by Jeff Shaara
A shell whistled close overhead, solid iron smashing against the wharf, shattering timbers, then bounding in a high arc and landing with a hard splash in the water. He did not move, felt a cold numbness in his legs, spreading through his whole body. He looked overhead, thick gray clouds rolling down the river. Perhaps there will be no moon tonight. Perhaps there will be a Divine hand in our escape from this place. He looked out across the river, could see the small craft carrying Tarleton to the far shore. He looked out toward the capes, the mouth of the river, could see small clusters of sails, the French fleet. No word, no sign. For all his smirking and arrogance, Colonel Tarleton is correct. There is no Clinton, no Graves, no bloody marvelous rescue. There is just . . . one more night.
The clouds continued to darken the sky, and by dusk, the rains began. Tarleton had sent sixteen boats, and they had begun to load at dark, each filled with as many men as could safely be rowed across. The rain had grown heavier, but the boats had made their first crossing, were beginning to return now, lining up along the wharf to receive the next wave of troops. He stood out on the wharf, defied the rain, but the storm was growing worse, the wind beginning to howl, the few remaining trees along the water’s edge bent and whipped by a sharp gale. The troops were filing into the boats, and he tried to see their progress, but there could be no lights, nothing to guide the enemy’s cannon. The storm brought light of its own, the soft glow of lightning, the slow rumble of thunder. The boats began to push away, but already the water was rough, hard waves splashing high over the wharf, the spray driven by the wind. He heard shouts, men trying to control the boats, a flash of lightning illuminating the chaos along the wharf. A man was close to him, the voice of O’Hara.
“Sir! We must halt the crossing! The boats cannot maneuver! We should wait, allow the storm to pass!”
He nodded, leaned close, put a hand on O’Hara’s arm.
“Order the crossing to cease. Wait for my order to resume.”
Cornwallis turned away, looked for the dull white of the tent. He stepped away from the wharf, felt his feet deep in mud, trudged his way toward the bank. He ducked inside the tent, the ground still muddy beneath him. Water dripped through every part of the tent, and he shivered from the chill of his uniform. He looked out, shielding his eyes, the rain hard and steady, the wind buffeting the tent, driving the rain into his face. He backed away, felt for the chair, the seat a pool of water. He sat, stared down into nothing, every part of him feeling the pure misery of another disaster.
OCTOBER 17, 1781
The rain did not stop until well after midnight. By then there was not enough time for the numerous crossings it would require to ferry the army to safety. As the river once again grew calm, he sent the boats across empty, with one order to Tarleton. Return the men who had made the first crossing. With the dawn approaching, he would need every man in Yorktown.
With the passing of the storm had come a different storm, the rebel artillery again showering the town with fire. The wounded now filled every house, and no home was free from the sudden burst of a shell. He walked through the darkness into the main street, moved carefully, the street gouged by craters, covered with the debris of houses and trees. He knew to wait for the next shell, nearly a rhythm to it now, the sharp streak, the hard burst of fire lighting the street, showing him the obstacles. He turned down a side street, moved toward the front lines, where so many of his men still huddled, sleepless and frightened. He eased his steps forward, water masking the depth of every hole.
The clouds were still clearing, and he could actually see now, a low gray light, and with the first bit of dawn came a new wave of shelling. He heard a whistle high above, the ball bursting in a shower of sparks back close to the river. He moved quicker, could see his way through the debris. He was not sure yet where he was going, had told his aides only that he would see the hospitals, that it was unnecessary for anyone to follow him. It was unwise, of course, that should something happen to him, it might be a while before anyone knew.
His own guns had nearly quit firing altogether. Their location was too familiar to the rebel gunners, and so many of his guns had been destroyed. The gunners knew as well as he did, there was no good purpose to returning fire, the rebel works far too protected. There might still come the infantry assault, a vast wave of men suddenly emerging out of the rebel lines. Those few shells his gunners had would be desperately needed.
He was nearly clear of the town, the ground around him sandy, mostly covered by storm water. He navigated around a wide puddle, stopped, was suddenly engulfed in a hard grotesque smell. It was something he had smelled before, and he backed away instinctively. He could see now, the puddles were littered by heaps of broken men, pieces of bodies. He looked down, saw a man’s arm close to his own feet, felt the sickness coming. He stepped back, then stopped, scolded himself, You are not some recruit!
He looked out toward the defensive line, uneven mounds of dirt, shattered trees, could see movement, men rising as they saw him. They began to pull away from their cover, moving closer to him, recognition now. “Sir! It is dangerous here! You should get back, sir!”
He stepped past them, moved closer to the mounds of dirt. There was a new smell, sulfur, the odor rising from the ground, replacing the smells of death. He stared out above the mounds, the men calling to him, hard whispers, “Sir! Lower yourself, sir!”
