Victory at Yorktown: A Novel

by Newt Gingrich

  As his interrogator spoke Allen looked back to the road heading east and as he did so, his heart froze. Two riders were coming across the bridge, coming on fast, and instinct told him in that instant that the game was up. He had ridden too many races against Peter not to recognize the way he could barely keep a saddle, even now.

  “I feel the flux coming on,” he muttered and without further comment he started up the alleyway alongside the inn, asking where the privy was.

  “Hey you, hold on a minute!”

  Fortunately they were far more drunk than he was. As he reached the end of the alleyway along the side of the tavern, he turned off into the back garden, out of sight to the road, and then took off at a run. It was long seconds before he heard the hue and cry go up behind him and he was already a good hundred yards out of the village before he looked back. None had shouldered their muskets. He was already out of range and thanked God they didn’t have a sober rifleman in their group. Besides, they were just staggering drunk, but pointing in his direction as the two horsemen came riding into the village.

  The riders slowed to get information, giving him valuable seconds of lead time as he tried to keep low, running behind a split rail fence piled high with summer honeysuckle that acted as a shield. Reaching the end of the fencerow, he saw it was going to have to be a dash across an open field to the woods. Now he set off at a full-out run. He turned to look back, and it was, indeed, Peter in pursuit, drawing a short barrel musketoon out of a saddle holster. He dodged into a couple acres of corn, nearly head high in the August heat, crouching low, weaving back and forth, but realizing that as a horseman mounted up high, Peter should be able to see the wavering corn as he stumbled and shoved it aside. He came out the far end of the cornfield and saw Peter was galloping along the edge of the corn, his other mounted companion riding along the opposite flank to try to cut him off. He vaulted a low split-rail fence, gasping for air as he reached the edge of the woods where Jamie, still loyal to him was still waiting, pistol out, leveling it toward Peter, who was still a hundred yards off. The range was too far. Better to run for it, and besides …

  He knocked the weapon up.

  “Run, you damn fool!”

  Together they sprinted for the narrow river, downstream from the bridge. If Peter had posted men on the other side he feared it was about to go bad, but only his old friend and whoever was with him were in pursuit, their mounts lathered and blown. Jumping into the river they half swam, half waded across, gaining the far bank, scrambling up it. Jamie looking around nervously, obviously more afraid that the snake might be lying in wait rather than Jersey militia.

  “Allen!” he heard.

  It was more a question, as if Peter was not sure who he was pursuing. Allen did not look back, running hard, weaving through the brush and bramble into the next woodlot where they had left their horses tethered, fortunately still saddled. He could hear Peter cursing as he splashed across the muddy river, stinking of refuse from the tannery, his exhausted mount struggling to get up the muddy bank even as Allen swung into the saddle of his mount, leaning over to grab Jamie by the shoulder and helping him to mount as well.

  There was a crack of gunfire and he heard a ball clip through the branches overhead. That startled him and he looked back to see Peter, half concealed in dirty, yellow gray smoke, short-barreled musket recoiling.

  Was he shooting to kill?

  He was not about to hang around to discuss the issue, as he kicked his mount to a gallop, taking a farm lane that would swing wide of the Rebels guarding Springfield. It was obvious they were onto him and he’d have to head north, up through the Short Hills and the crossroads of the Mill Burn on the forward slope of the Watchung range. He could lose Peter, who obviously could not keep up, then wait until dark, leave the horses behind and hike it back to the Hudson.

  He had some of what he wanted, but not having actually seen the troops on the march, he knew Clinton would dismiss as unreliable a report based on conversation with four drunken Jersey militia. He’d have to come back for more, and he actually felt a thrill of excitement when it became evident that Peter had given up the chase.

  * * *

  Peter Wellsley, cursing soundly, gave up after several miles. It was, indeed, Allen and he was far better mounted. Peter was furious with himself for having come in as impetuously as he did to Chatham. He should have rounded up some militia and put out a cordon on the far side of the river before rushing in. He had only half believed the report, increasingly annoyed that he was riding all this distance on what was most likely a fool’s errand. Also, he could not fully believe that Allen would be so reckless as to try to penetrate the American lines on his own when without doubt he had more than one informant. Or had his own efforts been so effective as to dry up the British sources while the army traversed New Jersey and so Allen had been forced to look for himself?

  He had spared his friend’s life at Monmouth Court House, but now? It was a bit of a shock to realize that when he had fired at his old friend, he had shot to kill and regretted that he had missed. He would have to report to the general that the cordon had been penetrated and chances were that unless Allen was stopped from getting across the river, that by tomorrow, Clinton and the Royal navy would know that Washington was on the march and heading south.

  Nine

  OUTSKIRTS OF PHILADELPHIA

  AUGUST 29, 1781

  Washington had ridden hard for three days in order to move up to the front of his column. In one day he had made nearly fifty miles over the farm lanes and back roads beyond the Watchung Hills, of course, completely avoiding the open pike that swung south of those hills from Newark, down the Raritan, and along flat open ground clear to Princeton. It was the road he had retreated along when falling back from New York after the disasters of 1776, and that his army had surged along in the boiling heat of a summer day in 1778, looking for a fight that would lead them to Monmouth Court House.

