Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (32 page)
“Will Clinton come to my aid?” Cornwallis asked, refilling his glass.
“Sir, I do not know if I am in position to answer that.”
Cornwallis chuckled softly. Turning to one side he took a sheet of blank paper, picked up a quill, inked it, scratched a quick note, then pushed it over to Allen.
“Colonel Allen, I am hereby accepting your service to volunteer to serve on my staff as an adviser, promoting you to rank of full colonel in the regular forces and not just as a Loyalist volunteer, and tasking you in all things pertaining to the gathering of intelligence of enemy forces here in Virginia. I’ll include a dispatch later, if it ever gets through, informing General Clinton that I have pressed you into my service, against your will if need be, given the situation of the moment. Once this campaign is completed, you will receive honorable mention in dispatch to our king.”
He smiled conspiratorially and drained another glass of burgundy, motioned the bottle to Allen who politely refused.
“Now, sir, an answer without prevarication since you are now officially part of my staff and no longer serving directly under our dear friend General Clinton. Will Clinton venture all, knowing that he has no real enemy to face in New York now that Washington is here. Will he now rally all his forces, British and Hessian, and come to my relief?”
Allen surprised, stunned actually, looked at the sheet of paper and back at Cornwallis.
He drained the rest of his glass and taking the bottle poured a second drink, then took a deep breath. As the old saying went, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“No, sir,” he replied forcefully and struggling to hide his bitterness at this mad folly. “Win or lose, this fight is yours and yours alone. Clinton will not come.”
“Thank you for your frankness, Colonel, I look forward to our association, and know I can trust you.”
He actually smiled now.
“You still do look decidedly under the weather, young sir. You are dismissed. Ask my adjutant to find you appropriate lodgings here at my headquarters. I suspect you will be in need of relief of your poor stomach in a moment or two, and then take the day to rest. You are dismissed.”
Less than a minute later Allen was leaning over a fence railing, disgorging the wine that Cornwallis had so adroitly used to loosen his tongue.
Exhausted, he collapsed into the bed he had been assigned and slept the rest of the day away, interrupted only once by another bout of the malaise when he began to dream that he was again aboard the tossing ship at sea.
FLAGSHIP OF THE ROYAL FRENCH NAVY
VILLE DE PARIS
SEPTEMBER 18, 1781
The piping of the bosun’s whistle truly hurt Washington’s ears. High pitched sounds usually did that to him. Maybe it was a throwback in his memory to the minutes just before the disaster with Braddock in the last war. Throughout the morning of that ghastly disastrous day, the British regiments had insisted upon marching in formal order, even though they were following a forest track through the dangerous woods of western Pennsylvania. As an “adviser” to Braddock he had, several times, tried to tactfully suggest that maybe they should stop the damn musical accompaniment of fifes and drums. Instead, throw out a heavier screen of light infantry to probe ahead and break the target-rich column, which even a blind man could hit just by the sound of their marching into a looser formation.
He had never asked, but he wondered if some of the older staff with Rochambeau, now his trusted ally and friend, had been there that day on the Monongahela.
Fifes and drums had been part and parcel of this war, but at times the high squealing did trouble him and he was glad at this instant not to be an officer serving in any navy as the bosun’s pipes shrieked and echoed, picked up in salute by the other ships of the line anchored fore and aft of the flagship of de Grasse’s fleet.
As he gained the deck, he remembered the coaching of one of his staff, turning first to salute the ribbon-bedecked officer of the watch, saying in French “Permission to come aboard, sir,” which was warmly greeted, then turning to remove his tricorner hat and bowing low to salute the flag of France fluttering astern, then finally turning to face Admiral de Grasse for the first time and saluting him as well.
