The Punch-Lining

I seek the joy of life, I seek the God who will not tame the manliness of men...

"Granddiddy, ‘fore I take a sip, what all’s in this thang? It looks awful strong. I mean, it ain't apple juice. That's fer shore."
An old man in a ragged Continental uniform sat on the back porch of his house over on East Broughton St, Savannah, Georgia. He was a veteran of the American Revolution. The year was 1819. He had a large translucent brown colored drink in his
hand that he was swirling in slow circles. It could've been apple juice to someone who didn't know any better. Ice cubes clunked together between cherries bobbing up.

The man had a head full of white hair that poofed out under a big cocked hat. There were heavy wrinkles in the corners of eyes that looked like an eagle's claw when he smiled.

The young man who had just spoken, sat on the steps nearby. His grandson. He also had a glass with the brownish fluid. It was his first real drink. This was one of those ‘comin’ of age’ conversations. His grandfather was tryin' to explain the precarious balance between concepts of respectability and the manly imperative.

They had been listening to the parade on Broughton St. President Monroe and Vice President John C. Calhoun had come to visit Savannah for the first transatlantic steamship crossing. Local boat enthusiast William Scarborough was the owner of the S.S. Savannah. It was the wonder of its day and the herald of a ferocious future, a manifest destiny.

After the parade had passed, the young man had grown curious about the origins of the powerful drink they were sipping upon. His grandfather happened to be a teller of tall tales and there were no simple answers. He tended to weave history and mythology together into parables, symbols that might one day be useful to the young chap. Sometimes it was difficult to understand what he was trying to get at. There was also a chessboard between them. Periodically, one of them would make
a move, take a sip, or continue the conversation.

"..Quite potent, indeed, my boy. Course, it didn't start out that way. The women wanted us to remain on our best behavior. But we, being men, of course, by and by, added the necessary distillations, while the ladies were not watching. The punch gives us a second sight, of sorts, ignites a super spirit within. You'll see."
"A sixth sense?"
"Something like that."
He shook his glass again and looked down at the fellow. A quick wink.
"But what is in the drink itself?"
"Why, the Chatham Artillery, boy!"
"No. The punch that they're famous for. The punch that we are drinking,
Granddad!"
The old man nodded. Cannons boomed in the distance. He knew what the boy wanted or rather, what he needed.
"Well, we came together during the Revolution. That is where we derived our fire, initially. From the Revolution. Revolution, son!"
Once again frustrated, the boy shook his head, knowing that his granddad could not be cajoled out of his roundabout method. So he played the game.
"What does revolution mean, sir? I mean, really. It seems a strange word."
His grandfather gazed off into the distance.
"According to Mr. Johnson, the word revolution signifies the movement of a celestial body in orbit."
The young man looked perplexed at this answer.
"Here, think of it like this," the old man tried to be more explicit.
"...Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. We were desperate and wild. The frontier catalyzed a rugged individuality that the old World could not quell.
It wasn't until the strong men of the country began to feel the weight of oppression that a revolution formed to challenge the tyranny. A revolution was necessary to break the mold and reset the cosmos around a new axis of power." He stirred his drink
'round and 'round in emphasis.
"Men of the country...as opposed to the city?"
"Yes, of course. That's it." The old man laughed at the teenager's confusion.
"All right. Back to the punch. What is actually in this drink? The ingredients. The RECIPE! What exactly, makes it so potent?" The boy repeated his inquiry, more impatient this time.
The old man leaned back in his rocking chair and as he began to tell the story, the contemporary world receded into a more rustic time. The wilderness crept closer. They both took a sip of the world famous Chatham Artillery Punch.
The geezer laughed back through the years.
It had all begun with a man named Washington.
He comes, the Hero comes...

1791. South Carolina Lowcountry.
"Look at the bald eagle!" Major Butler exhorted as he gently jostled his snoozing companion. But it was the piercing shriek of the bird that woke the man.
President Washington came to and peered out of the window in the carriage. A glint of sunlight shimmering off the water nearby caught his blue eyes.
"I...did not know that they flew near the swamps."

Washington was going south for a tour of Dixieland. He was thirsty for a drink. They had just crossed the Ashley River and the sight of so much water was intoxicating.

