in pubs, clubs, gaming tables, and simulated reality engines ad infinitum.

—Introduction to General History:
The Battle of Plymouth as seen through the eyes of Washington and Napoleon
Charles Washington Stanfield
London Press, 2009

* * *

By one o’clock in the morning, the American army was once again on the move. The British cavalry, who’d only just joined them, had never seen anything quite like it. For an army of that size to simply arise, pack all it needed into a few wagons, and depart so quickly was unheard of; that it had been done in such relative silence bordered on miraculous. What the British cavalry didn’t know was that the comportment they stood in awe of was honed to perfection against their own army by their once-enemy, General George Washington.

Soon after the Declaration of Rights had been signed back in July of 1776, the British invaded New York with 35,000 men. The colonies had only been able to raise 20,000 men, all under Washington’s command. Twice in that campaign the British had cut Washington off and readied themselves to deliver a deathblow, and twice the crafty general had simply vanished, moving his entire army in the middle of the night to a defensible position. That stealth had forced the British to load up their ponderous armies in slow pursuit. At one point, with only 2,000 men left, Washington organized and moved his “army” at night for an attack on Trenton. The brash attack had raised the spirit of the colonies and saved the American cause until the victories of Brandywine and Saratoga, with a newly swelled army, had finally put an end to the war in favor of the Colonies. The Trenton victory had been the result of an extremely mobile army launched from behind a retreat—a lesson Washington never forgot.

The general cut a striking figure, even in the dead of night. His silver-brown hair was pulled back and tied in a queue. Though cloaked in shadows, the white-and-blue waistcoat of the Continental Army looked resplendent on the general’s wide, six-foot, four-inch frame. Even the waistcoat’s pewter buttons seemed to dance to the movement of Washington’s body, struck by wisps of moonlight that had forced their way through a canopy of angry black clouds. Only the sounds of wagon wheels turning, legs tramping, and the occasional whinny of a horse broke through the interminable silence.

Wellesley had finally had enough. “What are we doing?” he whispered tersely.

Washington turned to face the major. There was no life in his eyes. It was, thought Wellesley, as if they were already at the battle, already watching the sacrificial slaughter of mangled bodies and severed limbs.

“Finding a better place to fight,” answered Washington. “This is an open field too far from Plymouth.” Washington then turned to look behind him and then looked over to Wellesley with raised brow. “Napoleon was right.”

“General?”

“If we’d chosen to fight on this field, he would have enveloped and crushed us in a flanking attack.”

Wellesley nodded slowly. “So we’re running away, then.”

“We are running towards,” corrected Washington.

After two minutes of riding silently in near-total darkness, Wellesley could contain himself no longer. “Yes, but towards what?”

Washington waited until the admonitions of quiet had died down before whispering back. “I’ll know when we get there.”

* * *

By the early dawn, the French awoke to see that the American army was gone and its camp abandoned. After the revelry of having achieved a bloodless first victory subsided, their army began preparing for what all expected to be a quick march followed by an easy conquest. After all, an enemy that ran in the face of battle was no enemy to fear; it was an enemy—if such a word could even be ascribed to such cowardice—to hunt and slaughter. Only Napoleon remained uneasy. He kept eyeing his maps nervously, repeatedly placing his index finger on the worn map where he thought Washington should be—where he, Napoleon, would have been. No, he thought, Washington is far too cunning an adversary to come this far only to flee. Though the arguments Napoleon’s officers had made were sound—that Washington had arrived too late and knew his cause was hopeless; that the British had not supplied sufficient reinforcements for the American to consider going up against someone of Napoleon’s stature and obvious superiority—the French general still paced nervously in his quarters, cracking his knuckles obsessively, tapping at various junctures along the routes of his various maps.

The sound of hooves thrashing towards his tent offered some release. There was news, of course. And that news would either increase the tension the French general always felt before battle or dissipate it, as his staff seemed to be betting on. Napoleon took his seat behind the ornate desk “borrowed” from a local aristocrat and puffed out his shoulders and chest, keeping his eye firmly on the tent flaps. He listened patiently as the guards questioned the messenger and timed to the second his assistant’s call to him.

“Yes?” asked Napoleon.

“Message for you, Excellency.”

“Come.”

The young officer entered the tent, bowed, and then proffered the document. Napoleon took it from the major’s outstretched hand and then removed the wax seal. The General’s penetrating blue eyes flittered across the page from under an arched brow, and as they did, his mouth formed itself into a half scowl. It seemed the British cavalry were blocking the road between him and Plymouth.

* * *

Margaret Thatcher was elected Chancellor today, making her the first woman ever to hold this post. The votes will now go to the House of Electors, where they will formalize the results. Although Ms. Thatcher’s victory is a stunning break with tradition, the Chancellor-elect has signaled that she will rule in conservative Whig fashion. To that end, Ms. Thatcher has indicated that she intends to revive the tradition of newly elected Chancellors going to Arnold & Hamilton Hill to lay a wreath of flowers. The ceremony will be televised on all major channels and is open to the public.

—U.E.P. news release, November 7, 1980

* * *

Wellesley, leading a group of officers, rode up to the top of a small hill where General Washington had been sitting comfortably on his horse, scanning the horizon.

“He knows we’re here,” said Wellesley, eyes wide, alert, “and he’s marching,”—Wellesley glanced back over his shoulder—“fast!”

Washington was sure that the impetuous major had observed the situation firsthand even though he’d expressly forbad Wellesley from putting his or any of his officer’s lives needlessly at risk. It had been Washington’s unearthly patience, as well as a tight grasp on the reigns of his men’s intemperate nature, that had kept the general and his armies around for so long. Washington sighed, knowing it would be hard to train these “new” recruits on the merits of living to fight another day. Still, he couldn’t begrudge them their exuberance; he, too, had been young once. He, too, remembered what it was to be enshrouded in the warm and euphoric embrace of immortality.

The general acknowledged the group with a measured tip of the head. “How much time, Major?”

“By my reckoning, sir, two hours.” The men behind Wellesley all nodded.

Washington’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”

“My men are attempting to delay them,” interjected one of the other officers. “Firing from behind fences, the tops of hills…”

“…then we ride away and do it again at the next turn in the road,” offered another.

“You know,” added Wellesley with a good-natured grin, “American style.”

The old general’s lips curled into a churlish grin. “Indeed. How goes it?”

“Damnably well,” replied Wellesley, shaking his head. “They would’ve been here by now otherwise.”

