the crowd, ‘is company by company. It’s slower, General, but slow and steady wins the day.’
‘No, no, no!’ someone else chimed in. ‘First company front right marker to step one pace left and one pace forward, and he becomes left marker, raises his hand, and the rest fall in on him. Or her, in your regiment, General.’
‘Better company by company,’ the crippled man insisted, ‘that’s how we did it at Germantown.’
‘But you lost at Germantown,’ the second man pointed out.
Johnny Fiske pretended to be shot, staggered dramatically and fell down, and Peleg Wadsworth, he found it hard to think of himself as a general, decided he had failed to explain the manoeuvre properly. He wondered whether he would ever need to master the intricacies of infantry drill. The French had joined America’s struggle for freedom and had sent an army across the Atlantic and the war was now being fought in the southern states very far from Massachusetts.
‘Is the war won?’ a voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see his wife, Elizabeth, carrying their one-year-old daughter, Zilpha, in her arms.
‘I do believe,’ Peleg Wadsworth said, ‘that the children have killed every last redcoat in America.’
‘God be praised for that,’ Elizabeth said lightly. She was twenty-six, five years younger than her husband, and pregnant again. Alexander was her oldest, then came three-year-old Charles and the infant Zilpha, who stared wide-eyed and solemn at her father. Elizabeth was almost as tall as her husband who was putting notebook and pencil back into a uniform pocket. He looked good in uniform, she thought, though the white-faced blue coat with its elegant buttoned tail was in desperate need of patching, but there was no blue cloth available, not even in Boston, at least not at a price that Peleg and Elizabeth Wadsworth could afford. Elizabeth was secretly amused by her husband’s intense, worried expression. He was a good man, she thought fondly, as honest as the day was long and trusted by all his neighbours. He needed a haircut, though the slightly ragged dark locks gave his lean face an attractively rakish look. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt the war,’ Elizabeth said, ‘but you have a visitor.’ She nodded back towards their house where a man in uniform was tethering his horse to the hitching post.
The visitor was thin with a round, bespectacled face that was familiar to Wadsworth, but he could not place the man who, his horse safely tied, took a paper from his tail-coat pocket and strolled across the sunlit common. His uniform was pale brown with white facings. A sabre hung by leather straps from his sword belt. ‘General Wadsworth,’ he said as he came close, ‘it is good to see you in health, sir,’ he added, and for a second Wadsworth flailed desperately as he tried to match a name to the face, then, blessedly, the name came.
‘Captain Todd,’ he said, hiding his relief.
‘Major Todd now, sir.’
‘I congratulate you, Major.’
‘I’m appointed an aide to General Ward,’ Todd said, ‘who sends you this.’ He handed the paper to Wadsworth. It was a single sheet, folded and sealed, with General Artemas Ward’s name inscribed in spidery writing beneath the seal.
Major Todd looked sternly at the children. Still in a ragged line, they stared back at him, intrigued by the curved blade at his waist. ‘Stand at ease,’ Todd ordered them, then smiled at Wadsworth. ‘You recruit them young, General?’
Wadsworth, somewhat embarrassed to have been discovered drilling children, did not answer. He had unsealed the paper and now read the brief message. General Artemas Ward presented his compliments to Brigadier-General Wadsworth and regretted to inform him that a charge had been laid against Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Revere, commanding officer of the Massachusetts’ Artillery Regiment, specifically that he had been drawing rations and pay for thirty non-existent men, and General Ward now required Wadsworth to make enquiries into the substance of the allegation.
Wadsworth read the message a second time, then dismissed the children and beckoned Todd to walk with him towards the Burying Ground. ‘General Ward is well?’ he asked politely. Artemas Ward commanded the Massachusetts Militia.
‘He’s well enough,’ Todd answered, ‘other than some pains in the legs.’
‘He grows old,’ Wadsworth said, and for a dutiful moment the two men exchanged news of births, marriages, illnesses and deaths, the small change of a community. They had paused in the shade of an elm and after a while Wadsworth gestured with the letter. ‘It seems strange to me,’ he said carefully, ‘that a major should bring such a trivial message.’
‘Trivial?’ Todd asked sternly, ‘we are talking of peculation, General.’
‘Which, if true, will have been recorded in the muster returns. Does it require a general to inspect the books? A clerk could do that.’
‘A clerk has done that,’ Todd said grimly, ‘but a clerk’s name on the official report bears no weight.’
Wadsworth heard the grimness. ‘And you seek weight?’ he asked.
‘General Ward would have the matter investigated thoroughly,’ Todd answered firmly, ‘and you are the Adjutant-General of the Militia, which makes you responsible for the good discipline of the forces.’
Wadsworth flinched at what he regarded as an impertinent and unnecessary reminder of his duties, but he let the insolence pass unreproved. Todd had the reputation of being a thorough and diligent man, but Wadsworth also recalled a rumour that Major William Todd and Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Revere nurtured a strong dislike of each other. Todd had served with Revere in the artillery, but had resigned in protest at the regiment’s disorganization, and Wadsworth suspected that Todd was using his new position to strike at his old enemy, and Wadsworth liked it not. ‘Colonel Revere,’ he spoke mildly, though with deliberate provocation, ‘enjoys a reputation as a fine and fervent patriot.’
‘He is a dishonest man,’ Todd retorted vehemently.
‘If wars were fought only by the honest,’ Wadsworth said, ‘then we would surely have perpetual peace?’
‘You’re acquainted with Colonel Revere, sir?’ Todd asked.
‘I cannot claim more than an acquaintance,’ Wadsworth said.
Todd nodded, as if that was the proper answer. ‘Your reputation, General,’ he said, ‘is unassailable. If you prove peculation, then not a man in Massachusetts will dispute the verdict.’
Wadsworth glanced at the message again. ‘Just thirty men?’ he asked dubiously. ‘You’ve ridden from Boston for such a small affair?’
‘It’s not far to ride,’ Todd said defensively, ‘and I have business in Plymouth, so it was convenient to wait on you.’
‘If you have business, Major,’ Wadsworth said, ‘then I won’t detain you.’ Courtesy demanded that he at least offered Todd some refreshment and Wadsworth was a courteous man, but he was annoyed at being implicated in what he strongly suspected was a private feud.
‘There is talk,’ Todd remarked as the two men walked back across the common, ‘of an attack on Canada.’
‘There is always talk of an attack on Canada,’ Wadsworth said with some asperity.
‘If such an attack occurs,’ Todd said, ‘we would want our artillery commanded by the best available man.’
‘I would assume,’ Wadsworth said, ‘that we would desire that whether we march on Canada or not.’
‘We need a man of probity,’ Todd said.
‘We need a man who can shoot straight,’ Wadsworth said brusquely and wondered whether Todd aspired to command the artillery regiment himself, but he said nothing more. His wife was waiting beside the hitching post with a glass of water that Todd accepted gratefully before riding south towards Plymouth. Wadsworth went indoors and showed Elizabeth the letter. ‘I fear it is politics, my dear,’ he said, ‘politics.’
‘Is