Victory at Yorktown: A Novel

by Newt Gingrich

  As the army started to disband throughout this year, there were many farewell ceremonies. His old friends and comrades Lafayette and Greene had come north after the British evacuations of Charleston and Savannah, and there had been a quiet evening of talking of future hopes and recollections of their past, in crisis and in the rare moments of triumph. Lafayette, imbued with a bit too much wine, had mused on how history might remember them, and what statues might someday be erected.

  He had rejected the idea out of hand. They had fought to create a free republic, not an empire with statues of Caesars and conquerors. The argument had flowed back and forth, with some saying a republic needed models of heroes of the past, which history might someday record them as. Washington had finally conceded that at the least he could accept a statue to Benjamin Franklin, who all universally acknowledged was the intellectual leader and chief negotiator of their liberty. The topic had shifted to the various battlefields, Lafayette and Greene urging at least a statue of a soldier, dressed in rags but defiant, in the now abandoned winter grounds of Valley Forge, to mark the graves of the thousands who had died there during that terrible winter. Then had come the question of Saratoga.

  There was a long moment of silence. The subject on their minds was Horatio Gates, the purported commander of the armies there, who was a pariah to all present. He had all but attempted an open coup against Washington during the Valley Forge winter. His supporters in Congress had finally forced through his command of the armies in the South, where at Camden, he had nearly thrown away the Revolution in a disastrous defeat, out of which Greene was dispatched to retrieve the situation.

  “If our grandchildren someday decided upon statues at Saratoga,” Greene had mused, “what of Benedict Arnold? For even we must acknowledge that his gallantry that day turned defeat into glorious victory.”

  Lafayette sighed, looking into his glass of claret, the wine the color of blood.

  “I wish the bullet had been aimed but a bit higher,” he finally whispered, breaking the embarrassed silence.

  “Which bullet?” Greene had asked.

  “The one that struck his leg.”

  Lafayette looked back up at his friends who were gazing at him curiously, not sure of his meaning.

  He chuckled softly.

  “I could think of no finer fate, after a few more years of life of course, and with children and grandchildren to remember me,” and those around him chuckled softly, “then to die for a cause such as we have fought for.”

  There were nods of approval.

  Then he sadly gazed back down at his glass of wine.

  “If I were Arnold, for the rest of my life, I would wish that the bullet that had struck me in the leg at Saratoga had winged but a bit higher and struck me in the heart. For in that death my name forever after would be spoken of with reverence and honor. He did not fall upon the stage of this life when fate would have been most kind, and shall now live out a life alone, despised here as a traitor, mistrusted in the land to which he has fled to by those who faced us as soldiers who understood honor.”

  There were nods of approval from some.

  “If they someday erect statues to us,” Lafayette finally concluded, I pray there is one for Arnold as well, for we all know that at that moment at Saratoga our cause hung in the balance, and it was he who tipped the scales to the conclusion we have now today.”

  “I would place no wreath at such a place, sir,” Greene snapped, “and if there is one for Gates, I will be certain to purge myself before going to honor it.”

  Lafayette had nodded with understanding, for it was Greene who had to rebuild the demoralized wreckage of the army that Gates had left to him.

  “Then at least this,” he finally said with a forced smile. “A statue of just his leg?”

  “Pray why, sir?” Greene retorted.

  “Because it will be the part of him that will forever bear two wounds, won at Quebec and Saratoga, that shall forever remind us he was once a man of honor.”

  As he recalled that conversation now, he smiled at the thought of it. The typical romantic gesture of a Frenchman.

  * * *

  “Sir, I do think they are waiting for you.”

  It was the ever-present Billy Lee, interrupting his thoughts, holding his blue and buff uniform jacket, freshly brushed, the epaulettes sparkling in the light streaming through the window.

  He looked at the clock. It had chimed noon and he was so deeply lost in thought he had not even heard it.

  He nodded thanks to Billy, who helped him don the jacket, motioned for the uncomfortable wig that the ceremony of this moment required, reaching up to adjust it slightly. Billy stepped back, dark eyes surveying his general from head to toe and nodding approval.

  Billy opened the door, smiling.

  “I’ll see that the horses are ready, sir,” he said softly.

  He actually dreaded what he now faced, fearful that emotion would take hold, and uncharacteristically, he reached out to grasp Billy’s hand.

