If moved to absolute desperation they could attempt a “forlorn hope” of a direct frontal attack against Cornwallis’s well-prepared works. It would be a forlorn hope, indeed, von Steuben said that chances were it would turn into the bloodiest attack of the war within minutes. To expect casualties as high as 50 percent or more, with but one chance in ten at most of carrying the enemy position and winning the day.
If de Grasse was now announcing he would stand by the rigid orders he had sailed with in the spring, he would have to launch that forlorn hope, with himself in the lead. He would rather die at the head of his troops, than face the defeat that would come if the attack failed. Or far worse, if he did not do a damn thing at all, and then stand impotent and watch as the French fleet sailed away, leaving the back door open for Cornwallis to either escape, or perhaps see, within a few weeks, transports bearing Clinton’s army, fresh and well supplied to shatter his ill-fed and exhausted troops.
“Sir,” Washington struggled to keep a sense of dignity to his voice even though he was bargaining here with no cards in his hand to play out other than a personal appeal, “you have achieved in these waters the greatest naval victory of the war.”
That was more than a bit of an exaggeration. Only one enemy ship of the line had actually been sunk, in reality scuttled by its own crew when the rest of the fleet retired, and one other ship captured, the vast bulk of the British fleet easily retiring northward. It was, after refitting in the naval yard at New York, still a potent threat. De Grasse’s fleet had no shipyards here for major repairs, the careening of ships to scrap bottoms, to replace spliced masts and shattered yardarms. Another encounter and though fewer in number the British would have the advantage and surely that was weighing upon de Grasse’s thinking.
“There is the absolute potential here for an even greater and far more glorious victory,” Washington hurriedly pressed ahead, Lafayette barely able to keep up with the translation.
“You, sir, have bottled up nearly half of all the main line infantry of the British empire in North America here, in this bay.”
He pointed out the window and he thanked God that the wind had shifted this ship around in its anchorage, so that as he pointed dramatically, off in the distance the peninsula of Yorktown and Williamsburg was in view.
“More than seven thousand of their elite infantry who have terrorized the Carolinas for two years and that my dear Generals Lafayette and Greene have forced from the Carolinas,” and as he spoke, he nodded to his beloved young French comrade, who had played such a crucial role in creating this moment.
“Think of it, sir,” and now he allowed enthusiasm to come to his voice. “A dozen of their finest regiments and all their standards, sixty pieces of artillery, carried with the greatest labor from England to here. Consider when you return to your dear king and our friend Louis, you, sir, personally could present those colors of humbled regiments to your king. What then? Sir, it would be the greatest triumph of this war,” he hesitated, “and fitting revenge for the last war.”
He was not sure if he had overstepped with mention of that last war. For after all, he had fought against France and gained his reputation doing so in that last conflict.
“I hear, sir,” de Grasse replied smoothly, “that you were quite the hero in that last conflict. That it was you personally who led Braddock’s men out of the trap laid by some of the very men you march alongside of now. That you gained quite a reputation then, and would boast that you would not rest until the last Frenchman was either dead or driven into the Great Lakes or the sea.”
Washington held his gaze but felt his color rising. There was no denying his role or his boast. Then he gave Lafayette a sidelong glance almost in appeal for the young man to come up with some comforting and diplomatic reply.
But de Grasse chuckled and patted Washington’s hand resting on the table, breaking the momentary tension.
“You were a noble foe in that last war, sir. We know your reputation: fierce in battle but magnanimous in victory, and the first to offer aid to a fallen foe even if he had been the enemy but moments before. That you spared my fellow countrymen who were prisoners and insisted they be properly exchanged. I heard a legend that years afterward a noble savage chieftain you met, who had faced you in battle, said that he ordered his men not to waste any more lead shooting at you, because their god, who obviously respected you, had put his hands about you and no bullet would ever strike you. That you and this chief then did that strange custom of theirs of smoking a pipe together in friendship.”
Embarrassed, he simply nodded in reply.
