Victory at Yorktown: A Novel

by Newt Gingrich

  “Will you take the job, sir? By the way, a promotion to colonel comes with it,” he offered, smiling.

  After such a tragic day, filled with dark foreboding, this man had just offered him an escape, a hope, a belief, and an honor of trust as well.

  He nodded and gladly clasped hands with the Quaker turned general.

  Part Two

  THE BATTLE OF GUILFORD COURT HOUSE

  NORTH CAROLINA

  MARCH 15, 1781

  Three

  IN FRONT OF GUILFORD COURT HOUSE, NORTH CAROLINA

  MARCH 15, 1781

  AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN

  “Gentlemen, are you certain you all know your positions?”

  Nathanial Greene looked about those gathered before him. Peter stood silently to one side, saying nothing.

  When he had ridden South with Greene last fall, there had been days of simply cantering alongside this imposing man, often just engaged in casual conversation. His own years on Washington’s staff, essentially in command of part of Washington’s spy network, had taught him a certain degree of reticence. Answer a question when put directly to him by his general, otherwise just sit back, listen, gauge, and remember.

  Greene talked of his strategy, glad that Peter had some knowledge of classical history when he referred to “Fabian Tactics.” He was drawing his inspiration from a Roman general, who, facing Hannibal, knew that Hannibal had the better trained troops, and he could not beat him in a stand-up, knock-down fight, but he could wear him down to exhaustion.

  Cornwallis was deep inside the Carolinas, unable any longer to hold a supply line hundreds of miles back to Charleston thanks to the efforts of irregular fighters like Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox,” who regularly pillaged the British line of supply. It was forcing the British to live off the land, which meant they had to keep moving, because five thousand hungry mouths and several thousand horses and mules could strip a county clean within a few days.

  So like Fabius, his plan was to avoid a full pitched battle, unlike Gates, and instead, when Cornwallis advanced, he’d retreat farther back into the hinterlands, but as he did so, he would strip the countryside clean, leaving empty barns and fields in his wake. It was a strategy that would win few allies for the Revolution after his army had passed, stripping out the countryside and handing back “vouchers” for payment after the war, but that could not be his concern of the moment, even for one such as he, raised as a Quaker. It was about driving Cornwallis’s army to desperation.

  In the months after Greene took command, he had been rigid and unyielding with his plan. Now before this village of Guilford in central North Carolina the test was at hand. Cornwallis, driven near to distraction with rage and frustration that he could not corner and finish off his foe in open battle, had taken the desperate measure of ordering his army to throw aside all baggage, tentage, and nearly all supply wagons. The army was to strip down and then lunge forward with the hope of catching up to Greene and his ever-maneuvering army, and bring it to a final annihilating battle of decision.

  No sooner had Cornwallis set forth on this desperate march and even those in the ranks who professed no belief in God started to wonder if Divinity itself had decided to show His hand. The weather had turned absolutely wretched. Any army that tried to campaign in the winter was taking a risk; to strip down, without adequate winter clothing, tents, and bases of supply to fall back on, was, indeed, tempting “Fate,” and that fate had shown its cards.

  Torrential rains, freezing ice storms, even snow—rivers swollen over their banks, and every which way Cornwallis turned, empty barns and fields stripped of crops and forage, those still loyal to the Revolution fleeing ahead of him as well.

  Then far to Cornwallis’s rear, twin victories. A thousand, very angry “Over the Mountain Men” as they called themselves, had swarmed out of the high peaks of western North Carolina and Tennessee and directly offered a challenge to battle to one of Cornwallis’s reserve columns and thrashed it to pieces at Kings Mountain. A few weeks later, the ruthless commander of Cornwallis’s cavalry, Tarleton, was soundly thrashed by Dan Morgan and his riflemen down on the border with South Carolina at Cowpens. That fight had lasted less than fifteen minutes. Tarleton was lured into a charge and was suddenly confronted by several hundred well-trained marksmen, who stood up out of the tall grass and fired a volley at less than ten paces.

