Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (19 page)

The two crewmen of the ferry poled off from the wharf, the pilot putting the helm over as they hoisted up the lateen sail, the boat heeling slightly as it caught the gentle night breeze, the cheery sound of splashing water echoing from the bow, a faint shimmer of a white wake spreading out to either side. The sail above fluttered for a moment until sheeted home.

“A few of you men to windward,” one of the crew announced, and some moved up to sit along the railing. In the presence of the general, there was no foolery of splashing up water, or playful threats of pushing a man overboard.

The river was wide here, nearly five miles, and this ferry spot chosen long ago because in the broad shallow they would not have to run tight against a swift-moving tide. Rare was the day when the low hills on the distant shores blocked out all wind. It took somewhat longer to cross, but for the boat crews it was far easier work.

A pale glow ahead from a hooded lantern revealed one of the ferries, eastbound on return passing, a low murmur of greeting from the pilots, a comment from the eastbound man that the wind was coming about more northerly for an easier run.

Halfway across, out in the middle of the river, his prediction proved true, with a slight increase in speed, and a few more men were asked to sit on the windward side railing.

Bracing against the mast, Washington stood up. There was a glare on the distant horizon. Were those the lights of the city? Picket boats had deployed a couple of miles downstream, to intercept and pass any warning of a foray by the British to ghost up the river, even though it was against the tide, in any attempt to attack the ferry crossing. There had been no warning, but still he felt uneasy.

A third of the forty-five hundred men marching with him had crossed by now. If there were a moment for a surprise attack it was now, catching his men divided, with four defenseless boats crisscrossing at midriver. Even a light sloop—let alone a brig, or far worse, a frigate of forty guns—could raise havoc and shatter this entire plan before it had even started.

All was silent, except for a whispered order from the pilot to his crew to ease out the sheet a bit, and a whispered hail from another boat on its return voyage.

The shadows ahead darkened. It was land, and he saw the single lantern light the pilot was making for.

He heard more whispered commands to ease sheet, a suggestion for the “gentleman to please sit down,” rudder over to run before the wind for a moment, then a luffing of sails as they turned straight into the eye of the wind. The center keel was winched up, and a line cast to the wharf and the boat hauled up snug against the wharf.

They made it all look so simple. Of course, his Massachusetts fishermen would have found some fault or other, that these were not real sailors, plying a river crossing while they had known hurricane gales and forty-foot seas—the usual bravado of any professional men observing the work of another in their craft—but he was impressed with how effortless it all seemed in contrast to the nightmare of the icy crossing at Trenton.

Though he was not prone to such thoughts, was this not a good portent, he wondered? Or because it all seemed to be going so effortlessly, would he soon be in for a rude shock?

He ignored the offer of a hand of assistance as he leaped to the dock, even before the boat was snugged in tight for offloading. His guards, staff, and Billy Lee followed. In less than a minute the boatmen had cast off for the return journey to the far shore.

“General Washington, sir?”

He looked about in the semidarkness illuminated by the single lantern and the waning moon.

The man inquiring as to his presence approached and saluted.

“Colonel Wellesley, sir,” he announced as Washington returned the salute.

“All goes well?” Washington asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Washington motioned for him to follow as he stepped off the wharf. The men on this side had done their work well, throwing up a final defensive position fifty yards out from the wharf, and a forward position a hundred yards beyond the inner line and thus out of effective musket-fire range.

Once past the outer line, walking along the road that led southward, Washington stopped, looked around, motioned for his guards and staff to remain in place, and walked up a narrow country lane for several dozen paces until he was sure the two of them were truly alone.

“Your report?”

“Sir, all is going according to your orders. The decoy companies are marching along the river road. I already have my people out ahead of our dragoons. We have fairly reliable lists of any Loyalists along our line of march, and they will either be placed under guard by local militia, or, if thought to be of significant risk, they will be detained until three days after our passing.”