  “Thank you, I’ll be along shortly,” he whispered.

  Billy went ahead of him down the flight of stairs. Two of his personal guards, the last of his detail still in his service, flanked the door leading into the meeting room. Both snapped to attention and presented arms. He looked to each of them and felt a lump rising in his throat, for both had tears in their eyes.

  He paused, extending his hand first to one and then the other.

  “Sergeants Felton and Hurt, you have been with me from the beginning and I shall always remember your faithful service.”

  The two fumbled, not sure how to react while at attention with present arms, as they had done a thousand times before, at last nervously taking his hand smiling as he grasped them warmly. Felton, unable to speak, opened the door into the meeting room where they were waiting for him.

  These farewells had been going on for weeks, months, ever since the congressional order of the spring that started the demobilization of the army. Now there were only seven of his officers left to say a final good-bye. Their fellowship of nearly eight long years was at an end. They were all standing, waiting in anticipation. He had thought to prepare a few words since he, along with all those closest to him, knew he was nearly a failure when it came to giving an impromptu speech or eloquent statement. Perhaps that had served him as one of his greatest strengths in the end. Unable to speak loudly, glibly, or richly such as men like Franklin, Jefferson, or even Greene, his response was usually silence that he had come to learn lent him an air of gravitas, so that when he did speak but a few words, all listened.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “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 fell silent for a moment, unable to continue as he gazed into the eyes of the last few of his beloved comrades from whom he would part this day. A decanter of wine had already been passed around, all were on their feet and, raising their glasses, they toasted him and their new nation, the United States of America.

  He joined in the second half of the toast, scanned their faces, many streaming with tears, and smiled at General Knox, who was standing directly in front of him.

  “Gentlemen, I would feel obliged if each of you will come and take my hand in farewell.”

  Knox did so first, a shudder running through the rotund man as he embraced his general, then each in turn followed, most unable to speak, a few whispering “God bless you, sir,” “Thank you, sir,” and then stepped back.

  He was unable to reply, except for the grasp of the hand, a warm pat on the shoulder as they embraced, fearing he truly would disintegrate into uncontrollable tears. So strange war. We so fervently beg for its ending, and yet when that ending comes, and we gaze upon trusted comrades for the last time, we somehow wish we could linger but a few more days, share one more campfire, even share one more moment of the thrill of triumph.

&
nbsp; But this is what we fought for. This moment and now it was at hand.

  Never again would they sit about a campfire on a chilled snowy night, sharing a single bottle of brandy between them that Lafayette always seemed to have tucked away in his luggage, to make desperate plans for the following morning, not sure if the next day would be their last or if they would have the joy that next evening of seeing each other still safe and sound. Never again would there be summer nights, under the stars, walking through camp, lingering in the shadows, listening to the talk and gossip of their men to gauge their morale. Nights of hope, of fear, of dashed hopes, and then belief that still all will be set aright. Never again would they share such moments together, a bond of brotherhood that only those who had endured such and shared such could ever truly understand. Now, mere words at this ending could never express all that was felt as they looked into each other’s eyes, bidding farewell.

  He wondered if he would ever see any of them again in this world. In his own heart his future course was clear: It was to Mount Vernon, to Martha, to home and whatever years the good Lord still might grant to him.

  He was never one for dragging out such moments, and even as they bid their farewells, the waiting crowds in the street below could see them through the windows, and cheers were rising up nearly drowning out the few words exchanged.

  He could not speak, offer any final words, and with a simple nod of his head, he turned for the door, taking a deep breath, wiping the tears from his eyes, and descended the staircase to the ground floor. The doors were wide open and as he stepped out into the noonday sunlight a tumultuous cheer rose up from the thousands who were gathered and had waited for this glimpse of him.

  He had made sure word had been spread that there would be no ceremonies, no formal speeches on his part or that of any other. The governor of New York and various officials of the city were gathered on the steps of the tavern, obviously eager for just such an event and a chance for a speech on their part as well. He did not afford them the opportunity to indulge, rapidly going down the steps, politely shaking their hands. Several tried to cling to that quick grasp, but long practice with such things allowed him to graciously slip their attempted bond, and move to where Billy Lee waited, holding the bridle of his mount.

