The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  He had spent the rest of the day leading his small staff on a nervous ride from outpost to outpost, from picket lines to the main fortifications. He knew Wayne thought him overly cautious, the outspoken Pennsylvanian probably joking about him behind his back. The French troops were as nonchalant as Wayne, Saint-Simon holding them at their posts with mild impatience, wondering if their young commander truly had the backbone for a fight. It added to his nervousness that the officers he now commanded didn’t seem to understand that they had a beast in a cage, and that the cage could be weaker than they believed. He yearned for spies, the kind of men Washington had in New York. He had marveled at their astounding courage and ingenuity, men who could learn the most secret of orders, could impart such amazing misinformation that had fooled the British command, possibly saving Washington’s army. No, I must only sit here and watch their cavalry scouts. And if I am fortunate, Cornwallis does not have his spies. For if he does, then he will know my fears, he will find our weakness. Surely he must try to escape us, must break out of this cage. There is only one route, and it must pass through here. If he breaks past us, even part of his army, he can march into North Carolina again. And I will have failed General Washington.

  It was nearly dark, Williamsburg a distant scattering of candlelight. He could smell the smoke of the campfires, the empty rumble in his stomach warning him of the inevitability of another miserable meal. He turned the horse, climbed a hill, moved into a wide road. The sun was low in the far treetops, the ground a soft gray haze. The two aides were close behind him, the squad of guards behind them. There had been no protest from his men, who seemed not to care if he led them over every inch of his lines. He glanced back, said, “Time to eat, gentlemen. You would certainly be hungry.”

  There were low mumbles of approval, and he nudged the horse, saw a flicker of light coming toward him from the town. The guards were already responding, and they moved up past him, intercepted the hard ride of a horseman, a man with a lantern. The man halted his horse, his light reflecting on the faces of the guards, who surrounded him. It was a civilian, and the man said, “General Lafayette! You should come quickly! By all means!” The man turned, and the guards let him pass. He moved quickly, his horse galloping back toward the town. Lafayette felt annoyed, said, “I suppose it is important. I do not so much enjoy mysteries. If you gentlemen do not mind, we will wait a moment for supper.”

  He spurred the horse, could still see the man out in front of him, the horse carrying the man around a corner, disappearing past a small house. Lafayette followed him into the town, moved his horse into the wide hard street, saw more lanterns, a crowd of people surrounding a cluster of men on horseback. He pushed the horse forward, curious now, and the faces began to turn toward him, more people emerging from the houses, lining the street. He could see the horsemen clearly now, the uniforms, saw the big man now moving out in front, walking the horse toward him. Lafayette reined the horse, felt a hard lump in his throat.

  “Good evening, Mr. Lafayette.”

  The fear, all the nervous uncertainty was gone now. Washington had arrived.

  56. WASHINGTON

  SEPTEMBER 28, 1781

  The army had marched two hundred miles in fifteen days. After their brief parade through Philadelphia, Washington had led them to the Head of Elk, the uppermost reaches of the Chesapeake Bay, where French transports had boarded the men and ferried them the rest of the way to the James River.

  The route of his surprise march had angered many of his troops, New Yorkers in particular, who had no desire either to see Virginia or to fight there. But Robert Morris had come to his rescue, had negotiated an agreement with Rochambeau. The French provided hard specie so that Washington’s entire army could receive back pay. As they marched out of Philadelphia with silver in their pockets, the mood of the men was significantly improved. The morale was heightened further by rumors that their mission to Virginia was aimed specifically at the capture of Cornwallis himself.

  Washington led them out of Williamsburg through a soft green countryside that he had known as a child. But the beauty of the land, low rolling hills, patches of deep woods, had been changed by the war, farms abandoned, fields unattended. This time of year, the harvest would be near, and the land would be ripe with the bounty that made Virginia such a marvelous place for a young boy. But now, the wide road carried them through desolation and destruction, some of the houses reduced to burnt timbers. It was the result of the raids, the same horror he had seen in New Jersey. There it was the brutality of the Hessians, but this had been done by Englishmen, Tarleton probably, and the sights sickened him. There was always sadness for the families, the innocent who must suffer this devastation, but he was sickened as well by the thought of the soldiers with their axes and pikes and torches, asking himself what kind of civilized men could do this.

  The horse carried him past a house that had been battered and broken, no glass in the windows, the doors ripped away, walls punched through. Every piece of furniture was smashed and scattered, every piece of clothing ripped, every mirror shattered. It was all the pieces of one family’s life cast about the yard with calculated design. He stopped the horse, stared for a long moment, the house familiar, some place he had visited a long time ago. The army continued its march behind him, men calling out to him, reading his emotions.

  “We’ll make them pay, sir!”

  “We’ll take it to them, sir!”

  He stared at the destruction for a long moment, felt Tilghman beside him, said, “There is nothing of war in this, nothing of strategy and tactics. This is no more than barbarism, inflicting permanent scars on the innocent. It is the dying gasp of an oppressor, brutality handed out by an army who knows its own defeat hangs above. There is no other reason for it, no reason to torment people who you claim to embrace.”

