Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (37 page)

If he had but the forces he should have been given, he could have, at least, launched a spoiling raid, a show of bravado on his own part. But the risk was too great, and throughout the day, he had been forced to just watch, with an ever-growing sense of frustration and outright humiliation.

Cornwallis gazed at the staff, but he seemed distant, remote.

“Pass the order. All regiments to withdraw from the outer works, except for the bastion on our right, and to pull back to the inner line.”

There were looks of consternation, but none dared to protest.

“Damn all to hell,” his inner rage at last exploding in front of his men. “Clinton promised me reinforcements. Instead I have received but one lone courier bearing a message for me to hang on. We were to see how things develop over the next few weeks, for my good comrade of a general still feared that this is all a diversion, and that the main blow will still fall upon him in New York.”

Angrily he turned back and pointed to the fifteen thousand or more men confronting them.

“Does anyone here call
that
a diversion!”

No one dared to speak.

“I am confronting the full strength of the Continental army, backed up by the full strength of France in North America, and am blockaded as well. We do not have the men to hold the outer perimeter against such force. We will pull back to the inner lines now. There, at least, we will have the density of men, still well enough to hold a musket and stand in the trenches, to hang on until my dear friend Clinton decides this is where the war will be decided.”

“But, sir,” an adjutant ventured. “At least let us wait till nightfall, do it under cover of night. It will shatter morale to do so now in broad daylight, under the eyes of those damn Rebels.”

“Now, gentlemen, now. We try this at night, it will be mass confusion, and if the enemy senses it and decides to attack us at that moment under cover of darkness, it will trigger a panic that will stampede our entire army straight into the bay. Let the damn Rebels see us fall back, but once inside our inner works they will think twice. Now, do as I’ve ordered, damn it!”

*   *   *

It was Dan Morgan himself who came up bearing the news and though Washington had known this man clear back to their youth on the frontier and the disaster with Braddock, which both had clearly foreseen, at first he wondered if, indeed, the man’s eyes were failing him as some whispered, that or he had broken his promise to the general and had gotten into the corn liquor again.

“May I suggest the general come forward himself if he doubts me,” Dan replied, a bit of a hurt tone in his voice that any of his reports would ever be doubted.

“No offense, Dan, but let me ride forward.”

“May I suggest walking it, sir, some of those bastard Hessians are rather good with a rifle, sir.”

Washington smiled. After such a comment, the last thing he would do would be to dismount. He nudged his mount forward and to his dismay Rochambeau, in full ceremonial white uniform for this day, fell in by his side insisting he had to see as well. That triggered a mad flurry of activity as staff mounted, Knox and von Steuben insisting on joining in. Lafayette, who had been over on the ridge, galloping up as well, gleefully shouting out the same report as Dan’s.

“Now they’ve got one hell of a target,” Dan snarled, looking up at Washington as he trotted alongside him. “Can’t you order these men back?”

“You try to order them back, Dan.”

“Well, don’t blame me if all of you are eating dinner in hell tonight.”

“I pray our fate would be a different dining room table with a better view, and far better company.” He smiled. “And smell better than you as well.”

Dan chuckled, spat a stream of tobacco juice, and kept up his pace, famed on the frontier where he supposedly could run more than thirty miles in a day through the wilderness. A feat Washington recalled with awe, because he had once tried to keep up with him, and finally staggered into where Dan was camped, hunkered over a good, nearly smokeless fire proper for survival on the frontier. Dan had bagged a turkey that was roasting and awaited Washington and the rest of their men. Dan had just enough book learning to boast that if he had been with “them Greeks,” he’d have delivered the message of Marathon “proper like, and not dropped dead at the end of the run.”

They came up to the skirmish line, men arrayed along it looking up with surprise, Old Mose coming up to the general’s side.