It was hot down here, the cool Virginian reflected. Savannah was to be the southernmost point of the journey. Could it get any hotter? Charleston was behind them and now they were heading southwest towards the river settlements with Georgia on the mind. The landscape of the lowcountry was quite different from the hills of Mt. Vernon. It was swampy and sticky down here. There was a brighter tone to the green in the foliage. The honeysuckle and jasmine were blooming.

His mind played back through the key episodes of the Revolution. The country had been born. But what sort of country? A nation? A federal republic? Both? A strange experiment, indeed.

His first term was well over half done. He had doubts about the possibility of a second. He was seriously considering stepping aside as he had done with the Continental Army. He could have secured much more power to himself had he been so inclined at the right moment. But he had to set an example for the future generations. George Washington would be a name that people would love to remember. A name signifying leadership, liberty, honor, and manhood.
The work of the Executive was much more cumbersome and awkward than leadership in the field. He tired of the job. He longed for a life of agrarian obscurity. So, time to go south. Time to take a break and think things over a bit.

After another stint of daydreaming through his own heroic episodes, the landing at Purrysburg loomed up, where they were supposed to be ferried across the Savannah River by a party of veterans. They reached the bank before the greeters arrived. There was a heavy fog rising from the river and the tall marsh grass, making it somewhat hard to see more than a few feet before one's face. He talked with Major Butler as they awaited their escorts.
"Sure is strange. This fog. The wilderness is strong down this way. It's palpable. What, indeed, is on the other side of that river, Butler? I can't see anything."
"Ah, Mr. President, it is impossible to know, as impenetrable as the future."
Washington nodded and reflected.
"Yes, as impenetrable as the future. Well, sir, surely our descendants will secure the vision."
"The foundation has been laid." Butler enjoyed these navigational turned existential conversations with his Excellency.

And then, piercing through the fog, the ferryboat was in sight. And what a strange sight it was. There were twelve veterans dressed in light blue silk jackets with golden frills, black breeches, white gloves, and tall black round hats with letters in gold around the hat saying, "Long live the President". It was Capts. Putnam, Courter, Rice, Fisher, Huntingdon, Kershaw, Swaims, McIntire, and Morris. They sung the song "He comes, the Hero Comes" in unison as they chugged away with oars and poles. Between beats there were a few heave-hos to punctuate the rhythm.

Washington grinned. What a bunch of sincere yahoos, these fellas were. Damn Georgia boys. There for a fight. There to have a good time. There to laugh a good laugh. There to get one's back.

In the front of the party a younger man stood on the bow as they docked in. It was Captain Morris, Harrison Morris.
"Mr. President, we have arrived to transport you across the river Styx." It was clear that Morris had had a few too many and had broken the Savannah ladies' strict prohibitions regarding sobriety in the presence of the great man.
"Don't worry, all arrangements have been made. But before we go, you must drink of the waters of Lethe so that you will not remember the subterranean journey that lies before you..."
He held out his hand to the right, expecting someone nearby to place a full glass in it. Nothing happened. His eyes got big and he turned backwards. Then he lost his balance and fell right into the Savannah river. When he came up he pulled himself onto the ferry, shaking himself like a wet dog.
"Where the hell is the drink, men? Did you forget to bring the punch?"
Courter leaned over and whispered into Swaims ear. Swaims nodded. They apologized sincerely for Morris' debaucherous demonstration while someone in the back elbowed him in the ribs.

After a pleasant but uneventful visit with Caty Greene, Nathanael Greene's widow at Mulberry Grove, the presidential party headed for the city of Savannah. It was about a 7 hour trip from that point. Now they were travelling by land along the bank of the Savannah River. They passed a number of other river plantations with luscious fields of rice, hemp, tobacco, and even a little cotton. The Africans toiled in the distance.

They reached the city at dusk. Washington was immediately struck at how sandy the entire place was. Upon approaching Yamacraw Bluff, he saw a large group of people gathering to welcome him.
He was assisted up the bluff by General James Jackson and General Lachlan McIntosh. Colonel James Gunn also stood nearby.
Beyond these men was a group of sharply dressed soldiers. Washington approached the men immediately, saluting them with the utmost vigour. Some of them were visibly sweating. Washington was the closest thing to a god that they had ever seen.