  Tilghman said nothing, and Washington jerked the reins, moved back up into the road. He had not often felt this kind of rage, the pure hatred for the British soldiers. This kind of savagery does not come merely by the order of a commander. This was done by a mob, hateful men who have lost their honor. Whether it was Tarleton or Simcoe, or nothing more than a band of stragglers, these men do not have the right to wage such a war. It is time to bring this to an end.

  He marched beside the column of continentals, the French following behind. His command now included better than sixteen thousand men fit for duty, with two thousand more in support. It was the largest body of men he had led in any march, the greatest strength ever placed into his hands. As they drew closer to Yorktown, that strength filled him, energized his mind and his heart, his anger focusing on the one simple mission that lay before them.

  He had expected some obstacles to the advance, some attempt by Cornwallis to slow the march by harassing the flanks, dragoons perhaps, some quick strike. But the British had stayed entirely inside their own defenses. His column was within two miles of Yorktown, and he could see the great spread of defenses, a hard line dug into the sandy ground, a wide arc that enclosed the town. The landscape in front of the British lines had been wiped clean of trees and underbrush, would surely be covered by a mass of artillery. He had expected this would be a serious fight, a bloody awful confrontation. From all he could see now, Cornwallis was well prepared to give him one.

  He arranged the army in a wide line to conform to the British defenses. The French were placed to the left, the Americans on the right. The ground closer to the town was cut by streams, a shallow ravine, swampy land that gave the British natural barriers for their defense. The British flanks seemed to end at the York River, and beyond, their frigates stood ready, guarding the waterfront with rows of heavy cannon that could enfilade any assault. Behind the British works, he could see the town, a few larger homes, smaller buildings, perched close to the river. As he glassed the entire scene, it was strangely peaceful, a light salty breeze drifting through wisps of grass and thin brush, leaves in the trees above him whispering with the soft voice of autumn.

  F
or so long, he had depended on the rapid march, the desperation of the quick escape, an army who consumed so much of its energy fighting just to survive. But now the enemy was right in front of him, outnumbered and outgunned, and all the desperation was finally on the other side. From the first days in command at Boston he had never studied his enemy from such a superior position, had never felt this astounding sense of calm. He tried to imagine the mind of Cornwallis, was certain the man understood the crisis in front of him. The British had only two alternatives, escape by water, up the York River perhaps, moving deeper into Virginia, or a direct assault straight at Washington’s army. Washington knew his own mission was clear. He must prevent either from happening.

  He knew they were looking to him, that Rochambeau had made quite clear to his own officers who was in command. In his own line, the principal divisions were commanded by Lafayette, von Steuben, and Ben Lincoln, who had been exchanged for British prisoners captured at Saratoga. The division commanders were served by veteran brigadiers, Wayne and Gist, Dayton and Muhlenberg and Hazen. The militia were commanded by Thomas Nelson, the new governor of Virginia, who had only recently replaced Thomas Jefferson.

  The first duty would be the construction of their own entrenchments. As the tools were issued, and the engineers went about their work, Washington began to think of the days ahead. He began to focus less on Cornwallis’ puzzle and more on his own. He had arrived at Yorktown expecting to launch an assault, confront the British the same way they had tried so often to confront him. But with the British so well prepared, the results could be as disastrous for his army as it had been for Gage at Breed’s Hill, or for Cornwallis himself at Guilford. Washington realized now he had another alternative, a siege, to strangle the enemy in a slowly tightening noose. The decision was difficult. He did not want to risk the slaughter of his men, and would not order Rochambeau to charge such a strongly fortified position without the man’s complete agreement that it was the best course. A siege required time, and had to be executed with precise care. That strategy had one distinct disadvantage for him. Washington had no idea how to mount a siege.

  It is a mathematical calculation, General. You measure your own strength against that of the enemy. You measure your ability to supply your troops against his ability not to. How long can he survive? If he cannot feed his men, he must capitulate.”

  Washington felt foolish enduring the lecture from Rochambeau, but it was not the Frenchman’s fault. He had admitted to the French command that the only man in his army who had any experience in siege warfare was von Steuben. The Prussian’s skills had already been put to use, supervising the disposition of Washington’s lines, and the construction of the first entrenchments. If pressure was to be applied to the British position, it was essential that the artillery be moved close enough to provide a steady barrage that would both overpower and terrorize the enemy defenses. Washington was delighted to learn that Rochambeau and many of his officers had engaged in numerous sieges. The French seemed delighted that Washington requested their advice.

  “Parallel trenches, General. The ability to move your troops safely forward, to a position of advantage. If executed properly, the talent of your remarkable riflemen could be put to considerable use.”

  Washington glanced at von Steuben, who nodded to him slowly.

  “Yes, General. I agree completely.”

  Washington looked at Rochambeau, said, “General, what of time? Admiral de Grasse has insisted he must sail by the middle of October. Can we accomplish our goals by that time?”

  Rochambeau laughed.

  “General, I will speak to Admiral de Grasse. With your permission, of course. I believe he can be persuaded to remain in place a while longer. The admiral appreciates that the success of this operation will be of benefit to him as well as to his king. I have discovered that naval officers must often be reminded that there is a world beyond the sea. As long as the British fleet does not arrive in sufficient force to compel the admiral to leave, we will have his support. General Cornwallis will not escape us by water.”