Washington pulled a scroll out from his coat. The swiftness of its retrieval and unfurling was indicative of just how many times he’d performed the action over the course the past few hours and over the course of a lifetime. As Wellesley and his men looked on, Washington reviewed the sketches and battle plan he’d only that morning drawn up with his staff. They were, he mused, an almost exact copy of those drawn up for the defense of Breeds Hill in Boston, Massachusetts—against the very army he was now in cahoots with. Though Breeds Hill had been one of the few battles Washington had not participated in, it was one he’d studied assiduously when he’d assumed command of the Continental Army. He refolded and slipped the document back into his coat with the same insouciant ease as he’d retrieved it. He then rubbed his eyes. One more battle, and then I can sleep, he thought. Hell, I’ll sleep for a week, by God! Washington’s eyes opened. The officers were staring blankly at him but with obvious patience.

“My apologies, Major; I seem to have been momentarily swallowed whole by the preparations.” He lightly tapped the side of his coat, where he’d only just tucked the plans.

“None necessary, General. The battle is in two hours. May I suggest you get some rest?”

“You may,” answered Washington with dismissive charm.

“Really, sir. It would…”

“I can rest after the battle, Major.” Washington’s tone indicated he would brook no further argument; the major promptly ignored this.

“Which we will lose if the commanding general is mentally incapacitated. My God, sir, you’ve been going nonstop since you disembarked nearly three days ago. If in that time you’ve had even three hours’ sleep, I would be amazed. Two hours will clear some of the fog…”

“And give us a chance?” Washington asked.

“Indeed, sir. You yourself have stated that when it comes to marching and digging in, yours is the best army in the world. So I dare say, let them do their job. Oh, look.” Wellesley’s head turned slightly, noseindicating direction. “There is a tree not ten yards away. There’s even a bit of shade and,” he added, “even a blanket.”

There was no blanket.

Wellesley’s eyes became arrows as he fixed his gaze on one of his subordinates. “I said, even a blanket.”

Two officers quickly snapped to attention. They dismounted their horses, one with blanket in hand, the other with a cloak. They both raced over to the tree, and within seconds, the makeshift bed was ready.

A small laugh escaped Washington’s lips as he watched the goings-on.

Once more, Wellesley indicated the tree. “Go…sir.”

“Is that an order, Major?”

“Oh, absolutely, General,” answered the Major with a grin. “You know we aristos become disconsolate unless given some hapless Colonials to order about.”

A broad smile worked its way across Washington’s weary face. He laughed, shrugged, and dismounted. “Very well, then,” he said as he headed over to the tree. He sat down on the blanket and brushed off his knees. He sat there for a second as Wellesley stared down from his horse disapprovingly. Washington laughed once more and stretched his large body out on the blanket. He was asleep almost before his head hit the rolled-up cloak.

* * *

Washington awoke to the smell of sulfur and the sound of cannon fire. Whether because of experience or simply because his nerves had long since been frayed far beyond caring, he didn’t jump to. Not that his old bones would or even could do such an outlandish thing. As was his wont, he simply propped himself slowly up on his elbows, allowing his eyes to flitter open. He viewed his body stretched out: the well-worn jacket, familiar waistcoat and boots. As he pulled himself up to a sitting position, he mused that in his sixty-six years of life he felt he’d not bathed for at least thirty of them. Still, when his aide de camp approached, Washington was fully cogent. He looked past the aide and saw that the sun was well up on the horizon and that his men had done an admirable job of digging in. Three lines of well-fortified pits now surrounded their small hill. The trenches were braced with trees—small and few as compared to those found in the Americas—and, of course, rocks, of which there seemed to have been more than enough. The only things missing, thought Washington with an understanding smile, were soldiers. Or, to be more precise, soldiers primed and at the ready. Most of those surrounding him and even those manning the works were sound asleep. After three days of Herculean effort, they’d finally managed to exhaust themselves, and not even a French army positioning itself for attack would wake them up.

Washington stood, noting just how painful that simple act had become. He then requested a telescope from the aide, and one was produced immediately. He brought it to his eye and scanned the French positions. As he did, he heard the rustle of footsteps behind him and noted that Hamilton, Arnold, and Lee were now also standing by his side. Washington gave them a cursory nod and went back to scoping the lines. Napoleon, Washington saw, was arranging his thirty thousand men in three columns of ten thousand each, to the left, right, and center of the American-held hill. That would mean that an attack was at least an hour away and, with any luck, possibly two. The General would let his men sleep until the bugles sounded or the French began dropping shells into their camp.

“Colonel Hamilton,” said Washington, handing the telescope back to the aide, “does this not remind you of the Battle of the Swamp?”

Hamilton’s eyes sparkled at the memory as a brief smile escaped his parched lips. “They were all battles of the swamp in Florida, General—or so they seemed.”

Washington nodded, amused. “Yes, I guess they would. I am, of course, referring to the Spaniard’s night attack.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Hamilton, brow narrowed. “They were going to catch us by surprise.”

“Gentlemen,” interrupted Wellesley, now taking up a position next to Lee, “I am afraid the only thing I remember about the whole Spanish-Colonial War is that the Crown was against it and you chaps had the audacity to win it without our help.”

Washington smiled easily. “It was a little more complicated than that, Major.”

“Really?”

“Life in the colony of Georgia,” added Arnold, “had become untenable due to the constant attacks by some of the Indian tribes, including a split in the rather large and influential Cherokee Nation.”

Wellesley’s eyes grew wide, whether as a result of the imparted information or the uptick of munitions being traded between the two armies. It was hard not to notice the bullets that were starting to buzz about the hill; the sound as they struck the well-turned soil was very much like the errant plunk of thick raindrops prior to a downpour. Washington, as well as the rest of the group that had now formed a protective circle around him, barely acknowledged the pernicious intrusion. There was an aura of complete calm about the place that, Washington knew, emanated from him. Of course, he thought with a wry grin, the fact that half the men are asleep probably has something to do with it.

“I say,” continued Wellesley, “these Indians you speak of,”—the major’s eyes darted over to a particularly dark-skinned group of men who’d taken up a position just a few yards away from where the group had situated itself—“do you mean to tell me that they…” Wellesley couldn’t finish his thought.

Washington chuckled at Wellesley’s unmasked incredulity. The Europeans’ abject fascination for anything Indian related never ceased to amaze him.

“Yes, they, Major,” answered Washington, now eyeing the same group of men Wellesley had just ogled. “Make the best scouts, after all.”

“Well,” added Lee, left eyebrow slightly raised, “the ones not trying to kill us ’n all.”

Wellesley didn’t laugh. “I never have understood the nature of your relationship with the savages.”

“Savages they may be,” answered Washington evenly. “I myself have witnessed a few of their more gruesome attacks—unspeakable,” he uttered in barely a whisper. “But be that as it may, Major, these savages happen to be our savages, and as such, I prefer you refer to them as either soldiers or Indians. As to which—I’ll leave that to your discretion.”

