by Jeff Shaara
Lincoln nodded, wiped his face with a hard hand, said, “General O’Hara, you will order your men to lay down their arms.”
Nearly eight thousand men filed slowly into the open field, surrounded by French guards. The muskets and cartridge boxes were tossed in a great heap, some men reacting with outbursts of violence, throwing their weapons down in a fury, others sobbing openly.
He sent Lincoln to the open field to supervise the surrender, an exercise in control, preventing some possible outbreak of violence on either side. Washington stayed out on the road with Rochambeau, the two men saying very little. As the column passed slowly through the field, a British band was playing, the music plain now, some tune he had not heard in a very long time. The notes were unsteady, the emotion of the men who played them, but the tune was clear to him now, the title coming into his mind. It was an old British song, called “The World Turned Upside Down.”
He felt a powerful disappointment toward Cornwallis, wondered now if it was a weakness in the man’s courage. He could not accept that, thought, Perhaps it is something very different, some part of being British, the importance of pride, the horrible disgrace the man would take home to his king. The sting of defeat must be unbearable to a monarch who so believes in his perfect superiority, that he can suppress every part of his empire by the tip of a sword. “The World Turned Upside Down” . . . indeed.
OCTOBER 27, 1781
The people had returned to Yorktown, weeping civilians who sifted through the destruction, farmers from around the area who came to offer help. The French and American armies were still in place, Washington doing as much as he could to replenish his supplies, tending the wounded and sick. The militia had mostly gone, some escorting the vast sea of British prisoners to the Shenandoah Valley, to the prison camps that had been assembled around Frederick, Maryland, and Winchester, Virginia. The senior British officers had made their reports, many boarding the one frigate Washington allowed to sail for the safety of New York.
Out beyond the French fleet, toward the wide ocean where de Grasse still focused his spyglass, the sails of the single British frigate were suddenly met by many more. Clinton had been true to his word, had responded to Cornwallis’ pleas for help. The British had assembled thirty-five warships, a fleet powerful enough to cause considerable problems for de Grasse’s blockade. They carried seven thousand rested and fit British and Hessians troops, a force strong enough to have changed the entire balance of the siege, a force that could not only have rescued Cornwallis, but once again, could have turned the tide of the war. As the anxious de Grasse scanned the busy horizon, the British flagship was receiving the report, Clinton himself reading the accounts of the devastating defeat at Yorktown. Within a few short hours, the fleet had turned itself around, and sailed back to New York.
59. WASHINGTON
To the congress, and most of the people north of Virginia, Yorktown was the victory that had ended the war. But Washington could not enjoy their celebration, cautioned against assuming the British would simply vanish with barely a whimper.
The command in the Southern Department was still Nathanael Greene’s, and the news of Yorktown had not slowed Greene from the enormous task that still confronted him. The names meant little to people in the north, Hobkirk’s Hill and Ninety-Six and Eutaw Springs, but each was a fight worthy of anyone’s comparison to Brandywine, Princeton, or Monmouth. Though Greene claimed none of these extraordinary fights as victories, the British were so bloodied that their commanders were forced to abandon their inland outposts and withdraw the entire British command to the safety of Charleston.
After Yorktown, Anthony Wayne had gone south to reinforce Greene, and by the following spring, Wayne’s ragged army had cleared the British completely out of Georgia. By the summer after Yorktown, the entire British presence in America was reduced to the city of Charleston and the main headquarters at New York.
Though Washington was still hesitant to claim victory, in England, the government there was doing it for him. Henry Clinton had been recalled, replaced as overall commander by Governor Guy Carleton of Canada, the fourth man to hold the command. By all rights, that position should have fallen to Clinton’s second in command, but Cornwallis knew that Yorktown was a catastrophe that no one could overlook. Even worse for King George, the news of Yorktown, and all its implications had reduced Lord North’s cabinet to a shambles. King George had no choice but to accept a new government, run now by the principal voices of his hated opposition.
Throughout the entire war, the most significant and impactful pieces of news that had reached England had been the defeats of their army, from Boston to Saratoga, and now Yorktown. Even the king conceded that his army could no longer hope to prevent American independence. By early 1782, a new peace commission was established, with none of the pretense or arrogance of their predecessors. They would not sail to America with lofty demands, would not pose and preen before the congress. They would go instead to Paris, and they would negotiate the final and humiliating terms of a peace treaty. The man to lead the negotiations for the Americans would, of course, be Ben Franklin.
As with every communication, the distance between Philadelphia and Paris and London would make any process a slow one. Though the negotiations dragged on for more than a year, the outcome was rarely in doubt. Every condition the Americans insisted upon was agreed to. On September 3, 1783, the treaty was signed by delegations from both sides. The following January, it was ratified by the United States Congress. What most Americans had known since the fall of Yorktown was now made official to the entire world. The United States of America had earned its rightful place as an independent nation.