“Is it really true that in the battle against Braddock, your uniform had thirteen bullet holes in it, but you were not touched?”
Washington, now truly embarrassed, only shook his head.
“Four bullet holes in his uniform and two horses shot dead beneath him that day,” Lafayette proudly announced without waiting for him to speak, looking back at his friend with open admiration.
“Those days are long past,” Washington said awkwardly, “now we are friends united in a common cause.”
“Seven then,” de Grasse said with a smile.
There was a moment of silence, drinks poured for several and, of course, Washington put his hand over his glass politely indicating refusal.
“I will come to the point,” Washington now said, his voice gaining strength.
“I already know your point but do proceed,” de Grasse replied.
“I implore you, sir, to extend your time here until we have, as we Americans are fond of saying, ‘the enemy in the bag.’”
There were polite chuckles.
De Grasse did not respond. Attention now fixed on his goblet of brandy, swirling it about and taking a sip.
“Four additional weeks, sir, will see the job done,” he hesitated. “I will swear that to you as my solemn oath, sir. Extend for four weeks, until the end of October. If we cannot achieve our final victory by then, I promise you upon my oath, sir, I will not ask for a single day more.”
De Grasse looked up at him over the rim of the brandy sniffer.
“You realize, sir, you are asking me to go against the instructions given to me by my king and the board of the admiralty. I was granted six weeks discretion and no more.”
“They are in Paris, nearly four thousand miles away,” Rochambeau interjected. “My friend, we are here. We are entrusted with our ranks not just to blindly follow, but to judge as well when God grants us fair opportunity. I believe this moment is such a chance. Such a chance might not ever come again in our lifetimes.”
“If we live through this,” Barre interjected, his mood now clear. “The English fleet fully refitted could be back in a fortnight from New York while our ships still need a proper naval yard for repair.”
De Grasse looked over at him and nodded as if accepting his advice and for an instant Washington’s heart sank, but as he looked at Rochambeau he saw the flicker of a grin, the way a partner in a hand of whist or hearts might signal that an opponent had just made the wrong play.
De Grasse’s gaze shifted from Barre back to Washington.
“I agree with you, General Washington. Four additional weeks, sir, but not a day longer.”
Washington struggled to contain himself. After his display in front of Rochambeau, he could not afford another such outburst, ever again.
Rochambeau and Lafayette made up for it, both rising to their feet with loud exclamations of joy, each grabbing a hand of de Grasse, shaking it, then hugging him as he stood to return their enthusiasm with proper grace.
All Washington could do was just stand, head bowed, though not about to dance another jig, he feared his emotions might swing the other way to tears of relief. It had all hung in the balance yet again. He could see the dour look of disapproval by Barre. It was obvious the man wanted out of this campaign, if for no other reason than the fact that de Grasse was for it, but it was time for a noble gesture. He reached across the table and extended his hand
to Barre, who looked up at him in surprise.
“Sir, without your gallant transporting of additional supplies and especially the siege guns all of this would be moot. Sir, your efforts will forever be remembered for enabling us to batter Cornwallis into submission or his grave. I shall never forget that.”
Lafayette hurriedly translated while still embracing de Grasse and to Washington’s inner delight he saw his words had worked the proper effect, at least here, and Barre rose and took Washington’s hand, nodding his thanks.
The group of commanders finally returned to the main deck, their enthusiasm evident, and at the sight of them, the crew, after word had come that the meeting had drawn to a successful conclusion, were now drawn up in formal ranks. Though nearly all were swaying or barely standing from the generous outflow of spirits, their cheers resounded, picked up by the crews of ships up and down the line, and again another thunderous broadside upon broadside in salute. Which made Washington wince as yet again he thought about how much powder they had just expended. But now? He stood listening to it with delight and hoped that Cornwallis could hear it as well.