  Three more years of war had passed since then. He had thought about that more than once as he rode into Princeton, and then the following morning when he had passed through Trenton. The two battles that had been fought there were still clearly evident from the bullet-scarred buildings. Across the ferry at Trenton he had ridden along the west bank of the Delaware, passing the supply train bringing up the rear. North of the city he had ordered his army into camp for a day to rest, in order for stragglers to catch up, form ranks, and wait for their French allies to join them before marching into the capital city. Knowing they were about to parade through the capital city of their allies, the entire French column was busy preparing for the event. After hard days of marching on the dusty back roads of New Jersey, their white uniforms were a mess. Under the baleful watch of corporals and sergeants they had obviously devoted hours to cleaning up, scrubbing out stains, using white pipe clay to polish gaiters and leather straps, neatly combing out and reweaving the pigtails of the enlisted men, while servants were dusting the wigs of officers with flour, and trimming moustaches. Musket barrels were polished to a high sheen, horses curried, the tails and manes of some braided with ribbons.

  Long years ago he had fought against some of these same regiments on the frontier and had viewed such fussing with disdain—and besides, a white uniform in a dark forest did make such an ideal target. But now? These were his allies. Without their fleet, if it was moving as promised, this campaign would end in disaster. He had come to learn the mettle of these men, first with his friendship with young Lafayette, whom he viewed now as a substitute for the son he would never have. Then working with them for years around New York City. They were every inch as tough as any Hessian or British grenadier.

  As he trotted past the columns of French troops, all proper respect was paid to him and it was, indeed, pleasing as these tough professionals snapped to attention and saluted. There were even shouts and cheers of “Vive Washington!” that he would studiously and austerely ignore if offered by his own Continental line, but courtesy of alliance demanded he a
cknowledge with grateful bows from the saddle and lifting of hat to the flags of the various regiments that he passed.

  At last he found his friend Rochambeau awaiting him at the front of his column, word having been sent ahead requesting the “indulgence” that they enter Philadelphia together.

  It was, of course, a show that they both knew they had to put on. The commanding American general riding into the capital, side by side with the commanding general of their allies.

  Rochambeau and his staff were absolutely glittering in fresh uniforms and immaculate. As he approached he was aware of his own rather travel-worn look. Dusty, face sweat-streaked after the hours of riding in the heat from Princeton, and Billy Lee muttered more than once that they should at least stop so he could curry the general’s horse and dust him off as well.

  He had refused. Though he admired the look of the French troops, somehow he sensed that his own entry into Philadelphia, at the head of the column should demonstrate that this was an army moving swiftly and hard, an army looking for, and eager for, a fight. He felt his own “look” was appropriate to convey that sense. Now safely across New Jersey without an attack or even a feint by Clinton on their flank, the time for subterfuge was past. He had received young Colonel Wellsley’s report that their secret had been penetrated with some trepidation. If, the following day, Clinton had actually shifted his army to Staten Island under the cover of the navy still in New York harbor, and moved across to intercept him somewhere near Princeton, he would have been forced to turn and fight. It would have shattered any hope of bringing his strength to bear within the six-week window that de Grasse had offered him in his message.

  There had been a tense two days after that report, but amazingly, Clinton had not stirred, and now it was too late to stop Washington. After this march through the center of Philadelphia, there would be spies aplenty to report it back. Unless Clinton had pulled some remarkable sleight of hand, and was even now embarked to come to the relief of Cornwallis, it did not matter what was reported back in New York after this day.

  Rochambeau and his staff offered a formal Gallic salute that Washington returned with style, and staff officers on both sides saluted each other as well, with more than one American offering their new tradition of a handshake, and accepting with some embarrassment at times the kiss on both cheeks offered in reply.

  “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?” Washington offered, and there were smiles of agreement. The French had obviously been awaiting this parade with eager anticipation.

  The two generals set off down the road, side by side, flag bearers before them holding aloft the banners of France and of this new republic, followed behind by more flag bearers carrying the individual colors of their headquarters and various regimental standards.

  It was all a showy parade, the type of thing he normally disdained, but knew it was essential for his army, their army, and for the citizens of Philadelphia, all of whom were so weary of war after six bitter years. This show was especially for the Congress, which had better be ready with the pay and supplies for his men that Robert Morris had promised to him.

  The spires of the churches of Philadelphia stood out clear in the dusty heat as they rode at a swift canter down the main thoroughfare. His own regiments of his Continental line were now in view. These were “his men,” and he felt a swelling of pride at the sight of them, the men of the Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Virginia, and Maryland line. They were hard-bitten veterans of so many years of war.

  They, too, had been spending the morning preparing for this moment, but with far less elegant results—as Washington felt was befitting this new kind of army for a new world and hopefully a new republic.