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1783
Washington had waited for the last of the British command to set sail before he would ride into the city. There would be no purpose for meetings or even social gatherings. He had admitted to himself that his hesitation was symbolic as well, something he rarely focused on. He simply didn’t want to be in the city with those people, didn’t want to hear sorrowful congratulations for his efforts, no empty platitudes about a war justly won. His deeply sown hatred for the British was muted now, no one in the British camp he could single out with particular prejudice. But the city itself had been the victim, and it was one more symbol of the horror, the despair, so much tragedy that the British had inflicted. He didn’t want to discuss it with anyone. He simply wanted them gone.
As he rode down into the city itself, the crowds had emerged, but they were not a grand and boisterous mob. It was so much like he had seen in Boston, seven years before, the faces of a people scarred by the brutality of their experiences. A fourth of the city was still in black skeletal ruins, naked chimneys rising above cavelike dwellings. Though the crowd was sparse, their suffering was an overpowering sign of what the city had become, a festering sore for those people who were too poor or too crippled to escape, Americans loyal to their cause who had no means, and no other place to go.
There had been a great many more suffering souls, the mass of humanity that had once packed into the city, the Tories who had scampered to the safety of the British guns. He cared little for the suffering of the loyalists, so many refugees with the means and the wealth to escape the wrath of their neighbors. After Yorktown, the loyalists were the only real source of bloodshed in the north, bands of marauding Tories who still sought revenge on the citizenry who had swept them from power. Their violence had infuriated Washington. They were not soldiers at all, were no better than bandits, exacting retribution on the poor and powerless. When Washington responded with violence of his own, they had scurried back to New York, shoving the desperate residents deeper into their holes.
But nearly all the loyalists and Tories were gone, most seeking escape by sailing to England, some going to Canada. The people they had left behind were the people Washington saw.
As he rode farther into the city he looked out across the East River, toward the place where his own horror began, the awful fight on Lon
g Island, the shameful wounds to the confidence of his army. He cared little for the accolades that would have met some grand triumph. He thought instead of all those who had looked to him for leadership, had followed him to that first devastating fight. In every battle, he had borne that weight, the responsibility to the men who followed him, from the officers to the barefoot militiamen, so many who had believed he would lead them to victory over that polished and efficient professional army. For so many, it was never to be, so many of those faithful men still out there, buried somewhere in the fields around Brooklyn. But the river was a harsh reminder of a worse horror, so many thousands stuffed into shallow graves in the mud of the riverbank, those tragic souls who had not survived the rotting hell of the prison ships.
That so many had followed him through it all was a mystery to him. The small victories could not erase the stain of hopelessness he had so often carried, the despair he hid so well. And yet, despite the marches and the starvation and the nakedness, so many still stood tall and faced the awful challenge. Their courage and sacrifice had cleansed him of the disdain for those Americans who had done so little to help their cause. He held no grudge, no thoughts of vengeance against those whose concerns were so petty, whose selfishness threatened to destroy any chance that this nation would survive. Many in the army did not share his generosity, and he had confronted the ugly talk, officers and their men succumbing to the basest emotion of revenge. They had threatened to march upon the congress, to exact punishment on those whose thievery and ambition had done so much to damage the cause, those who did not deserve to be called Americans. But Washington had confronted them, had eased the anger as he had eased their frustrations in the past. He was still no orator, could only offer the soft word, the emotional plea that they return home. No paper, no treaty, no congress could carry their nation into permanence without their hands, the strong, the dedicated, the men who knew so much of sacrifice. It was not his words that calmed them, it was his presence, the large man now bent with exhaustion, beaten down by his own sacrifice, standing before them with little to offer but his own dignity. They had obeyed.
NEW YORK, DECEMBER 4, 1783
The gathering had been planned at a tavern close to the waterfront, attended by those few officers still near the city who could join him for some sort of celebration of his final day in New York. It would be a lavishly prepared banquet, white tablecloths and silver, the extraordinary effort of their host, Samuel Fraunces.
They were not many, less than a dozen men, but he would show no disappointment. So many had gone home, so many others were still involved in the business of the army, spread out all through the nation. As he sat at the head of the table, he realized the small number of men was something of a blessing, that he could speak to each of them, try to offer some kind of personal appreciation. As the food was set before him, and the wine goblets filled, he knew it was not to be. There was no appetite, and no conversation. Every man in the room looked down to his plate with emotion too deep for anyone to speak. After a long moment of silence, he said, “I am sorry . . . I had hoped this would be a time of elation. I am fortunate to be allowed to return to my home.”
He saw nods, most of the faces still turned away. He reached for the wine goblet, his hand shaking, and he steadied it on the table, said, “We should have a toast.” He raised the goblet. “With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.”