“Sure is good day’s hunting, young sir, personally bagged two of ’em,” he announced and rather than saluting, he held up a chaw of tobacco that Washington made a show of accepting, mimicking he had taken a bite. The habit actually disgusted him, but with Old Mose, a man who had, indeed, taught him so much about survival in the wilderness, formalities had to be observed. He actually smiled and looked over at Rochambeau, gesturing with the twist of tobacco. The French general’s eyes filled with horror at the mere thought of it, and Mose laughed, muttering something under his breath.

Everyone else in this army, at least he prayed so, had come to accept and now openly admire their old foes from the last war, but Mose? He suspected if given the chance he would gladly indulge in a little target practice, maybe not to kill, but at least to knock an epaulette off a French general’s uniform.

Washington handed the plug of tobacco back to Mose. There was no need to unfold his field telescope to survey the outer line of the British defenses. Some of Dan’s riflemen and the light infantry were already through the chevaux de frise, entanglements, the moat, and up on the outer wall, rifles and muskets resting atop the wall as they poured out a harassing fire.

“They are retiring all along the line,” Lafayette cried with a nearchildlike enthusiasm. “They are running for their inner works!”

He could plainly see it. The redcoated columns pulling back, no flags flying though, their colors cased for such a humiliating maneuver, in full view of foes, who they once held in contempt and would chase while sounding foxhunting calls on their bugles.

“We capture any artillery?”

Dan shook his head.

“They got them all out. Hooked up right quick, and were on their way.”

Washington took it all in, as several puffs of smoke erupted from the inner line, and Billy Lee looked back nervously at the general and the knot of staff and officers around him. They did present one hell of a big target. A cannonball struck the ground a hundred yards off, directly ahead and for a fraction of a second, Washington did feel a flutter of concern for his staff, which had not noticed the impact, except for Knox, who gave him a quick glance, but the ball bounced high, humming over their heads, striking down again a hundred yards behind them.

“Their bowling is off today,” Knox announced and there was a scattering of nervous laughter in reply.

Washington, grinning, turned and looked at Rochambeau.

“May I suggest we order our men to stop digging and to move forward in force. It appears our friends in red have already built our first siege line for us.”

Rochambeau took it all in. His features showed absolute astonishment. In the European tradition, an enemy did not concede his outer works in a siege until his opponent had at least dug and fortified an outer line and started pushing the first traverses forward. Since the days of Vauban, a hundred years earlier, a ritual had developed for such things, observed and honored by both sides in the minuet-like dance of wars between kings. Such a hasty retreat was, to the eyes of European professionals, unheard of.

“Your words are not a suggestion to me, mon Général. They are an order I shall fulfill with joy. May I congratulate you on your first victory of this campaign.”

“Our campaign, my friend, but may I add,” he said, showing his very American pragmatism, after so many years of disappointment and defeats, “we must remember this is only the opening move.”

Turning about, they galloped back, to be greeted by the cheers of fifteen thousand men, who with barely a casualty or the turning of a single spade full of dirt, now held the outer siege lines of the enemy.

Fifteen

YORKTOWN

THE NIGHT OF OCTOBER 6–7, 1781

The cool and steady rainfall was perfect for this night’s work, Washington thought, masking any moonlight, the rainfall deadening any sound. During the previous week, after the shocking display of the British abandonment of their works, which his army now occupied, without barely having to fire a shot, he eagerly accepted the advice offered by the French professionals, truly the world’s masters when it came to siege works. Rochambeau had even predicted that their mass display of advancing as they did might, indeed, trigger the British to retreat, which had happened. The French, the recognized masters of the world when it came to laying out siege lines, had surveyed the entire front, offering suggestions as to the next step that he noted down with ready acceptance.

There had been jubilation throughout the ranks at the sight of the ignominious withdrawal of their enemy, and morale had soared to heights he had not experienced since the heady days of July 1776, right after the public readings of the Declaration, and before the debacle of the fight for control of New York City had begun.