All eyes fixed on Wellesley, whose cheeks flushed momentarily.

“‘Indians’ it shall be, sir.”

Washington nodded. “Very good, Major. The first thing you must realize is that there is no one Indian, much like an Englishman, Frenchman, or American. It’s more like the situation thirty years ago, where we had thirteen separate colonies. Only imagine, if you will, hundreds of colonies, each with their own identity, language, religion, and customs, all of which can best be described as vaguely related.”

“Why, General,” answered Wellesley with an impish grin, “I do believe that you’re describing Europe!”

“In a way I am, Major, and you know how peaceful that continent is.”

Serendipitously, the sound of light cannon fire—mainly of the harassing sort—could be heard coming from behind the Americans’ lines.

“And yet, General,” continued Wellesley, once more glancing furtively over towards the nestled group of dark-skinned men, “they seem to have made peace with you chaps.”

“Some,” interjected Hamilton. “There were those who wanted to come to an accommodation with the Colonies and those who did not. The Cherokee,”—Hamilton indicated towards the men with his head—“are the best example. They’re a vast and advanced tribe in the Georgia colony. Most embraced our way of life, going so far as to adopt our alphabet, farming techniques, and even our religion, of a sort. But that acquiescence caused a particularly vicious civil war.”

“Enter the Spanish,” added Washington, voice thick with disdain.

Hamilton smiled curtly. “They let it be known that any Indian tribe or rebel force willing to do us damage would not only receive a steady supply of advanced and, I might add, free weaponry but would also, should the tide turn against them, receive safe harbor in Florida. We had no choice but to put an end to that meddlesome threat.”

“The Florida invasion?” asked Wellesley.

Washington nodded. “Helped in large part by the likes of those gentlemen you see there. Wasn’t long thereafter that the first Indian delegates to the Continental Congress were sent and seated.”

Wellesley’s eyes lit up once again. “You allow sava—Indians to make your laws?”

Washington gave a half smile. “Well, I would hardly call Congressman Reindeer a savage. His Latin is better than mine.”

“That’s not saying much,” said Arnold with a slight sparkle in his eye.

“Mea Culpa,” retorted Washington, and then continued, “In a democracy, Major, you must represent the people under your control, which most of the Indians are. Had we not let them in, we would’ve had to kill them or drive them out—an unpleasant endeavor by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Much easier to give them a vote,” added Lee, “and then tax the hell out of them.”

Wellesley put his fingers to his chin. “An invaluable insight, sir.”

“Which,” laughed Washington, “we learned at your expense.”

“Ah. The proverbial chicken coming home to roost. Touché, General. You mentioned something about the Battle of the Swamp?”

“Oh, yes. Very similar to this situation, Major. We’d positioned ourselves on a hill, and just like the French are preparing to do now, the Spanish tried to attack us in three columns.”

“Well, not exactly like that,” chimed in Arnold. “The Spaniards were attacking from a swamp at night; they did not outnumber us at all, let alone three to one; and they were exhausted after marching to attack us in a position we’d had a good three days to dig into to. Other than that, it is exactly identical, Major Wellesley.”

“Thank you for clarifying it for me, Colonel Arnold.”

“Always at your service,” answered Benedict in a tone that belied the words.

At that moment, the tempo of the dirt piercing seemed to pick up. The smells of saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal blew through the camp, unseen eddies in a roiling mass of gunpowder. Washington looked around, sniffed the noxious air, and then fixed his gaze on Wellesley.

“Major, you should get going.”

All jocularity within the group vanished with the heightening situation and Washington’s order. The old man, most knew, had a feel for these sorts of things, and most of those present had managed to stay alive by trusting those feelings.

Wellesley saluted stiffly. “At once, General Washington.” Washington returned the salute as the young Brit made his way to a group of horsemen at the base of the hill.

“I don’t believe I’m saying this,” said Benedict, shaking his head ever so slightly, “but I’m actually sorry to see him go.”

“I seem to remember a time,” piped in Colonel Lee, “when watching a redcoat in retreat was all you could ever ask for.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Benedict, glad for the empathy. Then he moaned, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

Henry Lee looked over to Washington. “Are ya sure it whas the best thing to let those two thousand redcoats go, suh?”

“Sadly, Colonel Lee,”—Washington’s mouth drew itself into a perfectly straight line—“yes. They’re cavalry and not well versed in the sort of battle we’re about to fight. Anyone but Napoleon probably would’ve waited a day or two trying to decide what to do next. And maybe the British army, sitting on their asses in London, would’ve been able to join our little party.”

“Not damned likely,” scoffed Benedict.

“Indeed,” confirmed the General. “Pure speculation, of course.”

“Never thought in a million years I’d be sitting on a hill in England actually regretting the British army’s absence!”

“Two for two,” quipped Lee.

Benedict responded with a snarl.

“Hell,” continued Benedict’s tormentor, “I should be taking bets at this point.”

“Way I figure it,” said Nathaniel, “all the frog has to do is leave one third of his army here to block us on this hill and then go and attack Portsmouth with the twenty thousand men under his control.”

“And,” said Washington, “that is exactly what he should do. It’s certainly what I’d do. Portsmouth would be his by the afternoon at the earliest or on the morrow at the latest.”

“I see,” said Benedict.

“I’m not sure that you do, Colonel.”

Benedict tilted his head slightly.

“I’ve studied this man’s campaigns,” continued Washington. “He doesn’t like to split his army. Before any encounter, he’ll spread his troops like jelly over bread, but on the day of battle, he invariably reconstitutes.”

“To what end?” asked Lee.

“Overwhelming force.”

“Doesn’t trust his troops?” asked Benedict.

“More for insurance, I suspect,” answered the General.

All nodded with grim acceptance.

“And I sincerely hope,” continued Washington, “that he stays true to form.”

“Behold,” intoned Hamilton opening his arms in a symbolic gesture that encompassed the gathered warriors, “the martyrs of Portsmouth.”

“Not just yet,” cautioned Washington, who then allowed a mischievous grin to emerge on his weathered face. “Napoleon is a man used to springing surprises; now we’ve gone and turned the tables. And by doing so have both delayed and hampered his efforts.”

“And injured the Frenchie’s pride,” added Hamilton, suddenly aware of the game afoot.

“Now,” continued Washington, “if we can only add a little more insult to the injury, we may just rouse him to an all-out attack.”

“Which is what we want,” said Nathaniel, more curiosity in his voice than conviction.

“Unless you’d like them to secure Portsmouth, Colonel—in which case, our Herculean endeavor will have been for naught. No,” the old warrior said, surveying the fortifications, “history will…must be made here. Destiny insists on it.”