He let out a breath, raised the goblet, took a sip of the wine. The men around the table followed, the goblets now back in place. He had hoped someone would speak, ease the hard emotion he could not escape. He looked around the table, Knox, von Steuben, no response. He looked to the far end, Tench Tilghman sitting beside Benjamin Tallmadge, the man who had organized Washington’s spy network in New York. No one spoke still, and he nodded to Tilghman, the wonderfully reliable young man, thought, Perhaps you can assist me . . . one more time. But Tilghman returned the look with red eyes and a quiver in his lips, and Washington felt the man’s loyalty now in some deep place he tried to hide. It was affection now unembarrassed and pure, and he realized that he loved them all, the men in this one room, and those so far away. Lafayette was already sailing for France, Greene was still in the Carolinas. It is good they are not here. As it is . . . I have no words to give these men. He reached for the goblet, stopped, took a long breath, felt the tightness in his throat.
“I cannot come to each of you, but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.”
Knox was first, stood, steadied his wide frame against the table, stepped close to him, stood as straight as he could, held out his hand. The gesture was simple and honest and removed the last hard barrier to Washington’s emotions. Knox was already crying. Washington put his hands on the man’s shoulders, and they came together for a brief, silent embrace. Washington was blinded by his own tears as the men moved close to him in a single line, each one repeating the gesture. The last was Tilghman, and the young man stood frozen for a long moment, tried to speak, and Washington shook his head, no, it is all right. He embraced him as well, could not hold his emotions, felt Tilghman’s sobs matching his own. There were still no words, nothing he could say to any of them. He moved to the door, turned to face them, and von Steuben suddenly snapped hard to attention, the Prussian holding a firm salute for a long moment. Without a word, Washington turned, moved out into the street.
He was compelled to stop in philadelphia, that if he intended to resign his command, there would be a formal ceremony in congress, and most certainly a litany of speeches. He had not expected the congress to respond to him with as much emotion as he had received from his officers. But he could not speak to them without emotion of his own, that after so many years, the controversies, the hostility, he could not ignore that this one body of men was still the genesis of everything he had fought for. For nearly nine years he had been in their service, had suffered and endured and triumphed. The faces were many and different, but the body and all it commanded was still intact.
There had been talk of receptions and balls in his honor, but he would not be detained, that once his resignation had been accepted as official, he had one priority, one destination in his mind.
The horse responded to his every command, carried him in a steady trot through the lush green hills, across the quiet streams and bare wintry trees. He fought the urge to push the animal harder, to make the journey quicker, and the horse seemed to know, brought him along in a steady hard gait on the roads so familiar now. With a hard leap in his chest, he turned the horse up the long drive toward Mount Vernon, studied the grounds through teary eyes, the gardens, the fields, all the precious lands that had missed his caring hand. It would be his again, the very soil beneath him would feel his touch, the house itself would know his strength. He rode up close to the rear entryway, glanced out past the house to the stunning vista of the Potomac, more beautiful now than he had ever remembered. He stopped the horse, sat for a long moment. His mind was already racing forward, all the tasks, the wonderful joy of the work, but his thoughts were halted by the slow motion of the door. He saw her now, the small woman dwarfed by the tall entryway, and she made a small cry, put a hand to her mouth, stepped out onto the porch. He climbed down from the horse, and in one quick sweep was up the short steps, had her firmly in his arms. He could feel her strength again, felt her energy filling him. He had wanted to say so much, tell her of all his plans for the house, the land, so much they would share now, all the sacrifice behind them. She held him tightly still, small soft sounds, and he felt his energy slip away, a broad smile opening up inside of him. Of course, it can wait. There will be time, after all. And, it is Christmas Eve.
AFTERWORD
CHARLES, EARL CORNWALLIS
It may be doubted whether so small a number of men ever employed so short a space of time with greater and more lasting effects
upon the history of the world.
—BRITISH HISTORIAN GEORGE TREVELYAN,
ON WASHINGTON’S VICTORY AT TRENTON
I shall never rest my head on my pillow in peace and quiet as long as I remember the loss of my American colonies.
—KING GEORGE III
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
He freed men by enlightening them.
—COMTESSE D’HOUDETOT, 1781
He becomes the central figure in the tedious and diplomatically sensitive negotiations with the British for the peace treaty that will officially end the war. Suffering from weakening vision, he confronts the challenges of his new task by fashioning a combination of reading glasses and an aid to distant vision, thus, he invents bifocals.
Suffering from the continuing effects of the gout that has plagued him for so long, and weakening from both age and the strain of the work he must perform, he requests that congress release him from his official responsibilities. He leaves France in July 1785. During his work with the peace treaty, he is stricken by the first symptoms of a bladder stone, the misery of which ends most of his social appearances. Thus the rumors of his lechery and sexual conquests of young French maids is made even more ridiculous. Observing that his critics, including John Adams, seem to assume the worst because of the attention he draws from Frenchwomen, he writes:
This is the civilest nation on earth. . . . Somebody, it seems, gave it out that I loved ladies; and then everybody presented me their ladies (or the ladies presented themselves) to be embraced; that is, have their necks kissed. For as to the kissing of lips or cheeks it is not the mode here; the first is reckoned rude, and the other may rub off the paint. The French ladies have, however, a thousand other ways of rendering themselves agreeable: by their various attentions and civilities and their sensible conversation.