Washington nodded with approval. The hidden game of war, of subterfuge, of spy and counterspy, of gathering of intelligence and of spreading false rumors was one he would not admit to in public. Yet it was this part of it all that fascinated him. A well-placed rumor that diverted a brigade of British troops, that sent a ship bearing a false dispatch clear back to England, or that spread any kind of confusion was an effort well made. Even when the army was literally bankrupt, he had somehow managed to keep a small amount of hard cash always on hand to pay or bribe those who were motivated by less than patriotic motives.

“And your spreading of ‘tall tales’?” Washington asked, and he smiled, a rare luxury these last few days, in which, like an actor on the stage, he had plotted out the most complex maneuver of this war, based upon but one letter from thousands of miles away. Throughout he had to act calm, confident, but not too eager and excited. It was actually a pleasure for him, this moment to be alone with a soldier he trusted, and talk of the ancient game of spying and not have anything to conceal.

Wellsley’s smile was visible in the moonlight.

“There is, how can I say this delicately, sir? A woman of, shall I say, dubious virtue who the British think works for them.”

“And she is in your pay for information.”

“Even now, someone, a militia officer, is boasting about getting ready to lead an attack across to Staten Island. The boats, as you suggested as well, sir, are being moved into the bay on the Jersey side and will be visible from time to time. I have some other things afoot as well.”

“Sir?”

Washington looked back down the lane. It was Alexander Hamilton. The young officer, all so eager for battle, approached with a jaunty step, stopped, and saluted.

“I have the honor to report that the first entire brigade is now across, sir, and moving out. Can we request the honor of your company for a while?”

He considered the proposal and then agreed. He would not actually leave this area for another day, until the last of his men and supplies were across, and fully assured that Rochambeau was moving and had convinced Barre to do so as well. “I’ll ride along to start your men off,” Washington announced. It was obvious Hamilton was delighted with the response.

He turned back to Wellesley.

“I trust you, Colonel, with much, but I also caution you to take no extreme risks with yourself. One can only tempt fate or the devil so far.”

If Billy Lee had heard that comment there would have been a barely suppressed cough and clearing of a throat. His servant had said the same to Washington a hundred times or more during the heat of battle when his general would go literally into the volley line to encourage the men.

Washington turned and disappeared into the shadows, Wellsley coming to attention and saluting his receding form.

Perhaps it was best not to discuss too much what some of his plans were, Wellsley thought to himself. The general had enough worries to deal with this night.

NEAR YONKERS, NEW YORK

AUGUST 19–20, 1781

3:00
A.M.

Allen carefully braced the telescope on its mount, barely touching the focus. It was a “night scope” versus the standard field telescope, with a wider front lens to gather in more light. Frankly, he didn’t see much difference using it, but then again …

Yes, a sail, a momentary glimpse, as a boat five miles away up the Hudson appeared to come about, the sail broadside against the moonlight. Only a moment, but it was enough. What appeared to be horses on board the boat as it slipped up against the wharf, on the west bank of the river, illuminated by its single lantern.

“Note, boat carrying an estimated half dozen horses.”

After the obvious terror that Sergeant O’Toole had shown the previous year when they had ventured through the lines in the vain attempt to try and intervene for Major Andre, he had the man reassigned to his regiment, even sent him back with a warm letter of recommendation to keep him in good graces. His assistant now was a street urchin, picked up off the wharves of the city, a native of the city since the start of the war, who knew its alleyways and darker secrets. Jamie O’Neal, at sixteen, actually had some education behind him until both his parents died in the smallpox epidemic, which had left him badly scarred as well. Of course, his kindly schoolmaster, without tuition payment in hand, had cast him out onto the street before his parents were cold in the ground. The lad had damn near starved to death until he learned more of the school of harder knocks and had fallen in with Allen when he had tried to rob him last year after a night in the “stews” picking up gossip. Allen had wandered out acting as if he were drunk, and then had thrashed Jamie half to death, when the lad fumbled a bludgeoning attack from behind. He took pity when a guard detail, hearing the commotion, rushed to the rescue of an officer and was ready to haul the boy off to prison. Assaulting an officer, in an occupied city during wartime, would be construed as a Rebel plot of assassination and the boy would be doing the “midair jig” from a gallows within a day. For his skin and bones and ragged appearance, Allen felt pity. Twice before there had been attempts to kill him in alleyways at night, by hardened men, either real Rebels or those hired by someone to eliminate a man suspected of running spies. He had seen Jamie was only a pathetic lad trying to survive.