  “I am concerned, still, about the river.”

  It was something of a sore point to Washington, his repeated requests for de Grasse to storm past the British batteries at Yorktown and place enough power upstream to prevent the British from using that escape route. But de Grasse could not be persuaded, believed the batteries too dangerous to risk losing one or more of his ships. Rochambeau seemed to know of Washington’s concerns, said, “General, we will press forward with all speed. Once our artillery has advanced within range of the town, the enemy will be unable to load any kind of transports at their wharves without great hazard.” He looked at von Steuben. “If your troops will make good use of the shovel, the enemy’s fate is sealed.”

  SEPTEMBER 30, 1781

  They spent the long hours of the night in rapid construction of their entrenchments, men working in shifts, battling the insects and the sudden thunderstorms as they cut their way through the sandy ground. As the men worked, the artillery from the British lines peppered the night air with scattered blasts. There was little damage and almost no casualties, the gunners throwing out their shells toward targets hidden by the darkness and the earth they piled in front of them. When the sun came up, Washington had expected more firing from the British, had made it a priority to protect his workmen by ordering von Steuben to plan a careful routine to their movements. As the dawn spilled slowly onto the barren ground in front of them, they faced only silence, no activity in the British works. Gradually, curious men began to peer up, scanning the earthworks across from them for the telltale signs of movement, the usual glimpse of red, the flash and smoke of the cannon. As the sun rose higher Washington’s men could see clearly that something had changed. They began to slip out from the entrenchments, moving carefully forward. Washington moved to his observation point, glassed them as they slipped out into the open ground. Their officers were as nervous as he was, and close in front of him, riflemen stood poised to cover his men should they need a rapid retreat. The men moved up close to the British works, and Washington watched them with a hard pounding in his chest as they climbed through the cut trees and pointed sticks, up and over, disappearing into the silent trenches. Then he saw their celebration, hands up high, hats tossed in the air. It was a stunning surprise. The British had completely abandoned their outer works. Cornwallis had pulled his men back to their defensive entrenchments closer to the town, a much more compact line.

  The tactic of a full hard assault against the British lines was still in his mind, the temptation to capture this magnificent victory in one powerful thrust. But a frontal assault now would have to concentrate in a narrow area, into a much greater mass of power. A slaughter would be a certainty. If Washington had any doubts about conducting a siege, he understood now that Cornwallis had made his decision for him.

  OCTOBER 6, 1781

  For several days, the engineers had given instructions, and a thousand men had spread out behind the lines into the woods, cutting and gathering great masses of sticks and cut limbs, bundling the timber into stout bales. It was the same kind of work Washington had seen at Boston, the bundles used to assemble a wall of fortifications. At Dorchester Heights, the work had been done in one night, and when the British woke, Boston was suddenly under the guns of Washington’s army. The enemy then had been William Howe, and Howe had responded by abandoning the city. Now, the enemy was a different kind of commander, a man who was pinned into a desperate hole and would certainly seek some vulnerability, some means to strike out at his enemy. If the parallel trench was to be dug and fortified, it would have to be accomplished with the same efficiency that Washington had seen at Dorchester Heights. They would have to complete the task in absolute quiet, in only one night.

  Nearly four thousand men took part in the work, half serving only as guards to protect the laborers in the event the British launched an assault. They were blessed by a light rain, which blanketed them from moonlight and muffled an
y sounds. The engineers worked the men for eight hours, long shifts of the fittest men armed only with shovels. As each new section of trench was dug, the bundles of sticks were carried forward, placed up in front of the workmen. All through the night, British cannon barked out across the open ground, but with no good aim, no sign that the British had any notion of the work that progressed well within the range of their guns. When the sun rose, it was exactly as Washington remembered on Dorchester Heights, stunned British lookouts staring in amazement at the fortified works so close to their defenses. The work could continue by day now, the trenches protected from British fire by the high mounds of sand and sticks. For three days they labored still, the trenches widening into strong fortified lines, gun pits constructed, the cannon brought forward in complete cover. They pushed on, used the nights to move closer yet, and each morning the lines had been dug farther forward, forming a second parallel. When the sun rose, Washington heard the enthusiasm of the marksmen, already moving into place, carving out niches for their long rifles. He stood beside them, marveled at the work of the laborers, shovels flying around him still, more cannon rolling forward. He glassed the British as the marksmen studied the range, knew what they knew. A good marksman could now find his targets. The British defenses were only three hundred yards away.

  OCTOBER 9, 1781

  The invitation had come from Knox, the rotund man’s cannons nearly all in position. Washington never gave thought to this sort of ceremony, but Knox had insisted. He stood now with the gun crew, the men still tending to their gun, one man wiping the barrel with a dirty cloth. Knox said, “Prepare to fire!”

  The gun was rolled back, the barrel swabbed by a man with a ramrod, another man stepping forward, stuffing a thick cloth sack into the barrel. The ramrod went in again, pushing the sack deep, and now Knox said, “Sir, should you wish to select the particular ball?”