The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  He waited each day for some new bit of torment from Clinton. He fully expected that the work around Yorktown would suddenly be stopped, some outrageous orders suddenly calling for another mad scramble to New York. There was still fear of the French warships, intelligence received from the West Indies that a large fleet under de Grasse had been making ready to sail northward. The British command in the islands discounted the reports, could not fathom that de Grasse would weaken the French forces so severely. But Clinton and Graves accepted the strong possibility that the intelligence was accurate, both men certain that New York was the intended target. Graves had finally ordered the British ships into action, and from the West Indies, Samuel Hood had sailed northward with a fleet of fourteen warships. Cornwallis had seen Hood’s flagship, a cluster of sails suddenly appearing out beyond the mouth of the wide river. But the British fleet was fast on their way to New York, and Hood did not stop at Yorktown. His visit was only a quick inspection, making sure there was no immediate threat to Cornwallis’ port.

  Cornwallis walked the waterfront, ignoring the work of the engineers, felt the chains from Clinton’s orders wrapped tightly around him. Already he was suffering from boredom, chafing at the quiet atmosphere of a new headquarters, another fine mansion made ready just for him.

  He had been forced to send Leslie back to the Carolinas, a sudden need to replace Francis Rawdon. Rawdon had endured a miserably hot summer facing the ongoing threat of assault by Greene’s rebels, and the brutal climate had finally destroyed the man’s health. Cornwallis had no choice but to approve Rawdon’s return to England. He moved O’Hara into Leslie’s position, confident that O’Hara was the one officer in his command who would not require Cornwallis to peer over his shoulder. He was also the one man Cornwallis felt comfortable with pouring out his vitriol against Henry Clinton.

  “Sir, the wharf is nearly complete. Fine work, those chaps.”

  O’Hara’s words slipped past him, and Cornwallis said, “What’s that? What chaps?”

  “Sir, the wharf. The engineers have done a fine job, I’d say.”

  “Fine job.”

  They continued their walk, and Cornwallis could feel O’Hara glancing at him, stopped now, said, “Am I causing you some discomfort again, General?”

  O’Hara seemed to flinch, said, “Oh, my, no. I’m sorry, sir. I am concerned, that’s all. Perhaps my accompanying you was a bad idea. You would prefer to be alone, it seems.”

  Cornwallis stared out toward the open water, said, “We are alone, General. We are firmly and completely in a prison of our own making. Not even Admiral Hood would risk landing here, to suffer the monotony of this swamp. General Clinton might as well order us into winter quarters. It would hardly matter that in this damnable place, winter is defined by a brief lack of mosquitoes.” He continued to walk. “I have never been one to ignore my enemies, General. Now, I have been ordered to do precisely that. That . . . boy is out there with his band of rebels, wondering why I do not pursue him. I’m quite certain General Lafayette felt it was bloody good sport. Now, we can do nothing until General Clinton and the navy sort out their fears and find some reliable piece of information about our enemies. In the meantime, we must endure a holiday in Yorktown.”

  He realized O’Hara was not beside him, and he turned, saw the man staring out toward the open water, the mouth of the river.

  “Sir. It seems we are not so alone after all. It appears Admiral Hood has returned.”

  O’Hara retrieved a small pair of field glasses from his coat, raised them, said, “Yes, his entire fleet, I would say. I can see a number of sails. He must have decided to make port here, after all, inspect our good work, as it were.”

  He handed the glasses to Cornwallis, who focused, stared out, could see small clusters of white clouds spread along the horizon. Behind him, he heard excited shouts from the lookout posts, men watching as he watched, the fat white sails growing closer, driven by a hard stiff breeze. O’Hara continued to talk, a babble of enthusiasm for the sudden security of the naval force, livening the town, the certain competition between soldier and sailor, games, perhaps, to relieve the boredom. Cornwallis continued to stare for a long moment, O’Hara’s words flowing past him.

  “Is that not a capital idea, sir? I’m certain Admiral Hood would agree. Athletics, perhaps, pass the time with the fine art of competition. Army versus navy. Could give the men quite a boost, sir.”