The men set to now with an extra will and with the rations provided by the French, they were actually happy with their lot, in spite of the plague of gnats, biting flies, and mosquitoes. The long march, most of it under good weather, the plentiful rations, even the labor at hand caused men who seemed on the point of physical collapse or desertion but weeks ago to now throw all they had into this effort.

His army felt absolutely vibrant, and this was no false bravado of men who had not yet seen the reality of battle. They smelled victory, a true victory in the air, and the enthusiastic talk was that once they had driven the bloody British into the bay or into prison camps, they could all at last go home.

He did nothing to still such talk right now. He needed that sense of destiny in them, if the siege dragged out till the end of the month, and he was forced to order an all-out assault along the entire front before de Grasse turned his fleet south, or—his other fear—that a British fleet would appear and this time truly look for an all-out fight to relieve their trapped men.

After so many years of ceaseless worry about where the next day’s rations would come from, how was he to hold this army together for another month, he felt at last he had an army under his command that would see this thing through to a final glorious victory.

The causeways crossing the marshes, hastily built the first day, had been reinforced. They were covered over and tamped down with earth, sand, and gravel, able to support the hundreds of wagonloads of supplies an army of fifteen thousand in the forward lines needed to maintain a proper siege, and to provide roadways as well for the heavy artillery yet to be moved forward.

The newly captured outer works, which, of course, had faced toward an enemy approach, had had to be refortified now that they faced inward. The British had, indeed, expended a fair amount of their precious artillery rounds harassing his men at work, who had lookouts posted for whenever a gun aimed in their direction was fired, the result being only less than a score of casualties for hundreds of rounds fired. To instill morale, he had followed the French lead, and offered a bounty of a shilling in silver for any man who retrieved a fired British solid shot in good enough shape to be reloaded and fired back. He actually did regret that offer, because after each shot had lodged in the earthworks or bounded to a stop, a dozen or more men would drop picks and shovels and scramble about, laughing, yelling, and at times brawling with each other as if from rival regiments, to retrieve the bounty sent over by their enemies that was worth a good jug of corn liquor in trade. Young Wellsley, laughing, had reported that the price of liquor had gone up significantly now that the British were providing payment for it.

Two men eventually had to be flogged, lightly though, when they were caught trying to steal a caisson load of shot from Knox’s artillery camp to dole out as “captured” British rounds. With a stern warning that the next fool who attempted that, Knox would personally deliver three dozen lashes.

Literally thousands of trees for miles around Williamsburg had been cut down, to provide lumber for the building of roads, to reinforce revetments and trenches, and even, under the supervision of carpenters from the French navy, the dropping of many a stately old oak. These were used for hasty repairs to broken “knees,” siding and planking for French ships of the line damaged in their engagement, now called the “Battle of the Capes,” while stately pines that were dead and well-seasoned were sought out for replacement spars.

Every morning he awoke with the fear that during the night the Royal navy had returned and this time, under sturdier command, was spoiling for a fight to the death, behind them transports laden with the garrison of New York as a relief force. Each morning the first report was one of reassurance, delivered personally by de Grasse, that all had passed well during the night and offering words of encouragement that the French navy would see this campaign through to glorious victory.

There was no light except for a single, hooded lantern. One of his men, covered in mud, grinning, handed him a pick. He had not originally thought to participate in what struck him at first suggestion as a somewhat foolish ritual but von Steuben strongly urged him to go forward and do so.

“Da men, mein General, all will speak of it and work twice the hard. Even King Frederick, ja, would do such things.”

He took the pick and liked the heft and feel of it. There was a time in his youth where he could hold a long handle ax out at arm’s length in a bet with friends, standing absolutely rigid for long minutes while others competing against him would, with sweat beading down their faces and arms trembling, let their axes fall, while he just stood smiling, but, of course, keeping well hidden the pain of doing so.

He raised the pick, swung it back and forth a few times to gauge its heft and weight. It was a good tool, typical of the French in so many things, who even when it came to siegecraft made their tools with precision and skill.