Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (20 page)

Allen nodded in agreement.

“Pack up the telescope and let’s head back.”

The boy silently set to work, after finishing the ham and licking the grease off his fingers. Minutes later they were walking the half mile back to the village where they had left their horses. Yonkers was the outer line dividing Rebel territory from that held by the army in the city. A forward skirmish line had been pushed up after dark in order to give him a vantage point for a look up toward Dobbs Ferry, with orders to pull back before dawn. First light would begin to rise in another hour or so.

Gaining the village, and making sure the telescope case was concealed under a heavy horse blanket so as not to arouse notice, the two mounted, thanked the innkeeper for tending to them with a silver shilling, and headed down to the bridge across the Harlem river and back to Manhattan Island.

To the east the first indigo glow of dawn was showing, the morning star of Venus shimmering bright above the horizon.

“Ever look at Venus through a telescope, sir?” Jamie asked.

“Can’t say that I have.”

“We had one out on the farm. My father helped me to make it, ground the mirror for weeks on end. ’Tis a beautiful sight,” the boy sighed wistfully.

“Your farm, you still miss it?”

“Aye. We called where we lived the ‘Mill Burn.’”

“For a burning mill?”

The boy laughed.

“Lot of Scots were in the region. A burn is another name for a creek and there were several mills near our farm, just to the east along the headwaters of the Raritan. Yes, I miss it.”

“Care to see it again?”

There was hesitation for a moment, the implication clear. The boy finally just nodded.

Allen smiled. It would be good to get out of this damn city, and be off on an adventure again.

Eight

THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON NEAR DOBBS FERRY

AUGUST 23, 1781

It had been a very difficult, exhausting four days but the last of Rochambeau’s men were finally across the river. For General Washington it had been, perhaps, the most intense, tension-laden four days of his life. Though Rochambeau was all but explosive with enthusiasm over this audacious plan, they were all still tied hostage to whether the French fleet at Newport would, indeed, sally forth, skirt around the British in New York, slip away into the vastness of the Atlantic, and then rendezvous with de Grasse. Barre remained sitting on the middle of the fence and not committing. Feeling he could wait no longer, Rochambeau had agreed with Washington that their armies would march regardless, praying their departure would ultimately shame Barre into getting off the damn fence and doing his job, which was to sail and seek action.

Then finally, only an hour ago, thank God, word had come. Barre had agreed to take aboard his fleet the heavy siege train of French supplied eighteen- and twenty-four-pounder guns and the score of heavy mortars absolutely essential for a proper siege operation against a heavily fortified position, which Cornwallis would surely have built by now, each of which weighed several tons and would have taken months to haul overland to Virginia. He was also taking along fifteen hundred barrels of salted beef, enough to feed the entire army for several weeks, an additional regiment of French infantry, siege engineers, and artillerymen to handle the heavy weapons that could be as dangerous to the user as the target if not handled correctly. In short, he had signed on to the plan, and Washington felt at last that he could gallop forward to the head of his army, already halfway across New Jersey.

The campaign had now truly begun.

“I will see you in Philadelphia in six days, sir!” Washington announced, leaning forward to grasp Rochambeau’s hand, the French general grinning.

“Do promise that my men may enter the city marching with yours, mon Général. It is good for morale, yes, and the ladies will certainly cheer and offer their personal thanks to their noble allies from France.”

Despite the ribald intent of the general’s comment, Washington, with his usual taciturn sense, decided to let it pass without comment. As he looked at the famed French regiments, arrayed in marching order, and contrasted them with his own ragged lot, there was nothing that could be said. There was many a “lady” of Philadelphia whose gaze would rest upon the neatly attired soldiers of France and head straight to them, and even the heads of the more virtuous would most certainly be turned.