He had dragged the boy into a nearby tavern, ordered a meal for him, kept a wary eye, and as he ate his fill the youth collapsed into tears. As the boy stuffed himself like a voracious wolf, Allen learned his family had come over from the north of Ireland ten years before, purchased a farm and orchard just north of Springfield, across the river in Jersey where the battle had been fought the year before, and prospered there until the war. Some ill-advised public statements by his father—“to hell with all Rebels, God save the king”—and in short order they were refugees in New York. With their deaths in the great smallpox epidemic, and no other kin, and no home to go back to since it had been sold in auction at a fraction of the fair price, the boy had barely stayed alive. Too scraggly and weak-looking, even for a recruiting sergeant, and obviously not skilled in his latest craft of strike from behind and rob, he was near death.

He had an instinct about the lad. As they talked, he learned the boy knew the declensions of Latin, even read a little Greek. He had a sharp eye for details and a keen mind, once fed to near bursting, and spoke of his parents’ desire that he become educated. The story resonated with Allen since it was so much like his own.

The only reason his own father’s business survived in Trenton was that all knew that Allen’s younger brother was considered a hero from the battle there five years ago. Otherwise he most likely would have been driven out because of Allen’s decision to serve the king; but for a slight twist of fate, this boy’s story could have been his own.

He tossed a shilling on the table, gave his address, told the boy if he wanted work to come to his place at dusk tomorrow. If not, then take up some profession other than trying to rob officers in alleyways, for it was a certain quick trip to the gallows.

Allen sat back from the telescope to rub his eyes. A slight mist was beginning to rise off the river, making observation difficult. In the silence of night by the river, sound carried, and he could hear the muffled stroke of oars, hoarse whispers, one of the Rebel picket boats pushing a lot farther down river than they usually did, keeping watch against any foray by the Royal navy.

The mere thought of that filled him with frustration. It would have been easy enough to run a couple of light brigs up with the tide, perhaps even a frigate before nightfall. With rumors of something afoot, he had even suggested it in his report the previous morning. Of course, that would now be lost in the piles of paper on Clinton’s desk, and the army would never ask the navy for such a thing, anyway. They had to stand ready to sally if de Grasse did show up off the passage out to Sandy Hook, which was now the latest concern. The Royal navy feared that the French might appear here and join with Barre. They would then far outnumber the ships of the line keeping the sea lanes open back to Halifax and England from here. Chasing after a few Rebels on boats on the Hudson was beneath their dignity and not their task.

He sometimes wondered just exactly who was on whose’s side when it came to the rivalry between the army and navy, as to which branch was to perform what task and the hell with bloody pride.

Without bothering to ask, Jamie relieved Allen at the telescope, adjusting it slightly, carefully, slowly sweeping it along the river, then paused.

“Another one, sir,” he whispered.

Allen resumed his position, looked but couldn’t see anything.

“You sure?”

“Certain, just a glimpse, heading to the west shore.”

The mist continued to rise, turning all northward into an opaque haze.

He set back down, opened his haversack, pulled out a thick slice of ham, cut it in half and tossed one half to Jamie, who grunted a thanks. Even after all these months the boy devoured food like a wolf believing he was having his last meal.

“So what do you think?” Allen asked.

“Oh they’re moving, sir. How many boats have we counted crossing?” he held up his sketch pad of notes to the moonlight. “We observed sixteen, chances are we missed twice as many until the moon came up.”