  In the three years since Valley Forge, French largesse had included shipments of new uniforms, turned out by hundreds of French tailors, seamstresses, and weavers, but the long years had worn them threadbare as well. The buff, blue, and tan of Virginia; the brown and red of Maryland; while some of the men of Pennsylvania shunned such finery and still insisted upon brown or green hunting frocks and tan or deer skin leggings. On many, knee and elbow patchings of various hues had just been sewed on this morning, and they were patches over patches for many of them. Deep stains from marching and camping in rain, mud, and snow were evident, and for the old veterans, some just barely out of their teens, these were worn as marks of pride in their service. Many, long ago, had come to disdain the traditional tricorner hats, having broken them down into broad brims to ward off summer sun and icy rain. Barely a man of the line sported a wig as he now did, most had hair tied back in short ponytails, and more than a few of late had just simply taken to shaving their heads to ward off the lice and fleas with which nearly all were afflicted.

  Some shouldered battered backpacks of leather. Many had come to adopt “horse-collar” blanket rolls slung over their left shoulder—one or two threadbare blankets, wrapped within an extra shirt if they had the luxury of one, and a treasured change of socks or knee-high stockings. On the left hip most wore a canvas haversack for rations, although those haversacks were now thin and depleted after days of marching, but all knew that tonight they would be feted by the citizens of Philadelphia. Come morning, before setting off toward Maryland, fresh supplies of five days marching rations would be issued on the far side of the city. Wooden canteens rested atop the haversacks, and as he rode past the men, he could only surmise that more than a few had been greeted by grateful citizens with a fresh supply of rum or corn liquor (or perhaps “foraged” from reluctant nearby farmers). Those men were grinning, and a couple of them collapsed and stretched out behind the columns lining either side of the road. On this day he almost pitied the discipline they would face at nightfall when, awakening, they staggered into town to rejoin the ranks and met their angry, red-faced sergeants and captains—though more than a few of those, he suspected, were already half drunk as well.

  Cartridge boxes, most of French issue, rested on right hips, and if his orders had been followed, each was packed with twenty-four freshly drawn rounds of .72 ball for their muskets. Veterans all, their weapons were as highly polished as their French comrades’, locks well oiled, sharp fresh flints in place, with several spares wrapped in oiled cloth and tucked into the bottom of the cartridge box, and dangling from the right hip, all now had bayonets, polished to a mirror sheen and razor sharp. The years of drill with the army’s beloved von Steuben, now awaiting them along with Lafayette down in Virginia, had trained them well with the bayonet. It was far more a weapon of the mind than it was ever actually used in combat; the sight of a disciplined line, advancing at the double, bayonets glinting in the sun, rarely drew blood, but, instead, would usually break an opponent’s line when presented with such a terrifying sight.

  As the entourage trotted past the waiting column, cheer after cheer erupted, and this time Washington did acknowledge it with nods, lifting his hat in salute as he passed regimental standards and the national flag. As they passed, behind them commands echoed, men falling back into columns eight men wide on the broad road into the city, flags, fifers, and drummers to the fore. He gazed with delight at Henry Knox’s fine display of artillery, brass and bronze guns polished to a shimmering glean, limber wagons washed clean of dust and mud, even their sadly mismatched teams of horses cleaned and curried. In front of them were his small detachments of dragoons, most of them well mounted so they could match any confrontation with British and Hessian raiders. In that department, at least—though severely outnumbered—his men were definitely the match for anything the enemy or even their French allies could put in the field. “Light Horse” Harry Lee, a distant cousin to both him and Martha, was at the head of that column, and most of the men of his command were well trained horsemen from Virginia and the Carolinas, where the mark of a gentleman was that he knew good horseflesh and could keep his saddle whether it was on the hunt or battlefield. It was an elite outfit and they showed it with well maintained horses and equipment. Though well-trained with sabers, most had learned that a brace or
two of pistols and a short-barreled musketoon loaded with buckshot, though less gentlemanly, were far more efficient at dropping their foes in the constant give-and-take of skirmishing along the picket lines and in irregular warfare.

  The road ahead was now clear of troops, they were less than a mile from the center of Philadelphia. Eager civilians flooded the streets ahead. Mad Anthony Wayne, hero of so many battles, awaited him at the head of the column flourishing a salute. He had arranged the procession with the flair of a showman, a score of drummers and an equal number of the army’s best fifers at the fore, led by an honor guard of picked infantry, one man from each regiment, well groomed, towering in height, some over six-foot tall, nearly matching the height of their commander. There were two flag bearers at the fore: the white and fleur de lis standard of France and King Louis XVI, held rigidly aloft by a giant of a man in a sparkling white uniform, flanked by two French soldiers on either side of exactly equal height and splendor; and beside them a soldier of Pennsylvania, bearing a clean but obviously battle-scarred flag of thirteen stars and thirteen stripes, flanked by four chosen soldiers from Jersey, Maryland, Virginia, and New York.

  Wayne came up to his side with sword drawn and offered his salute, his normally fierce demeanor for once giving way to a grin of delight.

  “All is prepared exactly as you ordered, sir,” he cried with delight.

  General George Washington rode on, with the Marquess Rochambeau by his side, slowing their pace, and from behind Anthony Wayne. Their staffs fell in a few paces after them, followed by the flag bearers, the drummers, and fifers. The crowd ahead parted as they approached, and for a moment there was actual silence in response, men taking off their hats, women quiet, and there was a terrible flash of memory.