He ignored them, tried to see some movement, some sign of the rebels, something beyond the low haze of smoke. He thought of Trenton, his fury at the empty trenches, Washington slipping away in the middle of the night. It has happened to both of us, he thought. At Monmouth it was Clinton, leaving you behind, a pleasant little surprise for you to discover. And I would have done it here. Or will it be you, Mr. Washington? Could it be that you will oblige us once more and just . . . march away? Perhaps you believe you have done all the damage you can do, that we can endure no more.
It was a ridiculous fantasy, and he focused on the batteries across the open ground, thought, No, they are present indeed. And I have no further possibilities. My king may condemn me . . . but we cannot all die here for no good reason.
He saw the flash, and the men shouted at him, “Down, sir!”
The shell whistled past, burst into a house back behind him, the house that had once been his headquarters. All down the enemy lines more flashes came, a new wave of firing, shot and shell now echoing all down through the town.
“Sir! Please! You best be lowerin’ yourself!”
He backed away from the mound, said aloud, “I require an officer.”
“Yes, sir! May I assist you, sir?”
The man scrambled low toward him, and he recognized the face, a young lieutenant, the name swept away in the clutter around him.
“You have a drummer here?”
“Quite, sir!” The man turned shouted, “Mr. Brown! Attend!”
Cornwallis saw the boy’s face, filthy and scared, the drum bouncing against his knee. Cornwallis said, “Do you know the cadence for a parley, young man?”
The boy seemed terrified, glanced at the lieutenant, then at Cornwallis.
“Yes, sir. That would be . . . three hard . . .”
“Climb the parapet there. You will commence to call for a parley.”
The boy seemed ready to cry, and the lieutenant motioned. “Go on! Do as your general commands you!”
The drummer climbed the mound of dirt, began to rap on his drum, the beat echoing down the line. The lieutenant was close to him now, said, “General, with all respect, it can’t do any good. With the shelling, he can’t be heard.”
Cornwallis waited a moment, the young man still drumming, and now the beat seemed louder, the steady rhythm cutting through the rumble of the guns. The lieutenant looked out toward the rebel lines, said, “The shelling . . . they’re ceasing their fire.”
Cornwallis still looked at the drummer, said, “They may not hear him. But they can see him. Lieutenant, do you have a handkerchief?”
“Yes . . . yes, sir.”
“Place it on the tip of your sword. You will advance out beyond your drummer. Do you understand?”
The young man retrieved a white cloth from his pocket, and Cornwallis’ words seem to reach him now.
“Sir . . .”
Cornwallis saw tears in the man’s eyes, fought to hold his own. He touched his pockets, felt for a pencil, his fingers finding the short stub.
“I require paper.”
He realized now that more men had gathered, emerging from their shelters. He saw officers, his own aides now approaching. He said again, “I require paper.”
It was there now, and he moved to a flat piece of wood, a shattered box, dropped down to one knee.
“Lieutenant, when you advance you will hold your sword high, and you will carry this in your coat. You will present it to whoever makes himself available. Someone, I am certain, will make himself available.”
He moved the pencil in his fingers, stared at the blank page for a long moment. His mind was a fog, no words, the sleeplessness weighing him down. The men watched him silently, and there were no protests, no angry calls, no one disputing what he was about to do. His mind was filled with the sound of the drummer, and he glanced up, saw the faces all staring at him. They knew as well as he did. They had come to the end.
Sir,
I propose a cessation of hostilities for twenty-four hours, and that two officers may be appointed by each side, to meet at Mr. Moore’s house, to settle terms for the surrender of the posts of York and Gloucester . . .
58. WASHINGTON
The British officer had been blindfolded, led to the rear of the American lines. Washington had not been comfortable with Cornwallis’ suggestion of a twenty-four-hour truce, knew that time might yet favor the British. He still expected a British fleet to reappear, assumed Cornwallis might feel the same way.
Washington had received letters that originated from his spies in New York that Clinton was putting his army into motion, the fleet there bolstered by reinforcements from England. Despite the willingness of Cornwallis to capitulate, should Clinton and Graves suddenly appear on the horizon, de Grasse would again be forced to meet them at sea. The trap around Cornwallis might suddenly spring open, and any talk of surrender could suddenly be terminated.
The terms were sent back to the British lines, and after more exchanges of notes, some minor quibbling, Cornwallis agreed to a meeting the following morning. For the first time, Washington had a sense of the despair in the British camp. For all the haggling over issues of pride, there was no argument, no disputing that Cornwallis was conceding the surrender of his entire position.
OCTOBER 19, 1781
The meeting at the Moore House consumed an entire day, and extended into the following morning. Washington had named two representatives, the young South Carolinian, John Laurens, and a French counterpart, the Viscount de Noailles. After much rancorous debate about issues Washington considered more symbolic than strategic, the documents were prepared for signatures. By late morning, word had come to his headquarters. Cornwallis had signed the papers, and within the hour, the British would march out of Yorktown.
