I dread that day, but hope for that day. ’Tis a peculiar feeling, to dread and hope for the same thing.
Alas, we ladies must depart the Birmingham, to make room for soldiers. We are to climb down a rope ladder over the side, carrying our kettles and bags. A longboat awaits, to row us to shore. I fear tripping on my skirt and falling into the water! Esther is tying baby Polly across her chest so she won’t drop her.
How I wish we could stay aboard and drift to Yorktown! But we must rejoin our old friends the oxen, wagons, and horse-drawn cannons. We’ve been told that a French wagon train will also be traveling with us.
September 21, 1781, Friday
At 3:30 this morning we left Annapolis, guided first by starlight, then by the rising sun. It is now dusk. We are camped on the grounds of a large plantation owned by the Easton brothers. They have been generous with their hay and oats for the animals, and have offered wood for our cooking fires.
Though we ladies have been following behind all the wagons, we can see soldiers from both armies mingle. It seems they are trying to understand one another for there is much hand waving and questioning looks on faces. I like hearing the French speak. Their language sounds pretty, like fast fluttering birds.
A curious complaint: I can no longer sleep on my stomach! Esther said babies change us before they’re even born. I believe this is true.
Day four of walking, Georgetown
Another nor’easter. Rain and wind slows us through mud. My feet have not been dry since aboard the schooner. A ferry will take us across the Potomac into Virginia, but many will cross on horseback. Because of the tempest, the river is running high.
We have seen no posters about runaway slaves and I have not asked Miss Lulu if she worries about getting caught. Maybe it’s like her honey cake: We’ll just keep pretending that all is well.
End of September, 1781
It took two days for our wagons to ford the Potomac. A Frenchman panicked when his horse caught its reins in driftwood, dragging it and him underwater. Both drowned. I think of this man’s poor wife or mother far across the ocean. How long before they learn of his fate?
The nib on this quill has split, thus these ink smudges. I must look along the riverbank for a new goose or swan feather.
Next day
We passed a road that turned off to Mount Vernon. An orderly told us that General Washington just visited there, after having been away for six years. In just one day, he rode the 60 miles from Annapolis, so eager was he to enjoy supper under his own roof with his wife and grandchildren. His aides and Count Rochambeau arrived the following day. Now all have left for Williamsburg. Word is, they are meeting with Admiral de Grasse aboard his flagship Ville de Paris.
I have missed being away from Valley Forge these three years, and cannot imagine being away for six. Sometimes I jolt awake in the middle of the night, wondering where I am, thinking, Oh no, I must pack up and move again on the morrow. Oh, for the day that Willie and I shall enjoy supper together under our own roof!
Losing track of days
Sixteen miles today. Ferry across the Occoquan River. My new pen is from a crow.
Next evening
Forded the Rappahannock. Esther carried Polly on her shoulders. Miss Lulu steadied Esther by holding on to her waist. I held on to Miss Lulu with Mazie in between us so she wouldn’t be swept downstream. Our dresses dragged as we tried to walk over sunken rocks. The current was fast with whitewater rushing at us.
“Hang on, Mazie, don’t let go!” we kept shouting. At ten, she is one of the youngest with us, and I worry about her. I am relieved beyond words that Sally and Johnny are safe in Philadelphia.
Soaking wet all day.
October 7, 1781, Sunday
Yorktown. A sergeant told us we have come 230 miles since Annapolis. In this diary I marked an X for every day: seventeen. We are exhausted. My feet have raw sores, such that I have been limping like a tired dog.
Our tents are on a bluff overlooking the York River. We can see ships patrolling the bay with French and American flags on their masts. Half mile across the river is another port, Gloucester. An hour ago there were shouts and gunfire. When the smoke cleared I saw three men in red coats sprawled on a dock. At this distance, puddles of blood look black.
Miss Lulu and Esther have gone searching for the quartermaster. We need flour and beef.
Next day
More skirmishes and gunfire. We have learned that the siege began days ago. The French and Continentals marched out of Williamsburg at five o’clock in the morning. In the darkness they began digging trenches to surround Yorktown. They can crouch in these long ditches with muskets. Our cannons have yet to be fired, but are being rolled into place for when General Washington gives the order.
The French fleet has blocked some British warships that were hiding upriver. It seems we are closing in on the enemy, but truly we do not know.
I have not yet seen Willie. The Pennsylvania Brigades are near those of Maryland and Virginia, but the French are between us. It is dangerous for us to get any closer.
October 9, 1781, Tuesday
All afternoon we have been bombing Yorktown and firing at British ships that are still offshore. Many of them have pulled up their anchors and fled out to sea. A messenger riding between camps told us that General Washington lit the first cannon today, with a new gun brought over from France. The ball burst through an enemy wall, setting it aflame, and was soon followed by dozens more along our line.
The pounding noise, hour after hour, is deafening. Our eyes hurt from the smoke.
I am surprised by this hot weather, and thought it was because of the battle.