"The Chatham Artillery, I presume." Washington spoke with the confidence of a
commander.

James Jackson spoke for the group.
"Yes, these are the strong men of Georgia. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. They follow the legend of your example. Men, the guns."
A hand was raised. An order was given. To the north a series of cannons fired across the river towards Hutchinson Island. 26 discharges. Then a moment of silence.
The crowd began cheering.
Washington gritted his teeth, steeling his jaw.
"I like the sound of that. Perhaps I can add to the timbre. Butler. Show these hospitable men what we have brought."
Major Butler pulled a red silk blanket away from a large bulk that had been rolled up from the shore.
Two beautiful shiny brass guns glistened in the sunlight.
There was a hushed awe.
"I captured these guns from Cornwallis at Yorktown, men, when I sent that old son of a bitch packing—
Butler reached for the president's shoulder, interrupting him.
"Mr. President, are you feeling all right? That seems a harsh—
Washington shook his arm off, continuing his address. Butler was perplexed at the President's lapse.
"...They are yours now. Perhaps if I ever come back through, you can greet me with them along with your own."
Everyone, the Chatham Artillery included, was surprised at his forthrightness.
They had heard that his manners were impeccable. Must not be so hoyty-toyty in Virginny, after all, one of them thought.
Jackson reached his hand towards Washington with the measured reverence of a man of honor.
"On behalf of the men, we are most grateful for this kindness. How can we repay
you?"
"Show me a good time. Let's have a drink."
Jackson nodded at Washington's casual familiarity but was a little uneasy. He wasn't sure what type of drink the President wanted.

The men ducked into Brown's Coffeehouse on Bay Street with the mayor of Savannah leading the way. A coffeehouse was safe middle ground, no doubt. The proprietor was notified beforehand of the visit. There were red, white, and blue ribbons draping the walls and the bar. Coffee and tea were immediately poured in thick mugs for all the men. A couple of them pulled hidden flasks and added some of their own special sauce, careful to conceal the indiscretion from his Excellency. They gathered in a circle around Washington. There was a bit of preliminary chatter.
"Gentlemen, it's Friday, May 13th."
Butler made a quick mental note. As a Mason, he understood some of the more occult implications of the date.
"Friday the 13th."
"Yes, indeed."
"So mote it be!" The men yelled out loud.
A series of signs were made dispelling any lingering superstition but a powerful gush of wind tore through the company from the still open door, blowing out the lamps on the tables. There were several hushed shudders at the apparent omen. The windows were already shut and the party was shrouded in temporary darkness. This provided additional cover for a few quick sips of the more profane libations still hidden in coat pockets.
"Well, what'll we have to drink on such a dark day, sirs?" Colonel Jackson asked rhetorically, trying to lighten things up and hoping that Washington might inadvertently give them a clue regarding his beverage preference. The men chuckled. One yelled out.
"Hell, anything's possible."
Washington remained silent, smiling easily, feeling once again a strange urge begin to overcome his sensibility.

At this point in the story the grandson turned to the old man who was now on his third drink. The man's eyes had taken on a very strange glimmer.
"Why is Friday 13th such an accursed day, Granddaddy?"
After a moment of sipping deep and looking out through several different dimensions, he replied to the boy.
"Friday 13th, 1307. That was the day that Jacques De Molay was burned at the stake by King Philip IV of France. He was the leader of the Knights Templar and they had been tricked into coming to Paris, seeking the repayment of debts owed to them.
Philip had them imprisoned and all their belongings confiscated. It was part of a larger conspiracy that involved the pope. A papal edict had been issued condemning the order as heretical."
"What does that mean?" The boy interjected again.
"They were accused of worshiping the Devil."
"Oh. Did they?"
"Son, any truth that bears witness against an establishment is perceived as a threat. Therefore, practitioners of such a truth are called devil worshippers."
"I see." The boy was still perplexed.

"Well, Jacques refused to yield up any of the secrets regarding the order's vast treasure stores and mystical relics of ancient power. He was wise to the machinations and had previously made preparations for their holdings to be dispersed on a series of ships sent to Scotland and North America under the supervision of Henry St. Clair. For Western Europe this was the order that would ultimately form into the Freemasons, an organization with which many of the founding fathers, Washington included, were associated."
"Okay, okay. Back to the story, granddad. They were in Brown's Coffeehouse about to give some toasts."
"Of course. Let me see now..."