  Tarleton unfortunately had survived, and fled with his remaining few stragglers to rejoin Cornwallis. Many was the man around Peter this morning who prayed for the chance to have him in their sights within the hour.

  “Remember,” Greene said, pacing back and forth now on the steps of the small county courthouse, “this is not a stand and die battle, though if we see the chance to finish that bastard we will. Keep in mind this is big open country here. We’re going to meet and fight this morning, but for all of us to die to hold this one little place?” He shook his head violently.

  “He is the one who is desperate now. Not us. Let him come on. He is desperate and keep that word in your mind, he is the one who needs this fight more than we do. Let him come on. He will be driving his regimental commanders relentlessly to close in, regardless of loss, thinking he has us.

  “Gentlemen, by day’s end, if all goes perfectly, Cornwallis’s army will be smashed and he our prisoner. But in war, we should all know after six years against this foe, nothing ever goes perfectly. This is not about holding the field against what are, indeed, his elite troops. It is about making them pay for the field, to maul him, and even if he holds the field, at sunset he will look at the wreckage, his blood now chilled, and wonder why he charged without regard of loss. That is the battle I want.”

  Peter looked around at those gathered about Greene. He could see that Greene’s strict orders connected with some, but others grumbled under their breath that they wanted it finished today.

  “Gentlemen!” Greene snapped, and all fell silent.

  “Trust me on this. Now follow my orders and all shall be well.”

  His features eased and he smiled.

  “Trust me the way I have so happily come to trust you, my hearty comrades.”

  He had that touch about him, Peter thought concealing any hint of a smile. In a way a touch Washington did not have. Washington ruled by the magnitude of the man, that sense of a Roman-like gravitas that could only but elicit admiration, even at times in the hearts of his foes. Greene, a man raised in the most gentle of religious traditions, was known to be a hard warrior, but he had as well that “common touch” that could reassure a frightened private with a fatherly word of encouragement. He was also a regimental commander who was a man of his word and knew what the hell he was doing, very unlike the last man who commanded this army.

  “Now, to your posts and God be with you all this day.”

  The group broke up, Peter remaining still, looking to Greene and waiting. His blood was up, the same as it was last summer at Springfield in New Jersey when he had taken it upon himself to rally a wavering line of militia. He had hoped Greene might have a field assignment for him.

  Greene caught his wistful glance, smiled, and shook his head.

  “Young sir, you stay by my side this day. Last thing I need to do after this fight is to send a letter to Washington saying I allowed you to get yourself killed. Your duty, Peter, is to observe and then report what happens here today.”

  Peter could only nod, then salute.

  Greene patted him warmly on the shoulder.

  “Stay close and remember what you see here today.”

  THE BATTLE OF GUILFORD COURT HOUSE

  MARCH 15, 1781

  “My God, here they come!”

  The long battle line of Cornwallis’s elite infantry regiments had at last crested the rise of a low ridge a quarter mile away. At the double time while holding perfect formation, flags fluttering in the morning breeze, the sound of fifes, drums, and bugles echoing, they pushed straight into the forward line of General Greene’s battle formation, m
ade up entirely of Carolina militia.

  General Greene seemed unperturbed as his forward line fired off but a single volley, then broke and ran under the frightful, unrelenting pressure of Cornwallis’s men. As the militia ran, the heavy infantry and grenadier guards that made up the elite cadre of Cornwallis’s Southern army moved forward in serried ranks. Many of the militia were in such a mad a panic that they were throwing aside weapons and backpacks.

  “Should I try and rally them?” Peter asked hastily, coming up to Greene’s side. The general made a dismissive gesture.

  “I told you, young sir, stand by my side. It is what I expected and will only embolden Cornwallis to press in.”

