Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (38 page)

He raised it on high, and with a solid reassuring thump, swung it down, cutting deep into the forward wall of the trench, pulling back a full spade load of dirt that fell to his feet. There were muffled words of approval that “His Excellency” still had the strength of a laddie half his age.

He stepped back, unable to hide a grin of delight that he had not looked foolish and missed his blow.

He handed the tool back to one of his men of the line.

“Here you go soldier, what’s your name?”

“Jerry Clark, sir, 1st Continental Regiment of Foot, been with you, sir, since Long Island. Wounded at Brandywine and at Monmouth, and still with it.”

“What do you think of this, Clark?”

The man grinned with delight.

“Sir, after we push them lobsterbacks into the bay, I’d be honored if you’d have a drink with me, sir.”

“Mr. Clark, you are a true Patriot and may America always remember the service men like you have given to her. Yes, I will join you in that drink.”

Clark looked back at his comrades who had gathered round.

“Now to work, men!”

They set to with a will, and within a few minutes the outlines of the long traverse were already dug out. It would sink down into the earth at a gradual angle. The French engineers had crept out at night, watchfully accompanied by Morgan’s riflemen and Mose, ever hopeful that he could “bag another one,” to drill out core samples of the subsurface. They had assured him and Rochambeau they could go a full eight feet below the surface before hitting the water table, the bane of more than one siege effort, learned by hard experience by both the French and English when campaigning in the fields of Flanders. It would be twelve feet wide, and covered over with timbers, which by the thousands had been stockpiled behind the lines, and when completed, would stretch an amazing two thousand yards, to nearly within killing range of the inner British works. Once there, a parallel line trench would be cut across the face of the British lines with deeply placed revetments for the heavy mortars and howitzers, which would then pound the town of Yorktown, if need be, into rubble.

It would provide, as well, firing positions to hammer the small fleet of light British ships, bottled up in Yorktown harbor. This fleet was essential for them to maintain a line of supply and communication to their secondary line, north of the York River at Gloucester Point. That was held by the infamous Tarleton, according to reports by Washington’s intelligence chief for this campaign, and a brave but damn near-foolhardy reconnaissance raid led by Peter Wellsley, that had fetched that news back. Tarleton had attempted a raid out of that line to try and pull in some supplies and spread general mayhem, but had been repulsed. It was fair to assume, though, that he would attempt so again, or at least order others to do it. Veterans of the campaigns in the Carolinas, on their own, had raised a fund of ten pounds sterling, in real silver, for any man who brought in Tarleton’s head, with emphasis that it only had to be the head.

Though he officially disapproved of such sentiments, Lafayette had made it clear he had put five pounds of his own money into the fund, and, in a rare defiant mood, had made clear he would not withdraw the prize money, no matter what his general might say. Many grumbled that if only Arnold were still here, the fund would have leaped to a hundred pounds sterling.

He watched the men laboring away with a will. For those digging at the front, their French comrades had promised a healthy ration of good brandy when relieved, which was a tradition with their army. Behind them, men by the hundreds were in place, ready as relief forces, others already manhandling up timbers to lay across the top of the trench and cover over with the earth that had been dug out. That was a dangerous job, and would become increasingly dangerous the following night, when the British would, unless totally blind, see the traverse heading toward them. Flares would be sent up, and, if they still had sufficient grit, skirmishers would be slipped out to shoot at the men aboveground when illuminated. It was a slow type of warfare that he chafed against when compared to an open fight in the field, but it could be just as deadly. One mismanaged move, one mistake, and swarms of British light infantry and Hessian Jaegers gaining the traverse would be slaughtering men by the score and in a few hours tearing apart a week’s worth of work, and if given sufficient time, actually seizing and holding the traverse, forcing their enemies to try somewhere else.