When the lights returned, two dozen cups of coffee and tea were raised in the air as if on salute. Those who didn't have secret flasks looked nervous and taut. They sighed. One veteran stepped forward. Another opened the door and made a signal to the artillerymen who were standing across the way, manning the guns.

"To the United States – May they long enjoy freedom in peace!! We have won our independence, men. This is our day! The end of tyranny! The beginning of our SOVEREIGNTY!!!"
"Here! Here!"
The drinks were thrown back in unison.
The sign was given. The guns burst out again over the bluff.13 states. 13 iron balls over the river. Friday the 13th.
It had begun. Another man stepped forward.

"To the Federal Constitution and its true friends and supporters. May it be the guiding harness for the future balance of our government. The abuse of power has no place in this land!"
"Here! Here!"
"Power to the people!!!"
"Hurray!"
The guns burst forth over the Savannah River again.

"To the Vice-President and members of the Senate. May the example of ancient Rome inspire our statesmen to the sublime ideal of the orator, of the philosopher king!
"Here! Here!"
“Here! Here!”
Boom!Boom! went the guns.
The President stepped forward. Everyone was silent. He raised his cup of jo' up, thinking of a harbor breeze and the Spanish moss on an old live oak. Something strange, though, had begun itching in his brain.

"To the commercial interest of Charleston! Savannah's older sister!"
There was a pause. The men squinted. There was a bit of competition between these two awesome cities. Of course, Washington knew this and was intentionally see- sawing on their good will. His task had been to unify them. It always would be.
"Here! Here!"
“Here! Here!”
"To Charleston. Yes. No longer is she Charles's town." A robust man grinned at his clever quip.
Boom! Boom! went the guns.
Washington scratched his head.
"I don't know. Yes, this coffee is nice. But, ah..." Then he thought of Martha.
"Well, where'd you get the bean, after all?"
The men looked around at one another, also thinking of their wives. No one spoke.
Lachlan McIntosh made things easy.
"It's a brew from Colombia, sir. Slightly acidic. Ahem-hem."