Some of the most famed and ancient regiments of the French army, with proud lineages dating back over a century to the Thirty Years War, had crossed the river during the previous night, along with their mountains of baggage, what the Romans called “impedimenta” with just reason, for it would surely slow their march. Nevertheless, these regiments were, indeed, fighters—many of the men in the ranks were veterans of the brutal Seven Years War, either against his own side, or against the British and Prussians on the continent—but they also expected a proper repast at dinner, tents for all, even soap and whitening to cover over the stains of their lily white uniforms for morning inspection or for a formal parade in front of the ladies of Philadelphia.

Compared to his “scarecrow” army, the contrast would be startling and most noticeable.

Returning Rochambeau’s melodramatic salute and bow, while mounted, Washington turned his horse and set off at a canter that was soon up to a gallop. The head of his army, weaving along back roads on the far side of the Watchung Hills, thus blocking any observation from New York City, was approaching the passes out of those hills and would be in Princeton by day’s end. It was a ride of nearly sixty miles, and he took delight at the prospect. It had been a long time, indeed, since his army had been on the march. As he headed out to a gamble and an uncertain fate, inwardly he rejoiced in the long day’s ride ahead, the type of ride he so often indulged in when young.

He spared a quick glance over his shoulder and, of course, Billy Lee was behind him, well mounted, with the ever-hovering guard detail trailing close behind. A wave of exuberance swept through him for a moment after these long years of stalemate. Now in this heady moment they were again on the march, a march of nearly five hundred miles on a mad insane gamble with all the odds against them.

Angling off the side of the road, he urged his mount to vault over a five-rail fence into an apple orchard.

Though technically it was against his own orders, he slowed, came to a stop, reached up, and plucked an apple—green, but near ripe—and bit into it. It was tart, yet so refreshing. He relished the moment, giving his guard time to catch up, and then turned about, vaulted back over the fence, and set off at a swift trot southwestward for the Jersey hills.

They were on the road to Virginia, to a final victory or death, at last.

ALONG THE KILL VAN KULL NEAR STATEN ISLAND

AUGUST 23, 1781, DAWN

Colonel Peter Wellsley was making a great show of it and having a delightful time after so many months of boring inactivity since his return from North Carolina. The decoy troops he had planned out with General Washington had marched down from Tappan over the last four days, making the most of their diversionary efforts, finding great fun in disappearing from view, marching out into open view on the east shore of the Hudson River so observers on the other side could see them, and once out of view, taking off uniform jackets, back-tracking along a hidden path, then marching by again, looking like militia, following a quickly fashioned banner made out of a bedsheet “borrowed” from a nearby farmstead.

Peter had been directing the effort, while at the same time, taking in reports from his agents, spread out along the line of march. He knew, of course, that his cordon could never be airtight, but at least he could try. Hundreds of Loyalist families had either been placed under guard in their homes, or the more rabid of them, rounded up and detained.

Peter had passed the strictest of orders that no family was to be abused and no property destroyed. If supplies were taken they were to receive proper vouchers, payable upon acknowledgment of independence and the ending of hostilities for any cattle, pigs, chickens, or stock of grain confiscated for the army along its line of march. Someday, when this was over, if it was ever over, he did not want it to be said in his home state that he had been party to looting and pillaging, as was the habit of their enemies.

With telescope raised, he scanned the far shore of Staten Island, at this point less than three hundred yards across the swampy tidal river from the Jersey shore. A cordon of Hessian Jaegers followed his movements, pointing and gesturing, and several dozen shots had been fired by their riflemen, one of them nicking his horse’s ear, nearly dismounting him and causing gales of laughter from the other side. He had responded with a cheery and obscene salute, which had elicited even more laughter and several more shots.

He had just made a show of a group pushing along a heavy boat, mounted on wheels and pulled by half a dozen oxen to become visible to the far shore, and then mimicked wild rage, had ridden over to them, shouting that they were damn idiots and to push the boat back into hiding.

A random long range shot by the riflemen on both sides might hit someone now and again, but a major battle was not in the offing, so it was all something of a lark with only a hint of danger.

