A tall man, an American officer, hatless, wig gone, was actually dancing a mad, insane jig, reminding him of the way a trained bear would dance at a circus. He capered about, waving his arms, jumping up and down. Other American officers were now galloping up, leaping from their mounts, and joining in this strange mummery. The only thing missing was some jugglers and a fiddler or two to provide music for their show. For an instant he wondered if some drunken soldiers had decided to entertain his arrival, and then with a shock he recognized the man.
It was his Excellency General George Washington leading the bizarre display.
“My God,” someone whispered, in shocked disbelief, “the poor man, the strain of it all. It has driven him mad. Now what do we do?”
“Quickly,” Rochambeau cried, “get us ashore!” and the crew of the barge waited till the very last second to drop sail, coming in so swiftly that Rochambeau was knocked off his feet as the barge slammed into the dock, anxious staff tumbling about, while trying to prevent their general from falling head over heels into the muddy slime of the river bank in a most undignified manner.
Soldiers of one of his regiments on the dock, recognizing the potential embarrassment of their beloved leader, leaped into the water, chest deep, to brace the barge. Eager hands reached out to all but lift him on to the shaky wharf. Clear through the press, to the giant of a man who was the leader of the Revolution, shouldering his way, still waving his arms, shouting with such animation all Rochambeau could grasp was, “You did it, France did it!”
“Did what? Rochambeau shouted.
“My God, you haven’t heard.”
“What good, sir? What?”
“You did it. God bless France and may our friendship last a thousand years. De Grasse is in Chesapeake Bay! Even now Cornwallis is blockaded and under siege. De Grasse has come!”
Washington, still wild with absolute total abandoned joy after so many anguished years of suffering, turned to look at the men of Rochambeau’s command, who stood gazing at him wide-eyed, not understanding a word tumbling out of him.
He took a deep breath, as if struggling for composure and a return to his normally grave and formal manner, then simply shouted with his thunderous voice, “Vive de Grasse, Vive la France, Vive Louis!”
With the first words all understood the reason for his mad excitement and the cry was picked up with a thunderous cheer so loud that civilians in the village were now pouring out into the streets and toward the commotion.
Then Washington turned back to Rochambeau. For a brief moment, he regained his normal sense of decorum and gravitas, and offered the most formal of gestures, bowing to his comrade.
“Joy to you, sir, to all of us. I bring word that the noble Admiral de Grasse has arrived true to his promise.”
It was the first, and perhaps the only time they had ever witnessed such a display, tears streaming down the face of George Washington. The George Washington who had led the numbed retreat from New York five years ago but refused to admit defeat. He who had led the freezing night march on Trenton more than half convinced he was leading his ragged band to a death like Leonidas’s at Thermopylae but, at least, willing to die fighting, who had endured so much for six years, now, at last, all restraint broke away in this moment of joy.
Before Rochambeau could take all this in, it was Washington who stepped forward, arms extended wide, and swept the French general into a bear hug embrace.
“May this day be remembered between our two nations for a thousand years to come and may the gratitude of my nation be eternal to our friends in France. If we are blessed by God to win this war, it is you who stood by our side, and it must never be forgotten.”
Rochambeau was awed to realize that the general was actually in tears and the sight of such emotion stirred his heart to tears as well, as the two embraced with joy and laughter. Around them, by the hundreds, soldiers of France, soldiers and civilians of America, cheered and embraced with joy. A cry soon was picked up and repeated over and over.
“On to Yorktown!”
Part Three
THE BATTLE OF YORKTOWN
SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 1781
Thirteen
HEADQUARTERS OF GENERAL CORNWALLIS
YORKTOWN
SEPTEMBER 17, 1781
The room absolutely refused to stop swaying back and forth. A cold sweat was beading Allen’s brow, and he feared he might just suffer the ultimate humiliation of vomiting in front of the British commander.
General Cornwallis looked up at him, and there was a bit of an indulgent smile.
“Ah, Colonel van Dorn, are you feeling unwell?”
Several of Cornwallis’s staff chuckled and he wondered if he did, indeed, look that sick.
“Sorry, sir, it is just that I have not yet regained my land legs.”
“We understand, sir,” Cornwallis replied, “I have suffered from the mal de mer many times. If the need overcomes you, please excuse yourself—no need to ask permission.”
Allen swallowed hard and whispered a thanks.
He had known Cornwallis from a distance when the general was still stationed in the northern theater of the war. More than a few believed that when Howe was recalled, it should have been Cornwallis that took over, but he had unwisely insisted upon a leave to return to England to winter there with his wife and thus had not been on the spot to take command. To the disappointment of many including Allen, Clinton was then slotted in instead.
All knew that he and Clinton had little love or respect for each other, perhaps one reason Clinton so readily agreed to a division of the dwindling forces in North America. When Cornwallis proposed to take the war into the Carolinas, since it was so obviously stalemated in the North and Clinton was not seeking active battle, his superior readily accepted. Many saw that even though Clinton gave up nearly half his troops to Cornwallis, he was glad to be rid of him and see him sail away to Charleston.