A quick refill and the toasting continued. The conversation immediately became frenetic. The caffeine made everyone loquacious and argumentative. There was an animus present, looking for an outlet.
Colonel James Gunn was now standing near the President.
Washington turned directly to him. Gunn smiled in admiration.
"Colonel Gunn. I understand that you and General Greene did not get along too well. He actually wrote to me personally about this dilemma, seeking my advice."
Gunn closed his eyes briefly. The smile disapeared. This had been a sore spot but he could not unleash against Washington. No way. Had to keep cool.
"Yes sir. We failed to get along. To be honest, I resented his puritannic ways. I think that he wrongly made an example of me during the war."
Washington was open-minded.
"I'm sorry. You'll have to refresh my memory."
"It was over a horse I sold during the war to secure supplies. General Greene
accused me of selling army property without the proper authority. He court-martialed me. I never forgave him."
"Did you not sell the horse?" Washington asked, now becoming angry.
"Yes, but it wasn't for myself. The times were desperate. Our resources were limited. It was a judgement call that I made out of necessity."
"To the contrary, it was in your personal interest, an interest that you valued above the greater good of maintaining the chain of command. You could’ve directly sought General Greene's assistance. Regardless. Greene was your superior. Excuse me. Is
your superior. You should not have challenged him. Those repeated insults and threats that you threw at him and his family after the war infuriated me. To think that such a heroic man like Greene, beyond reproach, had to enter the city of Savannah armed with pistols lest he encounter your brash temper. How could we possibly maintain the proper relationship fundamental to military command structures and ultimately to civilization, if a subordinate officer such as yourself was able to overthrow the authority of a general out of a mistaken sense of honor? We would have chaos. No, you were in the wrong, Colonel
Gunn. I'm sure of it. Greene's refusal to duel was not out of cowardice. He had long ago proved himself in that regard. I promise you that. Do you not remember Cowpens, Kettle Creek, King's Mountain, and Guilford Court House? Greene's courage, not yours, saved the South."
Gunn was aghast.
Colonel James Jackson looked across the room and caught a glimpse of the poor man's dilemma. He walked over.
"President Washington, may I have a word with you for a moment, sir? Let's go to the bar. It looks like you need another refill."
Washington's temper was hot. He had been meaning to confront Gunn over this matter. His eyes took on a glow of intensity. This was the side of the man that the British had come to fear.
Now James Jackson himself was a force to be reckoned with, too. He was a shorter man, known as the "fighting pygmy" due to his inclination for duelling. He was one of the early Masonic leaders of Georgia. He had the unique characteristic, like
Washington, of sublimating his ferocious instinct into an inspirational leadership. During the war, he had been part of a successful foray smuggling powder off of British ships anchored in the Savannah River. After the city had been seized in December of 1778, he had fled up to South Carolina and joined with larger regiments to reassess. He had distinguished himself at King's Mountain, Kettle Creek, and Cowpens, as well as dozens of other smaller skirmishes.
After the war the state Legislature of Georgia had asked him to serve as first Governor. He was 30. He declined, citing youth and inexperience. A man with such ambition as his was rarely capable of such a resignation. But Jackson was genuinely
interested in the welfare of Georgia. And though he loved to fight, he was also a peacemaker, especially amongst good friends or citizens. Washington continued to stare straight at Gunn for a moment or two more, and then followed Jackson to the coffee bar. They sat down.
"Are you feeling all right, sir?"
"Yes, of course." He shook his fist at Gunn and showed his teeth.Then he looked back at Jackson and changed the subject.
"So the Brits really held onto Savannah as long as they could, didn't they?"
Jackson saw where it was going.
"Yes, they did. They didn't call Georgia, the Loyalist Milquetoast for nothing. The Tory element was very strong here. We had much more to kick against."
"But you were the first to reclaim the city?" Washington queried.
"Well, to be honest Mr. President, I have to give that honor to Mad Anthony Wayne!!!. It was his army."
Jackson turned his voice up, knowing that Wayne was nearby. Unfortunately these men had fallen out of sorts with one another due to a post war political rivalry and some dishonest electioneering by one of Wayne's campaign managers. The tragedy of it was that Wayne had been innocent of the corruption. Jackson therefore really didn't hold
anything against him. Mad Anthony looked up for a moment and grinned, tipping his hat.
Washington called over to him.
"General Wayne. I hear you've been spending a lot of time calling on Caty Greene, providing her comfort during her time of mourning over the passing of Nathanael." Washington had a way of piercing to the heart of the matter. Caty was very
popular with all of the men and even moreso after her husband's unexpected passing.

Wayne turned a dark crimson. The yankee nodded his head and turned away, taking a long cool sip on his hot coffee. He burned his tongue but didn't let on to the pain. He motioned to the waitress, making the secret sign for the additional kick to be slipped into his drink. It was hard to look the tall Virginian in the eye.

"It was Wayne's army," Jackson continued, "but it was I who led the expedition into the city. We finally forced the Brits out. All I could think about, though, as we marched in, was the miserable rash between my legs. I was walkin' like a sailor."
Washington laughed.
"How did that happen?"
"Well, we were all wearing deerskin leggin's like the Indians. When civilization fell apart, it was the wilderness that clothed us. We must have looked like scrawny barbarians walking back into Savannah in those days."
Washington had been watching Wayne's secret sign and when the waitress passed him, he tickled his ear and rubbed his thumb across his throat. In a flash, the young girl produced a small decanter and poured generously into his coffee. No one was any the wiser. Much better, Washington thought, draining the glass. He looked back towards Jackson.

"And Colonel, what of the formation of the Chatham Artillery?"
Jackson put his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head.
"Well, really, the company is comprised of the men who defended Savannah and bled for her during the war. Most of us were just country boys before hostilities. We were all friends, had grown up hunting together.
After the war, we were all well aware of the sacrifice it took to win our freedom, how precious it was. But even with the ceasing of hostilities, there were constant problems in the area. The initial euphoria of victory began to wear off especially in the rowdier quarters. Many of us recognized the importance of maintaining a degree of formal organization to prevent anarchy and the incessant internal and external disputes that inevitably follow the destruction of the establishment."
"Uh-huh, I see...Hmmm...Colonel, I think it's time for another drink."