Damn them, some rascals had, indeed, managed to find a forty-gallon barrel of good rum, and were selling five seconds on the spigot for fifty dollars Continental or one shilling silver, and a fair number were now drunk. Even though he knew his business well, trying to spy out where the barrel was hidden was beyond even his skills.

If the men were too merry and carefree, rather than acting as men bent on a mission they knew would be deadly. If they tried to seize Staten Island, and then blockaded the British fleet with its hundreds of guns, then the subterfuge was falling apart.

Another puff of smoke from the far shore. A couple of seconds later he actually heard the flutter of the bullet zip past his head.

Whoever the Hessian was, he was damn good. Perhaps too good.

He raised his hat in salute, turned his horse about, and rode back from the marshy shore, insults, clear in intent, carrying from the far shore.

“I’m looking for Colonel Peter Wellsley?”

He could barely see the rider approaching through the tall swamp grass of the Jersey marshlands, but the man was riding hard. Peter stood in his stirrups and shouted for him to come over.

The courier, a militia man, reined in, and saluted.

“Sergeant Robert Arnett, 4th New Jersey out of Springfield, sir,” he said as they exchanged salutes.

“What’s your report?”

Arnett, however was looking past Peter to the Hessians on the far shore. They had brought up a light fieldpiece, unlimbered it, and now the first shot was being fired, the four-pound ball singing past them so that Arnett ducked down against the neck of his horse.

There were distant shouts and laughter.

“Sergeant Arnett, never let them see that you are unnerved,” Peter announced, loud enough so that others would hear, but nevertheless he motioned for Arnett to follow him down toward a fold in the land that concealed them from the opposite shore, waving a farewell to the Hessians. Since he did know Dutch and a good sprinkling of Rhineland German, he clearly understood what they were shouting back about his courage and his legitimacy.

Arnett, a bit crestfallen, recovered as Peter leaned over and patted him on the shoulder.

“First time under fire?”

“Once before, sir, last year at Springfield,” he replied, and fell silent. Peter could sense the young man was not of the stoutest stuff, but then again, if that gunner on the far shore had shifted the muzzle of his fieldpiece but a fraction of an inch, both of them would now be dead or writhing in agony.

“Your report.”

“Sir, I was told to look for you specifically. You are, sir, Colonel Peter Wellsley?”

“That I am.”

There was hesitation, as if Arnett was about to ask for proof, but he noticed more than a few looking on with bemused glances and relented. He leaned forward.

“Sir,” he spoke with a stage whisper. “Do you know of a British officer by the name of Allen van Dorn?”

Peter felt his heart go cold. He fixed his features, struggling not to show reaction, but wondering with a fearful heart what would be said next.

“Yes, I do. Go on.”

“Sir, he was recognized this morning on the road from Springfield to Chatham, heading toward the Watchung pass. Before he could be intercepted, he disappeared but is believed to be in the area. Sir, my colonel requests your presence since it is said that you know this man personally, and if captured, can confirm who he is before we hang him.”

Arnett hesitated but then smiled, “Sir, my colonel said we’d hate like hell to hang the wrong man and rumor is that you’d want to see the show if we catch him.”

Peter could only nod, saying nothing.

“Will you come with me, sir? With luck we might have already captured the bastard, but we want to make sure before we hang him.”

He was silent, time seeming to stretch out, memories of the year before, watching Andre, hearing his neck snap. Would he now be forced to condemn Allen to the same fate and then witness it?

He realized in this same instant, as well, that if Allen was poking around behind their lines, it meant he was on to something, perhaps the entire secret of the plan, and had to be stopped.

“Lead the way, Sergeant,” was all he could say, working to control his voice and seem unemotional.

NEAR CHATHAM, NEW JERSEY

They had concealed their horses in the woodlot of a Loyalist who Allen trusted, as far as he could trust anyone in this region given the way the fortunes of war shifted back and forth. To go boldly riding into the village after a near run-in and pursuit with some militia guarding the pass through the Watchung Hills would be suicide. Word would be out now to keep a close watch for two men, most likely Tories, both of them well mounted.