Though his independent command in the Southern theater had ultimately proven a failure and had led now to this dire position, at least Cornwallis had always displayed far more aggressiveness than Clinton, which Allen admired. During the campaign of 1776, he had performed a feat every bit as daring as Wolfe at Quebec, by crossing the Hudson at night and personally leading an assault force of light infantry up the towering cliffs of the Palisades, literally under the gaze of the American garrison of more than five thousand holding Fort Lee. If discovered at any point as they went up the near-vertical cliffs in the middle of the night, a detachment of drummer boys or drunk militiamen could have slaughtered all of them merely by dropping rocks over the side. Yet gaining the heights undetected, he had then patiently waited while cables were dropped back down to the bottom of the cliffs so that sufficient artillery could be hauled up, reassembled, and prepared, to present to the Americans at dawn a force ready to assault them from behind.
It had triggered a mad panic, an absolute rout, the entire American army breaking and fleeing westward, abandoning nearly all their equipment and supplies. Cornwallis had pursued them relentlessly and if given his own head, he would have pushed across the Delaware and finished what was left of Washington’s broken ranks. The thought of that, even as it flashed through Allen’s mind, triggered a mix of emotions because, after all, his youngest brother had been with that fleeing force, had stayed loyal to their cause, and had died doing so. Howe had reined Cornwallis back in, ordering the army to go into winter quarters, and then split up into a score of small detachments across central Jersey. One of those garrisons was the Hessian force that occupied Trenton, and to which Allen was first attached as a Loyalist volunteer, to act as guide, scout, and translator.
Cornwallis could have ended the war that winter, or at least radically altered its course, and Allen could imagine the frustration of that must have nagged his dreams of lost recognition and glory ever since. His feat, if performed against French or Spanish forces, would have won him a peerage at the very least, but against “rabble”? Never would his name be
linked with the likes of Wolfe or Marlborough.
Allen, of course, knew the contents of the dispatch entrusted to him. Colonel Smith had obviously been less than pleased with writing it out, explained it to him that if necessity at sea demanded that it be thrown overboard, he must try to somehow escape to bear the message through enemy lines.
Then he had endured days of pure hell as the light and supposedly swift courier sloop encountered contrary seas, a day-long chase in the opposite direction from a French frigate, which had nearly run them down except for the cover of darkness, then a day of what the sailors laughed off as being becalmed, but for him had been worse than any torture as the ship lurched and rolled without any wind to press them forward.
They had finally encountered a badly damaged brig, limping north, and bearing with it the ill news that the French fleet had, indeed, arrived off of the mouth of the Chesapeake. Also that Hood and de Grasse had met in what at its absolute best could be called an inconclusive action off the cape. With de Grasse luring Hood into slowly following him to the southeast, the action allowed Barre to slip in with his ships along with additional supplies, the entire train of heavy siege guns, and several thousand more French troops.
It was all a complete muddle, climaxed with Hood declaring that he and Graves thought it best to retire back to New York, to refit and resupply after the action before venturing another throw. Of course, it was a decision that meant he would not lose any ships, had followed what could be argued as the proper course of a prudent admiral, and would not, perhaps, face a firing squad as he might have if he had decided to boldly press in and attack, regardless of loss, in order to break through to Cornwallis.
No officer of the fleet would dare to voice a word of complaint or protest in front of a mere officer of infantry, especially one who was not even an Englishman but an actual colonist as well. He could sense the mood aboard the ship as they finally approached the entry to the Chesapeake, especially when in such close quarters aboard a sloop he could hear every mutter and curse of the common sailors as they went about their duties. The commander of the ship was, however, of stouter heart than his superiors aboard the retreating ships of the line. Familiar with the waters of the bay, he had ventured to run the French blockade at night, dodging past their patrols, slipping through the cordon of towering ships of the line, and gained the harbor of Yorktown before dawn, a masterful show of seamanship, aided by a strong nor’easterly blow. It made the waters of the bay as sickening to Allen as the open sea for one final bout of what Cornwallis called the mal de mer, made nearly as agonizing now because he was on solid land, but his stomach told him the land was pitching back and forth.
He was trapped in that terrible agony of starvation after days of being unable to keep anything down for more than a few minutes, yet the mere thought, even the scent, of food cooking caused his stomach to churn in rebellion.
Cornwallis had already read the dispatch in silence and handed it back to his adjutant, the dismay of the man obvious as was that of the other officers the general had called in to hear the news from New York.
He motioned for Allen to sit down at the table next to him.
“I see in the dispatches a note that you are to report to me as well your own observations. That apparently you boldly ventured behind enemy lines for more than a week scouting their ranks and strength. I also seem to recall that you served with the lamented Major Andre.”
“I did, sir.”
Cornwallis shook his head sadly.
“A brave man, perhaps too brave with that venture. You do know that Benedict Arnold campaigned here this spring, but is now back in New York.”
Allen said nothing.
“I must say his actions made the situation here more than unpleasant. The pillaging and looting that he said were now the only way to bring the Rebels to their knees, only served to arouse their wrath and turn out yet more militia.”