Fourteen
IN FRONT OF YORKTOWN
SEPTEMBER 29, 1781
TWO HOURS BEFORE DAWN
General Washington clicked his pocket watch open, for the tenth time within the hour, a sure sign to all gathered with him that the anticipation was all but overwhelming. Hamilton was holding a hooded lantern, shielded from the sight of the enemy line by his cloak.
“Two minutes,” Washington whispered, struggling not to let his emotion, his raw excitement, show.
It had been over three years, three long years since Monmouth Court House that he had actually started an action and the anticipation of it all was nearly visceral, made even more tense by the nearmaddening stress of the previous six weeks. He usually felt a strange inner calm descend once action was joined; it was what he was noted for in all three armies on the field and behind fortifications this night. Even the British who had seen him in action later commented how he moved about in a near-placid state, as if oblivious to danger or the other extreme of being overcome with battle lust.
At this moment, he felt a deep inner frustration as well. In the shadows he could see Dan Morgan, actually leaning forward, like a greyhound ready to sprint into action, and how he longed to go with him, as he once had in his youth. He had even muttered such a suggestion but an hour ago, and the response was near-instant rebellion from Hamilton, his guards, Lafayette, and even “Ole Dan,” who grumbled, “Just you do that, sir. Just fine. Dressed up as you are. You stop a bullet and till my dying day everyone will curse Dan Morgan. So no thank you, sir, you go forward and I’ll stay here and command the army while you try and get killed.”
That comment, from any other man, would have drawn a rebuke of stony silence, but from Dan, who all knew had been the general’s comrade in battle since youth, with Dan acting as the elder, in spite of rank, triggered soft laughter.
He knew he was boxed in and would lose all dignity if he tried to argue the point. Besides, Dan was right. This was a night action, which tended to disintegrate into confusion, and his place was here, behind the lines. All knowing his location if in need of orders, or if a decision had to be made to send more troops in, the thousands of men behind him concealed and waiting out the night in the marshes.
He silently was counting off the seconds. Rochambeau’s timepiece was even finer than his, varying only a minute or two a day, and the two had compared watches and set them together at the evening staff meeting.
He counted off the last seconds out loud, unable to conceal his excitement any longer, turned, and looked at Knox, who insisted upon performing the duty himself.
“Send it up,” he announced.
Knox, grinning, stepped away from the knot of officers, and taking a lit cigar from his mouth, walked up to three metal tubes stuck vertically into the ground, and bent over at the waist.
“That sight alone should terrify the enemy if they was awatching right now,” Morgan chuckled and Washington could barely suppress a laugh. Poor Henry Knox, at over three hundred pounds, was used to being the object of joking. How he kept his weight even at Valley Forge was a source of wonder, conversation, and humor, which the poor man had always tried to endure with good will.
“Just get a little downwind from me next time you say that,” Knox retorted, and now there was laughter.
He touched the lit cigar to a fuse protruding from the base of the metal tube, then quickly stepped to the second and third tubes and did the same.
“Stand back,” he announced, moving hurriedly even for one of his bulk.
A rocket snapped heavenward from the first tube, followed a few seconds later by the second and third. The damp light breeze wafting in from off the bay drifted the smoke around Washington, a smell he actually loved, that of burnt gunpowder. The rockets soared heavenward then burst one after the other, three reds.
All turned to look north and seconds later three more rockets, from the French line, burst in reply.
“Go!” Washington shouted as if the hunt was finally on, which in a way it was.
Dan, grinning like a schoolboy let out on a vacation, looked to his general, saluted, then dashed off into the shadows.
“I know you wish to go with him, my general,” and Washington turned to see Lafayette by his side.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied with a smile, “but that old buzzard is right and I must stay, damn it. My place has to be here.”
“There will be action enough in the days ahead,” Lafayette offered.
Washington sighed.
“It is one thing to go into a fight, it is, as you have learned, young sir, entirely another to give the orders but then stand back behind the line.”
“It is your plan, your battle, and will eventually be your victory, sir.”
Washington tried to chuckle and put his hand on Lafayette’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture of thanks.