Always the clock was ticking away. All were of good heart, morale was the highest he had witnessed since the early days of the war, before the disasters at Long Island and Manhattan. He marked off every day on the calendar as one less day that de Grasse had promised him. A promise that could be shattered if a bold English fleet suddenly appeared off the Capes and aggressively sought battle. There was a time, a time when he still defined himself as an Englishman, that he had read with pride of how a sharp and gallant move by but a few ships of the Royal navy had disrupted the plans of empire by Spain and France.

It would truly shatter the morale of his army if after the years of suffering, the exhausting march of August and September to come to this place, that at the last minute, the French fleet was defeated. Worse yet was, as later dispatches would declare, “and thus the fleet was forced to withdraw out of military necessity,” the standard line of any commander covering the fact that rather than venture all, he had fled.

Washington knew that ultimately the French had nothing to truly gain by holding this bay four weeks longer, other than the potential glory of then claiming they had helped to bag an entire English army in the worst defeat inflicted upon them since the Hundred Years War. If an English fleet, even a small raiding force, should seize but a few islands of the sugar islands of the Caribbean in exchange for this, de Grasse would be recalled in disgrace. He owed that man much. As he watched his men dig, with shovels, picks, and tools provided by their ally, he found himself praying that no matter what might happen in the future, America owed much to this gallant ally, and if ever asked to repay them in some future war, perhaps on their own soil, we would not hesitate to answer that call, and they, in turn, would remember the eternal pledge made here as allies.

Seeing that the work was proceeding at a brisk pace, his ceremonial task completed, he turned aside and started the long walk back to return to his headquarters. The trench was lined with men, coming to their feet as he passed, offering salutes, raising hats, but no shouting out all had been repeatedly ordered to remain silent, but more than one whispered “General number one,” as he passed, reaching out to touch his arm as if he were a talisman.

It could not help but move him, and again he prayed that this campaign would end without a frontal charge upon hearing that the French fleet was withdrawing, and that within hours the English would be relieved, if not destroyed that day. The prayer even went to his enemies as well, because if unleashed in a forlorn assault, by even the European rules of war, the begging for quarter at the last instant was often near impossible to achieve after such slaughter. He did not wish his nation to be founded upon such a legacy.

Clearing the main redoubt line, he ventured down the now covered causeway, at last reaching the marsh, where to his amazement, he found an extremely upset Lafayette awaiting him.

“It is infamy, sir, absolute infamy, and you must send a protest to Cornwallis!”

“What is it, my friend?”

“Infamy, that is what it is. I never dreamed they would sink to such depravity.”

He felt a momentary flutter of concern. Had Tarleton raided out again and committed some atrocity? He was still angered, deeply angered that though Cornwallis had promised to investigate, no reply since had come back regarding the murder of the pregnant woman, and his respect for the man had plummeted as a result.

“They slaughtered all of them. Well, nearly all of them!”

“Slaughtered who?” he cried, fearing to hear the grim news that might trigger his own army into a rage of bloodlust that could not be contained.

“Their horses!”

“What?”

“Their horses, sir. Cornwallis had every horse in the army, except for those belonging to officers and their dragoons, driven down to the bay, and there they slaughtered them all.”

“Horses?”

“Yes, sir, Cornwallis ordered all of them killed.”

Washington stood silent, not sure how to reply. As a horseman of some renown in Virginia, in his younger days admiring friends said he was the finest horseman in the colony; be it on fox or boar hunt, or on the race track, his heart was close to horses … but this was war with all its tragedies and he was not sure what to say.

“Hundreds of them. Sir, may I beg that you send a letter of protest to Cornwallis, or at least give me leave to do so.”

“May I ask why, and what would you wish different?”

“Sir, we could have arranged a cartel, an exchange of their horses for something, anything.”

“And what would you have proposed? There is no sense to it now, my dear comrade, the deed is done. But pray what would you have proposed in return?”

Lafayette extended his arms in a typical Gallic gesture of frustration.

“A question, my friend.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am confused by this, why not eat them instead? It would have given the army fresh meat for a week or more.”

Lafayette looked at him in astonishment.