  Cornwallis lowered the glasses now, saw a young sergeant approaching, the man pointing out toward the fleet.

  “Sir, beggin’ your pardon. The lookouts report, sir. The ships . . .”

  “I know, Sergeant.” He raised the glasses again, could see bits of color now, stared for a long quiet moment. He felt a cold mass growing in his stomach, and his hand shook, clouding his vision. He lowered the glasses again, said, “General O’Hara, we should postpone your festivities for the moment. That fleet . . . is French.”

  55. LAFAYETTE

  SEPTEMBER 1781

  They had spent most of the summer in a rapid scramble for survival. Instead of cursing Lafayette for their constant state of motion, the men seemed to understand that the young Frenchman was in fact showing exceptional skill at maneuvering his army. The British had spent long weeks on marches that accomplished nothing, and with little to show for their exhaustive efforts, Cornwallis finally conceded the futility of his mission and withdrew his army down the peninsula toward Williamsburg. Lafayette had followed, fully expecting some sudden turnabout, Cornwallis trying to catch him unaware. It was clear that the British had the strength, and if Cornwallis wanted to drive his troops all the way to Maryland, there was little Lafayette could do to stop him. But as they backed away from him, Lafayette knew to press forward, and when the opportunity had presented itself, he turned aggressor. He had kept as close to Cornwallis as he dared, and if the sight of enemy campfires made his men especially prone to panic, it also offered Lafayette the opportunity to strike quickly. With Anthony Wayne now in his camp, Lafayette knew that the Pennsylvanian the men now called Mad Anthony could be the perfect officer for a rapid assault.

  The place was called Green Spring, a swampy lowland near Williamsburg, along the north side of the James River. The scouts had brought word that Cornwallis was pulling away from his base at Williamsburg, had gathered boats for a crossing of the James. Lafayette assumed that the British were intending to gather and resupply at their base at Portsmouth. Wayne was given the command of a force of five hundred men, who would slip rapidly toward the crossing, and with good fortune might time their assault to catch Cornwallis vulnerable, with the British spread across both sides of the river. Wayne had advanced with his usual speed, and seemed ready to make a decisive blow at what seemed to be the British rear guard. But Cornwallis had learned of his approach, had hidden the main body of the British army behind Wayne’s intended target. The result was a trap, a hot fight that Wayne barely escaped. Though he was nearly engulfed by the entire British army, Wayne continued to press his attack, surprising his own men as well as the British who faced him. Lafayette quickly pushed forward reinforcements, and arrived on the field barely in time to pull Wayne back from a lopsided engagement that could have wiped out a sizable portion of Lafayette’s command. It was a valuable lesson. Though Wayne was possibly the most capable field commander he had, “Mad Anthony” had not gotten his nickname by accident.

  For Cornwallis, Green Spring had been an opportunity lost. The British had simply run out of daylight, and by the next morning, Lafayette had pulled his army together into a strong defensive position. The British resumed their crossing of the James, and made no further attempts to engage Lafayette again. Though Green Spring had been a seriously close call, Lafayette had been suspicious of Cornwallis’ retreat, had not believed the British would simply pull away from him without attempting another major assault. As Cornwallis continued to shift his strength across the peninsula, Lafayette assumed he was still gathering his forces, forming some new plan to swe
ep the continentals out of their path. Instead, there had been another surprise. The British had begun to dig themselves into Yorktown. Lafayette had eased his army forward, closer still to his suddenly immobile enemy. And then, the French fleet arrived.

  He had been invited to join de Grasse on his flagship, surprised that a senior admiral would even acknowledge his authority. The memories of Rochambeau were still sore in his mind. Rochambeau had made it plain that the senior French commanders had little respect for Lafayette’s rank in the American army, as though he was still some pretender, seeking adventure and a lofty reputation. It was little satisfaction to Lafayette that most of the strutting martinets who had done so much to dazzle the congress were gone. Some had returned quietly to France, some had vanished westward, to find some savage adventure on the Indian frontier.