“This insult, suh,” asked Henry, “What exactly did you have in mind?”

In reply, Washington gestured to his aide, Lieutenant Bergen, who saluted and ran off to where the American flag, ordinance zipping around it, flapped angrily atop a long makeshift pole. Bergen gave a command to a sergeant, who removed the stars and stripes and hoisted a Union Jack. An hour later, all three columns of French army attacked.

* * *

“I was created Duke of Wellington by our Majesty himself; was the third Chancellor of the British Empire, serving for two terms; and commanded the British army when we took the Iberian Peninsula away from Napoleon and his brother. I arranged the peace between Napoleonic Europe and ourselves in 1820, helped oversee the beginning of the Suez Canal, and have been befriended by Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria, may she reign forever and a day. This is not even a tenth of my accomplishments, and yet, what is it that almost everyone who meets me for the first time asks? Whether they be simple Kentucky farmers, California miners, Indian princes, and, yes, even the Czar of all the Russians, the question is always the same: You knew HIM? I have always known the ‘him’ to whom they refer, and I have always been proud to say, ‘Yes.’”

—Excerpt from the Duke of Wellington’s last speech, given to the Royal Academy of the Sciences
May 12, 1853.

* * *

“Conserve your ammunition!”

Washington’s order could barely be heard above the din, but somehow the fire reduced markedly as the French pulled back from their second and, rued Washington, even bloodier attempt to take the hill from the Americans. The army likewise was now defending its second line of defense, the first being too mangled and the men too few to defend it properly. But that was the least of Washington’s concerns. The problem was ammunition. The colonial reserve had boarded the transports with enough musket balls and powder to give each man one hundred rounds. It was an absurdly high number for an army going on duty in a foreign country with little prospect of battle and with the intention of being supplied by the host government. If the Americans had been going to battle in Ireland instead of garrison duty in England, he would have carried more. Even a hundred rounds had seemed a lot for patrolling a peaceful countryside. However, Washington had learned over the course of as lifetime that it was best to be over-prepared than simply prepared and so set the numbers high.

“I should have carried a thousand,” he muttered.

Between Napoleon stealing all he could get and the British government shipping all they had to an army now uselessly centralized in London, there was not a lead ball or beaker of powder to be had in all of Southern England except for what the Americans had brought with them. And now what little they had left was being depleted quickly. Washington saw that his men were stripping the dead, both French and American, of any powder and shot they could find, but he knew the lot of it couldn’t hold off the French for long.

It was at that moment that a barely recognizable Lt. Bergen came rushing over to him. The lieutenant's arm was in a makeshift bandage pulled from the fabric of a blood-spattered waistcoat, and his face was covered in grime so thick only the whites of his worried eyes indicated trouble. Saluting clumsily, he said, “General Washington, it’s Colonel Arnold; you’d better hurry.”

Washington’s face registered momentary alarm but then quickly comported itself. Seeing that it would be at least another half hour before the French could launch a serious attack, the general followed his aide up the hill to where the wounded had been moved.

It didn’t take him long to spot his friend. When Arnold saw Washington, his eyes lit up.

“So,” asked Washington with such alacrity it caused his young aide’s brow to cinch upwards, “is this really the day you’ve chosen to die?”

“And defending England, no less!” sputtered Arnold, incensed.

“You survived India and you fought for England then; you’ll live now,” Washington lied.

“I fought for America then. To learn what the…” Coughing mixed with blood interrupted Arnold’s rambling. “…what the British knew of fighting. I figured that I could use it for when we were ready to try again. But we never did.” He wheezed painfully. “General, is…is the surprise ready?”

Washington nodded. “We have them moved, Benedict. We have enough ammunition for one more attack. If we do not break their will now, we’ll be in for a bit of difficulty.”

“You’ll win,” answered Benedict with absolute certainty. “And when you do, you must use your prestige.”

Washington eyed his friend warily. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Arnold’s blackened hand grabbed Washington’s coat sleeve. “Damn it all to hell, General, I don’t have any more time! When you win this battle, the British will owe you. Make them return on the debt—independence! You were right; we couldn’t take it like a thief in the night. But we can win it on the battlefield—on this battlefield. Promise me, General. Promise…” Benedict’s voice faded.

“General, the French…” prodded Lt. Bergen.

“Let them come,” said Washington, watching sadly as his war-weary friend fought his very last battle.

* * *

“I’m worried about young Lafayette, suh.”

“Tell him—and let him know it’s direct from me—that he’ll get his chance. When it comes, he’ll know.”

“I’m not so certain, General Washington. One Virginian gentleman to another, he has a powerful thirst for vengeance.”

Washington’s face was grim but resolute. “It will be quenched this day, Mr. Lee. One way or the other, it will be quenched.”

Colonel Lee saluted and headed back down the hill.

It took the French over an hour to organize the attack. They would’ve done it sooner, but their officers were getting killed almost as soon as they stood up to organize it. The French troops had faced a number of adversaries in their many campaigns, but nothing had prepared them for Kentucky Riflemen. Washington had refrained from using his expert riflemen, partially for honor and partially for effect. Now that the French officers were being dropped piecemeal in front of their soldiers’ eyes, it was bound to plummet their morale. At least, that’s what the old general was hoping. It seemed to be working. Washington looked through his telescope; the French were organizing their attack from farther away, and the more canny officers had taken to lighting small fires, fanning the smoke, and organizing under the limited cover provided. But the stress was showing. After two failed assaults, they were starting to get discouraged. They weren’t used to setbacks of this nature. Washington watched as one of the enemy officers went down screaming, clutching at his leg. The shot had been landed at extreme range and, noted Washington, through the smokescreen. A whoop went up from a group of men not more than ten feet from the general. He noticed a much older one being patted on the back. Washington smiled when he realized who it was.

“Excellent shot, Mr. Boone,” he said with an amiable grin.

“Anything to make the French feel welcome, General.”

At that moment, the sound for a general attack was trumpeted from the French position, and their army rose as a gargantuan beast and suddenly struck with all three columns. Washington quickly made his way down to the front lines, making sure whatever was left of his troops held their fire. The old General waited as the massive French body of crimson, gold, blue, and gray converged on the second American position, a large wall advancing implacably on a small but determined knot of men waiting to die. But, Washington knew, his men were waiting for no such thing; that they were, in fact, waiting to unleash the angel of death rather than receive him. The General looked up to the top of the hill and stared momentarily at the neat rows of canvas-covered logs jutting out from the pulverized ridge, an ominous silhouette against the turbid skyline—death’s harbingers waiting orders to rain down their own indiscriminate salvation from on high. But the crews manning them, like the carved ruses themselves, were only there for show. The real artillery, fifty Howitzer cannons in all, had been quietly moved during the frenzy and confusion of battle and were now in the hands of the same determined knot of men staring into the implacable faces of the approaching enemy. The newly positioned cannons had been arrayed to cause widespread damage. Given what the Howitzers’ normal ordinance had recently been replaced with, their sting would be even more painful. Washington sniffed at the air and stared down the approaching horde. Furtive glances from his own men only added to the pressure. But this was where soldiers were made. This was where Washington knew that he, more than most, excelled. Anyone could plan a battle on paper, but there were precious few who could direct its ineluctable slip into anarchy. The General turned his eyes from the French and fixed his determined gaze on Colonel Hamilton.