  Peter could not help but admire the discipline of the advancing British line of grenadiers and heavy infantry, but gone were their once terrifying light infantry, Loyalist riflemen, and most of Tarleton’s light dragoons, lost at Cowpens two months ago. They had no ability for rapid pursuit and thus no way to ride down and slaughter those trying to escape.

  With every battle fought, Cornwallis had fewer and fewer men in his command, spreading out yet farther to try to control the vast region. Greene, unlike Gates, knew the real weakness here, to bait and withdraw, bait and withdraw, cut up smaller detachments such as at Cowpens, and now, deep into North Carolina, turn to offer battle.

  Peter, though dismayed at the sight of the thousand or more militia turning about and fleeing, knew that they still outnumbered Cornwallis nearly one and a half to one.

  After the way he had personally led militia at Monmouth Court House and again at Springfield, it was hard upon his soul to see militia flee thus, but he knew that was all part of Greene’s plan at this moment. The sight of their enemy fleeing, but nevertheless in that one volley dropping several dozen of Cornwallis’s precious elite troops, now propelled the British charge forward, a few buglers, filled with bravado, urging the men on with derisive foxhunting calls, as if the battle were already won, and now it was simply a game of chasing down and killing. A few British deserters, lads press-ganged out of Ireland and fed up with it all, had come through the lines over the last few days with warnings that Cornwallis’s men, pressed to the limits of endurance by this endless winter campaign, were now swearing vengeance. Any who begged for surrender on the battlefield would be greeted with a bayonet in the stomach. This would be a death match, according to them.

  Greene posted Morgan’s skilled riflemen to the flanks, not to hold, but simply to kill and wound as many as possible with oblique fire into any attack on the center. Thus as the militia ran from the field, the riflemen began to pop up, ghostlike out of the tall grass, pouring a killing fire into the enemy flanks at a range of 150 yards, twice that of the muskets carried by the heavy infantry and grenadiers. They could not turn the battle, but they sure as hell would make Cornwallis pay. That was his intent now: to make him pay far more than he ever expected while routing the militia out of the Carolinas yet again.

  The deadly fire caused the regiments to either flank to begin to waver, and Peter wondered if that part of the trap had been sprung too soon. That the enemy might turn, shake out into skirmish lines, and try to rush forward and overrun Morgan’s hearty men. To his amazement they did not. They continued to press straight for the center of the American line, feeling that once that was shattered, they could deal with the damn riflemen harassing their flanks, but with each shot taking yet another deadly toll.

  Peter remained silent as he watched the disintegration of the Rebels’ first line of defense. Within minutes, more than a third of Greene’s army was running for the rear, more than a few tossing weapons aside and surely never again to show for muster after this fight.

  Greene seemed unperturbed.

  The charge of Cornwallis grenadiers and elite infantry, driven forward with the obvious desire to at last close with their elusive foe after so many months of rainy marching in the fields, within minutes had reorganized their front. Though dozens were dropped by long-range rifle fire as they did so, they drove forward and smashed into Greene’s second line. This line had been braced with some regulars and Greene appeared to be dispassionate, almost detached as they delivered several volleys at close range, dropping scores of the enemy before breaking as the first line had.

  The advancing foes were now less than two hundred yards distant, disorganized but their momentum carrying them irresistibly forward. He could see that Greene’s staff was looking about nervously. It seemed as if the battle was devolving into yet another utter rout and defeat, as the grenadiers, their ranks thinned but still game, reformed and now advanced at the quick step with bayonets leveled. He caught a glimpse of Cornwallis himself, riding along their line, urging them forward.

  To their flank, along the Saulsbury road that led to the hinterlands and the rear, there was a flurry of gunfire, and Peter turned to see that an advanced guard of British infantry had actually pushed up the road and was threatening to envelop their flank.