"To the fair daughters of America!"
"Here! Here!"
"Here! Here!"
Boom! Boom! went the guns.

The pretty young waittress was picked up and placed on a table. She grabbed an American flag hanging off the wall and waved it in the air. She looked out and could see all the men before her. They were all making the secret sign, desperately trying to get her attention.

"To the Secretary of State – may the important services he has rendered to the commerical intersts of his country, endear him to every merchant."
"Here! Here!"
"Here! Here!"
Boom! Boom! went the guns.

Jackson continued the thread.
"...In June of ’86 , General Greene got the worst sunburn that anyone's ever gotten down here. He was bedridden for nine days. Doctors tried to bleed the fevers out of him using leeches."
Washington shook his head when he thought about that.
"And he died."
"It was a terrible occasion." Washington remembered, thinking of Caty, and how lonely she must be.
"So, the Chatham Artillery handled the funeral. We carried his coffin over to Colonial Park. We shot our guns to honor him. Some of us even wept over his passing.
Afterwards we came here to drink our punch, I mean, coffee, and recall his deeds of greatness."

After the thirteenth toast, the men were barely able to stand still. Most of them were shaking a leg, anxious to relieve themselves. This was not the kind of party they had been hoping for. Brown's Coffeehouse was a commotion. Washington silently stepped outside to smoke a pipe.

Upon discovering his retirement, the rest of the veterans and city luminaries still inside came together for one final toast. This time bottles of whiskey were brazenly brandished. But Washington was still a mystery and no one had gotten a clue as to what
he really wanted to drink.

"To the illustrious President of the United States! Long may he live to enjoy the
praises of a grateful people.
And to his lady!"
"Here! Here!"
"Here! Here!"
Boom! Boom! went the guns.

General Lachlan McIntosh slipped out, seeing Washington through the window.
"Sir, would you like to see the field where the battle of Savannah was fought,
before nightfall?"
Washington turned to meet him.
He nodded.
"That would be fine."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"And maybe you could tell me, Lachlan, where one could get a man's drink round this place?"
The Scottish Highlander paused for a moment, surprised at the admission. Then tapped his coat pocket, smiled, and winked at the prez. He had a pint of Scotch and he wasn't afraid to share it, despite the game that the other men were playing.

They walked over towards Franklin Square and then turned left and headed to the Spring Hill redoubt where the American forces had made their attack on the British lines of defense on October 9, 1779. When they were out of sight, Lachlan passed the pint to George, who guzzled down two shots in one gulp. Said he had some catching up to do.

As they walked in a not so straight line, Washington queried McIntosh about his situation with Button Gwinnett, one of the more respectable signers of the Declaration of Independence from Georgia.
"Well, it was lak this," McIntosh began, his thick brogue rumblin' forth. "I was in charge of the troops in Georgia at the time. Bulloch, who's actually the first "President" of the state, had died not long after he was elected. Gwinnett filled the vacancy.
And I didn't like him too much. He was a civilian, a shop-owner in downtown Savannah, and, in my estimation, a damned coward. He wanted to control every aspect of the militia's movements down into Florida. Course, he had no idea what he was getting involved with and he failed miserably to achieve anything down there."

Washington grabbed the flask from McIntosh. They were fast friends again, just like during the war. McIntosh grinned and then continued.
"Gwinnet's failure led to further resentment of me because I had pressed him that he should let me lead the troops. A few months later he came back at me, accusing my brother George of treason."
"Your brother's name is George, too?"
Washington laughed at the absurdity. He knew firsthand about McIntosh mettle.
McIntosh grabbed the pint back and took another deep drag.
"Yeah, just like you, ol' Georgie-peorgie, 'cept he's not as famous. But back to me and Button...
Of course, Gwinnet's accusation was a straw man. It was completely groundless.
George had already horsewhipped Walton, one of the other signers, for making a similar accusation about me.
So I called Button Gwinnett 'a damn scoundrel and a lyin' rascal' to his face next time I saw him and he just couldn't stand it. Challenged me to a duel.

We met the next morning. We stood at twelve feet apart, facing one another. I had actually requested nine. Then we shot each other. I took a hit in the leg but I remained standing. His knee was dislocated and he fell down. He died from the infection three days later."
Both men drained another shot. Now, it seemed they were floating through the
city.