  He lifted himself into the saddle, grateful that the few hundred troops who had accompanied him into the city, thinking ahead, had formed a cordon, an honor guard that opened a narrow path down Pearl Street, and to the flank of the heavily fortified battery at the tip of the island.

  How many memories were tied to this place as he rode along the flank of the high-walled stone and earthen fortress. Of course, the British had removed all the guns, so that the gun ports were empty, and the world being as it was, someone in Congress would now have to figure out where to get guns to replace them, but at the moment, that was no longer his concern.

  A broad-beamed ferryboat awaited him, festooned with pine wreaths and a hand-lettered sign “All Praise to Our Glorious General Washington.”

  He and Billy Lee dismounted, and the boat hands were eager to take the bridles of their horses. As soon as they were aboard, the stern railing was raised up, rudder locked back into place, and a large lug sail raised to catch the gentle, nearly warm southwesterly breeze coming across from the Jersey shore.

  The crowds poured down to the wharfs and landings, and lined the wall of the battery fortress, offering cheer after cheer that gradually faded, and he was grateful for that. It was the type of demonstration he knew he had to endure at times in his office, and at times actually did welcome, when it was raised by disciplined regiments of his men, who were ready for a fight, but on this day, it filled him with discomfort.

  He knew that a boat had most likely departed from the same dock perhaps only an hour ago, bearing a swift dispatch rider, who was even now racing along the postal route to Philadelphia and from there on clear to Annapolis, where Congress had decided to convene this year, bearing the news that General Washington had, indeed, fulfilled what he had promised.

  He had disbanded his army and was now going home.

  He was no Caesar, no Cromwell. His only desire, his final duty was now simply to go home.

  He shaded his eyes against the sun, and saw the British ships, one after another, running close hauled as they cleared the “Narrows” between Staten Island and Brooklyn. It conjured to memory the sight of seven years past, where many of those same ships had so boldly and arrogantly sailed into this same harbor bent on swift repression and defeat of those whom they derisively called “a rabble in arms.”

  A light sloop, running before the wind, actually bore down upon them, and the ferrymen watched it with a leery eye, one of them muttering in near panic that they were coming to take them.

  He ignored their comments, standing calmly, and could see several officers on the fantail. As the sloop came about one of the officers lowered his telescope and then raised his cocked hat in salute.

  Of course, he returned the gesture.

  This war was over and he thanked God it was closing now with some civility after so much bitterness.

  Those on the New York shore had witnessed the moment and greeted the gesture with cheers. He gave one final look back, raising a hand in salute, then turned with face to the wind. The War of Independence was over. He was laying the burden of duty aside to return to Mount Vernon, to Martha, and what he believed would be years ahead of peace in quiet, honored retirement, his duty to his nation completed at last.

  ALSO BY NEWT GINGRICH AND WILLIAM R. FORSTCHEN

  Gettysburg

  Grant Comes East

  Never Call Retreat

  Pearl Harbor

  Days of Infamy

  To Try Men’s Souls

  Valley Forge

  To Make Men Free

  About the Authors

  Newt Gingrich, recent presidential candidate and former Speaker of the House, is the bestselling author of Gettysburg and Pearl Harbor and the longest-serving teacher of the Joint War Fighting Course for Major Generals at Air University, and an honorary Distinguished Visiting Scholar and Professor at the National Defense University. He resides in Virginia with his wife, Callista, with whom he hosts and produces documentaries, including their latest, A City Upon a Hill.

  William R. Forstchen, Ph.D., is a Faculty Fellow at Montreat College in Montreat, North Carolina. He received his doctorate from Purdue University and is the author of more than forty books. He is the New York Times bestselling author of One Second After. He resides near Asheville, North Carolina, with his daughter, Meghan.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  VICTORY AT YORKTOWN. Copyright © 2012 by Newt Gingrich and William R. Forstchen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

  Cover digital illustration by Larry Rostant

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Gingrich, Newt.

  Victory at Yorktown / Newt Gingrich, William R. Forstchen, and Albert S. Hanser, contributing editor.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-60707-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4668-0250-6 (e-book)

  1. Yorktown (Va.)—History—Siege, 1781—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction. 1. Forstchen, William R. II. Hanser, Albert S. III. Title.

  PS3557.I4945V53 2012

  813'.54—dc23

  2012028307

  e-ISBN 9781466802506

  First Edition: November 2012

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