  The Maryland line of Continentals held directly in front of where Greene stood. This Peter knew from the prebattle briefing was to be Greene’s “stonewall,” to hold and trade it out at close range for at least half a dozen volleys, inflicting maximum damage on the elite that England had shipped four thousand miles and kept in the field for five years in their vain attempt to suppress the Revolution. With the loss of even one of these men, another weakening blow would be struck, and Greene’s plan was now dropping them by the scores and soon by the hundreds, as an intense firefight now exploded, volley traded with volley at a range of fifty yards, dozens dropping on both sides. Smoke roiled about Peter and General Greene, all but blinding them as to the effect of the blows traded back and forth at deadly range. Men were cheering, screaming, cursing, as they fired, tore open cartridges, reloaded, shouldered weapons, and fired again into the blinding smoke until the flanking British force began to swing about to either side of the Maryland line. It was a masterful move by Cornwallis, who even in the heat of such a bloody battle still had some of his old skills of tactical sense that had seen him through many a fight, his men reforming ranks around their shot-torn flags and now beginning to close in.

  Greene seemed unperturbed as ever, calmly surveying the stricken field where in little more than an hour the British had gained six hundred yards of ground, smashed two of his lines, and were poised to envelop the third.

  “Gentlemen, it is time to concede the field,” he said calmly.

  Peter looked at him in surprise. This was no defiant stand as he had witnessed at Monmouth. Did Greene really mean to withdraw?

  “Colonel Wellsley, look about you. Tell me later what you think General Cornwallis has paid for this piece of useless ground.”

  Stunned, Peter was not sure how to reply. The heat of battle was upon him and for the first time since joining Greene’s side on the day Major Andre was hung, he found himself doubting the moral strength of this man. All of his fighting instinct was telling him that they still outnumbered the British. Surely a single solid line could have held and dealt a sharp, even destructive blow. Yet, now orders were being passed for the men of Maryland to pull back in good order.

  For a moment, Peter found himself alone on the low crest looking across the stricken field at the now advancing grenadiers, faces contoured with rage, but their advancing line disorganized, ragged, the men obviously exhausted. Then it struck Colonel Wellsley what Greene was about. The British ranks, good Lord, how thin their ranks truly were, the field behind them carpeted with hundreds of dead and wounded.

  Greene was still by his side though the advancing British were now within musketry range; a number of them, sensing that the two mounted men before them were of high rank, levelled their muskets to fire.

  “Come on, Wellsley,” Greene cried, leaning over to grab Peter’s reins and turn him about, urging their horse to a near gallop, “It’s one thing to die for your country; it’s another thing to die uselessly for your country.”

  EVENING OF MARCH 15, 1781

 
“Peter, do you drink?” Greene asked, holding up an earthen jug of the ubiquitous “corn liquor” of this region.

  “At times, sir.”

  “Sit down and join me.”

  It did surprise him that a Quaker, whose sect did not hold with hard drink, now took a long sip on the jug before offering it over to Peter, who gladly took a warming gulp. In the last few hours a cold torrential deluge had been unleashed from the heavens and all were half frozen and soaked to the bone.

  “God pity the wounded lying out on that field tonight,” Greene whispered. “I’ve sent a flag of truce over to Cornwallis, suggesting we mutually offer aid to the wounded of both sides and they be exchanged without regard to numbers.”

  He could not help but smile.

  “I rubbed a bit of salt into his hide by saying that in the name of Christian humanity I had a surplus of medical supplies and would gladly offer what he might need to succor his numerous casualties.”

  He chuckled softly, took the jug back, and indulged in a long drink.

  “Most unchristian of me, my real intent, but what the hell. It made its point and actually I’d have done so if not for that damn stiff English pride that haughtily refused the offer.”

  Peter said nothing, looking at the ground, not sure how to react as the thin canvas of the tent leaked steady dribbles of cold rain on both him and Greene.

  “Burdens them,” Greene said, and his voice was cold now. “We can scatter our wounded back as far as Saulsbury if need be, but he has hundreds this night, so I am more than glad to see him gather them in and offer to help. Each one that lives rather than dies of exposure is one more man for him to tend to—without wagons, ambulances, and supplies.”