“Abby chile, this be the South,” Miss Lulu explained. “The South be lots warmer than up in your Yankee land, that’s a fact.”
Still Tuesday, noon
Early this morning nearly 50 of our heavy artillery were rolled into our siege line, and began their assault. They inflicted such damage that Cornwallis has only been able to return six rounds this past hour.
From up here on the bluff we watched our navies chase some British frigates, puffs of smoke coming from their sides. Our cannonballs splintered their masts, and lit the sails like torches. We could see flames as the vessels slowly tipped onto their sides and filled with water. Before our eyes, four enemy ships were sunk.
October 14, 1781, Sunday
There is no church today. Our bombardment of Yorktown continues.
A horseman told us Cornwallis has lost 60 men since this morning. By the time he rode back through camp, he announced that Cornwallis had just lost another 30. The British general is enraged and panicky.
We ladies are busy. The moment we hang laundry to dry, it gets soiled from soot and ashes drifting on the breeze. Clouds of smoke block the sunlight. We cough and cough. The best comfort we can offer the men is to carry them water, then they pass the canteens up to those in front of them. At night, our soup is thin. We can see cooking fires across this peninsula—ours and the enemy’s. Now more than two weeks into the siege, Yorktown is in ruins. Craters from the explosions are deep enough to bury an ox.
This afternoon a beautiful house was hit by our cannons. The blast killed several British officers dining at a table.
Sunday evening
Our men must go hungry today.
Esther and I prepared a delicious beef stew for them. Moments before we were to give it a final stir, a British cannonball exploded in our fire, scattering the coals and our kettle to the sky. We were too surprised to scream. The other women nearby got ashes in their hair, but were not hurt.
This is not something I shall tell Mama upon my return.
Two days later
This morning we were awakened two hours before sunrise, by the tromping footsteps of soldiers marching or running, we could not tell. Only by daylight did we learn the British were spiking our cannons! This means they damaged them by shoving pieces of iron into the plug holes. A French detachment drove them back to their
lines. Fortunately, within six hours our guns were repaired.
Rain and wind make it difficult to keep our fires going.
October 17, 1781, Wednesday
Last evening Cornwallis ordered his troops to evacuate to Gloucester Point. But the storm’s high seas, and not enough boats, prevented them from sailing across the river. Even if they could have managed in such darkness, our armies kept launching round after round into their ranks.
How many have been killed, none of us know. Miss Lulu, Esther, and I know one another well enough that we do not need to speak of our worries.
It is still mid-morning, but this has been the heaviest day of bombing. Our troops are manning more than one hundred cannons, firing one after another. Oh, the thunder and smoke! Our heads hurt, it is hard to breathe. Mazie and little Polly no longer cry at the noise, but look at us with pale faces, poor children. I pity our soldiers who are lying in the muddy trenches among all of this, day after day. They are famished, I am certain, because we ourselves are hungry. Rations are pitifully low.
Sudden silence
’Tis not yet noon, but the explosions have stopped. The last one sent up a cloud of black smoke resembling a thundercloud. Its cannonball sunk so deep in the mud, it splattered high above the trees. We felt the ground shake.
Now a flag of truce is being carried through the lines to General Washington. Cornwallis has asked for a chance to parley. He wants to talk.
Cornwallis is going to surrender!
Crowds of people from around the countryside are beginning to gather. We wonder what shall happen next. When and where?
We have learned sad news that one of General Washington’s beloved friends, Colonel Alexander Scammel, was wounded and taken prisoner two weeks ago. The British allowed him to be carried by wagon to Williamsburg, but the American surgeons were unable to save him. I remember seeing Colonel Scammel at Headquarters. He was jolly and friendly. During that terrible winter, he was the only one able to make Washington laugh.
Other grim news is about Martha Washington’s son, Jacky. He is here in Yorktown, working as an aide to the general. But he is so ill with camp fever, he is unable to eat a morsel of food or even to sip water. The doctors do not expect him to live. Horsemen are racing to Mount Vernon to bring Jacky’s wife and children here, and Mrs. Washington. I can only imagine how this shall devastate the dear lady.
Orderlies are reading lists of American casualties. We are fortunate. Our husbands, and my father, fare well.
October 19, 1781, Friday
Yorktown. From our bluff we looked down upon the field where the enemies were to surrender their weapons. We ladies were surrounded by merchants and villagers, tobacco farmers, fishermen, families with children, and servants, all standing with us to watch. It was the first time I have ever seen so many people be so quiet. There were no shouts or cheers, just a few whispering among themselves.
Soon our soldiers marched proudly onto the field to drums and fifes. The gay military music came to us on the warm sea breeze. The Americans were in an assortment of hunting shirts, brown or white, some wore blue and buff jackets, many had bare feet. They lined one side of the road, the French the other. Officers came on horseback.
General Washington rode up on a great bay horse.
At two o’clock the scarlet-coated British appeared with their Hessian comrades, who were dressed in bright blue and green jackets. Their band played a tune I did not recognize but someone said it was called “The World Turned Upside Down.” There were thousands of them, in a line as far as we could see, walking up the road between the French and Americans who stood at attention.