“Now, Colonel.”

“Give Fire!” ordered Hamilton, who’d not once taken his eyes off his acting commander through the whole world of muskets, sharpened steel, and the tension-filled clamor of war that had been bearing down on all of them.

A cacophonous symphony of cannon fire, rifle shot, and bloodcurdling screams suddenly erupted. Between the grapeshot—masses of loosely packed metal slugs loaded into canvas bags—shards of glass, rocks, and loose strands of chain exploding from the impossibly close Howitzer array, the first part of the French army simply disappeared into a bloody miasma of smoke, torn flesh, loose appendages, clumps of dirt, and the gut-wrenching wails of the mortally wounded. Yet still the French managed to advance—over the corpses of their comrades—into the American lines. They were immediately met by the jutting bayonets and bullets of the Americans. After what seemed an eternity of fighting, Washington ordered his army to fall back to their third and most heavily fortified position.

The French, finally too weary to advance, started to fall back. Washington, ignoring the pleas of his men to put himself out of harm’s way, watched with great satisfaction as the French began to retreat in abject disarray. The pullback itself was not what gladdened the old general’s heart—rather, it was the way in which it unfolded. In confusion lay victory, and the French seemed very confused indeed. There were all the telltale signs of breakdown: the burgeoning panic and fear, the tossed weapons, the pitched voices battling for authority amongst the survivors, the fear of being so close to death that the cruel winds coursing through the battlefield might very well be the malevolent breath of Azrael himself. Add to that the blessed silence of the one thing that could turn chaos into control: the fife and drum regiment, key to any large army’s orderly movements. All of it, knew Washington, would overtake and ultimately destroy the French before they could pull themselves together. All that was left was deciding when to strike the deathblow. Too soon, and the French might rally; too late, and they’d escape to fight another day. This was where experience counted most, so Washington stood his ground and watched…and waited.

It was then that the old general heard a sound that sent a shiver up his spine—a lone fifer playing somewhere in the distance. The purposeful rhythm was unmistakable—it was a call to retreat. But, prayed Washington, it was only one and perhaps too late. The General knew that his best marksmen were frantically trying to spot the fifer, but with the dust, smoke, and pandemonium on the field, their task would be nigh impossible.

The lone fife was soon joined by another, farther away, but close enough that their combined sounds melded as one. Shortly thereafter, the two fifers were joined by the rhythmic staccato of clacking drums. And that, thought Washington sadly, was that. The French, drilled to perfection, began to act on training rather than instinct. They ceased their cries of panic as order replaced anarchy. The impending rout had just been turned into an orderly retreat.

Washington took a deep breath, pursed his lips tightly together and turned his back on what was supposed to have been a crowning achievement: Napoleon Bonaparte’s ignominious defeat at the hands of “the Great” General George Washington.

“Damn to hell the man with the sense to rouse that fifer!” bellowed Washington as he made his way through the ranks of the wounded and dead. It was then that tragedy struck again. The second he saw the large crowd gathered around the prone figure, he knew, by proximity, who it had to be.

“Alex,” whispered Washington, slowly reaching forward with his hand as if in the reaching he could somehow halt the sad tableau playing out before him. The crowd parted.

“Sir,” offered one of the men choking on his own words, “he…he died bravely.” Washington took off his tricorne and held it to his chest, staring forlornly down at the corpse. “Held off three of the Frogs himself, he did,” sputtered the soldier. “Gave us time to plug the hole in the line…may have saved the army, General, sir. He was, he was…” the man’s voice drifted off when he saw his words were having no effect whatsoever on the stolid figure standing mute over the body of his friend.

Washington finally looked up and around at all those who’d gathered to pay their respect. “Colonel Hamilton was a hero. Let us see that his sacrifice was not in vain.”

* * *

The Emperor never explained that battle. What possessed him to make that third charge? Not in all his memoirs or discussions with his friends, heirs, or family was he ever heard to utter so much as a word about it. Although he would go on to achieve much greater victories of far more significance, that battle, above all others, was the one that seemed to haunt him the most.

—From The Battles of the Emperor
Col. Renee-Javier Ternot, Retired
Paris: Imperial War Academy, 1877

* * *

Of Washington’s original command staff, only Nathaniel Green and Light-horse Henry Lee remained. And of the ten thousand hearty souls who ventured forth from the Americas to help their British brethren, only seven thousand survived.

“If there be a hundred shot left in the whole army,” groused Nathaniel, spitting a chunk of mud out of the left side of his mouth, “I will be surprised.”

Washington acknowledged the comment with a sidelong grin. “And the men?”

“In remarkably high spirits for an army on the verge of oblivion, sir,” he said. “Damn! If we’d only packed twenty-five more rounds per man, we could win this battle!”

“Victory,” groused the old general, whose mien was now one of pure determination, “is still within reach, Colonel.”

Nathaniel shook his head, surveying the wanton destruction. “But how, sir?”

“First things first. See that the last of the shot is given to our Kentuckians. They’ll make every musket ball count, I am sure. Second, get to your men and be seen. Let them know that we have a plan to win this.”

Lee shot Washington a look.

Washington returned his gaze with a knowing grin. “Go, gentlemen.”

It took over two hours for the French to organize their last attack. Though Washington saw immediately that they had no fight left in them, that in fact, they were preparing to die, it offered little solace. The French discipline was damnably holding as they marched slowly up the American-held hill to the beat of fife and drum. Washington kicked at the dirt and grimaced, wracking his brain for a way to stop the assault. He could feel the eyes of his men upon him, smell their fear and desperation. It was only when the armies were within musket range that the General’s answer arrived in the clarion blast of a distant bugle.

* * *

“I was at Wellesley’s charge.”

—Inscription on William Williams’ tombstone.

* * *

Washington turned in the direction of the sound and was astonished by what poured into view: thousands of cavalry charging out of the west and towards the base of the hill. Despite the unceasing, rhythmic pace set by their musicians, the French hesitated for a mere moment as they looked back at what was coming. But that moment was enough for Washington to work with. He knew the French only needed a push to fall off the ledge and just as suddenly knew exactly what that push would be.