His first impression of this man, upon whom the very outcome of all their efforts had depended, was a most positive one. Nearly as tall as himself, he cut a splendid figure in full formal uniform, though inwardly he did think that it certainly was gaudy compared to English custom, with several sashes of embroidered silk from left shoulder to right hip, an eight-sided star nearly as broad as the palm of his hand adorning his left breast, full wig, properly powdered and curled, and that most strange, curious practice of French nobility of white makeup and beauty mark on the cheek. Any effeminate aspect of that makeup was instantly belied as de Grasse came forward with a quick step, hand extended in traditional greeting that an instant later pulled Washington into a firm and warm embrace, complete to a kiss on both cheeks, though he knew the admiral’s rouge had without doubt stained his own cheeks.
At that exact instant, the deck of the flagship leaped as a full salute was fired from both port and starboard batteries to be picked up and repeated by every ship of the fleet. The waters of the Chesapeake were rippling from the blasts of hundreds of guns. He could not help but run a quick calculation in his mind of how much powder per gun had just been expended, with the conclusion a few seconds later that such a display could have kept his entire army supplied for several hours of pitched battle. He remembered a time, as they went into Trenton, when his ragged few thousand, on average, had but five rounds of musket ball per man.
Crying, “Oh, mon Général!” and releasing Washington from his embrace, which left light stains of makeup on both cheeks, de Grasse rushed to salute and then hug Rochambeau in turn, while lower staff officers of the navy and of the American and French armies received similar greetings from de Grasse’s staff.
The staff, with repeated bows and compliments, led the way through an ornate double door, which Washington could not help but note was scored by a cannonball shot and several musket or grape shot rounds, into the admiral’s comfortable quarters. All was gilded or polished wood, though it was obvious that a score of carpenters must have been hard at work these last few days, repairing the damage from the action of the week before. One cannonball, he judged it to be a twenty-four pounder, was actually lodged firmly in the starboard wall, and it was pointed out to all jokingly as a shot that had missed one of the admiral’s stewards’ head by mere inches, the poor man wetting himself. There stood the steward, grinning weakly, the object of amusement. Yet Washington made it a point to go over and pat the man on the shoulder, and struggling with his command of French, complimented the man with what he hoped came out that though his britches might have been wet, he, without a doubt, had a stout heart.
His words elicited warm laughter, but in turn de Grasse, not to be outdone, went to his sailor and clasped his hand, saying he was a brave man who stood to his post throughout the fight. There was now a shocked and embarrassed look upon the face of the formally attired steward. Washington knew that if sailors were even remotely like soldiers, by day’s end every man on this ship would know that the “bon général américain” had personally complimented the man, had erased his shame, and from there word of it would leap to every ship of the fleet.
The formal dinner that followed was a tedious ritual Washington knew had to be followed before a single word could be exchanged regarding the reason for his formal visit and the news that had turned his elation of but days before to one of deep concern.
Course followed course. If sailors “forward of the mast” had to sustain themselves for months on end with hard bread and salt pork, rare was the admiral that suffered the same. Though on this day the entire ship was filled with celebration. Cases of wine had been slung up from below, two bottles to each mess table and a bottle of brandy, fresh beef, and soft bread for all those forward. Junior officers of the American and French armies were welcomed aboard for the celebration, while their seniors feasted on fresh lamprey and caviar of James River sturgeon, roasted Chesapeake goose, fresh greens, and Indian corn. This was a luxury for men who were often at sea for months at a time, followed by a traditional American apple cobbler drenched with rich cream.
The last of the plates were cleared, Washington grateful that the stern windows had been opened to allow a touch of a breeze to cool the room, stewards setting out bottles of choice wines, brandy, and even some Scotch captured from a ship taken from the British fleet. As always, and especially when there was a potential for rough negotiations ahead, Washington drank sparingly. His friend Rochambeau gazed over at him with a sly look each time the bottle was passed. His fellow French general had finally admitted that more than once he had attempted to put Washington off his guard with brandy before a tough point was to be settled between allies, but never had he fallen for the ruse.