  The French fleet had blocked the capes at the mouth of the Chesapeake, and effectively sealed the York River from any traffic. But de Grasse had not sought any engagement with the British onshore, and the few British frigates anchored at Yorktown wisely made no attempt to engage a fleet that was vastly superior.

  Lafayette did not know de Grasse beyond the man’s extraordinary reputation for naval command, and his legendary temper. De Grasse had sent his flatboat north of the British outpost at Gloucester, a dangerous landing given the proximity of the British lookouts. But the British had made no efforts to expand beyond their shore batteries, and Lafayette had already placed a body of militia on that side of the York River, to keep close watch on the British fortification. As de Grasse’s boat rowed him close to the magnificent flagship, Lafayette began to feel his youth, a very nervous young man about to stand before a mighty father. He had not met the man, and already, he was intimidated by him.

  He was helped up the ladder, stood on the deck of the massive warship, the Ville de Paris. The crew had come to full attention, and officers were falling into line. He saw an officer bound up from the main hatchway, stand stiffly aside, and now another man emerged, older, moving slowly, a regal rhythm to his steps. The older man stepped up onto the deck, and Lafayette stared wide-eyed, the man towering over him, taller even than Washington. He was near sixty, looked at Lafayette with deep-set, heavy eyes, seemed to examine him with a quick appraisal. Lafayette waited, felt even more of a child now than before, his dread in full blossom. De Grasse said, “Welcome, General Lafayette. I am Admiral François, Count de Grasse. I am at your service.”

  The goblets were silver, the wine a deep red, far superior than anything Lafayette had enjoyed in his own camp. He examined the artifacts that adorned the office, an extraordinary collection of prizes and decorations. De Grasse allowed him a moment to be suitably impressed, then said, “I have sent word to General Washington and General Rochambeau that I can remain here but a short time, not more than a few weeks. I have a pressing need to return to the islands. Do you anticipate we may complete our campaign here in good time?”

  “Sir, that is a question best put to the commanding general. I cannot say precisely what our campaign should involve.”

  “I assume, General, that you intend to destroy the army of General Cornwallis.”

  It was a concept Lafayette had never truly considered.

  “Yes, sir, that would be an exceptionally fine plan. My mission has thus far been to obstruct the enemy’s movements and seek some opportunity to annoy him.”

  De Grasse seemed amused, a slight smile, said, “General Lafayette, I have sailed here with a force of thirty-four of His Majesty’s finest warships. The ship on which you now sit carries one hundred guns, and is the most powerful warship on this earth. I don’t wish to dispute your orders, but I imagine General Washington intends that this fleet do more than . . . annoy the enemy. Perhaps your situation would be improved by the addition of my particular cargo.”

  Lafayette had barely touched the silver goblet, watched as de Grasse sipped his wine. The reception from de Grasse was still overwhelming him, and he glanced at the attendant, a junior officer standing stiffly to one side, a man older than he was. The man caught the look, said in a whisper, “Yes, General? Anything you wish?”

  Lafayette shook his head. “Oh . . . no, thank you.”

  He looked at de Grasse, the man’s words settling into his mind.

  “Sir? Cargo?”

  “General, I have transported something over three thousand infantry, who, I am quite certain, would prefer making camp on land than spending one more day in the comfort of my ships. Might you have some good use for them?”

  “Three thousand troops? You would offer them to . . . my command?”

  “I am told that General Washington places his highest confidence in you. Is there any reason why I should not do the same?”

  “Thank you, sir. I am honored by your respect, by all you have offered me. Yes, Admiral, your troops can be put to considerable effect.”

  SEPTEMBER 5, 1781

  The French troops came ashore on the island of Jamestown, led by the Marquis de Saint-Simon. Saint-Simon was another of the capable French commanders who, like Lafayette, had received some attention in the military on the strength of his aristocratic family. Surprisingly, he showed Lafayette the same courtesies as de Grasse, conceded immediately that this was, after all, Lafayette’s command.