The field where the Battle of Savannah had taken place loomed up ahead. It was now grown over with weeds. Some of the old redoubts, fortified stone piles, and fencing were still there but it was a bit hard to make out how things had been. Of course, now, they had a little help from the spiritual world.
"You were there, Lachlan?" George asked, pointing to large pile of horse manure.
McIntosh appreciated the joke, doubling over and laughing so hard he choked.
"Uhhh...I was actually there, sir. At this point." He stood beside a young oak tree and a took good long leak directly on the bark.
" I could make it no further. In one hour a thousand men fell on our side. It was terrible. We had waited too long to attack. John Maitland's bagpipe regiment saw us. There was no surprise, as we had originally intended. We were forced to retreat before noon."
He passed gas and Washington had to move back a couple of steps till it dissipated. McIntosh laughed again and then continued.
"It was a circus of a time, though, and I look back on it with fond memories despite the defeat. Haitians, Poles, French, and of course, us. There were a bunch of guys down from Carolina, too. William Jasper, Francis Marion, Charles Pinckney.
Polish Count Pulaski was a real character. Talk 'bout a boy who could hold some likker. Fellow dressed in bright clothes all the time like a rooster. Was always doin' horse tricks. He had one where he would stand on his horse while at full gallop and aim his pistol at a target out front. The guy never missed. But he offered too flamboyant a target for the British fusiliers to pass up. He got nailed right between the legs."
Washington cringed when he heard that. Another sip of scotch to ease the pain.
Had to hurt. Had to hurt.
"And what of Jasper? Where did he fall?" Washington turned and walked forward several yards trying to envision the fire of battle and the fatal charge.
McIntosh continued after sucking the half empty bottle. Both men were becoming dizzy as they saw ghosts and supernatural cannon fireballs launching up from the battlefield.
"I never seen a braver man in my life. He fell further up." McIntosh approached a small mound of rocks that had been used to mark the spot, tripping in a drunken stupor.
He picked himself up, dusted off his stomach, and posed as if he was holding up the flag. Jasper had gotten within 5 yards of the redoubt. McIntosh hiccupped.
"Are you meaning to tell me, sir, that Willy ran this far up to the British cannon before he was hit?"
"Yes, Mr. President, he did. He made it farther than anybody else. In one hand he carried the flag of Carolina, in the other he had a sword. He died fighting like a man."
"The best any man can ask for." Washington whispered silently to himself, patting his heart, looking for his pipe again.
"You know Jasper's name was already famous by that time for saving the colors at Ft. Moultrie in 1776."
"I know." Washington rejoined, lighting up and sucking hard on the Virginia tobacco he had concealed from Martha. She warned that it was making his teeth yellow.
"The governor gave him his sword and offered him a lieutenant's commission---"
"Which he refused because he could neither read nor write," Washington finished the tale for him.

Night soon came on and they were forced to head back. They got lost in their drunken weavings but finally decided to follow the sounds of laughter and music from a northerly direction, towards the water.There was a big barbecue dinner under a massive tree arbor that had been arranged by the women of the city earlier in the day.

During the meal, the ridiculous toasting continued over tea and water. Again, the women of Savannah were responsible for the strictures regarding alcohol and they were making sure that things stayed that way. Martha, the President's wife, had sent word that everyone was to remain sober in his company. And she meant it. She was also worried about Caty Greene. She knew George was fond of the little lady.

The temporary prohibition had caused the Chatham Artillery great pain. But up until this point they had maintained at least the appearance of respectability.

The party was situated on Yamacraw bluff at an angle with the river in view. All of the homes were brightly lit with lanterns. There were about 1500 people living in Savannah at that time but with all of the lights it felt like more. One house had an
enormous "W" outlined with candles.

After the dinner got underway, fireworks began exploding over the river. One of the local ships had furnished this portion of the entertainment. The band played some of the popular melodies of the day. The dinner party proceeded directly from the table over to the old silk filature house on Reynolds Square. This was the biggest building in the city and is where the silk
industry had originated in North America. Solomon's Lodge No. 1 met in the building but tonight it was reserved for dancing. A grand ball on Friday, May 13th was being thrown in George Washington's honor.
Many of the men had been distressed about Washington's apparent dissatisfaction and boredom throughout the day but were relieved when McIntosh notified them of his intemperate retreat with the President just before dinner. The Chatham Artillery of Georgia got to thinkin' and finally came up with a plan on how to circumvent the women.