Another round of formal toasts were offered to the king, to President Laurens, to His Majesty’s navy, and the gallant American army. Then Washington finished the rounds by standing, bowing to Admiral Barre, who had remained silent throughout the small talk of dinner, and raising his glass, announced, “To our gallant friend and ally, Admiral Barre, who so bravely brought to this distant place the siege guns necessary for the destruction of our foes, while your noble fleet blocks their escape from the trap we have laid. If our foe does attempt to escape, the fox will surely fall into the snare you have so gallantly set in place, and all glory shall be yours.”
He chose his words carefully, this time offering it in English while his dear friend of so many years, young General Lafayette, provided the translation. There was a murmur of approval, all raising their glasses, Barre offering just the touch of a smile and bowing from his seat, but saying nothing.
Washington sat back down and knew the toast would now allow him at last to raise the issue that had left him in shock since word of it had first been given to him the day before, upon his arrival by land to where he would place his headquarters near Yorktown.
“I think, my dear friend,” de Grasse said, now gazing thoughtfully at Washington, “there is a matter we must discuss.”
“Thank you, sir, for raising it,” Washington began, Lafayette having risen from his seat, standing between the two of them to translate. Rochambeau, sitting on the other side of the table, would glance at Washington, but otherwise kept his gaze fixed on the admiral. Barre feigned indifference. Washington knew the tension between the two admirals as to exactly who had precedence and command over the other. De Grasse was the most recent to come from France, bearing direct orders from the king, but technically Barre still had seniority. With de Grasse having no orders to follow his command, Barre was forced to defer. It was obvious that did not set well with him. On such points victory had often been thrown into the jaws of defeat.
Washington nervously cleared his throat. Less than two weeks ago he had, indeed, been insane with joy. Awakening the following morning he had overheard some of his staff still chuckling about his emotional outburst. Of course, they had fallen silent when he had emerged from his tent, but it had reminded him of just how wild and undignified his outburst had been. Throughout the day as he trotted along the road, heading south, more than one wag in the ranks, waiting until he was safely past, would cough loudly and there would be a muffled “Heard you dance a handsome jig, sir!” or some such thing.
He knew it was a call of affection, actually. Unlike the darkest days at Morristown and the tense days after leaving Philadelphia with men openly calling for their pay, even before he had passed. He would be forced to ride on stoically, looking straight ahead, not replying.
This was a different army than any of this age. Men of the British, French, and especially Hessian and Prussian ranks would have been flogged unmercifully for such effrontery, but this army? In part this is what these men were fighting for. Army discipline or not, it was the freedom of speech, the freedom to be heard, and he knew as well that to punish or suppress one man for thus speaking out would only serve to arouse five hundred more to do the same. This was the army of a free republic, of free men, all of them volunteers, not one of them pressed into service, or dragged out of a prison and offered the choice of enlistment or the end of a hangman’s noose. This was an army of freedom, not the army of a king, and this army required at times forbearance and silence on his part rather than the tantrum display of an autocrat. He knew, in turn, that the men respected him the more for such moments of forbearance, and often he would hear the echo of another soldier calling for silence, that their general would see it through fairly for them.
“Sir,” he began, again clearing his throat before continuing, “I read with great interest, but I must confess concern as well, your note of yesterday that so graciously welcomed me to this theater of operations that I must say, first has only been made possible by the bravery of you and all those who serve beneath you.”
De Grasse nodded warmly and raised his glass as if to offer a toast but Washington now pressed forward, not wishing this to turn into another quarter hour of compliments, self-congratulations, and what he feared even more, the possibility of a long-winded speech lubricated by drunkenness.
“There is, however, sir, a point of concern.”
De Grasse nodded and sipped at his brandy as Lafayette translated.
“My orders regarding the time allotted to me here,” de Grasse interjected, in a rather un-Gallic gesture cutting straight to the point.
“Yes, sir,” Washington replied softly, almost deferentially, for after all, he had no position of strength to argue from. If insulted or if a variant mood suddenly struck this admiral, there was nothing to prevent him with the coming of the next tide to weigh anchor and sail away, thus dashing all his hopes, and in reality, ending this war in defeat after all these years of sacrifice and struggle.