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disputes with the admiral. They had to get out of Washington, and quickly enough that they'd be too far out of the city for Cockburn to commit any further mischief, once Ross gave his final order.
Thinking of that final order, he had to repress his own sigh.
The commander of an army had many responsibilities, some of which were unpleasant in the extreme. But Robert Ross had never shirked his duty, since the day he'd enlisted in the Twenty-fifth Foot right after graduating from Trinity College in Dublin. Nineteen years old, he'd been then, and a professional soldier ever since. Wounded in battle three times—make that four, now—and the veteran of campaigns in Spain, Egypt, Italy, and the Netherlands before he came to North America. One of the very few men in the British army who had worked his way up the ranks to major general by sheer professional skill, without family influence.
Ross reminded himself that honors enough had been showered upon him, in the course of it all. Three Gold Medals, the Peninsula Gold Medal, and a Sword of Honor. So he could hardly complain, now that duty was knocking on the door, bearing the bill.
Cockburn left the surgeon's tent. As soon as he was gone, Colonel Brooke turned to the general.
"Are you certain about this, sir?"
Ross nodded toward the surgeon. "Ask him."
The surgeon shook his head. "The only chance for the general's survival now lies with the Americans. Delaying the surgery as he did"—the surgeon still sounded aggrieved—"I can't possibly do the work well enough in the course of a retreat. I doubt the general would survive the rigors of the march, in any event."
Brooke still looked dubious.
"Just get the men out of here, Colonel," Ross said. "Once the march is well under way, you can inform the admiral—no, I'll send an aide myself, so you can pretend you didn't know—that I was forced to remain behind. By