They convinced the ladies to make a fabulously respectable punch to impress ol' George. So, in the prep room, the ladies commenced to mix a tasty drink with exotic fruit juices and regional curiosities. They began stirring liquids into a huge vat. When they were done, General Jackson addressed them.
"Ladies, the president of the United States has been commenting on your beauty all day long but has lamented the fact that he has not yet had the pleasure of meeting each of you, individually. So I am here to ask you to now retreat to the powder room and prepare yourselves accordingly."

The ladies, flattered to say the least, left the prep room in a rush and went to make themselves ready. When they left, the Chatham Artillery filed in and gathered around the bubbling vat. They commenced to pour ungodly amounts of hard liquor and wine into the 'respectable' fruit punch that had been left behind.

All in all, 96 Savannah belles, dressed in their best ornaments and hair-dos, readied themselves to greet the Man. As each lady walked past the prep room towards him, eagerly anticipating presidential favor, a glass of the new and improved concoction was placed in her hand. She was to ask the President if he would like a sip of Georgia's
finest, the Chatham Artillery Punch, and then curtsy and urge him to consume more.

Washington played along, catching the drift after his first taste. As each woman offered him a sip of her drink, he gladly took it, tried it piously, and returned an empty glass. By the time all 96 ladies had rubbed up against the first President of the United States, he was quite positive that he knew what the drink might be missing. He cleared his throat and proceeded to make his own announcement:

"Ladies and gents of Savannah. Ah've ther'ly enjoyed me time here and ah've been drrrrrinking from the cups of all these brrrright young maidens, and thinkin' 'pon the ingredients of this wonderful Chatham Art'ery Punch...burp...of which you rightly boast..."

The President stumbled, almost losing his balance.
"What it needs though...the missing ingredient...belch...What I want to see the most is...
Everyone held their breath. This is what they'd all been waiting for, the President's
secret desire.
"...Cherries! Some big ripe juicy red cherries. Heh Heh. Yeahhhh! Men, let us go and gather some cherries! Whoooo!"

All of the women blushed.
Washington laughed.
"I cannot tell a lie. Yes! Yes! A man's gotta have him some cherries."
Major Butler grabbed the President's shoulder.
"Sir, I think you may have had too much--"
Before he could finish, George Washington grabbed one of the ladies nearby and started dancing with her. It just happened to be Caty Greene, the widow of his best friend and most trusted subordinate. The Quaker Preacher General. But ol' Nathanael was dead now.
And after all, it was Friday 13th.
He comes, the hero comes...

The old man snapped out of his trance and looked over at his astounded grandson.
"Granddad, what did that story have to do with the ingredients of the punch?
You could've just told me that it had catawba wine, and tea, rum, brown sugar, rye whiskey, orange juice, gin, brandy, lemon juice, champagne, and cherries all mushed together. Besides, I already knew that it had cherries. I can see them floating around in the top!"
The poor boy had yet to learn of the multiple dimension factor. The geezer had generated at least 3 different angles with that conclusion and was already dreaming up others. But this was what coming of age was all about.
"Well, son, what you have to understand is that it is men talking men's talk that is the ultimate ingredient. That's why we drink in the first place. Until you discover that, you have not understood the recipe of manhood." He raised the glass one last time.

"This is my blood that was shed for your sake. Drink it in remembrance of me."





Bibliography - "The Punch Lining"

1. James Thomas Flexner, Washington: The Indispensable Man (abridged)
(Boston, MA: Back Bay Books, 1994).

2. Archibald Henderson, Washington's Southern Tour (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1923).

3. Preston Russell and Barbara Hines, Savannah: A History of Her People since 1733
(Savannah, GA: Frederic C. Beil, 1992).

4. Page Smith, Reflections on the Nature of Leadership (Washington, DC: Anderson House,
1982).

5. William Bacon Stevens, A History of Georgia (1847;reprint, Savannah, GA: Beehive Press,
1972).