For several days Washington had glassed the destruction of the British defenses, the stout earthworks proving too weak to stand up to the heavy French guns. The artillery barrage had virtually destroyed the town, and occasionally he could see glimpses of panicked civilians scrambling to salvage some personal belonging, then disappearing down toward the edge of the river. It was a horror he had not expected, the terrible cost to the innocent, the mysterious hand of the Almighty selecting these people, this tranquil place to be the focus of such catastrophe. It was a strange and disturbing notion to him that the nation had so often failed to support his army because they were so far removed from the war. It was difficult to convince citizens who never saw a British soldier that they should send their food and their money and their men to some remote horror in some far-removed place. It was a challenge even for the congress, who seemed to believe this war should not be allowed to inconvenience the civilians. It was certainly a mystery to the French, who had a far better understanding of the ways of war. Any king would have absolute access to his nation’s treasury, and could always compel his army to comply with his strategies. It was the very system from which the Americans were trying to free themselves, and yet Washington knew now that if this war had been lost, it was possibly because the American people didn’t understand their responsibility. With their town in ruins, the people of Yorktown would understand, as did the people of Boston and New York and Charleston. Once the war has touched your home, disrupted your life, once you share the sacrifice of those nameless soldiers, it is your war as well.
He sat on the horse, backed by his generals. His army extended out in front of him, spread along the right side of the road that led straight into the British works. On the left, Rochambeau and his commanders sat, their army facing his across the road. The contrast was obvious and astonishing, the French in their perfect white uniforms, the decorative and colorful trim, the officers each adorned with some display of medals or pendants. His men faced them with as much regal bearing as they could muster, most in torn and filthy hunting shirts that had once been white or light brown. Behind the regular troops, the militia had formed, and their dress was rougher still, every man in the clothes he happened to bring from home, most with no shoes.
He could see that the continentals were standing more formally than usual, a show for the Frenchmen who faced them, who might still hold some notion of the barbarism of this uncivilized rabble. But there would be none of that today, the men on each side of the road now gazing quietly at the other, measuring, silent respect, motionless salutes.
The bands had been playing for a long while, the French and Americans alternating, a joyful competition for musical dominance. Washington had smiled at the attempts by his men, but it was clear even to the continental musicians, the French were professionals. Music had come as well from the British, the distant playing of bagpipes, fifers trying to send their tunes down this long road, as though asking to be included in the game. But now the music stopped, quiet orders from the officers. There was a more serious game to be played.
He was consumed by nervousness, could not help staring out beyond the town to the open water. He knew that de Grasse was scanning the horizon, searching for any sign of sails, sharing Washington’s concern that suddenly there would be a new chapter to this fight.
He steadied his hands by holding tightly to the reins, felt the unexpected chill of the cool clear day. He stared down the open road for a long silent moment, and the horse raised its head, a sniff of protest. Washington realized he had drawn the reins up tightly against his chest and straightened his arm now, loosening the tension on the horse. He leaned forward, patted the horse gently on the neck, a silent apology. He straightened again, glanced at Rochambeau, who sat rigidly in his saddle. The Frenchman did not look at him. No, this is not the time for words. It cannot be long now.
Far out in front of him he heard the sound of a single drum, a slow cadence, steady rhythm. Behind him came a sharp breath, someone reacting to the sound, and he smiled, his officers as nervous as he was. He could see the horsemen now, no sign of a flag, one of the conditions Laurens had insisted upon, thought so harsh by the British. But the horsemen were complying, and behind them he could see the column of red, following their commanders out of their works.
He was sweating in the cool air, watched them coming closer, could see the man in the lead, smaller than he had expected, and as the man drew closer, Washington saw his face, a dark ruddy complexion, thought, Can that truly be General Cornwallis?
The officer stopped a few yards in front of him, dismounted, looked toward the French, purposeful, direct, drew his sword, and stepped toward Rochambeau.
“Sir, I am Brigadier General Charles O’Hara. I regret that General Cornwallis has taken ill this morning. In his place, I hereby surrender to you the general�
��s sword.”
Rochambeau looked at O’Hara with a hard silent glare, then gave a quick look to his aide, a brief low command, and the aide said, “Our commanding general is there . . . across the road.”
O’Hara looked at Washington, and his face was a mask of despair. He moved across the sandy roadway, held the sword up, said, “General Washington, allow me to surrender . . .”
“General O’Hara, since your commanding officer has not consented to deliver his sword in person, it is not proper for me to accept it. You will offer your surrender to one of my senior officers.” He looked behind him, said, “General Lincoln, please advance.”
Lincoln rode forward, and O’Hara lowered his head.
“Certainly. I understand, sir.”
He held the sword up to Lincoln, who took it, held it in both hands for a brief moment, then leaned down, returned it to O’Hara’s hand. Washington looked at Lincoln, the man who had endured the shame of the defeat at Charleston, who had been denied the honor of marching out of Charleston with his flags flying. Now the same condition had been exacted from the British, the perfect justice for their arrogance, their scorn for this ragged army. Washington saw tears on Lincoln’s face, said, “General Lincoln, you may give the order. Commence the surrender.”