“Fix bayonets!” he roared over the din.

Washington drew his sword, and his command was repeated up and down the American lines.

“Charge!”

As if possessed, the Americans poured out and ran directly at the stunned French, yelping like the Indians they’d fought with and against for so long. The French, only moments before a cohesive and unrelenting wall of steel and grit, were soon a mob trying to escape the battlefield by any means necessary. The few officers who did try to regain control were quickly trampled underfoot. The British cavalry helped out by driving against any stragglers they could find. In fifteen minutes, the field belonged to the Americans, Napoleon was nowhere to be found, and Major Wellesley rode up to find Washington leaning tiredly on his sword in the middle of a cheering army.

“I heard,” Wellesley said, grinning through a mud-spattered face, “you were having a party. When I found some friends coming down from London, I figured we just had to attend. I hope you don’t mind that they came uninvited.”

“You and your friends are always welcome, Major,” answered Washington, surveying the battle’s aftermath. “Now we must get this army to Portsmouth while the French are still running. By the time they recover, no channel port will be vulnerable, and the London army should be here to finish off the remainder.” Washington then stood up and placed his sword back into its scabbard. “Let us away, gentlemen.”

* * *

Napoleon’s disastrous outing had little effect on France as a whole. Not even the abandonment of his army nor his hurried—and many have argued, humiliating—escape on a fishing boat in the dead of night could bring the French to try their most famed and beloved warrior. Instead, Napoleon was declared a hero who had brought real and sustained battle to England for the first time since the Hundred Years’ war. Not only that, but he’d made the damned English howl. Losing to Washington, the polity seemed to have decided, was acceptable. Soon Napoleon would rule an empire that would unite Europe from the Pyrenees to the Russian border for the next one hundred years. But the changes that Napoleon’s outing had caused in the British Empire were nothing short of astounding!

—Excerpts from Britain & France: Eternal Enemies
Trevor Kent
San Francisco: Harper Press, 1932

* * *

It had been a very busy week for Washington. He’d had to secure the channel ports and organize the units coming from London. Although he was not in command of the British army, he was made commander of all British forces in Southern England for the purpose of mopping up those French still left. That task had been quickly assigned to young Lafayette and Major—soon to be Colonel—Wellesley. Of the ten thousand men Washington had come to England with, a little less than eight thousand would be returning. And of those, only about six thousand were fit for combat. But the prospect of renewed battle, Washington knew, was as unlikely a prospect as…As what? he thought to himself. As Napoleon invading England? The thought brought a knowing smile to the old fox’s lips.

To great fanfare and excitement, ten British ships of the line soon appeared at Portsmouth under the command of Admiral Nelson. Washington made sure to be there for the Admiral’s disembarking, and when the two finally shook hands, it was to thunderous applause; the channel was secure and England was safe. Not coincidentally, it was also on that day that a letter came relieving Washington of his command. He’d been summoned to London to greet and advise his royal majesty, King George III of Great Britain, as well as receive the gratitude and rewards of his service to the crown.

What should have been a quick trip of at most three days turned into an exhausting weeklong extravaganza. The general, too polite to turn down the pleas of those wishing to do him honor, was determined to abide by every town’s request to pay a brief visit. Inevitably, Washington would be showered with gifts in the form of food, clothing, and other sundry items—all of which were quickly distributed to the soldiers. And because he was traveling with his guard of Kentucky riflemen with their long muskets and his exotic cadre of Indian scouts, the crowds seemed always abuzz with excited murmurings. But it soon became apparent that the general’s largess would be viewed as an impertinence to the King. Washington, in military-like fashion, soon found himself sneaking around numerous population centers in the dead of night.

By the time he arrived in London, the general was spent, almost as exhausted from the revelry as from the actual battle itself. Having no patience or energy for the King’s court, Washington begged off staying at the palace, choosing instead to reside at Ben Franklin’s old quarters in London. The General had used his poor health as an excuse to turn down the palace invitation. That excuse had been readily accepted by the King, not only because it had been politic to do so but also because it hadn’t been far off the mark—Washington was old and in questionable health. At Franklin’s residence, Washington did nothing but sleep, eat, and write letters. At first they were to the Continental Congress, giving an accounting of his campaign; then to his wife, assuring her of his health and safety; last but not least, he wrote to his friends. On the third day, the old man awoke only to be informed that he would have a royal audience with His Majesty the King that very afternoon. The timing of the meeting indicated he’d be having tea with the royal family as well. He was having a suit fitted out when he heard a gentle knocking at the door. Jeffery, one of his former slaves, excused himself to answer. He returned in a moment.

“General, a gentleman wishes to see you.”

Washington’s brow raised slightly, but he remained stiffly in place as his tailor measured his arms with punctilious resolve.

“He did not say who he was,” continued Jeffrey, “only that he hopes you remember his father, whose public declarations of friendship for the Colonies bore no equal.”

A smile worked its way across Washington’s face. “I think I know of this gentleman, Jeffery.” Washington looked down at the tailor and nodded. The tailor bowed gracefully and began to collect his things.

The general, lowering his arms and padding down his shirt, then looked back to Jeffrey. “Send him in.”

Moments later, a middle-aged gentleman entered. He was dressed in a simple coat, white shirt, brown leggings, and white socks. His shoes looked serviceable but not extravagant. He could, thought Washington, very easily be mistaken for a hardworking clerk looking to improve himself and not the son of an Earl that he was.

“Mr. Pitt, it is an honor to meet you. I knew of your father well.”

William Pitt, known as “the Younger,” tipped his head respectfully towards Washington. “It is I who am honored, sir, and I thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

On Washington’s brief look, both Jeffrey and the tailor exited the room. Jeffrey pulled the door quietly closed behind him.

Washington bade Pitt to the parlor chairs. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, sir?”

“May I first offer you my congratulations on a magnificent victory?” said Pitt, taking the offered chair across from where the General now sat. “There are many in government today who are glad that you’re a loyal subject—”

“As opposed to the successful leader of a revolution?” interrupted Washington with a bit of the sprite in his eyes.

Pitt nodded, lips upturned.

“No doubt,” continued Washington, “many of those same men were calling for my execution not so long ago.”

“No doubt, sir, but in that regard they were about as successful in getting your head as was Napoleon.”

Washington grunted appreciatively. “To business, Mr. Pitt.”

Pitt, unused to the American penchant for forthrightness, looked somewhat taken aback. But he quickly recovered.

“I was wondering if, per chance, you would consider entertaining a notion of mine.”

“And that notion would be?”