“Why they are Englishmen! Everyone knows Englishmen do not eat horse.”

“We did, at Valley Forge and Morristown.”

Lafayette dwelled on that for a moment and sighed.

“I see your point, sir, but we could have given them to my fellow countrymen.”

“For what purpose, sir?”

“Why to eat, of course. We do not have your, how shall I say this, prejudice against horseflesh properly stewed or slow roasted over an open flame.”

He could not reply.

“The English, they are all stupid, they killed perfectly good rations,” and sighing and muttering to himself, Lafayette walked away.

Washington stood silent, and then going up to where Billy Lee had patiently waited for him, holding the bridles of their mounts, he paused for a moment and rubbed the snout of his horse.

“Hope you didn’t hear that,” he whispered into his mount’s ear while fetching a handful of corn out of his pocket as an offering. “I’ll starve before I’ll eat you.”

HEADQUARTERS OF CORNWALLIS

AFTERNOON OF OCTOBER 7, 1781

He sat alone, stunned with disbelief. In one night, under cover of the storm now sweeping these accursed grounds, the enemy had started a traverse of nearly a half mile. It was still shallow, just deep enough and wide enough to provide cover for a few diggers at the front, but behind them he could see hundreds of spades rising and falling, widening the trench, and back near its starting point, it had already been covered over with timbers. They were already beginning to branch out with parallel lines definitely within the range of their deadly riflemen. One in particular seemed to appear like a ghost at one place, strike down one of his officers, who was incautiously peeking up over the lip of a trench, shout an obscene taunt, cackle, and spit, then an hour later kill or nearly hit another of his men.

It was impossible, simply impossible. The best of his engineers had assured him that such a traverse would take four days, perhaps a week to construct, and once spotted, proper countermeasures could be taken. Either a direct counterassault by light infantry at night, or a counter-traverse, to meet them in the middle of the siege grounds, and there, man to man, the light infantry backed up by grenadiers would surely hurl them back.

It was now, however, an accomplished fact. They had burrowed ahead like moles, digging deep enough to provide cover for their damn riflemen and skirmishers to get within killing range. Several of their regimental flags had been hoisted up out of the trenches at dawn and waved defiantly, greeted with huzzas and jeers toward his own men, who stunned, were all but silent, hunkered down behind their earthen walls. As he walked down their battle line, though roused by officers to come to attention and salute, few showed the enthusiasm and eager cheers that had once greeted him when, triumphant, he had ridden up Market Street of Charleston, fifes and drummers playing.

Damn Clinton, damn him, he sighed.

Yet there was no use in damning him. He was hundreds of miles away, and that despite the reassuring message slipped through the blockade that even now he was mounting a rescue force that, God willing, would arrive by the end of the month.

A sheet of paper, vague promises, and that was it.

He sat in silence. The gunfire of his batteries, ordered now to conserve ammunition to but ten rounds a day per gun and fire only if all but certain of a kill, thumped. The French and American guns did not reply, and he knew what that meant as well. They had a surfeit of ammunition, but would not fire one round until all was in place. Washington had, indeed, matured into a commander worthy of any European battlefield, unlike the man who he had thought was an amateur, a bumpkin so easily routed at Long Island. He had matured into a trained professional. He would patiently wait the few more days until the parallel was well established with gun emplacements well dug in and masked with a single night’s digging. His estimates were they had near to a hundred pieces on hand, without doubt the heavy siege train that Hood and Graves had let slip past them within the hulls of Admiral Barre’s ships. He would wait until every precious gun was in place, well secured against anything but the luckiest of hits, and then unleash them all at once in a withering barrage that would last for days and tear open his inner line and shatter what little will his men still had.

The noose was tightening with every passing moment, and if he did survive this, a day would come when he had to face his king to explain what happened here, while Clinton standing to one side would but shrug and have his excuses ready. History, as it usually did with such affairs, would all but forget Clinton’s name, but forever remember him as the general defeated and humiliated.