“My plan for years,” he whispered, “or should I say my dream. Thank God for our allies over there,” and he nodded toward the French position, “your countrymen.
“This is it, gentlemen,” he announced, looking around at those gathered by his side. “After so many years we have come to this moment, this beginning of the end I pray. You have all done your duty superbly well these last six weeks. My compliments to all of you, for without you and our allies…”
His voice trailed off. There was nothing else to be said. They dreamed of this moment with as much fervor as he had across the years. It had begun and now all he could do would be to wait and see what came next.
He was never one for waiting, but six years had taught him much. Patience, as his plans were at last set in motion, was one of the hardest virtues he had been forced to learn.
A veteran of six years of this war, and seven in the last, he knew how often even the best of plans went astray. Dear God, after so much agony and suffering by so many, please let this one work.
“Skirmishers forward,” the command was whispered along the line of battle even before the rockets had snuffed out, and Peter Wellsley felt a thrill run down his spine. Gone was the “game” that he had been tasked with for far too long. He was still officially on the headquarters staff of the general, but was now something of a man without a mission since New Jersey was hundreds of miles to their rear. He had offered what services he could to his Virginia counterpart, who had of course politely accepted, but Peter had not heard a word from him since. He most likely would have reacted the same way. Each man had his own way of doing things, his own organization, and did not need a counterpart of equal rank who might prove to be a second-guesser and nothing but trouble.
Hanging about headquarters, he was delighted when old Dan Morgan actually recognized and remembered him as one of the “brave lads” who had guided the army at Trenton and took over command of a regiment of militia at Monmouth. Seeing him unemployed he invited him to join “in the fun,” and, of course
, Peter gladly accepted.
It had taken more than ten days since their arrival at Williamsburg to get ready for this moment. Hundreds of tons of siege equipment and supplies had to be off-loaded from French ships and put in position. Unlike the Americans’ arrival at Valley Forge with only fifty good axes at hand for the entire army, the French truly did think of everything. All the equipment necessary for a prolonged siege had been delivered: sharp doubled-bladed axes, this time by the hundreds, shovels, picks, small two-wheeled carts that could be pulled by a couple of men, wheelbarrows, all the tools for a siege that, more than anything else, was about digging. Half a million rations were on hand, enough to feed the armies for the next month and a half, either salted and preserved or still on the hoof, purchased from farms fifty miles around with French money. Enough ball ammunition so that every infantryman had twenty-four fresh rounds in his cartridge box and a hundred more laid up in dry bunkers and barrels filled with a hundred thousand musket and pistol flints. Most crucial of all, however, was artillery. Nearly a hundred pieces, from the light field four- and six-pounders hauled the long distance by Knox, who would be damned if he ever left a gun behind, up to heavy long-barreled twenty-four pounders and the massive sixteen-inch-bore mortars, which would not be brought forward until the siege lines had been dug to within killing range, for not even the French had a limitless supply of shot, shell, and powder for these, the most destructive guns deployed in land in this war.
Now the army Washington had brought down from New York had reunited with their comrades whom Greene and Lafayette had deployed here more than a year ago. The Continental line numbered nearly eight thousand strong, backed up by more than three thousand militia who had come swarming in.
Even for Peter, who had grown inured to so many of the horrors of this war, the sights that greeted the army as they arrived in this theater of war had shocked him and triggered rage throughout the ranks. Cornwallis, apparently anticipating this outcome, had ordered the scorching of the earth as they pulled back in upon Yorktown. It was no longer just the looting of barns for supplies. Hundreds of farms had been wiped clean from the earth, everything destroyed. He could not believe that Cornwallis himself had grown so hard and bitter in this fight, but some under his command surely had. Dozens of civilians had been executed, left dead by the smoldering ruins of their homes, and in one horrific case a pregnant woman was found dead, her baby disemboweled with a note scratched on the wall that this “bastard will never grow up to be a Rebel.”
Victory at Yorktown: A Novel Page 26