Pitt smiled demurely. “Could you go to the window, please?”

Washington stared at Pitt dubiously. The window’s shuttering had been purposeful, offering the General a modicum of peace and quiet from the large and ever-present crowd that always seemed to be camped below. What light Washington did have, which seemed to him plenty enough, had come from the few skylights above.

Pitt was already on his feet, beckoning the general. Washington, seeing the earnestness with which the Younger moved, reluctantly unfolded himself from the chair, made his way across the room, and pulled the curtains aside. The sudden flood of extra light was accompanied by the deafening roar of a mob. Everywhere he looked, he saw the street filled with people standing shoulder to shoulder. Men, women, and children were hanging out of windows, standing on boxes while waving and shouting in a cacophonous roar. When Washington waved back, the roar seemed to double in volume. He looked back at Pitt querulously.

“Perhaps a small speech, sir.”

Washington made to protest, but Pitt seemed adamant. “It’s all part of the notion, sir. I beg you for my father’s sake.”

Washington sighed and once again faced the crowd. He managed a slight smile and motioned with his hand to speak. The roar subsided to a murmur as the old general cleared his throat. He gave them his usual stump speech, thanking them for their bravery during the recent difficulties and reminding them that it was their tenacious defense of London that had given him the time he’d needed to win his small victory. And finally he bade them farewell, exhorting them to go about their business as he would soon be meeting with the King. With one last wave, he closed the window and drew the curtain. The noise was so great that even the closed window could not prevent the din from entering into his modest chamber. Washington motioned for Pitt to follow him into an adjoining sitting room. With the door firmly closed, they could once again continue their conversation in relative quietude.

“And the point?” asked Washington, sinking into the sofa with an exasperated sigh.

“That they love you, of course.”

The look on Washington’s face acted as a cool rebuke to Pitt.

“Yes, yes…” stuttered Pitt, “I realize I’m overstating the obvious. But implicit in that love, sir…and perhaps what you fail to realize…is that it is not wholly for you…the love, that is…but rather for what you represent.”

The last words tumbled out of Pitt like crumbs emptied from a pocket. The young man waited, face taut, gauging the general’s response. Washington’s brow had narrowed, and his shrewd eyes took stock of the Younger, but the old General kept his tongue.

Encouraged, Pitt continued, “Your name has always been associated with freedom, General. For many, present company included, it was believed that the cause of freedom both for the English and the Americans would be best defended in your hands.”

Washington eyed Pitt warily. The young man was wading into dangerous waters.

“That belief,” said Pitt, either oblivious to or uncaring of the consequences as he delivered his coup de grâce, “has now been made manifest.”

Washington leaned forward on the sofa, straightening his back, making his already broad shoulders that much more formidable. “You do realize the precariousness of your position.”

Pitt nodded stiffly but said nothing.

“Look at the little fellow, Napoleon,” continued Washington, moving off the topic of treason. “All he needs is a couple more victories to make himself ruler of all France.”

“You are no Napoleon, good sir. And it’s patently obvious to any that have followed your storied career you would sooner live on a hill in China as become a king.”

An uneasy smile appeared on the general’s lips at the truth of Pitt’s words.

“But you are right that you have an enormous amount of power now. What do you intend to do with it?”

“Do with it?” laughed Washington “Why, nothing. Power is temporary, young Pitt. The more I abuse it now, the more it will be resented later.”

“But surely, General, there’s something you would ask for. The King would expect no less. Even the people speculate.”

“Really? And about what do they speculate?”

“Your independence from the mother country.”

Washington’s lips thinned with a forced smile. “You appear to have given this much thought, Mr. Pitt.”

William the Younger nodded solemnly.

“Indeed,” continued Washington, “now would be the best time for the colonies to achieve their freedom. We’re a new nationality in dire need of a new nation. And I believe your assessment to be correct. After the events of this past month, I do not think the British people will begrudge us our new nation.”

“No, sir, I imagine not. Especially if you make it clear that you would continue to be allied with the mother country in matters of foreign policy and military assistance. I’m confident that the bonds of language, culture, and history would keep us very close indeed.”

“Ah. So that is why you are here, Mr. Pitt.” Washington leaned back into the sofa. “You wish to discuss the details of the separation of our two countries. But I must warn you that this would be improper. I am not a member of Congress at this time. A delegation from that body would be empowered to make such an arrangement. Also, not to put too fine a point on it, you do not hold a portfolio in the current British government.”

“I am a member of Parliament.”

“I did not know that members of Parliament could hold such high-ranking discussions.”

William smiled politely. “Allow me, sir, to clarify some points. The little matter of being invaded and almost conquered has given rise to a certain loss of confidence. In short, the current government is finished. A new Prime Minister will be chosen to form a new government.”

“I understand. And that man will presumably be you?”

This time it was William’s turn to play coy.

“You will follow in your father’s footsteps,” said Washington.

“My name is the one being put forward before all others,” agreed William, “but mine is not the only one.”

“I do not understand, sir.” Washington’s relaxed pose suddenly took on a studied formality. “If you want my help in securing you the office of Prime Minister, I must refuse. That would be an unconscionable interference in internal British affairs—something I can assure you we would not take kindly to if you were to attempt such an action in our congressional elections.”

“You misunderstand me, sir,” answered William, eyes narrowing. “I do not want your help in making me Prime Minister. I want you to accept my help in making you Prime Minister.”

Washington’s lower jaw dropped. “I’m the other name?”

William nodded enthusiastically.

“Are they mad? I’m an American!”

“It’s not an insurmountable obstacle. I admit that on your own you could never hope to achieve or use the position with any success. But that’s what I came here to tell you, General. You would not be on your own. It would be my honor to help you.”

“You wish to give me your position—a position that your father had before you?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because this is a rare opportunity. Your victory has opened up a window, small but serviceable. With your help, we can transform the whole of the Empire. Think of it, General: a world empire that runs with the consent of the governed, not England or Scotland or Virginia, but a Britannic Empire.”

“I am honor bound to think in the best interests of America, Mr. Pitt. This is all very well for the British Empire, but what of America?”

“Do you think I would ask if I did not know this was in America’s best interest as well?”

Washington looked at William askance.

“When you were born,” continued William, “how many Americans were there?”

“I fail to see the…”

“Please, General. Humor me.”

“About one-half million or so.”

“How many now, sir?”

“Over four million.”

“Of those, General, how many are under the age of sixteen?”

“I would reckon about half, Mr. Pitt.”

“Which means that if we achieve a true political union with the American colonies, in about fifty years you will be running the Empire. In a hundred years, the American continent will be the Empire.”

“I do not see why we would need you to help us in this. What you wish to do with us we can, in the fullness of time, achieve on our own.”