  Lafayette understood that he had the troops now to do what he had feared before, place a barrier close to Yorktown that had enough strength actually to discourage the British from sweeping him aside. As Saint-Simon completed his landing, Lafayette united his ragged army with the fresh French troops. They pushed forward, Lafayette anticipating that Cornwallis would strike at any time. But the British remained behind their fortifications. Within two days, the combined French-American force had established a new line of defense at Williamsburg, a day’s march from Yorktown.

  With the lines secure, de Grasse continued to consult Lafayette. Though no significant move could be made without orders from Washington, Lafayette received a message that the commanding general was on the march, somewhere in the area of Philadelphia. But there would be no peaceful wait. De Grasse sent word: He was raising his anchors and moving out to sea. The British had finally responded to de Grasse’s presence, and a fleet had sailed out of New York under Graves and Hood. The sails had been sighted, and de Grasse would have to move out far from shore to allow his ships maneuvering room for what could certainly be a critical battle.

  Lafayette waited with his entire command, focused on the vague thunder that rolled in a steady rumble from the open sea. He knew Cornwallis was waiting as well, listening as he was, both men aware that the great naval battle would not only decide who would control the Virginia peninsula, but who would control the Chesapeake as well. Lafayette was surprised that the fight seemed only to last a few short hours, and as the sun dropped behind him, he caught a glimpse of a sail, then more, ships moving close to the mouth of the York River, one fast packet moving up the James. The ship reached Williamsburg the next morning with a message from de Grasse. The fight had been indecisive, no great advantage for either side. But the British had absorbed the brunt of the damage, and Graves had withdrawn his fleet, seemed to be withdrawing to his base in New York. The French fleet would resume their former position inside the Chesapeake Bay. Cornwallis was bottled up again.

  SEPTEMBER 14, 1781

  Lafayette stared through field glasses at a dozen horsemen, the familiar coats of the British cavalry. They had come every morning, close enough to scout his lines, not so close as to draw fire from the pickets. In just a few days it had become a routine, Lafayette and Wayne riding out, waiting for the British horsemen to appear. Wayne was beside him, glassed the men who glassed him back.

  “They keep this up, we should lay an ambush. If this is a game, it has become tiresome.”

  Lafayette saw the British horsemen turn away, disappear into a row of trees, as they had done each day.

  “I’m concerned it is not a game. The enemy has one avenue left to him. We are standing upon it.” />
  Wayne lowered his glasses.

  “You think he’ll try it? It would be foolish. We’d cut him up bad.”

  “Perhaps. If he came in one tight formation, drove into one flank or the other, I’m not sure we could stop him. Not completely.”

  “Then let him come, sir. We’re ready, that’s for certain. Your French boys over there would probably like a shot at those lobster-backs too.”

  Lafayette turned his horse.

  “I should see General Saint-Simon. Caution him to guard his flanks. The British might even attempt some movement by night. Surprise us.”

  Wayne moved beside him.

  “Why? General, I don’t understand your concern. It would be a slaughter for the British to try to bust through here.”

  Lafayette could not escape the nagging discomfort inside him. He had not enjoyed a meal for several days, his own body protesting every bite. He was suffering his breakfast, some strange pudding of cornmeal, sweetened with molasses, now a brick in his gut. He looked at Wayne, saw a strange smile, and Wayne said, “Sir, all they can do is exactly what we want them to do. We’re ready for them.”

  “General, if they move against us here, it is because they have no other alternative. Cornwallis certainly knows he is trapped. Any move he makes now is likely born of desperation. That makes him very dangerous. If the British are faced with the choice of surrender or fight, I am not so certain that they will choose surrender. Our strength is nearly equal, yet we still employ a large number of militia. He has only his regulars, and they will fight like animals to escape.”

  “No animal can stand up to a musket, sir. With all respects. Are you telling me you’re afraid of a confrontation? What do you think we should do, pull back?”

  “Certainly not, General. I am only concerned that we not allow ourselves to feel . . . relaxed. We are in a stalemate here. Until General Washington arrives, we are not strong enough to change that.”