I felt humbled to see women and children following them, perhaps 80 all together, dressed as raggedly as we are.
Then the Royal troops became disorderly! Many of them broke rank, swaggering as if drunk. Instead of laying down their muskets and swords, they threw them in a pile with such force as if to damage them. They stomped on cartridge cases. Drummer boys broke their sticks over a knee and smashed their drums. We could not hear the shouted words, but many appeared to be weeping.
They are being marched to prison camps in Virginia and Pennsylvania. No one knows what will become of the women and children. I suspect General Washington shall be as gentle with them as he was with Benedict Arnold’s wife, Peggy, and her little baby.
October 19, 1781, Friday evening
After the ceremony, we ladies went looking for our loved ones. I found my father first. It had been weeks since I last saw him. He was thin with dark rings under his eyes, but he was beaming with joy.
“Daughter!” he called. “Hooray. You’re here! Is your mother all right? Where is she? The children?”
I fell into his embrace. “Oh Papa.”
He smiled as I explained about Philadelphia, then said, “Good, good. So Sally finally has a dog to play with.”
“Papa, what does all this mean?”
“We are free men,” he answered. “We shall make our own laws.”
Willie saw me running to him and pulled me into his arms with a kiss. When he noticed my round belly he smiled, then kissed me again. We did not speak, but instead looked out at the bay. Dozens of ships were still anchored offshore, their masts like a forest of bare trees. We could see the large, white flags on the French vessels, and our proud Stars and Stripes.
“Well, Abby. What now?”
Scars on the battlefield were smoldering, but the air was clear. I took a deep breath and looked up at my husband.
“I need a new kettle, Willie. Then let us go home.”
Epilogue
After the Battle of Yorktown, Abigail and Willie returned to Philadelphia where he worked as a blacksmith with his father, and where their daughter, Hannah, was born. A few years later they formed a wagon train with their families — the Campbells, Stewarts, Valentines, and the drummer boy Thomas Penny — moving to the Ohio River Valley to homestead.
Willie and Abby had nine children. Hannah became the first female doctor in Philip’s County and three sons became lawyers; one moved to Washington City to be President Thomas Jefferson’s personal counsel.
In 1804 Johnny Stewart and Thomas Penny joined the Lewis and Clark expedition. After finally reaching the Pacific Ocean, they settled in the West with Shoshoni brides. They were mountain men who guided Teddy Roosevelt on a hunting trip to the Tetons before he became the twenty-sixth president of the United States.
Elisabeth and Ben’s daughter, Rose, did not survive infancy, but their sons, Paul and Nathaniel, grew up to be explorers. Paul helped map the Missouri River and became good friends with Daniel Boone. At age thirteen, Nathaniel Valentine ventured to Boston. He signed on as a cabin boy aboard the trading ship Otter, which sailed around the Horn into Monterey Bay. In 1796 the Otter was the first American vessel to anchor in a California port.
Victor and Miss Lulu farmed the land granted by his former master, and had three children of their own. Mazie and Sally stayed friends, keeping up a written correspondence for decades. Their letters were recently discovered in an attic trunk along with the journals and stories they kept during the Revolutionary War.
Abigail Jane Stewart Campbell died at the age of fifty-seven, after being thrown from her horse during a thunderstorm. That same night, Willie became ill. His daughter Hannah cared for him, but he never recovered. He is buried next to Abby on the family farm.
Life in America
in 1781
Historical Note
The Battle of Yorktown in October of 1781 was a crucial victory for the Americans. British General Cornwallis was forced to surrender his entire army of 8,000 men. Because sailing ships were the only way to travel across the Atlantic Ocean, the news didn’t reach Europe until a month later.
The next spring, peace talks began in Paris. Britain agreed to grant America her permanent independence and to withdraw all of its remaining troops from the country. King George III was furious, but America’s victory was complete. Before this treaty could go in
to effect however, France and America needed to agree on all provisions. This was because the Franco-American alliance signed three years earlier stated that those two countries must be in agreement, as must Britain, Spain, and the Netherlands regarding their own territorial and trade disputes.
As a result, these many negotiations delayed the armistice and The Treaty of Paris wasn’t ratified until September 3, 1783. Eight years had passed since “the shot heard ‘round the world” in Lexington, Massachusetts. The thirteen colonies had finally become a free and independent nation, the United States of America.
Some key points in the Treaty:
England and America were to “forget all past misunderstandings and differences” and to seek “perpetual peace and harmony.”
Under British rule, ships from the colonies had protection from pirates in the Mediterranean Sea. But now that they’d won their independence, American sailors would have to defend themselves without help from the Royal Navy.
Prisoners of war on both sides were to be released.
The British army was to leave behind all property belonging to Americans, including slaves.
Navigation of the Mississippi River from its source to the ocean would be forever open to citizens of both the United States and Great Britain.
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