“Not, I should think, as quickly, as safely, or as well. Also, General Washington, there is the slavery issue. I noticed that you have a Negro manservant.”

“He is a free man.”

“Because you freed him.”

Washington hesitated. “Yes.”

“You have freed a number of slaves in the past few years.”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why?”

Washington looked warily at the young man but chose to answer regardless. “As my economic circumstance has improved, I’ve been able to free more of the slaves I inherited by marriage to my wife. I hope to be able to free them all in my will.”

“How do your fellow Virginia gentlemen feel about your generosity?”

“That is a matter for America to deal with, Mr. Pitt.”

“Oh, I agree. But how will America deal with it, I wonder? Already some colonies have declared themselves to be free while others are calling for stricter slave laws. You yourself feel that slavery must end, I hope.”

“Slavery will end someday, Mr. Pitt.”

“I agree it is an offense and against the natural laws you have so eloquently stated in the Declaration of Rights. But will it end peacefully or in blood? As part of the Empire, it will end naturally and under the guidance of law in its proper time. Can you say as much if America is its own country?”

Washington didn’t answer.

“That is not the only reason for union,” continued William. “We have a fleet, an army, and bases all over the world. And that translates into a marketplace that only members of the Empire have access to. As this latest battle has shown, we need each other. And yes, maybe we need the Colonies more, but still, the great Franklin was right.”

“Franklin?”

William Pitt took out a small pamphlet from his breast pocket. He handed it to Washington. It was on old proposal of Benjamin Franklin’s going back to 1754. A proposal for an Empire in which the Colonies are given full political rights. It had been ignored and eventually forgotten by almost everyone.

“Even back then he knew,” whispered Washington.

“We can work out the details later, General, but we must begin now. Which road do we take: Independence or Union?”

“I need more time. This is far too great an issue for one man alone.”

“Is it, now?”

“You, sir, are asking me to decide the fate of nations, continents, and possibly even the world.”

“General, you’ve been deciding that since you started the Seven Years’ War back in the 1750s. It’s a little late to complain about it at present. Besides, the timing is right. I can sway my supporters to you now. We can make real, needed changes to the government with your prestige as a lever. Otherwise, it will take decades to achieve true reform.”

“Without the threat of American secession…”

“We will not get Parliament to change its stockings, let alone the structure of government. But now it is obvious to anyone that we need the Colonies very badly if we are to win this war against the French. We need your Colonies so much that we can finally do away with all the rotten boroughs and vestiges of the Middle Ages and have an enlightened government.”

“Mr. Pitt, might I remind you that you are a product of the British system? You stand to gain the most if the system stays the same. Your actions are illogical.”

“I’ll be honest, General Washington—a great part of me wants nothing better than to go with you to the King, watch as you have tea and crumpets with His Majesty, and sail off into the sunset with America tucked under your arm while I become the next Prime Minister of this great nation. If the Colonies were not a part of the Empire, I would be Prime Minister. But you and the colonies are our future. A great future, if we are willing to sacrifice. Britain must eventually give up control of its Empire to North America if this works out. That is a sacrifice. You must give up the rest of your life and privacy to the necessities of power. That is your sacrifice. I must give up becoming the Prime Minister. That is my sacrifice. America must give up the dream of independence. That is a mighty sacrifice, the greatest yet mentioned. But what we will create will be greater still. The United Empire will be the greatest achievement ever put into practice by the will of man. It is a greater dream, and it will be worth all the sacrifices we give to it.”

The two men sat in companionable silence for some time before Washington chose to speak. “How long have you been planning for this, Mr. Pitt?”

“This particular circumstance I did not plan for. I can assure you that I had no desire to see Napoleon or the French invade my country. But the United Empire? Ever since those idiots in power almost lost you in the Colonies to utter stupidity. I knew that the government would have to change if we were to keep you. Mr. Franklin saw that in the 1750s. It just took me a little longer to see it as well.”

“Those ‘idiots in power’ are not likely to desire this great change you seek to make.”

“Power is conservative by nature, General. Without new circumstances, they will not change. But you are that new circumstance. The King will see you today. My people are ready today. The citizens of London are ready to back you today. Like it or not, providence has made the choice yours. Independence or Union: What is your will, General Washington?”

* * *

The convention was really a smoke screen. Originally called by Prime Minister Washington, it was only empowered to discuss ways of bringing the delegates of the Continental Congress into the Parliament. At that moment in 1799, that is what most people thought union meant. But the founding fathers had a different goal. They set up the convention in Plymouth, far from the distractions of London, and sent the best men the Empire had to offer: Burke, Pitt, Adams, Smith, Madison, and many others. The first thing that they realized was that the old form of government could not work for ruling a worldwide empire. So they chucked the whole thing and came up with the three-tiered system we have to this day. Exactly like theirs, it had two houses of the legislature, an executive, and a judicial; the Chancellor to be elected by a house of electors; etc. It was a very practical form of government. But it must be remembered that those who made it were very practical men. This was a form of government that, once drafted, would have to be accepted by King, parliament, and populace. The founding fathers were hardheaded practitioners in the art of politics and so made a document that would function and grow, and grow it has. The Empire now controls large portions of the Earth, including two whole continents, innumerable islands, and an unprecedented amount of land in Africa and Asia. Although some of this empire is held as a protectorate or colony, most of the Empire is represented in the Imperial Parliament and votes in the Chancellor elections. Indeed, what the men in the Constitutional Convention of 1799 developed was nothing less than the blueprint for a functional world government. Given time, we may see that dream fulfilled.

—The Art of the Possible Past, Present, and Future
Michael Wellesley, IX Duke of Wellington
Ann Arbor, Michigan: Ann Arbor Press, 1999

* * *

“They’re almost seated, Mr. Chancellor.”

Washington waited nervously. He would have paced in the halls outside the still-being-constructed Imperial Parliament Building, but that would not have befitted his new office. So he stood and waited as his secretary and aides attended to all the last-minute details, a speech that he and William Pitt the Younger had written for this day shifting nervously in his hand. The long months of campaigning, bribing, promising, and toiling ceaselessly had finally paid off. When the Parliamentary Seat of London had voted to accept the Constitution, the King had signed it into law. Elections were held, and Rhode Island Colony, the last of the parliamentary seats, had accepted the inevitable and joined the United Empire of Britannia. The UEB was born. An Imperial Parliament was now in session in London, and the first chancellor was about to give his first speech. Every gesture, every action, and every word was going to be watched. Everything Washington did was a precedent, and he knew it. His life was not his own and would not be for the next four years—eight, if reelected. But Washington would do his best for this strange new country that he had helped to create. He could do no less. It was his destiny.

The End

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