Allen made no comment about the reports coming back from the Carolinas that the same atrocities had been committed by Cornwallis’s troops as well, a war that was now truly devolving into ever-increasing barbarity.
“I find a mild chicken broth can help settle you down a bit,” Cornwallis said kindly, “please, sir, attempt it.”
Allen weakly smiled and nodded his thanks.
“At least, I think we do have a chicken about or in the pot someplace around here,” he added.
A moment later a bowl was placed before him. Allen took a few sips while Cornwallis and his staff talked among themselves in the far corner of the room. Allen could overhear more than one foul oath, though the general did order the men to fall silent.
Allen ventured a few more sips and found it did help, slightly. Cornwallis finally dismissed the rest of his staff, obviously angry over the dispatch that Allen had just presented.
“I understand you have a somewhat more private report to present to me.”
“Just some general observations, sir.”
“Let me ask, why did you feel it necessary to come with the courier ship? You could have written your report down and stayed out of this,” he hesitated as if carefully choosing his words, “this situation.”
“I felt what I saw myself, conveyed to you personally would be of better service.”
Cornwallis nodded.
“If anything of dear Major Andre rubbed off on you, it was that you sought action, and I dare say the inaction up in New York must have been tedious.”
“I think it important to share with you what I saw and learned while trailing their army,” Allen replied, not taking the bait.
“Go ahead please. Is your stomach settling?”
Allen wished he had not reminded him. It had not, but he pressed into his report. Describing what was the obvious subterfuge, well thought out, of moving troops and boats toward Staten Island, which was obviously a sham, even to the touch of a bakery in Chatham, implying a major shift to that area and really not necessary to support an army rapidly moving through the area a dozen miles farther west.
“Those Rebel troops moved by boat down the bay have already disembarked, the boats returning back to pick up more along the line of march,” Cornwallis offered. “My reports indicate that nearly all of them, and from what you said it is at least ten thousand or more, are even now, this very day, filing into place but several miles from here, thus sealing me off.”
He looked again at the dispatches Allen had delivered and then out the window. All was silent, it was hard to believe that over twenty-five thousand men of opposing forces were digging in, even as they sat here, preparing for an all-out confrontation, while but a few miles to the south a French fleet with over twenty-five thousand more men had gained what an army would call the high ground within the bay, and even now were off-loading hundreds of tons of rations, entrenching and siege equipment, and the deadly heavy artillery that would have been impossible to drag over the back roads of Jersey, let along the three hundred or more miles beyond to this place. “I think the American phrase is that our good friend General Clinton has left us like a pickle in a barrel.”
He didn’t correct him that it was fish in a barrel but the analogy was appropriate.
“Let us enter a confidence you and I,” Cornwallis said, and standing, he went to a sideboard, opened it up, started to pull out a bottle of French brandy but then looking back at the green-faced colonel, he reconsidered and drew out a half empty bottle of burgundy and without comment poured two glasses, pushing one over in front of Allen.
“I have found that a dry burgundy is a tonic that can settle even the most upset of stomachs, try it please.”
Allen took a sip and then another, and it did seem to work for the moment.
“I see your color returning already,” Cornwallis announced with a smile, “now as I was saying, sir, shall we have an exchange of confidences.”
“Thank you for your consideration, sir.”
“Then please a reply. I must insist before allowing you to take a much deserved rest. Fir
st off, is General Clinton aware of the dire straits we are now in? If he had given me freedom of action earlier this summer, do you honestly think I would have sat in this rat hole? I was assured the full support of His Majesty’s Royal navy, that if need be I could embark and be done with this damned Virginia, and leave it to the continued ravages of Benedict Arnold and company. Instead Arnold has pulled back to New York, I am left here and promised full support, but bounded by orders to remain here with these blandishments of reassurance. If I had even suspected that this would be the situation, I would have turned back into the Carolinas. At least there, I still had a secure base at Charleston and would have raised hell along the way, Greene or no General Greene in my path.”
That was a lot for Allen to digest, and he sipped at the wine, even feeling a touch of pleasure as the drink radiated through him and did, indeed, settle his stomach a bit.
“Sir, to your first query I have no answer. The courier ship departed New York harbor even while the confrontation between Hood and de Grasse raged. I would like to think that if General Clinton were aware of that outcome his actions at this moment would be far more forceful.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, I am not sure there is much more I can answer.”
“Is it fair to assume that General Clinton did not bestir himself because he believed the French fleet, in strength, and now reinforced by Admiral Barre’s additional ships and supplies, would never arrive here? I did receive a report that sometime in mid-August, Washington knew of this arrangement that prompted his remarkable march to the outskirts of this town. If he knew, then surely Clinton knew it.”
“Sir, we both know the vagaries of war at sea. In defense of General Clinton,” and now he chose his words as diplomatically as possible, “I believe he assumed that either the French message to Washington was a ruse and that New York might be the real target for a coordinated assault by land and sea, supported by de Grasse, or that surely our own navy would meet and destroy de Grasse long before he arrived in these waters.”
Victory at Yorktown: A Novel Page 24